The Nicholas Feast (Gil Cunningham Murder Mystery)

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘Sweet St Giles, Alys, I must be the luckiest man in Scotland.’ She made a small enquiring noise. ‘An hendy hap ich hab yhent,’ he quoted, as he had done to his mother, and continued the verse, ‘From alle wommen my love is lent, And light on Alisoun.’

  ‘And mine on you,’ she said. He drew her closer, very conscious of the warmth of her flesh and the movement of her ribcage under the blue gown, and bent his head to kiss her. She put her arms round him, a little shyly, reaching under his jerkin, and leaned into his embrace.

  On the ridge tiles the blackbird sang on, the golden notes dropping through the still air as the shadows lengthened in the garden and the first lights pricked in the houses round them.

  Socrates sighed again, rolled on to his side and shut his eyes.