The Merchant's Mark

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘Unless they fought among themselves.’

  ‘I suppose so. Anyway, I think it’s clear enough that one man was killed in that yard, probably by beheading, possibly by a Lochaber axe and probably not by Riddoch himself, and his head put in a barrel of brine out of Mistress Riddoch’s brine-vat. I wonder who knew she had made brine that day?’

  ‘All the household, I suppose.’

  ‘Aye, but who else?’

  ‘And who sealed the barrel so expertly?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘That was done by a cooper – by a craftsman. Moreover, it is a noisy process. Riddoch showed me just now, and I have seen it before. It should have woken Mistress Riddoch, if not her man.’

  ‘She dreamed about the men working.’

  ‘You mean she may have heard the noise, but not woken?’

  ‘Aye. And when she did wake, she saw someone in black carrying something long and heavy towards the gate.’

  ‘And you think that is what we seek just now.’ Maistre Pierre gestured towards the spiralling crows.

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘Or it could be a dead sheep.’

  ‘We still have no name for him.’

  ‘Oh – and another thing I learned while you were making your notes. I remarked, as by chance you understand, that we were seeking the musician. I gave both his names, and Mistress Riddoch said, Oh, no, she had not seen Barty in the town for a week or two.’

  ‘So they did know a man with odd-coloured eyes. I rather thought so.’

  ‘She might not have been close enough to see his eyes,’ admitted the mason fairly, ‘but it is a very noticeable feature.’

  ‘If she knew him well enough to use his right name,’ said Gil, ‘she knew him enough to see the colour of his eyes. They are not good liars, either of them.’

  ‘Which makes it the more likely that they did not kill our man.’

  ‘True.’ Gil stopped talking while he persuaded his horse past a boulder which it seemed to find alarming. Once past, he continued, ‘I hope Andy has not carried out his threat to dismiss Billy.’

  ‘The carter, you mean? Indeed, yes. What did Riddoch say of him just now? He offered to keep watch so the other carters might go drinking,’ Maistre Pierre recalled, itemizing the points on one large hand, ‘he claimed to have seen only one man, improbably dressed for an evening’s thieving, running towards the gate, and he said nobody went near the carts.’

  ‘I wonder how much we can believe?’

  ‘You said yourself, Riddoch is a poor liar.’

  ‘I have no doubt he reported truthfully,’ agreed Gil, ‘but were the words he reported the truth?’

  ‘They corbies is fair noisy,’ commented Rob from behind them. Gil looked up, and checked his horse.

  ‘They are,’ he agreed. ‘There’s no doubt they’ve found something. Can you work out where it’s lying?’

  The crows were circling above a stand of trees, off the track and up to their right, with much cawing and croaking, but after they had all studied the movement of the birds for a time Maistre Pierre said, ‘I think they come and go from behind that dyke yonder.’

  ‘And nane do ken that he lies there,’ said Gil. ‘I agree. If we stay a-horseback the birds won’t take fright, and we can keep the spot marked. Come on.’

  ‘Must we?’ muttered someone behind him.

  Gil looked over his shoulder. ‘We’ll circle round,’ he said, ‘come down on it from upwind.’

  This proved to be a necessary precaution. Even from upwind, the smell of death reached them several yards away.

  ‘Sweet St Giles,’ said Gil.

  Luke gagged, and Rob said uneasily, ‘Likely it’s just a sheep, maister. Can we go now?’

  ‘Then sall erth of erth raise a foul stink. You can get back out of range,’ said Gil, wadding his handkerchief over his nose. The mason said nothing, but dismounted and gave his reins to Tam, who immediately led the animal away upwind. Two crows perched on the drystone wall watched with identical bright glares, and another flew up with something dangling from its long vicious beak as the two men approached across the rough grass of the field.

  There was a ditch below the dyke, over which the grass grew long. The crows and other creatures had trampled a narrow path through it into the ditch; something pale could just be seen in the shadows, and the grasses themselves were spotted and specked with fragments, of flesh, of bristly skin. Gil pressed his handkerchief tighter against his nose, stepped forward and parted the grasses with his boot.

  They looked in silence at what lay there.

  ‘Poor devil,’ said Gil after a moment.

  ‘How long, would you say?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

  ‘There’s been a fox at his legs, would you say, as well as the crows. Four or five days would be about right.’

  ‘He is well blown,’ agreed his companion, considering the bloated belly. ‘I think so too. That would account for the time the crows are said to have been here. Well, there is no more to be done.’ He backed away, and called over his shoulder, ‘We are both wrong, Rob. Neither a sheep nor a dead man, but a pig. A great boar, overturned in the ditch.’

  They turned to tramp back across the rough grass to join the men. Rob said, ‘The burgh serjeant’s boar –’

  ‘Maister Gil!’ said Tam urgently. ‘Look yonder!’ He gestured at the stand of trees where the crows were still circling and cawing.

  Gil looked, and exclaimed sharply. He lunged forward to leap into his saddle, drawing his whinger as he found the stirrups, wheeling the horse about with his knees. His mount danced sideways, snorting, as the first of the men on foot reached them, and Gil was just in time to hack at the hand attempting to snatch his rein. The man fell back, shouting, but two more sprang past him, one armed with a sword, one with a cudgel, and joined in the fight.

  Clashing metal behind him told Gil there were more attackers, but his attention was fully occupied. His horse, which was certainly not battle-trained, flattened its ears and plunged away from the swords. He collected it with seat and heels, managed to turn it, and charged down on the mêlée round Tam, who was already bleeding from a cut to the head. As Gil arrived he took another blow from the cudgel which made him cry out. Beyond him someone had fallen, and Luke and Rob were holding off another swordsman, who was leaping about their plunging horses slashing wildly with his blade.

  ‘Pierre! Over here!’ Gil shouted.

  ‘That’s them right enough!’ gasped one of the assailants. ‘Go for the packs, Willie.’ He ducked as Gil’s whinger whirred past his face, and two things happened almost simultaneously. Up the hillside from the direction they had come hurtled a low grey silent form which sprang at the man with the cudgel, knocked him over, and seized him by the throat; and as Gil struck away a blow aimed at the dog’s back a horn blew further up the hill, and four horsemen appeared round the curve of the track, approaching fast, light catching on their drawn swords.

  ‘Get the packs!’ shouted someone. ‘Cut the straps, Willie!’

  ‘No time!’ answered the man who was fending off Gil’s attack. ‘Get away! Save yersels!’

  As the newcomers swept down towards them the attackers broke and ran in all directions, leaving three men lying in the grass. One was Tam, who had fallen off but had somehow kept hold of both sets of reins, one was the man who had gone down first and still lay unmoving, and the third was pinned down by a triumphant Socrates. The dog had a large paw planted firmly on the high leather collar of his captive’s jack. His entire set of white teeth was on display, and he was growling, very quietly, every time the man stirred.

  ‘Good dog!’ said Gil. ‘Leave. Leave it.’

  Beyond them, Luke and Rob were grinning at each other, and Maistre Pierre, still afoot, was sheathing his weapon in a businesslike manner.

  ‘I apologize that I did not come to your aid, Gilbert,’ he said, ‘but I was somewhat distracted. How many were there? We had certainly four at this side.’

  ‘And these two, and two more who ran,�
�� said Gil. He looked at the approaching horsemen, who had turned off the track and were now moving purposefully towards them over the grazing-land, and did not sheath his whinger. ‘Eight all told, I suppose. Tam, can you rise, man?’

  ‘Aye, maybe,’ replied Tam, making no attempt to do so. ‘My head’s broke, and I think I got kicked in the knee. They were after the packs, Maister Gil. What’s in them, that they were so eager to get them? What did you fetch from Stirling?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Gil absently, still watching the riders.

  The newcomers slowed as they reached them; they wore black mantles over well-worn, well-maintained armour, and the fishtailed Cross of St John showed white on each man’s left shoulder. Two of them separated and moved past the scene of the attack, one to each side in a practised way. They turned, and all four halted.

  ‘Maister Gil,’ said Rob uneasily, ‘what’ll we do?’

  ‘Good day, messieurs,’ said a tall man with a dark, neat beard like Maistre Pierre’s. He bowed slightly over his horse’s neck and his sharp eyes scanned them all, missing nothing ‘Raoul de Brinay, at your service. I regret that I must ask you not to move. Except,’ he added with a gleam of humour, ‘perhaps to call the hound off his kill.’

  Gil looked round at de Brinay’s men, each with sword drawn and ready, each as relaxed and watchful as their leader. He exchanged a look with Maistre Pierre, and sheathed his whinger.

  ‘Keep still, Rob. We are peaceful travellers, sir,’ he went on in French. ‘We have done no wrong. Even if we are on St Johns land, I do not think you have the right to hold us like this.’

  ‘Probably not,’ agreed the Hospitaller amiably, ‘but I feel compelled to ask you what are you carrying, to attract such a band of thieves?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ said Gil.

  ‘We are seeking a shipment of books,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘and have travelled from the west in pursuit of them, but we have not found them so far. We have nothing of value in our packs.’ His right hand moved on his knee.

  ‘Let us make sure,’ suggested Sir Raoul, unbending slightly. He nodded to one of the men beyond Gil. ‘Johan? And you may as well leash your dog, monsieur, and tend to your servant if you wish it.’

  Gil dismounted, gave his reins to Rob, and dragged Socrates away from his prisoner, praising him lavishly. The man scrambled to his feet, despite the dog’s threatening snarls, and would have made off, but a small movement of the bare sword of the nearest rider appeared to change his mind for him, and at a word from Sir Raoul the same rider lighted down and bound the thief’s wrists.

  ‘De Brinay,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘Are you from Brinay itself, sir?’

  The Hospitaller glanced curiously at him, and nodded. ‘I am. You know it?’

  ‘I have built there, before I was a master. Repairs to two columns in the church nave. You must be the brother of the present lord.’

  ‘His cousin.’

  The man addressed as Johan had removed his mailed gauntlets and was searching their packs quickly and economically, feeling each of the saddlebags and moving on to the next. The horses fidgeted, and both Luke and Rob watched him warily as he felt expertly at their scrips, but neither dared to say anything. The two purses in Gil’s pack caused him some interest, but when he had ascertained their size through the heavy leather saddlebag he went on. Finally he met his leader’s eye again and shook his head, the light glinting on his grey steel helm.

  ‘Nicht hier,’ he said. ‘Nur Kleingelt.’

  There was a short exchange in a language which Gil took to be High Dutch, though he only caught one or two words. The other two St Johns men watched, bare swords unwavering, and Gil wondered what Robert Blacader would say to hear his quite generous contribution to expenses described as small change. He bent over Tam, but decided there was little wrong with him besides a sore head, and bruising on shoulder and knee. The remaining man had a lump the size of a duck egg on his skull and was just beginning to stir; Socrates eyed him suspiciously but made no comment.

  ‘Sir Raoul,’ Gil said at last. The Hospitaller turned to look at him. ‘If I tell you our story, you will see that you have no reason to hold us.’

  ‘Who said I was holding you?’ said Sir Raoul very politely. ‘I should be enchanted to hear this history, sir. Is it long?’

  ‘Not long.’ Gil recounted, as briefly as he might, how the wrong barrel had come home and what had happened to its contents, and how they were still searching for the books and the missing musician.

  ‘A head and one saddlebag,’ said the Hospitaller when he had finished. ‘Is there any reason why I should believe you, sir?’

  ‘Not in the immediate term,’ Gil admitted, wondering if he had imagined the slight emphasis on the one. ‘I have the papers for the barrel we’re searching for, giving the contents as books, but as to the rest, you would have to send to Glasgow to catch up with my lord St Johns, assuming he travels with the King, and to get word from the Provost.’

  Sir Raoul smiled, showing white teeth with one missing.

  ‘It is an advantage of dealing with a lawyer,’ he proclaimed. ‘They always have a clear idea of what is proof. I think I may not trouble our noble Preceptor in this matter. Is there any more, sir? Did nothing appear along with the empty barrel?’

  ‘One thing more,’ said Maistre Pierre, who had been silent for some time. ‘One told me, as to a fellow craftsman, you understand, that someone else enquired for the carts which had lain in Linlithgow on Monday night.’

  ‘Did he give a name?’

  ‘No name. He called him the Axeman.’

  ‘Was ist?’ said Johan. ‘Was heisst das?’

  ‘The Axeman,’ said Sir Raoul in Scots.

  The standing prisoner let out an exclamation. ‘What did ye say? The Axeman? Is he in this? Oh, man! Oh, man!’ he moaned, and dropped to his knees. ‘Just kill me now, maisters, for I canny bear to wait till he catches up wi me! Oh, man!’

  ‘Ma foi,’ said the Hospitaller, gazing down at the man. ‘What is the matter? What is he saying?’

  ‘It seems he fears this axeman,’ said Maistre Pierre.

  ‘And so would you, if you’d heard the half o what I’ve heard,’ groaned the prisoner. ‘He never tellt us the Axeman was in this.’

  ‘We must hear more,’ said Sir Raoul, and looked at the sky. ‘Messieurs, it is late in the day to be setting out for Glasgow, and one man injured at that. Will you come with me to the Preceptory, where we may question these two in more comfort?’

  ‘We are still travelling,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘We have come from the west, as I told you, and now I think we must go south, till we find what we seek.’

  ‘We weren’t making for Glasgow,’ said Gil with reluctance. ‘But I admit I would like to hear them questioned. After all,’ he grinned suddenly, and switched to Scots, ‘this one was taken in fang – caught by the dog in the very act of robbery.’

  Sir Raoul grinned back at him, sharing his enjoyment of the legal play on words. ‘Ah. Then we may at least be seated while we talk to them.’ He looked about. ‘And if we are to dispense justice, simple tact suggests we should do it off the Carmelites’ land. Let us repair to the track, which is ours.’

  Tam was heaved back on to his horse, and the groaning thief slung over someone’s saddlebow, and they moved off the grazing-land. The conscious prisoner complained bitterly as he was herded along, on the theme of the ill-treatment of a condemned man.

  ‘Nobody’s condemned you yet,’ said Gil in some amusement.

  ‘Oh, I’m doomed. He’ll get me,’ sniffed the man. ‘He’ll catch up wi me. I need a priest, I have to make my confession. Ave Mary grassy plena,’ he mumbled. ‘And I canny sign myself wi my hands bound like this.’

  Questioned, he admitted that his name was Andrew Gray, their other captive was Jemmie Forrest, and they were both from Linlithgow. Sir Raoul seated himself on a convenient earthen dyke, inspected him sternly and asked, ‘Who else was in your band?’

 
‘I never kenned all their names, maister,’ said Gray, and sniffed again. ‘It was a man I met in the Green Lion, he was looking for help to get back something of his maister’s so he said, and he hired four or five of us there in the tavern.’ He glowered at Tam, who was being anointed and bandaged by Johan and Maistre Pierre in committee. ‘He showed us him yonder, walking along the street, said he’d laid him information so you’d be sure to come up here, so we came out to wait for you, and never had any dinner, and he never tellt us the Spital was in it neither, and if the Axeman wants the same thing he’ll get me, he will.’

  ‘What was he wanting back?’ Gil asked. Socrates, lying at his feet, raised his head and looked from one face to another.

  ‘He never said.’ Gray flinched away from the dog’s intent gaze. ‘We had to get a pack o some sort,’ he added, apparently trying to be helpful.

  ‘He ordered someone to get the packs,’ Gil recalled, and the man nodded.

  ‘And who was his master?’ asked Sir Raoul.

  ‘He never let on, maister. Never said nothing about him, nor what his own name was, nor his friend’s.’

  ‘What did his friend call him? Did he have a name for him?’

  Gray looked warily at Gil while this idea penetrated his skull.

  ‘Baldy,’ he said at length. ‘He cried him Baldy He wasny bald, just the same,’ he elaborated kindly, ‘for ye could see his hair sticking out at the back of his coif. Likely it was short for Archibald, ye ken.’

  ‘I ken,’ said Gil. He looked at Sir Raoul. ‘Does that mean anything to you, sir?’

  ‘How should it?’ parried the Hospitaller.

  ‘Did either of them say anything else?’ Gil asked Gray hopefully. ‘Where they had come from, maybe, or who had sent them? Who told them we had this thing of their master’s?’

  Gray stared at him, and shook his head. Too many questions, thought Gil, annoyed with himself. He tried again.

  ‘Were they from hereabouts?’

  ‘No.’ The man shook his head again. ‘They wereny anybody we ever saw afore. Willie said,’ he added, ‘he thocht they were from Stirling, or there. Just by the way they talked, ye ken.’