The Merchant's Mark

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘I hear you! I’ll get you!’

  The axe glinted as its bearer scrambled for the next window, swung himself in on to the walkway, rushed forward. Gil slipped back out into the moonlight, working his way between the pinnacles, while the axeman blundered along the wicker platform just inside the wall.

  Gil had no very clear plan, just a conviction that if he kept the other man moving, sooner or later he would make a mistake. Always supposing I don’t make one first, he thought, sliding between two buttresses. Inadvertently he looked down.

  For a long moment he clung, staring down past the stonework to the silvered grass at the wall’s foot, while his grip tightened on the stonework and the depths seemed to reach for him. He could feel himself beginning to topple outwards.

  There was movement at the edge of his vision. With difficulty, he dragged his gaze from the dazzling depths of air and turned it towards the dark windows. Round a pinnacle a moonlit hand appeared, stretched towards him, just out of his grasp. He fixed his eyes on it, took one hand from the gritty stone, stretched out for the bleached fingers. The hand drew back, and he leaned inwards, still straining towards it. Then suddenly his weight was all inside the wallhead, inside the web of wooden poles. He was safe.

  He gasped his thanks and clung to the pole at shoulder height, his eyes closed in relief. By the time he opened them the other had gone, but the man with the axe was still snarling blasphemously at the far end of the building.

  Holding tightly now to the scaffolding, Gil worked his way westward, reasoning that if he climbed in at the furthest window he would be close to the ladder and might get down before the axeman realized where he was. And then what? he wondered. Where is Pierre? He must have been hurt, if he hasn’t joined the hunt.

  ‘I see ye, traitor! Gallows-cheat!’

  The hurdles within the gaping windows crackled and sang as the man trampled along them, his wild movements making the whole wooden structure buck, inside the church and out, like a corach in a high wind. Gil froze by the window, clinging tightly to the pine-logs, fearing he would be thrown off into the half-completed vault of the aisle below him. The man arrived at the aperture hefting the axe, braced himself and swung at Gil’s hand grasping the pole beside his head.

  It seemed to happen very slowly. The axe swung, shedding moonlight into the dark air. Gil released his grip, but could not seem to move his hand. The man’s expression changed, little by little, from triumphant fury to amazement and then to horror. Gil’s eye was drawn down, and he saw, very clearly, a pale hand thrusting the axeman’s back foot backwards. Back over the edge of the wicker hurdle. Off into the fathomless dark of the church. The leg followed it, the other foot slid, the body contorted trying to save itself. A hand dragged at the edge of the hurdle, but the other still held the axe, and only succeeded in cutting splinters from the wickerwork. The man fell, vanishing downward like the roped angel.

  There was an unpleasant sound from below, and a clatter as the axe hit the flagstones, followed by some shouting, and running feet.

  A face appeared in the space the axeman had vacated. The lantern-light, or moonlight, robbed the man’s eyes of colour, but Gil could see that one eye was pale and one was dark.

  ‘Thanks, friend,’ he said shakily. ‘I owe you for that.’

  The other grinned at Gil, shook his head. A pale hand came up in a salute, then the face turned away. Gil leaned against the nearest piece of stonework and closed his eyes. For there is not so much joy in holding high office, he thought, as there is grief in falling from a high place. Who wrote that? Something about the Order of Knighthood, was it?

  After a while he pulled himself together. There was no sign of the man with the lantern. Moving carefully, he made his way back to the eastward ladder, which was now moonlit, and groped his way along the topmost level to his own lantern and the sacks of coin. He lit the lantern with the flint and tinder in his purse, and laboriously but with more confidence contrived to shift the sacks one at a time, along the scaffolding, down the ladders. He became aware of movements below him, of urgent voices, but ignored them until, as he reached the foot of the second ladder, helpful hands took the sack he was carrying.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ asked Balthasar of Liège. ‘Come this way, man. That was well done – I’d not go higher than this for a great fortune.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m no hurt. You ken that.’ He took in what the musician had said. ‘What do you mean? You were up there –’

  ‘No me.’ Balthasar set the sack down at the top of the lowest ladder. ‘Can you get down alone?’

  He could. The flagstones felt hard under his feet, and he stood for a moment, wondering why he felt so surprised to be there.

  ‘Pierre,’ he said.

  ‘Out here. It was touch-and-go for a bit, but he’s safe now.’

  ‘You must go back to Glasgow,’ said Maistre Pierre, enthroned against the pillows of Maister Robison’s best bed.

  ‘I don’t like to leave you.’ Gil eyed his friend. There was a bandage on his head, and a thicker one on his arm, which reposed on another pillow.

  ‘He’ll be looked after,’ said Sir Oliver robustly from Robison’s great chair. ‘No need to worry about him, Cunningham.’

  ‘Mistress Robison will tend me. I agree, I am not fit to ride until maybe tomorrow, but we must take home what we have learned, and also Alys will be concerned.’

  Gil nodded, preserving his own counsel about when Maistre Pierre would be fit to travel. He was very much aware that it was two days since he had seen Alys, the longest period they had spent apart since their betrothal, but he also had to admit to himself that he did not look forward to telling her that her father was injured.

  He eased his right foot from under the dog. After being reunited with his master in the midnight, and checking him carefully to make sure no harm had come to him, Socrates had gone off with the St Matthew’s terrier, who had apparently spent the rest of the night teaching him to rat. The innkeeper had taken a groat off the bill in his gratitude for the pile of corpses left neatly in the yard, and Socrates had slept all morning.

  ‘So Johan got you outside,’ he said. ‘Did you fall off the scaffolding?’

  ‘No, I praise God and Our Lady.’ Maistre Pierre crossed himself left-handed. ‘I must, I suppose, have fallen near the edge of the hurdle, and Johan climbed up and dragged me to the ladder. It was an act of great courage,’ he said. The Hospitaller, silent in the corner of the room, shrugged. ‘It was, my friend. Then I managed the ladder somehow, and we went outside, and . . .’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘They came staggering out the kirk,’ said Sinclair, ‘knee to knee and hand over back, either holding the other up, and him trailing blood. A sight to fright the weans.’

  ‘I thought him spent,’ said Johan. ‘It was a close thing. If the lutenist had not those spare strings with him, he had bled to death by the cut of the axe.’ He rubbed his own upper arm, and grimaced.

  ‘And the lutenist was out in the kirkyard that whole time,’ said Gil.

  Johan nodded. ‘Indeed. He held the strings, and tightened them while the bleeding stopped. It was only when we heard a fall, and Maister Robison went to look and came out to say the man with the axe was lying there dead, that he left us and went to find you. We have tried to call you before that,’ Johan said earnestly, ‘but I suppose you could not answer.’

  ‘The axeman must have been on the scaffolding when we went up,’ said Gil, and shivered. ‘Waiting in the dark, till we found the treasure for him.’ And who else was up there? he wondered. Hold the hye wey, and lat thy gost thee lede. Who helped me escape, who pushed the axeman out into the shadows, if it wasn’t the lutenist?

  ‘A merry thought,’ said Maistre Pierre.

  ‘And what now?’ said Gil.

  ‘You go back to Glasgow, as you’re bid,’ said Sinclair. ‘From what you tell me, you’ve business there. You know who killed Nelkin Fletcher, you can report that to Robert Blacader’s man, and we
’ll get the rest of your books repacked and loaded on a mule for you.’

  ‘And the coin?’

  ‘I take that,’ said Johan. ‘It goes back to the Preceptory, since it is St Johns money.’

  ‘Does it?’ said Gil. Johan and Maistre Pierre exchanged glances.

  ‘I think it does,’ said Maistre Pierre. Johan nodded. ‘Now it is known to be in the hands of the Preceptory, it becomes an internal matter.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ said Gil. They both looked at him, and Sinclair leaned back in the chair as if awaiting entertainment. I must be careful here, he thought. ‘I assume,’ he said delicately, ‘the money was a loan from the Preceptory to the late King.’ He looked at Johan, who gave him back that enigmatic stare. ‘Clearly, since it is still packed and sealed as it left the Preceptory, the King never had the chance to spend it. Indeed, I wonder if he ever got his hands on it, if it didn’t rather stay with – someone, who stood between the King and the Preceptory.’ Still that enigmatic stare. He looked at Sinclair: still waiting to be entertained. ‘That person I think gave it to you, sir, to keep safe. He’s been a good man up to now to have owing you a favour, which I suppose is reason enough to oblige him.’ Sinclair’s eyebrows went up at this, but he gave no other sign. ‘And since he gave you a portion of the late King’s hoard along with it, I suppose it was around the time of the troubles of ’88. Perhaps he had that direct from the King, perhaps he came by it otherwise. That hardly matters.’

  Sinclair still gave no sign, but Johan nodded. Assenting to what?

  ‘The Preceptory wants its loan back,’ Gil said baldly. ‘It’s now over four years since it was lent out, so this is no wonder. I suppose, sir, the person who gave it you for safe keeping must have asked you for the Preceptory money he had lodged with you, and you decided to move the King’s hoard as well, all at once. That makes sense – if the hiding place was compromised, it would be better cleared.’ Sinclair raised his eyebrows again. ‘Maybe in two instalments,’ Gil speculated, ‘since we saw more up there than Nelkin Fletcher brought away with him. Did you shift the other load, sir?’

  ‘Did I?’

  Gil waited a moment, but the handsome face was still studiously blank. He went on.

  ‘The second instalment, which we’re dealing with, got as far as Riddoch’s yard, and should have gone onward hidden in a barrel as part of Riddoch’s rent, but the two carrying it were attacked. Some of the load was already in the barrel, the attackers threw Nelkin’s head in after it to hide his death, filled it with brine, put it on a cart – though why for Glasgow?’ he wondered. ‘These same people, I take it, have been pursuing us all across this side of Scotland, hoping we had either found the rest of the load of coin or would lead them to it. They evidently had some idea of how much there should be. Do you agree, sir?’

  ‘How should I agree or no?’ Sinclair had relaxed slightly, and his tone was slightly friendlier than the words. ‘Are you going to spread these ideas about Scotland?’

  ‘Not widely, sir. And you can be sure,’ said Gil, meeting his eye again, ‘that we took nothing else from the place we found.’

  ‘Oh, I ken that,’ said Sinclair. ‘You got down safe, after all.’

  ‘What puzzles me,’ said Gil, ‘is who the axeman and his friends were working for.’

  ‘Someone who knew the money was being moved,’ said Maistre Pierre after a moment. Both the other men looked sharply at him.

  ‘Aye,’ said Gil. ‘Of those, I think we can leave out the Preceptory itself, and you, sir.’

  Sinclair bowed ironically. ‘Narrows it down very little,’ he observed.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Gil. ‘I’m still involved in Nelkin Fletcher’s death. It seems more than likely it was the axeman killed him, and I’ve no doubt the Provost of Glasgow would be happy enough to bring it in as murder by a stranger when I take home what I’ve found so far, but Augie Morison’s been suspected and the only way to clear him completely is to get a name for the man behind the axeman. With proof.’

  ‘Proof might be harder to come by,’ said Sinclair absently. ‘And we never got a name for the fellow himself, either. I wish my fool of a steward hadny let him get away.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Gil. ‘Was it foolishness, or something else, sir?’

  Sinclair’s eyebrows went up at this. ‘That’s for me to deal wi, d’you not think? And I will, you may believe it.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ Gil agreed, meeting the other’s eye. ‘Anyway, I think the axeman’s name may be Carson. And he has certainly learned the grief of falling from a high place.’

  Sinclair’s mouth quirked as he too recognized the quotation. He considered Gil for a moment, but did not comment.

  ‘I wonder where the two who ran went to?’ said Johan.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Are ye for Rottenrow, Maister Gil,’ asked Tam as they picked their way along the Gallowgait, ‘or are ye going straight to your sweetheart?’

  The warm dusk was deepening fast. Gil had paid off Sinclair’s escort outside the gates; they could command a lodging at a house Sinclair owned near the crumbling Little St Mungo’s chapel. He and Tam had only got into Glasgow after a brisk and personal discussion between Tam and the gate-wards, who were just about to go off duty and were reluctant to unseat the great bar which held the gate shut. Most of the houses they passed were quiet, the fires smoored so that only a trickle of smoke floated from chimney or thatch, the shutters firmly latched against the night air. Taverns here and there spilled lamplight and laughter, and some of their patrons were ambling homewards, forming a shifting hazard to horse traffic. Gil’s horse was too tired to resent this, but the pack-mule seemed to be looking for an opportunity to kick.

  ‘I ought to go to Rottenrow,’ he said now, in answer to Tam’s question. ‘They need to know about Rob.’

  ‘But the lassie needs to ken what’s come to her da,’ the man said. ‘I’ll take the mule on to our house, maister, and break it to them there. Will I take your beast and all? And the dog?’

  ‘The dog will stay wi me.’ Gil looked down at the animal, wedged snoring across his saddlebow. ‘Tam, I’m grateful. Ask Maggie not to bar the door yet.’

  At the mason’s house there was candlelight in the hall windows. Crossing the shadowy courtyard, Gil wondered where Alys would be waiting. On the settle by the empty fireplace, with a stand of candles and a book? Upstairs, in her father’s panelled, comfortable closet, with a book or her lute or the monocords, practising some of the keyboard music which arrived occasionally from France? He whistled to Socrates, and rattled at the front door latch.

  ‘Oh, Maister Gil,’ said Kittock, opening the door to him. ‘The mistress is no here.’

  ‘No here?’ he repeated.

  ‘Madam Catherine’s in the hall,’ she said, bobbing a curtsy. ‘Come you in and get a word wi her. Is the maister no wi you, sir?’

  In the hall, on the settle by the empty hearth, Alys’s aged aristocratic nurse Catherine was seated under a branch of candles, staring at the wall-hangings while her fingers moved automatically with thread and hook. The long strip of lacy stuff twitched across her black skirts as she worked. As Gil stepped into the hall she looked round and set down her work.

  ‘Bon soir, maistre,’ she said. ‘Welcome home. Is our master not with you?’

  ‘I left him in Roslin.’ At her invitation Gil sat down opposite her.

  ‘Where? I trust he is well.’ She paused to acknowledge Socrates, who had padded forward to nudge her hand with his long nose.

  ‘He has taken some hurt. I left him well looked after,’ he assured her. Inevitably this was not enough; he had to detail the mason’s injuries and treatment while she listened with a critical frown. Finally he managed to say, ‘Where is Alys, madame? She should be told.’

  ‘I regret,’ said Catherine disapprovingly in her beautifully enunciated French, ‘the demoiselle has not been home today. She spent yesterday with your sister, monsieur. Then she went out early this morning and she
is not returned. She sent word a little time ago that she would remain the night with your sister.’

  ‘You mean she’s in the Upper Town, madame?’ said Gil in some chagrin.

  ‘But no,’ replied Catherine, her toothless mouth primming up again. ‘The demoiselle and your sister are both at Morison’s Yard.’

  ‘Whatever are they doing there?’ he demanded. ‘Did Alys say why she would not be home?’

  ‘I sent one of the girls for her more than an hour ago,’ said Catherine in mounting indignation, ‘and that was all the word she brought back. What her father would say if he heard of it – though perhaps,’ she added, as if she had just thought of it, ‘they are still trying to restore matters after the burglary.’

  ‘Burglary?’ Gil stared at her. ‘Where? What burglary? What are you telling me, madame?’

  ‘A thief broke into Maister Morison’s house last night. He took nothing,’ she assured him, ‘and he was captured. By your sister, I understand, sir.’

  ‘Kate?’ said Gil in amazement. ‘Sweet St Giles, how did she manage that?’

  ‘I have not heard,’ said Catherine resentfully.

  ‘I must go and see what is happening.’ Gil looked at the dog, who had flopped on to his side and was already snoring faintly. ‘I’ll leave Socrates with you, if I may – he’s had a hard day, poor beast.’

  The sky to the north was still light, but the first stars were pricking above the Tolbooth as he walked the short distance down the High Street. The leaves of Morison’s great yett were shut, but one of them yielded to pressure, and he stepped cautiously into the yard. Barn and sheds were dark shapes in the twilight, the racks of Morison’s wares were gathering pockets of shadow, and an occasional reflection gleamed on the rim or flank of a glazed pot; but even by this light it seemed to Gil there was less clutter underfoot.