The Nicholas Feast (Gil Cunningham Murder Mystery)

by Pat McIntosh

  Over by the lecturer’s pulpit, William was apparently hearing the lines of a younger boy whose shaggy hair had probably last been cut by his mother when she saw him in September. As Gil watched, William shook his own well-barbered head and with a superior smile clouted the other boy round the ear, wadded up his script and reached up to put it on top of the soundboard of the pulpit. Ignoring his victim’s despairing pleas, he walked away across the room, taking something from his purse as he went. Maister Kennedy, looking about him, caught sight of the younger boy standing by the pulpit.

  ‘Gil! You were in the entertainment in our time. Can you take Richie through his part for me? And see him costumed?’

  ‘What, now?’ said Gil in astonishment.

  ‘Aye, now! He needs a last run-through. William was just hearing him, but he has to go and sing again. Richie, come here, you imbecile. Why I cast you as a Scholar I’ll never know. Get along with Maister Cunningham. Where’s your script? And your book?’

  ‘William put them up yonder, Maister Kennedy,’ said Richie, almost weeping with anxiety. ‘I canny reach them!’

  ‘Speak Latin, fool! Maister Cunningham can reach them, I’ve no doubt.’

  Gil crossed to the pulpit, and put a hand up on to the soundboard to bring down a bundle of papers.

  ‘Is it all here?’ he asked Richie, brushing clumps of dust off the creased margins.

  The boy nodded, gulping with relief. ‘That’s my script, maister. But there’s still the brown book. It’s what I tak to show I’m a student.’

  He pushed dark hair out of his eyes in a nervous gesture, and peered hopefully up at the soundboard. Gil put a toe on the seat of the lecturer’s bench and swung himself up to look. There were not one but two books up there, bright on top of decades of dust. He reached for them and jumped down, handing them to Richie.

  ‘This one’s mine, maister. I dinna ken that wee red one, it’s maybe someone else’s.’

  ‘Nick? Is this yours?’ Gil held the book out.

  ‘I don’t know whose it is.’ Maister Kennedy gave the book a brief glance, tucked it in the breast of his cassock and turned away. ‘Michael, how can you be a daughter of anybody with a face like that? Scrub it off and try again.’

  Gil took his pupil into a corner, sorted out the bundle of papers and gave the boy his first prompt. It soon became apparent why Richie was worried; he was nowhere near word-perfect in the badly rhymed Latin couplets and had only the vaguest of ideas about his cues. Gil stared at him in bafflement.

  ‘Why haven’t you learned it?’ he asked. ‘In my day it was an honour to be in the play, and earned favours from the Dean. I was let off two disputations for my last part, it had so many lines.’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Richie, reddening. ‘I thought it would be easy. I mean . . .’ He fell silent.

  Gil, in some sympathy, said, ‘Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now. Why don’t you carry the script in your book and read it, as if you’re reading Aristotle or Euclid?’

  Richie gaped at him as if experiencing an epiphany.

  ‘D’you think Maister Kennedy would let me?’

  ‘I should think he’d let you do anything that saved the play,’ Gil assured him.

  ‘Richie! Are you costumed yet!’ shouted Nick across the room. ‘The singing’s finished, we’re on next. Now have you all got that clear? We’re cutting the scene with Frivolity and going straight to where Idleness enters. Yes, I know, Henry, but you’ve only yourself to blame, you know even less of your lines than Richie here. Walter and Andrew, you will get that padding out or I will personally remove it and stuff it up –’

  ‘I know Henry’s lines.’ William was by the door, supercilious under a gold brocade turban.

  ‘You can’t take three parts, William. And we’re doing the first version of your fight, is that clear?’ Nick pursued, ignoring the red-haired boy’s expression. ‘The first version, not the one with the long speeches.’

  ‘It’s a paltry little play anyway,’ William objected in his fluent Latin, the disdainful expression ever more marked. ‘It would be an act of destruction to omit the best speeches.’

  ‘I will not argue,’ Nick said in the same language. ‘I am in charge of the play. You heard my instructions, William. Right, are we ready? Let’s go, before the bejants start a riot.’

  Gil paused to snuff the candles by the mirror, and followed the company out into the courtyard and along the west range, past the tunnel that led to the yett and into the Lang Schule. The lecture-room had been transformed since the Faculty meeting, and was now hung with painted cloths. Cushioned settles had been placed for the older members and long benches arranged round a stage set off by a suit of worn verdure tapestries which Gil recollected from the Principal’s house in his day. The Masters and senior students were all deep in conversation, as befitted their dignity, but on the side benches the younger bachelors and the bejants, the first-year students, were becoming restless. Slipping in at the side, Gil found himself a seat beside Maister Coventry, who nodded at him.

  ‘I see you survived the feast.’

  ‘I avoided most of it,’ Gil confessed. ‘I’ve been helping at the play.’

  ‘Probably safer. And what is Nick giving us? Some kind of allegory, as usual?’

  Nick Kennedy, in a grey wig and gold cloak, stepped on to the stage from among the tapestries, bowed to the Dean and Principal and the rest of the audience, and in the usual deprecatory Latin announced that this rough play and its limping metre would depict an allegory of the student’s life. The regents and Masters applauded, the students groaned, Nick bowed again and left the stage, and there was a long pause, and some hissing whispers behind the tapestry. Then Richie emerged, stumbling slightly as if pushed, and launched abruptly into a halting account of how as a Scholar he had been nurtured at a grammar school on the milk of Latin and rhetoric but was now of an age to wish for stronger food. He followed the words with his finger in his bundle of papers, and spoke in the curious accent affected by Lanarkshire youth on a stage.

  To him entered the gangling William, wearing the gold cloak and turban and introducing himself as Fortune, and in a long speech invited the Scholar to accompany him through the world, promising to lead him to a banquet of the richest food an enquiring mind could wish for. Their journey round the stage was marred by a tendency for the students on the side benches to tramp with their feet in time with the scholarly steps, until the Dean’s chilly stare took effect.

  ‘There are only eight bejants,’ said Patrick Coventry, ‘and two are in the play. How can six boys of fourteen be so wild to handle?’

  ‘Because they’re boys of fourteen?’ Gil suggested.

  Maister Coventry’s reply was drowned by whistling and stamping. The Scholar and Fortune had encountered a bevy of veiled ladies, at least one of whom had not obeyed Maister Kennedy’s directions about the padding. The Dean deployed his stare again, and in the relative silence Fortune declared that these were Dame Collegia and her daughters, among whom were Learning, Wisdom and Knowledge. Learning and Wisdom looked under their eyebrows at their friends, but Knowledge struck a provocative pose and grinned, displaying several missing teeth, as Fortune informed the Scholar that if he were wedded to one of these damsels he would become one of the Dame’s children himself, and would never lack for the finest fare.

  The Dame and her daughters sang a motet in praise of the scholarly life, the beat given by Bernard Stewart from the edge of the stage. Gil recognized the music; he hoped that nobody else was familiar with the original words, but Patrick Coventry beside him muttered, ‘Dear me.’

  The Scholar appeared about to succumb to one or all of these beauties, but William, who had left the stage, re-entered in a linen headdress, dragging two startled boys with him and declaring himself to be Dame Frivolity with her servants Gambling and Drunkenness. Collegia and her daughters, with shocked gestures, left.

  ‘They were going to cut this,’ Gil said, as startled as Frivolity’s
henchmen.

  ‘A last-minute change?’

  ‘The cut was a last-minute change itself.’

  Overcoming the Scholar’s reluctance, Frivolity enticed him into a game of dice while the goblet went round, then departed. The side benches, who appeared to know what was coming, began whistling again. The Scholar, pushing his hair out of his eyes, read out that he had lost all his money, and just as he seemed about to fall into a drunken stupor, a fearsome dragon rushed onstage. The bejants cheered.

  ‘When did we get the costume?’ Gil asked, as the monster rampaged about, threatening the front rows of the audience and making an attempt on the Dean’s silk gown.

  ‘In ’89, I think,’ said Maister Coventry. ‘It was a gift from a student’s family. We have to make use of it, of course. It barely fits William, as tall as he is. Have you noticed the weather?’

  Gil looked up at the tall window. The dark clouds were much closer, and a shutter was banging on an upper floor of the house immediately opposite.

  ‘Any of the bejants admit to being afraid of thunder?’ he asked. The regent shook his head.

  The dragon was now making a lengthy speech in which it identified itself as Idleness and threatened to consume the Scholar utterly. The Scholar made futile efforts to escape, clutching his script, while Gambling and Drunkenness refused to help, but nothing availed until a sturdy knight with a wooden sword and well-polished shield tramped on. Pausing only to announce himself as Diligence, the enemy of Idleness and the support and defence of scholars everywhere, he attacked the dragon, which fought back furiously. Dame Collegia and her daughters returned to cheer the knight on. From time to time one or the other combatant broke off to address the audience at length, until the noise from the side benches became too much and the dragon attacked them instead.

  ‘That was a mistake,’ said Maister Coventry. Leaning forward he laid firm hands on the two students nearest him, but those beyond had already leapt to their feet and begun baiting the dragon with enthusiasm. The boys from the other side bench rushed across the room and joined in, tugging at the dragon’s tail, and as the canvas tore Dean Elphinstone rose to his feet.

  ‘Tacete!’ he said, in a voice like the crack of a whip.

  All movement was suspended. The Dean held the moment; that icy stare swept the room, and returned to Diligence, who swallowed hard and brought sword to shield in a salute. Finally the Dean bowed.

  ‘Pray continue, Sir Diligence,’ he said politely, and seated himself again.

  The students slunk back to their seats; the dragon gathered up its damaged tail and regained the stage. Diligence, overcoming it with a perfunctory sweep of his sword, turned to raise the Scholar to his feet. As Dame Collegia and her daughters came forward to discuss the Scholar’s marriage, William removed the dragon’s head and stalked off behind the tapestries, and Gil heard the first rumble of thunder.

  The Scholar’s marriage arrangements were much more quickly dealt with than Gil felt to be realistic. All present attempted a motet, praising diligence and condemning idleness, and as soon as it was finished the chaplain slipped out of the hall with an anxious expression, presumably to prepare for his lecture to the theologians. Nick reappeared to say that the play was over and the players hoped it had given pleasure. The place where he had cut the line hoping it had not given offence was barely noticeable. Gil, eyeing his friend, felt that this was a man who needed to be plied with strong drink.

  As the side benches began drumming their feet by way of applause and the senior members of the audience clapped politely, a few drops of rain rattled on the little greenish panes of the upper window. The students sitting below jumped up to close the shuttered lower portions. They were just in time; as the first turnbutton twirled home, a colossal peal of thunder crashed, and the skies opened.

  ‘Michty me, it’s the Deluge!’ said someone.

  ‘My Aristotle!’ said someone else, and dived for the door. A number of students followed him, including most of the cast of the play. The Dean and Principal watched in disapproval.

  ‘The roofs are no sounder than they ever were?’ Gil said to his neighbour.

  ‘Well, no,’ said Maister Coventry frankly. ‘I’ve spent a bishop’s ransom on thatching the Arthurlie building next door, so it’s weathertight for now, but neither Law nor Theology can spare money for the roof of the main building, and Dean Elphinstone won’t lay out Arts Faculty money without at least the promise that they’ll match it. So the boys in the Inner Close run about with buckets when it rains, and their books and their bedding get spoiled, and then their parents complain to the Principal. It’s quite an inconvenience, Maister Cunningham.’

  ‘The building is old,’ Gil observed. ‘It was not new when Lord Hamilton gave it to the college, and that was before I was born. Maybe another rich benefactor will appear from the sky and solve all your problems.’

  ‘All that appears from the sky is water.’ Maister Coventry stared at the rain running down the window. ‘The end of the feast is in the Fore Hall, we only have to go outside and up the stair, save those of us who wish to find the privy, but I imagine the Dean will wish to stay seated until this stops. His bladder must be cast iron.’ He looked up. ‘Ah, Nick. Well done.’

  Maister Kennedy, without the grey wig, sat down at Gil’s other side, snarling.

  ‘I will strangle that little toad,’ he said emphatically. ‘You saw him, Patey He actually took Henry’s kurtch off him and went on as Frivolity, after what I said. And he deliberately did the second version of the fight, and he –’

  ‘Perhaps he was nervous,’ Gil suggested, ‘and simply forgot your directions.’

  ‘Nervous? That? Don’t make me laugh. I’ll strangle him, I will, as soon as I set eyes on him.’

  ‘Is he not backstage?’ asked Patrick Coventry.

  ‘No, he is not. You saw him go – he should have been onstage for the motet, they needed his top line, but no, William was offended, William left.’ His fingers worked. ‘By God, the little –’

  ‘Nick.’ Maister Coventry reached across to touch his arm. ‘This is not the place.’

  ‘In fact I’d better not strangle him yet,’ Maister Kennedy admitted. ‘The Dean has to grant favours to the cast, including William, I suppose. Oh, God, how I wish this day was over!’

  ‘Amen to that,’ agreed the Second Regent. ‘See, I think the rain has eased a little, and the Dean is signalling to the Beadle. Perhaps we can leave these hard benches and go back up to finish the feast and listen to the harper.’

  ‘They’ll all go and stand in line out the back,’ said Maister Kennedy sourly. ‘I vote we make for the Arthurlie garden. You too, Gil?’

  By the time the Faculty reassembled in the Fore Hall the tables had been taken down and the benches disposed in less formal ranks, and the students who had been at the feast had seized the opportunity to absent themselves. One or two junior bachelors remained, their white towels of office by now somewhat spattered, to hand platters of sweetmeats and the two silver quaichs full of spiced wine. In a corner the cast of the play, restored to their belted gowns, greasepaint smudged round eyes and mouths, were gathering round one of the dishes of sweetmeats. Maister Kennedy annexed another, and sat down against the wall as the Faculty members continued to straggle into the hall.

  ‘Here comes the harper,’ he said in some satisfaction. ‘Mind you, he only has one of his singers with him.’

  ‘This one is his sister. The other one died,’ said Gil, watching the Steward conduct two tall Highlanders into the hall. The woman paced like a queen in her loose checked gown; her dark hair tumbled down her back, the threads of silver in it invisible in this light. In one arm she cradled a wire-strung harp. The man who held her other arm was nearly as tall as Gil. He wore a gown of blue velvet, with a gold chain disposed on his shoulders, beard and hair combed over it as white as new milk. ‘Less than a fortnight ago,’ he added. ‘This may be the first time they have performed in public since.’

  Altho
ugh the hall was full of conversation, the harper’s head tilted. He spoke to his sister, who looked round, and met Gil’s eye. She nodded briefly to him, unsmiling, and continued in the wake of the Steward to the place set for them near the senior members of the Faculty. The Dean began a formal welcome to Angus McIan, harper, and Elizabeth McIan, singer, and Gil reflected that he scarcely recognized Ealasaidh by the Scots form of her name.

  ‘Oh, was that the business I was hearing about?’ Nick passed the sweetmeats across Gil to Maister Coventry, ignoring the Dean’s stately comments. ‘Picked up dead in the Fergus Aisle, wasn’t she? And the mason’s boy did it? Who was she, anyway?’

  ‘The mason’s boy did not,’ said Gil. ‘She was John Sempill’s wife. You remember John at the Grammar School?’

  ‘Aye.’ Nick chewed on a wedge of candied apricot. ‘Ill-tempered brute. Did he do it, then?’

  ‘Hush and listen,’ said Maister Coventry. ‘How can I silence the students if you talk so much?’

  Nick grinned, and leaned back against the wall. The harper had begun a tuning-prelude, the sweeping ripples of sound ringing round the hall while he listened critically to the pitch of the notes. He worked his way from the lowest notes to the highest and back, then stilled the strings with the flat of his hand, threw a remark in Gaelic to his sister, and began to play. To Gil’s surprise the singer remained silent, while the harp spun a skein of heavy, solemn melody and counter-melody, almost painful to listen to. Though the harper’s long hands moved smoothly over the shining wires, across the width of the hall Gil saw the tremor in arm and jaw. What ails McIan? he wondered.