The Merchant's Mark

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘Oh, aye, the treasure,’ said Morison vaguely ‘I keep forgetting that.’ He sniffed again, biting his lip, and Gil patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

  ‘I hadn’t. I think it may be the key to the whole thing. Keep your spirits up, man,’ he said, ‘and pray for my success, and I’ll see you when I get back to Glasgow.’

  ‘I see two trails we must follow,’ said Maistre Pierre as they crossed the castle yard.

  ‘At least two,’ agreed Gil.

  ‘You must go now, to take advantage of the escort and speak to Robert Blacader,’ continued the mason, ‘but I could set out tomorrow, and trace Morison’s cart back to Linlithgow.’

  ‘And then I could meet you there,’ said Gil. ‘Pierre, if you can spare the time, I’d be glad of the help.’

  ‘How fast will the law proceed? How long have we got?’

  ‘The law will take time,’ Gil admitted, nodding to the men on the gate. He set off right-handed along the rose-coloured outer wall of the castle, and continued, ‘Even if Robert Blacader sits in judgement while he is in Glasgow, which I hope to avert, he would then have to send Augie to Edinburgh for trial, and that would have to wait while the King’s Justice was sent for and the witnesses were summoned from Glasgow. But I’m concerned about Augie’s business and even more about his bairns. The sooner we get this straightened out, the better.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. But at least we are not attempting to hold the hangman’s arm.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Maistre Pierre paused by the stone cross at the Wyndhead, where the four roads of the upper town met.

  ‘We need to give that poor soul a name,’ he said, ‘and find how he died. We must trace your books in their barrel, wherever they have got to.’

  ‘And we need to find out where the coin has been these four years and how it got into the barrel we have.’

  ‘But why must you go to Stirling?’ asked Alys, turning within the circle of Gil’s arm to look up at him. ‘Surely if the King and the court will come to Glasgow on Saturday you can ask your questions when they arrive.’

  ‘It will be late in the day when they get here, and I had sooner make a start today,’ said Gil. ‘Augie is fretting about the bairns and the business. Besides, there’s no saying whether the people I want to speak to will travel with the court.’

  ‘Leave him, Alys,’ said his sister, from where she sat in bleached dignity in the arbour by the wall. ‘He wants off his leash.’

  Gil looked at her with sympathy, and found her looking back at him, a faint ironic smile overlying the tear stains. She was the best-looking of his four surviving sisters; according to their uncle she was bonnier than their mother in her prime. Here in the garden, weary with grief, she looked older than their mother was now. At least, Gil thought, scratching Socrates behind the ears with his free hand, she had recovered enough spirit to rake up old family jokes.

  ‘What will you do first?’ she asked. ‘Who must you speak to at Stirling?’

  ‘Treasurer Knollys,’ said Gil. ‘Robert Blacader, of course. The McIans, if they’re in the town.’

  ‘You should speak to Maister Morison’s men before you go,’ said Alys thoughtfully. ‘They may have noticed something without recognizing its importance.’

  ‘No time just now. When I get back,’ said Gil. ‘Unless . . .’

  She looked up at him again. Unable to resist, he leaned down to kiss the high narrow blade of her nose. Her smile flickered, but she said seriously, ‘I could do that. My father’s man Thomas likely knows them.’

  ‘If you have the time,’ he said. She smiled, and he kissed her again, then said reluctantly, ‘I must pack. If I set out as soon as I’ve had a bite, I should be in Stirling before Vespers.’

  ‘I will have a word with Maggie,’ said Alys. ‘She always has food for you.’

  She rose from the bench where they were sitting. Gil caught her hand, attempting to detain her, but she looked down, met his eye, and with a significant glance directed his attention to the arbour, then turned and left the garden. Socrates turned his long nose from Gil to her retreating back and whined.

  Kate was sitting quietly, with her hands in her lap, staring out over the burgh. It was only when he went over and sat down beside her that Gil saw the small movements of fingers and thumbs, doggedly tearing at the calloused skin of her palms. He put his hand over hers, to still the movement, and she jumped convulsively and looked round at him.

  ‘Kit-cat,’ he said gently. She turned her head away sharply. ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Babb will help me in for my dinner,’ she said, ‘and then I’ll go to my prayers in our uncle’s oratory, though what I should pray for now is anyone’s guess, and then I suppose Babb will carry me up to my bed, and –’

  ‘Kate. You know fine that’s not what I meant.’

  She bent her head.

  ‘Aye,’ she said after a moment, ‘but it saves me answering you.’

  ‘A life needs a direction. Like a daisy facing the sun, maybe.’

  ‘You’ve found yours,’ she said. ‘I’ve not said to you before now, Gil. I like my new sister fine.’

  ‘I’m glad of that,’ he said. ‘Stop changing the subject.’

  ‘I’m not. There’s nothing else to discuss, for I’ve no direction. My daisies are all in darkness. Maybe I’ll study,’ she said a little wildly, ‘teach myself the Latin or the Greek or High German. That could be it. I may be tocherless and crippled, but I’ll be the most learned crippled ancient maid in Scotland, and doctors of the Laws will come from Spain and Tartary to consult me –’

  ‘Better to study the Laws themselves,’ said Gil. ‘You could set up your sign in Lanark and convey documents and write wills. You might earn yourself a tocher that way.’ He put his arm round her. ‘Kate, what was it you dreamed?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ She was silent a moment, then sighed. ‘I saw the saint himself.’

  ‘St Mungo?’ he said, startled.

  ‘Himself,’ she said again. ‘He wasn’t robed as a bishop, he was barefoot in a brown robe like a Franciscan’s, with a great checked plaid over it like mine, of all things, but I knew well it was St Mungo by the bishop’s crook in his hand.’

  ‘And?’ Gil prompted.

  ‘I was lying on the grass by the pool – the Linn pool, you mind, Gil. He bent and took my hand, and said, Rise up, daughter, and pulled me to my feet. And then he led me away from the pool, and I could walk on both feet. Gil, do you know, when I’m dreaming I can still walk like other people. But in this dream it was different, because I knew the walking was a gift, it was a grace, something the saint had done for me.’

  ‘Dreams are strange things,’ he said, past the lump in his throat. ‘Was that it?’

  ‘One thing more,’ she said bleakly. ‘The final cup of wormwood. Whoever he was, he led me forward to my wedding. I never saw my bridegroom, but I knew he waited for me. And I woke, and not a word of it was true.’

  ‘Oh, Kate,’ he said helplessly. ‘Kit-cat. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Gib-cat,’ she said. She put a hand over his where it lay on her shoulder, and sighed. ‘I’ve no doubt there’s a lesson to my spirit in it, but even the old man hasn’t suggested what it might be yet.’

  It was some time since Gil had been out of Glasgow, and longer yet since he had the chance to ride fast on a good horse. The road to Stirling was well made, and though it was busy the sight of five well-armed riders moving in a cloud of dust caused most travellers to give them the way. Gil, with the Provost’s two messengers in front of him and two of his uncle’s men at his back, swept through villages scattering hens and attracting barking dogs, slowing to pick their way more carefully through the small towns such as Kirkintilloch and Kilsyth, making most speed in the open farmlands between, where the folk loading hay on to carts or hay-sleds paused to hand the leather bottle of ale and watch them pass. To begin with, Socrates bounded happily alongside, but by the time the messengers left them at Stirling town gates, to ha
sten up to the castle, the dog was draped wearily across Gil’s saddlebow.

  He clattered more slowly up Stirling’s busy High Street, and his uncle’s men followed him, all three horses too done to shy at the raucous cries of the market and the noise of stalls being dismantled. Gil looked about with care in the hope of catching sight of a familiar face, and preferably one who might be of some help.

  ‘I’ve a cousin’s a stable-hand to Robert Blacader,’ said Tam helpfully behind him. ‘If it’s the Bishop you want, maister.’

  ‘I know one that’s servant to one of the canons at the Holy Rude,’ offered Rob, not to be outdone.

  ‘It may come to that yet,’ said Gil, ‘but I’ve no doubt there are others who could get us close to him faster. There’s one, indeed. Maister Dunbar! William!’

  The small rat-faced man turned, shading his eyes against the light, and a large wife with a basket of limp greenstuff collided with his back and made her way round him, commenting freely on his common sense.

  ‘Maister Cunningham,’ he said formally, ignoring her. ‘Good day to you, Gil. And what brings you to Stirling, covered in dust? I thought you were chained to St Mungo’s gateway.’ He smiled sourly. Gil dismounted, handing his reins to Rob, and lifted Socrates down. The dog shook himself vigorously and sat down, yawning.

  ‘I’m looking for a word with my lord Archbishop,’ Gil said. ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘Oh?’ Maister William Dunbar, secretary to Archbishop Blacader, raised his eyebrows. ‘Can you mean something’s actually happened in Glasgow?’ He considered Gil, and the acid smile appeared again. ‘It’s been quiet since May, and now Gil Cunningham wants a word. Another killing? Another secret murder? Who is it this time, the Provost and all the bailies? Or is it something to do with a portion of the late King’s hoard found in a barrel?’

  ‘Partly,’ said Gil. ‘Where is his lordship?’

  ‘Oh, attending on the King.’ Dunbar waved in the general direction of the castle, and another passer-by ducked and cursed him. ‘Is that what you’re after? Entry to the court?’

  ‘Robert Blacader will do well enough,’ said Gil. ‘Can you get me in to him?’

  ‘I’m bound there the now,’ admitted the smaller man. ‘I should be with him, only he sent me out an errand for the King’s grace. Confidential, I need hardly say.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Gil agreed. ‘And you’ve delivered your message? Can you get me to his lordship?’

  ‘I can,’ said Dunbar, turning to walk on up the hill. ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it,’ offered Gil, suppressing annoyance. ‘After I’ve spoken to Robert Blacader,’ he added.

  Dunbar considered this, his eyes narrowed, and at length he nodded. ‘See your men and your beasts settled,’ he said, ‘and apply for me at the gatehouse in an hour. I’ll do what I can for you. Mind, it had better be a good story.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all of that,’ said Gil.

  ‘And I suppose you want a lodging this night as well?’

  ‘I can see to that for myself. How is the court just now?’

  ‘Right now, very unsettled,’ said Dunbar morosely. ‘My lord of Angus arrived before noon for a word with him.’ From the emphasis on the pronoun, Gil interpreted it as referring to the young King James. ‘We think he’s planning to go into Ayrshire, and we’re not certain how many of us are wanted. How big a house is the place at Kilmarnock?’

  ‘Angus’s place? Not big enough for the court,’ Gil replied. ‘You’ll have to lie out in the town, as you do here.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Dunbar considered this prospect, and halted again. ‘Even my lord Archbishop?’

  ‘Better ask some of Angus’s people. I’ll leave you here, William. My lodgings are on Back Wynd. In an hour at the gatehouse, then.’

  Following Maister Dunbar along a seemingly endless enfilade of stuffy rooms, through waves of conflicting smells of civet and moth-herbs, musk and lavender and stale furs, Gil barely had time to pick out the familiar faces. People he had been at school with, at college with, or met briefly in Glasgow were among those sitting or standing about, playing cards or dice or talking about hunting. One or two showed signs of recognizing him.

  ‘My lord’s playing at the cards with the King,’ said Dunbar, pausing in a doorway. ‘Wait in this chamber, Gil. I’ll see if I can get him out between games.’

  Gil grimaced. A good game of Tarocco could last the best part of an hour. He nodded, and looked about him as Dunbar’s tonsure disappeared past someone’s green brocade shoulder into the next room.

  ‘I know you,’ said a voice beside him. ‘You’re a Cunningham, aren’t you?’ He turned, to find a big fair man at his elbow, all cherry-coloured velvet and yellow silk. Noll Sinclair of Roslin, friend of his parents and of the late King, clapped him on the shoulder and grinned at him. ‘Gled Cunningham’s youngest. Gilbert, is it?’

  ‘Sir Oliver,’ said Gil formally, looking into the handsome face level with his. ‘My God, I haven’t heard my father’s by-name in years.’

  ‘Aye, well.’ Sinclair’s grin vanished briefly. ‘A bad business, that. And your brothers and all. Grievous. How’s your mother? How does she manage?’

  ‘My mother’s well, thank you, sir. She has her dower-lands near Lanark, and wins a living.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ The grin reappeared. ‘She stayed with us at Roslin a time or two, and some of your sisters with her. I mind her then instructing me on horse-breeding. So she’s running horses on her dower-lands, is she?’

  ‘It’s good enough grazing out by Carluke,’ said Gil, nodding. ‘And it’s high enough to breed hardy beasts. She knows what she’s doing.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt of that where Gelis Muirhead’s concerned. And what are you doing, yourself? Will you be for the Church or the Law?’

  ‘The Law,’ said Gil firmly. ‘I’ll take my notary’s oath next month, and hang up my sign in Glasgow.’

  ‘If I’ve business to do in Lanarkshire I’ll remember that,’ said Sinclair. He hitched at the wide sleeves of his gown, turning back the cuffs so that the yellow silk lining showed to advantage. ‘So it’s the secular life, is it? And a marriage in mind, so I heard.’

  ‘Contract signed,’ agreed Gil.

  ‘My good wishes on that,’ said the other affably. ‘And how is Glasgow? What’s this we’ve been hearing today? A piece of the old King’s hoard turned up in the burgh? In a barrel?’

  ‘I suppose the word would spread fast,’ Gil said in some annoyance.

  ‘This is the court,’ said Sinclair. ‘There’s nothing to do but gossip or listen to gossip. I thank God fasting every time I come near the King that I’ve no need to hold office.’ Gil, who knew the story of the bargain struck by a previous Stewart with a previous Sinclair, merely nodded. ‘I suppose there’s no doubt that it’s the King’s money?’ Sir Oliver went on, his tone casual. ‘Coin is only coin, after all, it doesn’t have the owner’s badge on it.’

  ‘It isn’t only money,’ said Gil reluctantly. ‘There are jewels as well. Some of those are the owner’s badge, indeed – very obviously out of the royal treasury.’

  ‘Oh?’ Sinclair’s eyebrows rose. ‘And where did ye find this? Was it really in a barrel? And what’s this about a head? What like was it? Do you ken whose? Is it some thief or other, or a fighting man?’

  ‘You’re well informed, sir,’ said Gil. And full of questions, he thought. ‘No, I’ve no notion whose. If I knew where the coin had been hid these four years I might be closer to giving him a name, but it won’t be easy to get an answer to that.’

  ‘I should say not,’ agreed Sinclair. ‘Ask at Robert Lyle, why don’t you. He seems to have information the rest of us lack.’

  ‘Gil,’ said Maister Dunbar at his elbow. ‘My lord will see you now.’

  ‘I’m sure Robert Lyle will want a word,’ reiterated Sinclair. Gil, with some relief, raised his hat and bowed to him before turning to follow the little poet from the chamber.

&nb
sp; Robert Blacader, well-found, blue-jowled and tonsured, was waiting in a windowless closet between that room and the next, seated on a folding chair, a stand of newly lit candles on the chest beside him. The light gleamed on the dark brocade of his gown, the silver fittings of belt and purse at his waist. When Gil entered he held out a hand.

  ‘I can spare you a short time, Maister Cunningham,’ he said. Gil knelt to kiss the ring. ‘I hope your uncle is well?’ Gil murmured something. ‘I believe it was you found this treasure that appeared this morning?’

  ‘I was present when it was found, my lord,’ Gil parried.

  ‘Sir Thomas never sent me more than the bare bones of the tale to it.’

  ‘There’s more to tell now in any case, my lord.’

  The Archbishop gestured, and Gil stood obediently and gave him a succinct account of the finding of the head and the treasure, and then of the inquest and its result. Blacader heard him out in growing annoyance, and finally shook his head, saying irritably, ‘The Provost has acted as he must, but Christ aid me, I never heard such nonsense. It’s surely been a wilful false verdict. I’ll send to Sir Thomas the morn, and look into it closer when I reach Glasgow. Has this fellow – what’s his name, Morison? Has he enemies in the burgh?’

  ‘No more than any successful merchant,’ said Gil. ‘He’s harmless enough, I’d have said. A gentle soul.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said the Archbishop. ‘And he has asked you to sort it out, has he?’ Gil nodded. ‘Aye. After you dealt with those other two matters, it would be an obvious choice,’ continued Blacader thoughtfully. He stared at Gil for a moment, the candlelight flickering on brow and padded cheeks. ‘I think you must. We’ll not waste the Justiciars’ time with this kind of thing. William,’ he said, and Maister Dunbar stirred at the door of the little room. ‘Something towards Maister Cunningham’s expenses, I think. Ten merks should do it. And you’ll report to me, Gilbert.’

  ‘Gladly, my lord. Thank you,’ said Gil fervently, going down on one knee again. This was more than he had hoped for: Blacader had just attached him to his own retinue, however informally.