by Pat McIntosh
‘He’s away, sir,’ he said. ‘Dead and gone. I showed him my St Christopher, but it never held him back.’
‘He looked on it earlier,’ said Luke, ‘for I seen him. Maybe he’s no gone yet.’
Johan stripped off his heavy gloves and touched Rob’s face with gentle fingers. Gil dismounted and dropped to one knee opposite him, taking up one of the limp, bloody hands. Socrates returned, to sit down at his master’s side panting and nudging his long nose under Gil’s other elbow. Gil patted him, but his attention was on his servant.
‘Rob?’ he said. Rob’s eyes opened, staring unseeing at the sky. His lips moved, but only a faint bubbling sound emerged. Now Johan was asking the urgent, familiar questions about repentance and salvation, taking the answers for granted, almost as if he was a priest. The hand in Gil’s was growing colder. It gripped his, briefly; the bubbling stopped; Johan sketched a cross on Rob’s brow and muttered, ‘Dominus deus te absolvet,’ and Gil crossed himself, not sure if Rob had heard the words or not. He would hear nothing more, that was certain, though he still stared unseeing at the white clouds above him until Johan closed his eyes with that gentle touch.
Tam crossed himself stiffly, flinching as his bruised elbow twinged. Luke and Maistre Pierre were standing by, holding the reins of the horses. Gil stayed where he was, holding Rob’s slack hand and looking down at the empty face, at the bright blood caking on his throat and on the neckband of his shirt. A Lanarkshire man, he thought. Born in the Monklands, ten years or so older than I am, fought as a mercenary alongside Matt in the wars in Germany, travelled to Rome so he told me once, and came home safe. And here he is, killed by robbers on a hillside in the Lothians. And in a twincling of an eye Hoere soules weren forloren. Why?
‘Nur Gott weisst,’ said Johan, gripping his shoulder briefly, and he realized he had spoken aloud.
‘This one’s deid, maister,’ said Luke, pointing to the man they had taken down between them. ‘I never killt him, I think one of the horses tramped him.’
‘Zis vun not.’ Johan stepped over to the axeman and kicked him again. This time he elicited a groan. ‘Ve take.’
It was some time before they were back on the road. Luke, it turned out, had a slash on the arm, and Gil’s horse was now drooping and shivering while the cut on its shoulder dripped into the dust. These had to be dealt with, by Maistre Pierre and Johan acting once again in committee. Gil stepped away from the group, leaving Tam still standing over his colleague’s body, and stared out at Edinburgh. Socrates leaned hard against his knee.
Someone has died, he thought, caressing the dog’s soft grey ears, because of an action I took. If I had never set out for Roslin, he would be alive now. Despite Johan’s efforts, Rob had died without confession, unshriven. Gil had his own views on the importance of that, preferring to trust in the all-merciful justice which Rob now faced, but to the man’s kin and friends that would matter.
‘What kin had he?’ he asked, turning to Tam.
The man wiped his eyes with his sleeve. ‘He’s an auntie in the Monklands, near to my folks, for he mentioned her more than once, but I’ve no more notion than that, Maister Gil.’ He managed a shaky grin. ‘It comes to us all, soon or late, maister. He’d ha wanted to go quick like that.’
Gil nodded. But maybe that was too quick, he thought.
They stripped the dead thief of his effects. Boots, sword, crossbow, all went into the Hospitaller’s pack along with the remains of the axe; the Order could make use of them. Rob’s body was wrapped in his own cloak and tied on his horse, but the other was left by the roadside. Someone might come out from Roslin to bring him in for burial, or might not. Maistre Pierre stood by him for a few minutes with head bent, fingering his beads. The axeman, coming back to full, blasphemous consciousness, found his arms bound and a rope about his neck, its other end tied to Johan’s saddle.
‘Where’s Maidie?’ he demanded, staring round. ‘Where’s – where’s ma axe?’
‘Never mind zat. You vok!’ said Johan, prodding the man with the point of his long sword.
‘Aye, think yoursels clever,’ said the man, and spat at the sergeant. ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you afore long, so you will.’ He leered at Gil. ‘And how’s Blacader’s new man? And yir bonny sister, how’s she walking now?’
Gil stared at him open-mouthed, silenced by the flare of rage that rose in his throat at the words. The man was bound, one could not –
‘Vot you say?’ demanded Johan, prodding again.
‘What do you know about my sister?’ said Gil, finding his voice.
‘Go to Glasgow and find out,’ said the axeman savagely. ‘Aye, that’s got you worried, hasn’t it no? As for that clever wee lassie you’re ettling to marry –’
‘Yes?’ said Maistre Pierre, turning away from the dead thief. ‘What of my daughter?’
‘Away and find out,’ repeated the axeman, and spat again. Johan’s sword arm jerked. ‘Christ’s bollocks, man, leave me alane wi that wee dirk o yours.’
‘You vok,’ repeated Johan, nodding along the track towards Roslin.
‘What’s he mean about the mistress?’ asked Luke anxiously.
‘And Lady Kate,’ said Tam.
Gil moved forward. ‘Tell us,’ he said. ‘What do you mean? What are you saying?’
‘Aye, ye’d like to hear it,’ said the axeman.
‘We will hear it,’ said Maistre Pierre. He exchanged a glance with Johan, who nodded, and untied the end of the rope about the prisoner’s neck from his saddle. ‘Any man can be made to talk, given time.’
The axeman gave him a wolfish leer.
‘Your lassies didny find that,’ he said. ‘They done their best, I’ll say they did,’ he licked his lips suggestively, ‘but they never got a word of what they wanted to know.’
Someone was shouting in Gil’s ear. His hands were about something, the dog barked once, and again. Socrates never barks, he thought. As his vision cleared, he found himself staring into the empurpled face of the prisoner while Maistre Pierre’s big hands tried vainly to slacken his grip on the man’s throat. Socrates leapt around them, desperate to defend his master, unwilling to attack a friend, and compromising by pawing at their arms and baying, huge deep sounds like a great bell.
‘Let go, Gilbert,’ repeated the mason. ‘We may kill him after he has told us –’
Gil loosened his hands and stepped back, shaking, unable to answer. Johan eyed him respectfully, and the axeman sucked in a long breath, glaring with furious popping eyes, and also took a step backwards to the limit of the rope. Socrates, silent, pawed eagerly at his master.
‘Now tok!’ commanded Johan.
The man threw him a surly look and shook his head. ‘Canny talk – like this,’ he gasped hoarsely.
‘Let us get down to Roslin,’ said Maistre Pierre in disgust. ‘Someone there will assist us, surely. Sinclair himself may be in the place by now.’
They mounted up; Johan prodded the prisoner before him, the rope about his neck tied once more to the saddlebow, and they went on, silent at first, round the final angle of the Pentlands and down toward the distant wooded valley of the North Esk.
Gil, leading his own horse and Luke’s, was grappling with a turmoil of emotions such as he had not felt since boyhood. There was grief at Rob’s death, mingled with a furious anger with himself and with whoever was behind the repeated attacks on their group, as the cause of his death, and – yes, he admitted, with whichever horse had kicked in the head of the man carrying the crossbow. Revenge for his servant would have been good.
And what had the axeman meant by his unpleasant remarks about the girls in Glasgow? Had they somehow become involved in this? He was aware of painful anxiety for Kate, his favourite among his three younger sisters, and burning through everything a fierce apprehension for Alys. Curiously, he was unconcerned about the insinuation the man had made, though it had triggered his attack on him. It was so far from what he knew of either Alys or his sister that he
simply did not believe it.
As for his own behaviour – exploring his heart, he had to admit that he felt neither remorse nor embarrassment about his attempt to strangle a bound man. He knew both would be appropriate, but he could only find a sort of amazement at himself for giving way to his rage and a faint regret that Maistre Pierre had stopped him. It would be much more sensible to question the man and then hang him for theft, but it would be by far less satisfactory.
‘Do we cross that river?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
‘No,’ said Johan. Gil looked about him, and discovered they were well down off the hillside and nearing the Esk. ‘Roslin that vay.’
‘And the castle is beyond the town, in the gorge,’ Gil supplied.
Maistre Pierre glanced at him, and nodded. ‘You are with us again, are you?’ he said. ‘You have been cheerful company these three miles. Tell me, is this where there is the wonderful church of St Matthew building? I have the right place?’
‘Yes,’ said Gil, ‘though I believe building stopped east of the crossing when the old lord died. They’re putting the roof on what’s there, my uncle said.’
‘Ah. The builder is dead, is he? I have heard much of it. I shall try to visit.’
The inn was large, prosperous, and conveniently placed for Maistre Pierre’s purpose, right beside the scaffolding-shrouded mass of the church. A board with a painting of a man holding a book swung from its ale-stake: the St Matthew Inn. The evangelist had a squint. Inside, the taproom was crowded, but the service was quick. Spooning down fish stew while the dog dealt with yesterday’s ham bones under the bench, Gil realized that it was nearly Compline and they had not eaten since Bathgate.
‘Ve stop here?’ asked Johan, wiping his spoon on his sleeve.
‘I think we must,’ said Gil. ‘One night at least. We need to find one man in the place, possibly two, maybe more.’ Maistre Pierre frowned at this, obviously reckoning in his head. ‘I wish Sinclair had been at home.’
‘Perhaps he will return this evening,’ suggested the mason.
Sir Oliver’s sub-steward, a plump and self-consequential individual, had received them with ale and small cakes and a worried frown which grew deeper when he set eyes on their prisoner. No, no, he told them anxiously, Sir Oliver was from home, he could not say when he was expected. If they had really seen him in Linlithgow that morning, perhaps he had gone by the Edinburgh house. Yes, he could house the prisoner, there was a cell empty. At this the prisoner cursed hoarsely, but was silenced by Johan’s still-vigilant blade. No, he couldny question the prisoner till Sir Oliver came home. They would have to make depositions on oath about the charges, he would have to fetch the notary –
‘I can set it down,’ said Gil.
That had taken an hour. A point-blank enquiry for Barty Fletcher or Nicol Riddoch had been met with another worried frown: were these names the steward should know? Did Maister Cunningham want to stop in Roslin, if he was to meet someone? Maister Preston could give them a token would warrant them a room and a welcome at the St Matthew.
This had proved to be true. Moreover, Rob’s body had been laid, curled as he had stiffened over the saddle, on a board in a space just off the scullery, sworn to be rat-free and patrolled by the St Matthew’s terrier. In the morning he could be washed, shrouded, and buried in the kirkyard of the little parish church on the other side of the town. The terrier herself, after making sure that Socrates knew who was in charge here, had bustled off on her rounds.
‘Are we to ask after that musician here and all?’ Luke asked his master.
‘I’ve asked,’ said Gil. ‘I asked the fellow at the tap.’
This time the question had met with understanding; the tapster knew Barty Fletcher. He just couldny say if he was in the town the now.
‘Bide you there wi your jug of our good ale, maister, and I’ll ask about for ye,’ the man offered, wiping the inside of another jug with his apron. ‘My brother’s marriet on Alice Fletcher, he can likely find out.’
‘I’d be grateful.’ Gil indicated his gratitude with a coin on account, which vanished inside the tapster’s doublet. Since then he had been aware of quiet questions going about the room, of the odd curious glance in his direction. Someone came in, spoke to the tapster, went out again. What have I set in motion? he wondered.
‘But who else do we look for?’ asked Maistre Pierre now.
‘The dog should go out,’ said Gil. ‘Let us walk him.’
‘I kom viz you,’ pronounced Johan.
‘Johan,’ said Gil, ‘I sink ve could lose ze accent.’
‘Accent?’
‘I heard you shriving Rob,’ said Gil, and bit back another tide of mixed emotion. After a moment he went on, ‘Your Scots is near as good as Pierre’s, here.’ The sergeant met his challenging look, and then shrugged and smiled wryly. ‘Have we said anything useful?’
‘No,’ the other man admitted. ‘But it vos – was worth the try.’
‘Can you tell me why the Preceptory is interested?’
‘No.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Gil, ‘but if you won’t, then why should I help you? You don’t kom viz us.’
‘Fair enough,’ echoed the Hospitaller, shrugging again.
Accompanied by a well-fed dog, Gil and Maistre Pierre strolled outside and gravitated naturally into the building site next door. In the evening light, piles of timber and slates lay under tarred canvas, but the stone-cutter’s lodge stood empty. Work had stopped for the day, and the masons had all gone home to the houses which the chapel’s founder had built for them, more than doubling the size of the castle’s little town.
‘Ah, mon Dieu!’ said Maistre Pierre, soft-voiced. ‘Look at those lines. The proportions.’
‘I can’t see past the scaffolding,’ said Gil with regret.
‘So who do we look for?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
‘The musician,’ said Gil quietly. The mason nodded agreement. ‘The cooper’s boy. The dead man’s kin, very possibly.’
‘Why should those be here?’
‘Because Riddoch’s yard lies at the back of the Engrailed Cross tavern. Those were Sinclair’s men I saw in the street before the tavern, and Sinclair’s men were collecting the barrels of salt herring when we arrived. I saw one going into the barn where we found the empty barrel. I’ll wager Sinclair owns the whole of that toft and has let the backlands to Riddoch for his house and his yard. Riddoch is Sinclair’s man.’
‘Ah,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘As well as –’ He stopped short, staring into the distance. Gil made no comment, and the mason went on, ‘So is Sinclair behind all this?’
‘I’d say he is involved,’ said Gil. ‘He asked me, when I saw him in Stirling, whether our friend in the barrel was a thief or a fighting man. And I think he has our books.’ He kicked at the scraps of wood and slate underfoot. ‘But I don’t think he is behind these repeated attacks, any more than the Preceptory.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ said Maistre Pierre involuntarily.
‘I think St Johns is involved.’ He looked at his friend in the evening light. ‘If they send this fellow with us, an experienced fighting man who is also a priest, though priests aren’t supposed to bear arms –’
‘No,’ said Maistre Pierre, distracted. ‘He is probably not priested. I have not asked him,’ he admitted, ‘but I have seen this before, where they will confess and absolve a companion in extremis, where no priest is present.’
Socrates, ranging round them, paused in his inspection of a stack of timber and stared at the gate of the site. Gil looked round, to see a familiar, elegant figure picking its way across the trampled ground. Clad in a worn leather doublet and patched hose, the man still had all the presence of a performer. He halted in front of them and bowed, waving his feathered hat in the elaborate French style.
‘Balthasar of Liège at your service, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I’m told you were asking for me.’
He straightened up and looked from one to the other. Even in the dw
indling light, the colour of his eyes was obvious: one blue, one brown.
‘I’m very glad to see you alive, man,’ said Gil. ‘Do you mind me? Gil Cunningham, from Glasgow.’
‘I do, sir,’ said the musician. ‘You were a good friend to the McIans a few months back, were you no?’
‘And still am, I hope,’ said Gil.
‘So what can I do for you, maisters?’
‘We may have sad news for you,’ said Maistre Pierre. Balthasar raised his eyebrows. ‘Have you any kin with your eye colour?’
‘What, odd eyes? It runs in the family. I’ve a sister has one ee green and one grey.’
‘No, but have you male kin,’ said Gil, ‘with one blue and one brown?’
The musician looked at him. ‘This is serious, isn’t it?’ he said, and scratched his jaw. ‘I wonder, maisters, have you found my cousin Nelkin? We’d looked for him back afore this.’
‘Ah,’ said Gil. ‘Where had he been?’
Balthasar shrugged. ‘We heard word he’d gone on a pilgrimage,’ he said, ‘to Tain or some such. It didny seem like our Nelkin,’ he added.
‘And who had you heard this from?’
‘From himself.’ Balthasar jerked his head in the general direction of the castle. ‘From Sinclair. He’s been one of Sir Oliver’s men-at-arms these ten years.’
‘Ah!’ said Maistre Pierre.
Gil glanced at him, and said, ‘Noll Sinclair told you he’d gone on a pilgrimage?’
‘Well, no,’ admitted the musician. ‘That fool Preston told his sister, but he said it as if the word came from himself – from Sinclair.’
‘Is that all the word you’ve had?’
‘I think so. What’s this about, maister? Have you found him? You’re saying he’s deid, and canny answer for himself, are you no?’
‘It seems very like it,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘I am sorry. Was he close to you?’
‘He was kin,’ said the musician tensely. ‘What came to him? What have you found?’
