by Pat McIntosh
‘I never expected callers this late,’ said Babb from the doorway.
‘Watch?’ said Gil. ‘What watch? Kate, what is going on here? Where are the men, anyway?’
‘Sleeping,’ she said, ‘save for two we sent down the Hog again. The rest of them will watch the second half of the night, we’re taking the first half.’
‘Kate!’
‘You can see for yourself it works,’ she pointed out, laughing at him. ‘They caught Matt, but they’ve done him no damage.’
‘Kate, this is a fighting man we’re seeking. How can a bunch of women –’
‘Wi no argument,’ said Matt succinctly.
‘Aye, well, you came quiet,’ said Babb, grinning, before she turned away to go back down the stair into the yard.
‘I’ll stay here, then,’ said Gil.
‘You will not,’ said his sister, though Alys’s expression brightened.
‘No,’ said Matt. ‘You’re sent for, Maister Gil. The castle. Robert Blacader wants a word.’
‘To the castle?’ repeated Gil blankly. ‘Whatever does he want?’
‘How did he know you were back in Glasgow?’ said Alys.
The moon, five days past the full, was just rising behind the towers of St Mungo’s as Gil made his way by lantern-light up from the Wyndhead towards the castle gatehouse. Noise and bustle floated over the wall; lute music came from the Archbishop’s lodging, a more raucous singing from one of the towers, and a smell of new bread suggested the episcopal bakehouse was working through the night.
Gil gave his name to a guard, and after a short wait a sleepy-eyed page in a velvet jerkin appeared and conducted him across two courtyards, past the fore-stair of the Provost’s lodging – Sweet St Giles, Gil thought, was it only two days since that we had to climb that in a hurry? – and up a turnpike stair. There were lights at most of the windows, and torches burned beside other doorways.
Robert Blacader had given up his own lodging to his monarch. Beyond the great hall and the entrance to the Archbishop’s private chapel, the outer and inner chambers of his suite were crowded, like the string of stuffy chambers at Stirling, with weary members of the court playing cards or dice to music from competing lutenists or discussing the best road to Kilmarnock. Mismatched tapestries hung on the walls, and there seemed to be a shortage of seating. Off the inner chamber, with its ostentatious display of plate set out on the cupboard, the page opened a door and ushered Gil through it.
The closet was panelled, painted and ablaze with light. There were several dozen candles burning round the walls, and more in pricket-stands here and there, flickering in the draught from the window which had been opened to let the heat out. Gil, blinking in the brightness, took in rather slowly that the room was also full of richly dressed people, and that only one of them was wearing a hat.
He snatched off his felt bonnet with an apology, and dropped to one knee.
‘Get up, Maister Cunningham,’ said James Stewart from the centre of the group, ‘and come and tell us how you’ve progressed since we saw you last.’
The King was seated near the fireplace, a card-table beside him as before, though this time it bore only a jug and some glasses. Tonight he was wearing tawny woollen and black silk, the huge sleeves of his gown decked with amber-coloured ribbons. Gil, thinking of his sister’s much-worn gown of the same colour, made a note to tell her about the ribbons. On one side of the table Robert Blacader acknowledged Gil’s salute with a wave of his ring; on the other, expansive in gold-coloured satin with wide fur facings, William Knollys smiled affably. Behind the King a cleric was in deep discussion with the Earl of Angus and my lord Hume the Chamberlain; as he turned his head Gil recognized Andrew Forman the apostolic protonotary, whom he knew to be a friend of his uncle’s. Beyond him a familiar profile must be his mother’s cousin, Angus’s brother-in-law Archie Boyd.
‘Come, maister,’ said the King again. ‘Is there a seat for Maister Cunningham? Now tell us, have you put a name to your man in the barrel?’
‘He’s none of mine, sir,’ said Gil hastily. One of the liveried servants brought forward a stool, and he sat down, assembling his thoughts, filtering, sifting. ‘I have his name and I think I know who killed him and where,’ he added. ‘But I’ve not found the rest of him.’
Choosing his words with caution, passing lightly over any mention of the purpose of moving the treasure, he recounted his visit to the cooper’s yard and what he had learned there, the finding of the patch of blood, the empty barrel, the idea that the other barrel had gone on the wrong cart through simple error.
This was not like discussing matters with Alys or his sister. Every step, every word had to be explained, justified, expounded, to one or other of the two plump, blue-jowled faces scrutinizing his account. Blacader’s questions betrayed a deep concern for the truth, but Knollys’s seemed more directed towards dismantling Gil’s theories and suppositions. At times Gil was aware of impatience in James’s movements, but he listened carefully to the questions and to Gil’s answers, nodding now and then. Behind him the Earl of Angus watched intently.
‘But your own suspicions, maister. Surely you suspect more than you’ve learned?’ the King said, when Gil had recounted his conclusions after his interview with the cooper.
‘I do, sir,’ agreed Gil.
‘You’ve little enough proof for some of your tale, it seems to me,’ said Knollys, still wearing his open smile, though the yellow gems in his rings flashed in the light. ‘Most of the carter’s actions can only be guessed at, for one thing.’
‘Quite so, sir,’ said Gil, ‘but someone opened the gates, someone swept up the shavings, and I think the cooper was telling the truth.’ In that, at least, he thought.
‘And this man with the axe,’ said the King reflectively. ‘He fair gets about. Linlithgow, Glasgow, maybe Leith.’
‘He got about,’ Gil agreed, ‘but he’ll go no further. He’s dead, last night, sir.’
‘Dead?’ said the Archbishop. Gil was aware of sharp attention from the group. ‘How did that come about?’
‘Did you question him?’ asked Knollys. ‘Who was he?’
‘We had no chance,’ said Gil. Who had relaxed a little? he wondered. It was hard to keep an eye on everyone present, particularly in the leaping candlelight. ‘We took him prisoner when he attacked our party, but he died before we could question him.’ And I know his name, he thought, but we’ll keep that quiet just now.
‘And you’re saying,’ said James, ‘this is the same man that slew the carter here on Thursday night? The carter’s lassie was before us earlier this night, asking justice for her man. Do we have more than her word to link this axeman to this carter?’ He held out his hands, one for each miscreant, and linked the fingers to illustrate his meaning.
‘My sister saw them talking in a tavern,’ said Gil.
The King’s eyebrows went up, and the Treasurer said, laughing indulgently, ‘Now, maister, surely not! Your sister would never be in the kind of tavern such a man would drink in!’
Gil, preserving his expression, explained the purpose which had taken Alys and Kate to the tavern. James nodded in approval.
‘A clever notion,’ he said. ‘Very clever. That’s a good-thinking lassie you’re betrothed to, Maister Cunningham.’
‘She’s the wisest lassie in Glasgow,’ said Gil, and could not keep the warmth out of his voice.
The King grinned at him, a sudden man-to-man look. ‘You like them clever, do you, maister?’ he said. Before Gil could find an answer to this he went on, ‘Well, we’ve a name for the man in the barrel, but no body, and now we’ve a body for the man with the axe, but no name. This’ll not do, gentlemen. My lord St Johns,’ he said formally to Knollys, ‘I hope you can write the morn’s morn as Sheriff of Linlithgow, and have your depute get a search made up on the hillside for the body that went out those gates.’ Knollys bowed his head, and behind him a servant in the St Johns livery drew a set of tablets from his purse and made a note.
The men of Linlithgow will love that, thought Gil, just at harvest-time. ‘And, my lord Treasurer,’ continued the King, ‘I hope you’re searching already for the place where the treasure was hidden. Where there’s some of it, there might be more.’
‘Aye, sir, you can be certain,’ said Knollys, smiling. Blacader watched him across the table, his face inscrutable.
‘And you, Maister Cunningham,’ said James, ‘can find me the name of the man wi the axe and his confederates. But I’d sooner you stayed in one piece yourself, maister, for Scotland can do with clear thinkers.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ said Gil.
‘And now,’ said the King, ‘shall we have the servant lass and the merchant in, and set all these tales thegither?’
‘Is it not ower late for that, sir?’ suggested Blacader.
‘Havers. It canny be past midnight,’ said James. ‘Fetch them in.’
Gil, in a moment’s hesitation, considered announcing that his tale was not finished, dismissed the idea, and found he was aware of someone else hesitating in the same way. He looked from one blue-chinned face to the other on either side of the table. Blacader’s gaze slid sideways from his towards the door, where a servant was just leaving; Knollys said pleasantly, ‘You had a good day for such a long ride, Maister Cunningham. What road did you take to reach Glasgow?’
‘It was,’ Gil agreed, following this lead. ‘Dry, but no too hot. I came direct from Roslin, so I rode through Bathgate and the Monklands, and it was dry all the way.’
‘It’s been a good week for the harvest,’ said James, looking round from a low-voiced conversation with Angus.
By the time Augie Morison and his servant were escorted before their King this topic was being generally explored. It was clear that James had a good understanding of the work of the land and its place at the centre of existence. Gil, who had met scholars older than James who failed to accept this, was favourably impressed.
Someone had evidently taken care of Mall for the evening. Her face and hands were clean, her hair combed out over her shoulders, and though nervous of all the fine people she seemed much calmer than the grief-stricken girl Kate had described from the previous morning. As she knelt before him, the King broke off what he was saying and turned to her.
‘And here’s this bonnie lass again,’ he said. Gil, comparing Mall’s plump bosom and round cheeks adversely with Alys’s fine-boned person, drew his own conclusion about how the King liked them. ‘And Augustine Morison, merchant of Glasgow,’ he went on, looking past her. Morison also dropped to his knees. ‘We’ve learned a wee thing or two more about this business, and it’s time to go over it all again.’
‘Aye, your grace,’ said Morison into the pause. He threw an apprehensive look at Gil, who smiled at him as reassuringly as he could, trying not to show the pity he felt. Two nights’ confinement, however gentle, had left its mark on the man; he was drawn and anxious, with a haunted look in his eyes. Gil guessed he had spent the time worrying about his children.
‘Now, Mall,’ James continued, ‘you asked us for justice for your man, since he was killed by an intruder in the night. But tell me this, lass. He was a thief himself. What justice does he deserve?’
Mall, hands clamped together before her waist in a pose of prayer which, deliberately or no, made the most of the view down her bodice, bent her head and said, ‘Aye, your grace, he was taken thieving from our maister’s house.’ She ducked her head even further, as if to avoid meeting the master’s eye. ‘But that never deserved death, your grace, least of all s-such a death –’ She bit her lips, and after a moment went on, ‘It’s just no right, your grace, it’s no right at all.’
There was something in one of the old statutes, thought Gil. He could visualize the section of the St Mungo’s copy. Which one was it?
‘Are you saying that even a thief deserves justice?’ said Blacader. She glanced fleetingly at him under her eyebrows and nodded. ‘Why not leave it to the Provost? Is there no justice in Glasgow?’ Behind her, Morison closed his eyes. Across the card-table, Knollys’s eyes seemed like to pop out of his head and down the girl’s bodice.
‘I’m feart they’ll no trouble themselves further,’ she whispered. ‘They brocht it in as murder by a stranger and I’m feart that’ll be the end on it.’
‘And is it not murder by a stranger?’ asked James.
‘I seen the man,’ she said desperately. ‘Like I tellt your grace, I seen the man. I heard what he said to my Billy. Surely he can be socht and hangit for his death?’
‘Quoniam attachiamenta,’ said Gil, and several of the bystanders nodded. The King raised his eyebrows. ‘It provides,’ Gil went on, and heard his uncle’s voice in his own, ‘that where a thief has been killed secretly, without calling the watch or bailies, the thief’s kin or the bailies can charge his killer with murder just as if he had not been a thief.’
‘Very proper,’ said James. ‘I’ll have justice for all Scots, gentlemen, be certain of that. Mind you,’ he added, humour tugging at his long mouth, ‘the case is no that straightforward.’
‘Why should we believe a word of this?’ said Knollys. ‘The lassie’s lying all through. I can’t see why your grace is wasting time on her. She wants the attention, and she’s getting it.’
She’s getting it, thought Gil, assessing the direction of the Treasurer’s popping eyes.
‘She’s getting it,’ agreed James, considering Mall again. ‘Surely she wouldn’t lie to her King?’ Mall shook her head energetically. ‘Especially not before the relics. What is it you keep here in the chapel, my lord?’
What was this about? Gil wondered. What did the young King hope to draw from the girl? Or was it simply an excuse to keep Mall and her bodice in view as long as possible?
‘We’ve a fragment of St Bride’s veil,’ Blacader was saying, as Mall crossed herself, round-eyed and apprehensive, ‘and a fingerbone of St Martin. Either of those would do, I should suppose.’
Chapter Thirteen
Dunbar slipped from the room, and after a time returned followed by two acolytes, a candle-bearer, and another priest robed and bearing a reliquary in the shape of a gold hand with a jewelled cuff and several rings. Gil looked at the object and thought of the saint who shared his cloak with a beggar, but slid from his stool to kneel and cross himself when everyone else did. The robed priest intoned a Latin prayer commending St Martin, and the King, seating himself and replacing his hat, said, ‘Now, Mall, tell us again here in front of the relics. What happened between your man and this stranger?’
Mall, her eyes on the reliquary in the hands of the priest as if she thought it would turn and point an accusing finger at her, was led back through her story. To Gil’s ears it differed little from the account Kate had summarized for him, but the statesmen picked carefully at the details.
‘What yett was this?’ Blacader asked her sternly. ‘Remember, woman, you must tell us the truth.’
‘I swear it’s the truth, maister,’ she said, crossing herself again. ‘I swear on that hand and all its jewels. May St Martin himself strike me dead unshriven if it’s no the truth. They never said what yett it was, nor what else Billy had done.’
‘Surely it was your maister’s yett he was to open,’ said Knollys, hands in his gold satin sleeves.
‘No, sir, for it had never been opened when it shouldny.’
‘It was opened on the night the barrels were exchanged,’ suggested Knollys. ‘You and your limmer let him in and changed the barrels. Or was this fabulous man with the axe your limmer and all?’ he persisted avidly.
‘No!’ protested Mall.
‘If you’ll tryst with one man in a hayloft, how about another? Tell us the truth, woman.’
‘The barrel we were expecting,’ said Gil, ‘the barrel which should have been on the cart, never left Linlithgow. We found it there. The exchange was made there, no in Glasgow.’
Mall looked fearfully at him, and then at the King. She still had not looked at her master,
who was listening with an expression of amazement.
‘Billy’s my – Billy was my dearie,’ she said steadfastly. ‘I never loved any man but him, nor I never trysted wi any other man. And we never opened the maister’s gates. I never did my maister any harm,’ she said, beginning to sniffle, ‘till Billy bade me get his key to his big kist, and that was the first either of us did that was a wrang to him.’
‘And why did Billy bid you do that?’ asked Blacader.
‘She admits it openly,’ said Knollys. ‘Why are we wasting our time with this thieving wee trollop, sir, when there are –’
‘I’ll decide how I spend my time,’ said James. ‘Answer your lord, lassie.’
Mall threw a doubtful look at the Archbishop, but said obediently, between sobs, ‘The man wi the axe had tellt Billy to get the key, for I heard him. I begged Billy to do no such thing. But he was feart for the axeman telling the maister, and he wouldny hear me when I said the maister would forgive him.’ She was weeping openly now. ‘The maister’s a good man, he’d maybe ha turned us off but he’d ha done no worse.’ Behind her Morison nodded, frowning.
‘Forgive him what?’ asked James. ‘What had he done?’
‘I never knew! He wouldny let on. It was something about when he opened the yett, but he wouldny tell me.’ Mall scrubbed at her eyes with her sleeve.
‘This is all nonsense,’ said Knollys. He cast his hands in the air in a gesture of exasperation, and his rings glittered in the candlelight.
‘Why is she so sure it was the man with the axe killed her man?’ asked Angus from behind the King.
‘Tell us, lassie,’ said the King.
Mall looked up through her tears. ‘Who else could it ha been, sir?’
‘Any of the household, I should have thought,’ said Knollys impatiently.
‘None of the other men was marked,’ said Gil. ‘And whoever it was would certainly have blood on him, from what I have heard.’
Mall covered her face and moaned at the words, but James nodded his understanding.
‘And why were you to get the maister’s key?’ asked Blacader. ‘You realize what a sin you are confessing? To conspire to rob your own maister like this?’ Mall nodded, and mumbled something into her hands. ‘What was that? Answer me openly, Mall.’