by Pat McIntosh
‘I never thought it,’ said the brother-in-law, ‘nor herself neither.’
‘That you are not our brother David.’ Alys’s eyes were becoming used to the gloom, and she saw the glance Patrick cast at Andrew, who was still moving about in the chancel.
‘David is my father,’ said Davie.
‘We thought that must be it. Is he well?’
‘He has the joint-ill, but otherwise he’s well. He sends you his greetings.’
The conversation seemed quite unreal. Alys stood watching, gauging the reactions of the men present. Patrick was solemn; Jamie was still stiff and embarrassed; Murdo was puzzled. Davie was braced like a crossbow.
‘Why?’ asked Patrick.
‘Why did I deceive you?’ There was a break in the voice, as if Davie would weep on little more provocation. ‘I never planned to, I swear it. But the cailleach took me for – and then how could I –’
‘Och, no, that’s a wee thing,’ said Patrick. ‘It gave her such pleasure to think you had come home, it’s easy enough forgiven. But why did you come?’
‘My father dreamed,’ Davie swallowed. ‘He dreamed of the house in flames. Three times he dreamed it, and he was wishing to come home and – and warn you all, or see what had come to you – but he had so much to do, and he – he sent me instead.’
‘But then the – the Good Folk set fire to the Tigh-an-Teine,’ said Jamie slowly, ‘only because you were here.’
There was a long, long pause. Then Davie Drummond slowly tipped his head back and howled, one deafening syllable of denial. Alys jumped forward and seized him by the arms, and Murdo Dubh grabbed his shoulders.
‘No! It canny be!’ he wailed, struggling with them.
Alys tightened her grip, breast to breast, and said, ‘Davie! All falls out as God wills! The guilt is not yours, it’s –’ She checked, swallowed her words and concentrated on holding Davie. After a moment he was still, head bent, saying:
‘And she was so good to me, so loving, and first I deceived her and then I slew her –’
‘No,’ said Andrew. ‘You caused someone else to do something that led to her death.’
‘I betrayed her.’
‘She named you as one of her bairns, as she lay dying,’ said Alys. ‘And your father as well,’ she realized.
‘David.’ Andrew stepped forward, reached past Alys, tilted Davie’s head up to look in his eyes. ‘Even Judas will find forgiveness. The guilt is not yours.’
Alys looked over Davie’s shoulder towards the door. Gil was standing there, as she had been certain. Their eyes met, and he nodded. He had seen the parallel.
‘Judas is not in it,’ said Murdo Dubh, letting go his grasp of Davie’s shoulders. Davie immediately gave at the knees and slid downwards through Alys’s grasp, to collapse in heartbroken sobs on the earthen floor.
‘I killed her. It’s my fault!’
‘Come, come, laddie,’ said Patrick stiffly, beginning to be embarrassed. ‘There is none of us is blaming you for it, and no need to be carrying on like this at the age you are.’
He paused, and his brother said in his harsh voice, ‘We don’t know what age he is, Patrick, but I agree he is too old for weeping like a lassie. Get up, David.’
‘Davie.’ Alys knelt beside the sobbing figure. ‘Davie, there is still something you have to tell us, isn’t there?’
‘Is he not telling us enough?’ asked Murdo Dubh. In the corner of her eye Alys was aware that Andrew had lit the candles in the chancel again. No, surely Andrew was standing beside Patrick? She moved so that the light fell on Davie Drummond’s face. Beside Patrick, Jamie Beag had stepped back, turning away from the group as if he knew what would come next.
‘Davie?’ she prompted. The sobs ceased, briefly, and then completely. Davie looked at her warily in the light.
‘What do I have to tell you?’
She sat back on her heels, still holding one wet hand.
‘What is Davie short for?’
There was another long pause.
‘Surely,’ said Murdo, ‘it’s only short for David?’ Alys shook her head. ‘Though he ought to have been called James like his grandfather,’ Murdo added with disapproval.
‘Should you, Davie?’ Alys rubbed her thumb gently on the back of the hand she held. ‘Should you have been called for your grandfather?’
Davie used the other wrist to scrub at wet eyes, and whispered, ‘No.’
‘Don’t be daft, laddie,’ said Patrick. ‘Who else should you ha been called for? If not your grandfather, then your father, that’s proper enough.’
Davie laughed unsteadily.
‘No, uncle. I was called for my mother.’
‘For your mother?’ repeated Andrew incredulously. ‘Your mother?’ And then, with sudden comprehension, ‘What was her name, then? Was she Dymphna?’
‘Nearly.’ Davie sat back, still gripping Alys’s hand. ‘She was from Ireland, she had the Irish form of the name. Demhna. I was aye called Davie – Devi – to make a difference.’
‘Devna,’ repeated Andrew.
And no wonder, thought Alys, you could swear your name was Davie Drummond. She glanced over to the door, and saw that Gil was still watching, as fascinated by the scene as she was herself.
‘Demhna,’ said Patrick slowly, and unbelted his great plaid. He shook it out, and held it to his niece. ‘Cover yourself, lassie,’ he said gently. ‘I can see that you would travel safer dressed as a laddie, but it’s not decent now.’
There was a movement in the chancel, and Robert Montgomery came slowly forward into the nave, as if pulled, with the candle-snuffer still in his hand. He stopped on the edge of the group, staring at the kneeling figure in its midst.
‘Are you saying,’ he asked, in a tone between hope and amazement, ‘are you saying Davie Drummond is a lassie?’
There was a taut silence, in which Davie looked up and met Robert’s eye.
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
‘Well,’ said Robert, ‘Our Lord be thanked for that.’ The candle-snuffer fell to the floor, and he strode forward into the group and pulled Davie briskly to her feet, gathering up the plaid in his other hand. ‘Cover yourself, as you’re bid,’ he said, swinging the heavy folds round her, ‘and then tell me how we’re to get to the Low Countries. I’ll want to speak to your father.’
The Drummond men looked at each other, open-mouthed, and then at Davie and Robert, still and handfast in their midst, staring at the light blazing in one another’s eyes. Alys, trying not to laugh, slipped out of the circle and went to Gil.
‘Have you found who killed James Stirling?’ she asked.
‘I have,’ he said, sounding pleased with himself.
‘Good. And here I think,’ she said with equal satisfaction, ‘we’ve answered all my lord Blacader’s questions, and some more besides.’
‘Our Lady preserve me from Hugh Montgomery’s wrath,’ said Lady Stewart, putting her feet up on a low stool. ‘He’ll no be pleased at this.’
‘The boy’s near seventeen,’ said Gil, after taking a moment to work it out. As was Alys when we were betrothed, he realized. ‘He’ll certainly believe he’s old enough to make his own decisions.’
‘I was,’ said Alys, ‘and I was right.’ He tightened his arm about her shoulders, and they smiled at one another.
‘Aye, but lassies are different,’ said Lady Stewart.
‘I don’t see why,’ said Sir William. ‘Would you let your stepdaughters choose a husband, Marion? But never mind that,’ he added hastily, perhaps detecting an argument he might lose. ‘Let’s have the reckoning from Perth, Cunningham. What was going on? Was Andrew Drummond in it?’
‘Only by accident.’ Gil frowned, arranging his thoughts. ‘He was deep in the family’s own matter, and that was linked to the Bishop’s matter.’
‘Go on, and stop speaking in riddles.’ Sir William sat back in his great chair.
‘It was Andrew Drummond that got David stolen away thirty years ago.
I suppose a boy’s jealousy was what drove him, and he was repaid for it, because someone arranged an accident for him. It went wrong, and he lost his voice, and might have lost his life. I think,’ he said cautiously, ‘he blamed one of the cathedral servants for it, and the man died soon after.’
‘Ailidh said he was always jealous,’ Alys remarked.
‘So did David – this David. Davie. Now, what began things this time was when Doig stole away the singer from Dunblane in March. Drummond recognized what happened, asked about, and when he was next in Perth he went to challenge Doig with it. He met James Stirling, who was close friends with David when they were boys. Stirling had heard of Davie’s return, and challenged Drummond about his disappearance, speaking very elliptically.’
Lady Stewart was watching him carefully; Sir William was frowning.
‘They went out on to the meadow and talked,’ he continued, ‘and it seems they made confession to each other. I think they both had a lot to forgive. But that’s the end of Andrew Drummond’s involvement in Stirling’s death, for he went into Perth, met Doig and talked wi him, and then spent the evening on his knees in St John’s Kirk.’
‘Ah.’ Sir William sat back again. ‘I’m glad to hear he’s out of it.’
‘So was it the tanner killed Maister Secretary?’ asked Lady Stewart.
‘No,’ said Gil. ‘It was Bishop Brown’s steward. He was the spy in the household. A good steward can learn more about his maister’s business than the maister himself, and he had the contact with Doig to get the information overseas. I think James Stirling had recognized who was responsible, and he made a serious mistake when he found out.’
‘He let the man know he knew,’ said Alys, nodding.
‘He gave it away,’ Gil agreed, ‘for the sake of one of his jokes. He had to be killed before he told the Bishop. So when the steward learned from his own servant that Stirling was alone and outside Perth, he sent a message to decoy him to the dog-yard, found a place to hide and killed him with his crossbow, and hurried back to the house to serve out the Bishop’s supper, which was a little late that evening. He left his servant to dispose of the body, and hid the bow itself in Stirling’s own kist. The tan-yard was handy, and Doig saw a way in, so that was where the body went.’
‘But if he was known to be a good shot,’ said Alys, ‘why did he hide the bow?’
‘I suppose he must have panicked.’ Gil shook his head. ‘There are loose ends, I don’t expect we’ll ever know exactly what Drummond and Stirling discussed, though I can make a guess, I don’t know if the Dunblane cathedral servant fell to his death by accident, and I don’t know who killed the man Mitchel though I assume Currie had paid them to attack our men. I’m right sorry about Donal’s injury,’ he added to Sir William. ‘The Blackfriars’ Infirmarer thinks he’ll do well enough, if it doesny fester.’
‘I wonder how old the lassie is?’ remarked Lady Stewart, who had clearly stopped attending to Gil. ‘And should we make them wed afore they set out?’
‘That really would anger my lord Montgomery,’ said Alys.
‘No, Marion,’ said Sir William firmly. ‘The laddie, or lassie, or whatever she is, is none of our mind. Let the Drummonds see to her, and if Robert leaves the glen on the same day she does, there’s no need to tell your kinsman the boy wasny alone.’
It was several days more before Gil and Alys left the glen in their turn. It had been good to go hunting or laze in the sunshine after the week of hard work and hard riding it had taken him to untangle the death of James Stirling, but Gil was aware that Archbishop Blacader would prefer a report delivered in person rather than the written account he had sent by one of the Stronvar men. When Tam and Ned arrived from Perth with a good account of Donal’s progress, and Lady Stewart declared Steenie well enough to travel, they set out, on a morning full of sunshine and wisps of small white cloud.
Their hosts accompanied them on horseback as far as the Beannachd Aonghais. Crossing the causeway to the Kirkton, Sir William remarked to Gil, ‘You said your wife was a surprising creature.’ Gil, with a slight effort, recalled the occasion and nodded. ‘I’d put it stronger than that, man. I’d say she was byous by-ordinar, the most unusual lassie I’ve met. You’re a lucky man, Maister Cunningham.’
‘I know that, sir,’ Gil assured him.
The byous by-ordinar lassie, his periwinkle of prowess, had turned her horse at the far end of the bridge, and called to him, her face shadowed under her straw riding-hat.
‘Gil, I would like to go into the kirk here before we leave.’
‘A good thought,’ he agreed.
They left the rest of the party at the crossroads, and walked up to the little kirk. Alys paused at the door, looking out at the loch.
‘Davie once said to me,’ she said, ‘that her father, I suppose she meant David, called this a place where you are close to the kingdom of the angels. I can see why.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Gil said, looking where she did, at the still reflections and the smoke rising up from the nearby houses.
‘Not just that,’ she said. ‘It feels – it feels as if – one might almost see –’
‘That too,’ he agreed. She flashed him one of her quick smiles, and pushed open the heavy door.
He spent a little while on his knees, ordering his thoughts about the two puzzles they had unravelled, asking for justice and mercy for all who had done wrong. He felt it unlikely that the King’s Justiciars would be able to combine the two virtues for Wat Currie, but something of the sort had been achieved in Dalriach, it seemed.
A sudden flare of light distracted him. Rising and looking about him, he found Alys had moved into the chancel, a place usually forbidden to women unless they held a brush or a duster, and must have lit one of the altar candles. When he followed her there, she was standing before the altar, holding the candle in its pewter candlestick, staring down at her feet. He came to stand beside her, and she nodded at the floor.
‘The stone,’ she said, ‘St Angus’ stone. I think he must be under it.’
‘Very likely,’ agreed Gil, taking the candle from her. ‘Shall we go out now? It’s a long ride to Stirling.’
‘Yes, we should go,’ said Alys, still looking at the stone. She bent, tracing the outline chiselled in the sandstone. ‘It isn’t local stone. Do you suppose it’s a portrait of St Angus?’
‘Tomb slabs usually are, aren’t they?’ Gil took hold of her elbow, drawing her away. ‘Mind you, his head must have been on the small side.’
‘Yes,’ she said, studying the outline again, the long robe and broad shoulders, the hands cradling the chalice. ‘Yes, let’s go. It will be good to go home.’
Author’s note
Balquhidder is a real place, but it has changed since the fifteenth century. I found a great deal of value about the history and folklore of the glen in Elizabeth Beauchamp’s excellent local history, The Braes o’ Balquhidder: a history and guide for the visitor. The wider folklore and the Gaelic songs quoted are to be found in Alexander Carmichael’s great collection, the Carmina Gadelica.
St Angus’ little church has long gone, even its successor standing in ruins now, but his grave slab is preserved inside the present Victorian building. A service, in Gaelic and English, to celebrate the bringing of Christianity to the glen, takes place in the church every year on the Wednesday after the second Tuesday of August, the Wednesday closest to St Angus’ Day.
Ever since it became a kingdom, Scotland has had two native languages, Gaelic (which in the fifteenth century was called Ersche) and Scots, both of which you will find used in the Gil Cunningham books. I have translated the Gaelic where needful, and those who have trouble with the Scots could consult the online Dictionary of the Scots Language, to be found at http://www.dsl.ac.uk/dsl/
Also by Pat McIntosh
The Harper’s Quine
The Nicholas Feast
The Merchant’s Mark
St Mungo’s Robin
The Rough Collier
>
Copyright
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2009
Copyright © Pat McIntosh, 2009
The right of Pat McIntosh to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978–1–84901–866–1
