by Pat McIntosh
‘Principal, if I might make a suggestion,’ said Maister Coventry in the brisk tones of one actually giving an order, ‘I think our brother Nicholas would be better out of this. Might you take him back to your lodging the now? Then Maister Cunningham and I can sort matters here, till the Steward can spare a couple of servitors to redd up.’
Gil, admiring the way the Second Regent did not say that the servitors could not be trusted to deal with the books and papers, added, ‘Perhaps you would have a drop of aqua-vita or usquebae for him, maister? I think he could do with a restorative.’
‘Aqua-vita,’ said the Principal, brightening. ‘A good thought, Gilbert. Come, Nicholas. Come to my lodging and we will think about where you are to lie tonight. Certainly you canny sleep here.’
Nick, with the prospect of strong drink, was persuaded to accompany the Principal. As Maister Doby’s shocked exclamations dwindled down the stairs Maister Coventry said, ‘Is the Principal right? The same as searched William’s room, or not?’
‘What do you think?’ countered Gil, lifting the neighbour of the savaged shoe.
‘William’s property was not damaged. This is vicious.’
‘Or unlearned. An unlettered man or men, unused to handling an ink-horn, searching for something particular.’ Gil extracted a book from the fireplace and smoothed the pages. ‘Something small, flat, easily hidden. A bundle of paper, perhaps, of a different size or quality from this stuff Nick uses.’
‘William’s writing was very distinctive,’ observed Maister Coventry. ‘I have seen it often when he took notes. He wrote very small, with the hooks and tails cut off short. Nick’s writing is not the same at all. Even an unlettered man could tell the difference.’
‘True,’ agreed Gil, recalling the tiny script he had been studying earlier. ‘So, an unlearned man or men searching for paper with William’s writing on.’
‘Or a book?’ Maister Coventry lifted another ill-treated volume and shook straw from the leather binding. ‘Or both?’
They had lifted and stacked the pages of Maister Kennedy’s vigorous, looping fist which were flung around the room, and were restoring his six books to their place on the bookshelf when Maister Shaw appeared with two of the college servants, exclaiming in shock and annoyance at such a thing happening in the college.
‘And during the Office, too! What a day, what a day! Tammas, you lift that straw. Andro, see to the clothes. That sark’ll take a year’s bleaching.’
‘Was everyone at Vespers?’ Gil asked, standing aside to let the men start work.
‘Nearly everyone,’ admitted the Steward. ‘The kitchen would be busy. With Vespers being early, the scholars’ supper was put back to after it. But they’d all be under Agnes Dickson’s eye.’
‘This cape’s all ower ink,’ said Andro, lifting it cautiously. ‘And the hood an all.’
‘Maister Kennedy will be vexed,’ said the Steward.
‘It isn’t Maister Kennedy’s,’ said Gil in dismay. ‘It’s mine. So’s the gown.’
‘So was the gown,’ corrected Maister Coventry, holding it up. The heavy woollen stuff was slashed and ripped, the lining hanging out here and there. ‘I think this is past repair.’
Nick, when he learned of the damage, was more than vexed.
‘I wouldny have had that happen for all sorts, Gil,’ he exclaimed on a blast of the college aqua-vita. ‘Oh, will you look at the cape!’ He produced a slightly tipsy chuckle. ‘If it was only splashed here and there you could have said it was ermine, but that’s past praying for.’
‘I’ll say one of the skins is in mourning,’ said Gil. ‘John Shaw has all in hand, says your chamber will be habitable by the morn, and I must be away up the town. What happened to that list you and Maister Coventry made for me?’
‘Patey’s got it.’ Nick looked into his glass, but it remained empty. ‘We made the fair copy up in his chamber in the Arthurlie close. I think I left my cope there and all. Fortunately. Likely it’d be covered in ink like your fur if it’d been over this side. God, I loathe Peter of Spain. Three years’ work, and all to do again.’
‘I think when you have put the pages in order you will find there is less damage than appeared at first,’ said Maister Coventry in his graceful Latin. He drew a bundle of papers from the breast of his gown. Something stirred in Gil’s memory, but the Second Regent went on, ‘Here’s your list, Maister Cunningham. I hope you may be able to read it. We wrote down who was present, where they were after the play, and who was with them. Nobody seems to have been alone, so it may not be of much assistance.’
‘If I can eliminate names from the hunt,’ Gil said, ‘it will be of great assistance. And I have another task for you, Maister Coventry, if you are willing.’
The Second Regent’s eyebrows went up.
‘It seems Nick Gray heard the three senior bachelors talking, after they had put William into the limehouse. He told the kitchen, but I’d like to know who else knew of it.’
Patrick Coventry opened his mouth to reply, closed it again, and gazed thoughtfully at Gil with his good eye.
‘Not easy,’ he said at length.
‘No,’ agreed Gil, ‘but better done by an insider.’ He held up the sheaf of papers. ‘I thank you both for this piece of work. And now I must be off. If any of the students comes complaining of another chamber being searched, keep him for me till the morning.’
‘Patey can see to that too,’ said Nick. ‘I’m for my bed. Maister Doby’s put me in a corner here, for which I’ll say a Mass in his name the morn, I swear it. Come and find me in the morning, Gil. If I haveny dee’d of an apoplexy from all the excitement,’ he added sourly. ‘Tell your minnie I was asking for her.’
Gil bade goodnight to Maister Doby, who had taken refuge in a soothing volume of St Jerome, bundled his damaged finery over his arm, and made his way out of the Principal’s lodging. In the evening light a few students were still standing about in the courtyard, but although some nodded or said good evening none accosted him. At the yett he stopped and glanced into Jaikie’s fetid den. The man was sprawled in his chair, with the bottle of usquebae in his grasp. He looked up, but did not speak.
‘Who was past the yett while they were all at Vespers?’ Gil asked.
‘I never saw a thing,’ pronounced Jaikie with slow emphasis. ‘No a feckin thing.’
‘If you think of any more badges,’ Gil said, ‘send and let me know.’
Jaikie leered at him.
‘Maybe I will,’ he agreed indistinctly, ‘and maybe I’ll no. Secrets, secrets,’ he said again, and held up the bottle. ‘The secrets I’ve learned from you, my wee friend.’ He waved the bottle at Gil. ‘Pull the yett ahint ye, maister. I’ll bar it later.’
There seemed to be no point in continuing the conversation. Gil unbarred the yett and stepped out into the quiet street, realizing as he did so that he was still holding the folded list of names in his free hand. He tucked it into his doublet and strode on up the High Street.
It all happened with great suddenness. It was the rush of feet behind him which alerted him. He sprang sideways and whirled, weight on one foot, and as the three men reached him placed a kick with the other where it would do most damage. Its recipient went down in the muddy street, crowing and retching. Gil leapt backwards, groping for his whinger, and realized belatedly that he was not wearing it. His remaining attackers, circling warily now they had lost the advantage of surprise, recognized this in the same moment and moved in. One had a short sword, the other a cudgel. Gil drew his dagger right-handed and raised the other arm, embroiled in heavy folds of fabric, in time to balk the sword.
His opponents were hooded and cloaked in black, the free weapon arms black-garbed. He could see no faces, but a glitter of eyes betrayed another sudden movement, and he was barely in time to duck the cudgel. He whirled, lunging with the dagger, but the man twisted like a salmon and the weapon slashed harmlessly through cloth. The sword whirred, and he jerked his left arm up to parry again, meeting
the hilt of the weapon with the bundle of heavy cloth. His other hand came round with the dagger, and he felt the blade connect and heard the grunt of pain.
As he tugged the knife free, the cudgel made vicious contact with his forearm, and the dagger dropped from suddenly useless fingers. He danced sideways to deliver another kick, bringing his protected left arm round as a shield, and his boot made contact with the swordsman’s arm. The sword fell to join his dagger, but as he stepped back there was a stunning blow to his head. The gasping fight, the peaceful street, spun away from him.
Just before they vanished he thought he heard shouting. It sounded like the mason. It can’t be, he thought. He’s at Compline. Then darkness took him.
Chapter Seven
‘Did you know them?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘They made off when I shouted, and I was more concerned to see to you than to pursue them. If Alys had not insisted that we left Compline early . . .’
‘I never got a sight of their faces.’ Gil leaned back against the lavender-scented pillow-beres of the mason’s best bed, and eased his feet out from under the wolfhound, which had been fed already and had returned to its self-appointed guard duty. It appeared to have grown overnight. ‘I am very grateful that you came by. This is damnably inconvenient, but it could be a lot worse.’
‘It isn’t broken, Brother Andrew said.’ Alys set down the tray with the porridge-bowl to reach across and test the temperature of the compress on Gil’s wrist, but would not meet his eye. ‘And nor is your head. I think a night’s sleep has made a lot of difference.’
‘If I’d been wearing my other hat it might be a different story.’ Gil pushed his hair cautiously out of his eyes. Beware of what you wish for, he thought. You might get it. ‘I wish I knew what they wanted, that they attacked me in the High Street in broad day.’
‘It wasn’t your purse,’ said Alys, lifting the tray again. ‘That was untouched. I thought one of them snatched something from your doublet before he ran.’
‘From my doublet?’ repeated Gil. A memory surfaced, and he went on in dismay, ‘Maister Coventry had just given me the list of names. I think I put it in the breast of my doublet.’
‘I found nothing like that. It would have crackled when we stripped you.’ Still avoiding his eye, she put the tray on a stool and turned to reach for the muddy bundle of his clothes. ‘These must be brushed,’ she said critically. ‘I should have seen to it last night. And I know of a furrier who can rescue the cope, but the gown will take several days’ work. There are no papers here, Gil. Do you suppose your friends made a copy?’
‘But why steal a package of papers?’ said Maistre Pierre.
‘Presumably because the right paper was not to be found in William’s chamber or in Nick’s,’ Gil said slowly. ‘Ah, no, you haven’t heard about that. When I got to the college last night I found that Maister Kennedy’s room had been searched while they were all at Vespers. It looked as if a whirlwind had been through it. That was when my gown and cope were damaged.’
‘But they didn’t find whatever they were looking for,’ said Alys, ‘and thought it might be in the papers in your doublet.’
‘There was no loose paper in the boy’s chamber,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘I still think that curious, in a student’s lodging.’
‘But though William’s property was in disorder, nothing was damaged,’ said Gil. ‘I think someone different searched Nick’s chamber, someone unlettered perhaps. Alys is right. It might have been one of the three who attacked me.’
‘One of them won’t be walking straight this morning,’ the mason observed with satisfaction. ‘That was a handy kick you fetched him, Gil. Almost one would have thought you were in Paris.’
‘That’s where I learned the trick.’ Gil tried to move his fingers, and winced. ‘I wonder if Nick still has the notes.’
‘Send word to ask.’
‘It’s too long a word for Luke to remember, and I canny write. We’ll have to postpone the betrothal,’ he added, ‘if I canny sign my name.’
‘You must just make your mark left-handed, and we will witness it,’ suggested the mason.
‘What, like a tinker in the heather? I think not.’
‘I shall write to the college for you,’ said Alys firmly, ‘and we can send Luke, as soon as he is back from taking word to your uncle.’
‘And then he may go and do a little work, if it is not too much trouble.’
Gil looked up at his prospective father-in-law. ‘Do you intend to work too?’
‘What do you want done?’
‘Someone should speak to the dog-breeder, and I thought of another thing that should be done, but it’s left my head.’
‘I must go up to the chantier. Wattie knows what must be done this week, but best if I let him tell me first it is impossible. If Robert Blacader is ever to see his new chapel finished, let us hope I am right and not Wattie.’ The mason looked about him. ‘Then I will come back, and we will think about this matter. Alys, where is my scrip?’
‘It is down in the hall, father.’ She smiled at Gil at last, and he felt the sun had come into the room. ‘I will fetch pen and ink, and see the baby fed, and return to you.’
She lifted the tray and left, slender in her blue dress. The wolfhound raised its head to watch her go, then curled up again. Gil threw back blankets and verdure tapestry counterpane, and swung his legs out from under the sheet.
‘Pierre, help me with my points before Alys comes back,’ he requested, peeling the compress off his wrist.
‘No, no, keep that on!’ exclaimed the mason. ‘Oil of violets to draw out the black humour in the bruising, and sage leaves for the numbness and loss of movement in the fingers –’
‘I am not going about Glasgow smelling of oil of violets,’ said Gil decidedly, trying to pull on his hose one-handed. ‘Give me a hand here, or Alys will get a sight of my drawers.’
‘She has seen them. She and I stripped you last night,’ said Maistre Pierre, obliging. ‘How tight do you wish to be trussed? I do not think you are fit to go about Glasgow anyway. That was an unpleasant crack on the head.’
‘Fit or not,’ Gil began, and was interrupted by a knocking at the great door of the house.
‘Que diable?’ The mason went to the window and leaned out in the sunshine. ‘Ah, good day, Maister Cunningham! Enter, pray enter! I will descend to you.’
‘My uncle?’ said Gil, battling with his doublet. ‘Sweet St Giles, what did Luke say to him? He hasn’t been down the town since Yule.’
‘I bade him say you had a blow to the head and we had kept you here.’ Maistre Pierre was hastily lacing the doublet. ‘No saying what he told them in the kitchen, of course, and Maggie would relay it with embellishments. Stand still or this will be crooked. There – now you are fit to serve the King. Wait here, I bring your uncle.’
He drew the bed-curtains shut and bustled down the stair to greet his guest. His voice floated up, loud, affable and reassuring, through the floorboards. Gil set out two of the mason’s tapestry backstools and sat down on the window-seat with the sun on his back, wishing his head did not ache so much.
Canon David Cunningham, senior judge of the diocesan court, Official of Glasgow, who rarely left the cathedral precinct at the top of the High Street, ducked under the lintel behind Maistre Pierre and surveyed his nephew with a chilly grey eye. After a moment he relaxed, and nodded.
‘Your mother will be in Glasgow by Nones,’ he said, ‘and I’ve no wish to greet her with the news that you’re at death’s door.’
‘She would likely take exception to the idea,’ Gil agreed.
His uncle’s mouth twitched, but all he said was, ‘Well, well, I can see you are not much damaged. What have you been about? What is this about the college coalhouse? No, let us sit down, Gilbert, Peter Mason here tells me you’d quite a bang on the head.’
Alys brought elderflower wine and small biscuits and slipped away again while Gil and Maistre Pierre between them recounted the events o
f the feast and what followed. The Official sipped the wine from his little glass, holding it up to the light appreciatively, and said at length, ‘Patrick Elphinstone’s no fool.’
‘He never was,’ Gil said, and got a sharp look.
‘What he’ll want is first to find a culprit he can show Hugh Montgomery, and then to deal with a trial and sentence himself, behind the college yett. He’ll realize soon enough that Montgomery won’t be satisfied with that.’
‘I think Maister Doby has seen it already,’ Gil said.
‘Aye, very likely.’ David Cunningham set his wineglass down. ‘John has had experience of men like Hugh Montgomery.’
‘When was that?’ asked the mason. ‘Maister Doby seems a quiet man.’
‘He wasn’t at fault. When he was maister at the grammar school at Peebles . . .’ Canon Cunningham paused to count on his long fingers, but shook his head. ‘I canny mind when. A good few years ago now. There was a boy killed when the lads were playing at football. A broken neck, I think. The family were very threatening.’
‘Football is a dangerous game,’ agreed the mason.
‘That’s interesting,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘Is it widely known, sir?’
‘Anyone that’s in the diocese would know. The kirk at Peebles is a prebend of St Mungo’s,’ the Official explained to Maistre Pierre. ‘The grammar school there’s in our gift as well.’
‘William was given to extortion,’ said Gil. ‘I saw him speak to Maister Doby before the Mass.’
‘Aye, this William.’ David Cunningham sat back. ‘Who did you say his parents were again?’
‘The Dean described him as the son of an Ayrshire lady now married to another,’ Gil quoted, ‘and a kinsman of Lord Montgomery. His foster-mother, who was nurse to his mother, called her Isobel and said she was close kin to Montgomery and married a Gowdie.’