The Stolen Voice

by Pat McIntosh

  ‘Oh, them,’ said Doig, and then, ‘What two brothers?’

  ‘So that’s three tenors, is it?’ Gil said, still deliberately inaccurate. ‘Men their choirs can ill spare, seeing how scarce good tenors are. Who is it that’s collecting singers?’

  ‘It’s quite a puzzle,’ agreed Doig.

  ‘And are you shifting words as well as voices? Information about the English treaty, maybe –’ Had Doig’s expression flickered at that? ‘– or letters from the great and good of the Low Countries?’

  ‘How would the likes of me be acquaint wi sic folk?’ parried Doig.

  ‘How long have you been here with Robert?’

  The small man blinked at the change of direction, but shrugged again and said, ‘Too long for him and me both.’

  ‘Why not leave, then?’

  ‘I can lend him a hand about the place.’

  ‘And Montgomery hasny sent word for you to move on,’ Gil suggested. This got him a sharp look from the dark eyes, but still no answer. ‘Does he know you’re working for someone overseas as well?’

  ‘Ask all you want,’ said Doig, his deep voice even. ‘I never said I’d gie you answers.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Gil, ‘but it tells me near as much when you don’t answer.’

  There was a short silence while Doig considered this. Then he wriggled off the bench.

  ‘I’ve more to do than sit here listening to you,’ he said, straightening his jerkin. Gil grinned at him.

  ‘I’d agree. You’ve been seen about here,’ he said. ‘There’s talk of the bodach over at Gartnafueran, and up in Glenbuckie. You fairly get about, Maister Doig.’

  ‘Where’s Gartnafueran?’ asked Doig. ‘Never been near the place.’

  ‘So you’ve been in Glenbuckie, then? Did you go there to check on young Davie Drummond? I know you set him down the other side of the pass, to climb over into the top of the glen. I suppose you went up from here to make sure he got safe to Dalriach. You were seen the same day he came home.’

  Doig glowered, and crossed the room, watched carefully by the dog, to peer up into the open box-bed. After a moment Gil heard him speaking quietly, in a much gentler tone. Shortly he turned, to say sourly, ‘Sir Duncan’s awake, and glad of a wee bit company. But you’re no to tire him.’

  The priest of Balquhidder was very old, and it was clear that Robert was right and he was very near death, lying bonelessly in the shut-bed, the flesh on his face almost transparent. But his eyes were alert in the dim light from the doorway, and his speech was clear, though faint. He gave Gil a blessing, raising his hand briefly from the checked coverlet, and said slowly, ‘William tells me you’ve a question, my son.’

  ‘I have, sir.’ Gil fetched the stool from the hearth and sat down, to bring his head nearer the old man’s. ‘And forgive me for disturbing you when you’ve better matters to think on.’

  ‘I’ve done all my thinking,’ said Sir Duncan in his thread of a voice. ‘Ask.’

  ‘I wondered what you’d recall of the time when young David Drummond vanished away. Do you mind that?’

  ‘A course I mind that.’ There was humour in the faint voice. ‘I’ve no notion what day this is, but I mind that well. All the women in the glen grat for the boy. Well liked, he was.’

  ‘I thought you would. He went away up Glenbuckie, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did. And down the other side of the pass, so Euan nan Tobar said. I spoke with Euan the year after, at the fair here. He told me how he saw the boy borne away.’

  ‘Did you credit that?’

  ‘Euan’s a simple soul. He doesny lie. He doesny aye understand what he sees.’

  Gil nodded. ‘And can you mind, sir, had there been strangers in the glen afore that happened?’

  The fleshless mouth drew into an O of surprise at the question.

  ‘Strangers, now.’ The old man fell silent, considering this. ‘I don’t recall. I need to consider of that one, my son. We don’t see so many strangers, you’ll ken. Just William here and yourself since Robert came to me. And now Davie,’ the thin voice added. ‘The dear child.’

  ‘No hurry,’ said Gil, but Sir Duncan looked at him with those bright eyes. Even in this light, it was hard to meet the direct gaze; the old man seemed already to see the world from a different standpoint.

  ‘Not true, my son,’ he said. ‘You need an answer, and I’ve little time, praise to Mary mild and Angus, before I go to what waits me.’ Gil thought he smiled in the dim light. ‘Away and let me think. I’ll send William to you if I mind anything.’

  ‘My thanks, Sir Duncan.’ Gil slipped from the stool to kneel before the old priest. The hand rose from the coverlet and dropped back again, and the faint voice said:

  ‘You’ll see those bairns right, my son?’

  ‘Bairns?’ Gil looked up, and found that blazing, direct gaze on him. ‘Davie, you mean, sir?’

  ‘Or whoever he is. And Robert, poor lad.’

  Gil nodded. ‘I’ll see them both safe if I can. I swear it.’

  Accompanying him to the door, Maister Doig divulged with reluctance that Robert Montgomery was gone over to the kirk again to see about this matter of the claim of sanctuary.

  ‘He’s been gone a good while,’ he said irritably, having admitted it, and patted Socrates, who was trying to lick his ear. ‘Get away, you daft dog.’

  ‘You know that’s Davie Drummond in the kirk? You can give him his scrip back now,’ said Gil. Doig stared up at him, face studiously blank. ‘Maister Doig, do you know anything about the accidents up at Dalriach?’

  ‘Accidents?’ said Doig, his dark eyebrows drawing together. ‘No. I hope none’s been hurt?’ His concern sounded genuine.

  ‘Wee things to begin wi,’ said Gil. ‘A ladder, a pitchfork, a needle in the wool. Things a bodach might do.’

  ‘Who are they aimed at?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Gil. ‘Other than the body that’s causing them. But it turned serious last night. The farmhouse is burned out, and two dead.’

  ‘Is that –’ said Doig, and broke off. Nobody seems capable of finishing a sentence today, thought Gil in irritation. ‘Who died? No young Davie, I take it, if that’s who’s in the kirk.’

  ‘No. The old woman, and the changeling boy.’

  ‘A changeling,’ said Doig flatly. ‘Is this another one? I thought it was Davie was the changeling, or was returned by the Good Neighbours, or something.’

  ‘Maybe you should talk to Davie about that.’

  Doig grunted, and opened the door wider. ‘If you see Robert, tell him he needs to fetch water. The house is about dry.’

  Alasdair nan Clach unfolded himself from the opposite bank where he had been squatting and followed Gil towards the little kirk in its round walled kirkyard, saying, ‘That’s an ill sign, a bodach like that to be dwelling in Sir Duncan’s own house. It will be carrying him off one night, for certain, and him such a good man.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Gil asked.

  The man shrugged. ‘That is its nature. Mary and Michael and Angus protect him, but when the bodach is dwelling in his own house they will find it hard.’

  Gil decided to ignore this. Reaching the kirk, aware once more of eyes on his back and cautious movement among the houses, he pushed open the door, more gently than he had done earlier, and stepped in, removing his hat and identifying himself aloud.

  The two youngsters were seated with their heads together, side by side on the same flat stone before the altar where Davie Drummond had been kneeling earlier. As the light from the door reached them, Robert Montgomery sprang up.

  ‘What are you after, Cunningham?’ he demanded, standing warily in front of his companion. At Gil’s knee the dog growled faintly, head down, hackles up, his stance remarkably like Robert’s.

  ‘A word with your friend here,’ Gil said, making his way to the chancel arch. ‘I’m no threat to him,’ he added directly, ‘as I told him this morning.’ He dropped his hat on the earthen floor and sat do
wn on it; after a moment Robert sat down likewise, saying:

  ‘I’m surprised they’re not down from Glenbuckie already, wi swords drawn and roaring for Davie’s blood. They’re wild folk here, Cunningham. Sir Duncan’s told me some orra tales.’

  ‘So did my father,’ said Davie, and bit his lip.

  Gil opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and changed his mind. He was not quite ready for that one. Instead he put an arm across his dog, who had also sat down and was leaning against him, and said, ‘Sir William bade me tell you he’ll be here to speak wi you the morn’s morn.’

  ‘I’ll not be from home,’ said Davie wryly. ‘But I’d be glad if Mistress Alys was present and all.’

  ‘My wife?’ said Gil, startled. ‘I’ll tell her that.’

  ‘Maister, were you up Glenbuckie just now?’ Davie went on. ‘What – Are they all hale? Is Caterin still crying out against me?’

  ‘She is,’ admitted Gil, ‘but the rest of them are hale enough. The lassies seemed sore afflicted by the two deaths, which I suppose is natural. The place was overrun wi neighbours and guests, but I had a word with James Drummond the younger, and a sight of the two corps.’

  ‘What would that tell you that you hadny heard already?’ demanded Robert. ‘Better, surely, to find whoever set light to the thatch!’

  ‘It’s all part of the same tale,’ said Davie.

  ‘The boy Iain’s skull was broken,’ Gil said. ‘Deliberately, I’d say.’

  Davie drew a shivering breath, and bent his head into his hands. Robert reached out and touched his wrist, and after a moment he straightened up, turned his hand to grip Robert’s, and said painfully, ‘I feared it. The poor laddie. He was so – he had so much pleasure of my singing, of any music he was hearing, but he was such a burden on his mother, to be fed and kept clean and amused. When she carried him into the yard, all bruised and bloody, I feared it was no accident.’

  ‘Who broke it for him?’ asked Robert.

  ‘That I don’t know yet, though I suspect,’ said Gil. ‘And I don’t suppose anyone would notice who was down by the end of the fold, between the dark and the flames and the commotion in the yard.’

  Davie shook his head. ‘They were bringing water up from the stackyard that way. Everyone on the clachan was past there at some point in the night.’

  ‘That’s no good,’ said Robert, ‘a helpless bairn to be struck down like that. Who would do sic a thing?’

  ‘Young James’s mother was quite clear it was the fairies,’ said Gil. ‘She ordered him not to meddle in their business.’

  Robert snorted. ‘That’s one explanation, I suppose.’

  ‘It would be one the folk of Dalriach would accept,’ said Davie slowly.

  ‘Aye, but it’s nonsense,’ objected Robert. ‘You’d think we were in a ballad or an old tale, to hear it!’

  ‘Sooner that than accuse one of their own,’ said Davie, and shivered.

  And of course, Gil thought, to some of them you are not one of their own. But who?

  ‘Who do you think killed the boy?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Davie said firmly. ‘And I’ve no more reason to suspect any than you have, and maybe less. His – no, his mother loved him beyond reason!’

  Gil paused a moment, arranging his thoughts.

  ‘Tell me, Davie.’ The young man turned his face towards him. In the dim light he seemed to brace himself. ‘Had there been any word before now from Dunblane? From Canon Drummond?’

  ‘From Andrew? None that I ken,’ said Davie. ‘I know the cailleach sent to him, twice so your wife told me, sir, and Robert has let me know now what she sent. But there’s been no answer yet that I’ve heard. Maybe that was what brought him home today.’

  ‘You’d be the last to know,’ said Robert rather bitterly.

  ‘No,’ said Gil deliberately, ‘he’s told me he came home in haste because his mother summoned him, this morning in the dawn.’

  ‘Och, that’s havers!’ said Robert.

  ‘No,’ said Davie quietly. ‘I’m believing him. It’s what brought myself, a month since.’

  ‘Is it, now?’ said Gil. Davie’s chin came up, but he said nothing. ‘Were they concerned, up at Dalriach, about having no answer?’

  ‘I’d not say so. Andrew was never one for sending home every week, even as a boy.’ The voice was light, confident, but not wholly convincing.

  ‘Let alone coming home for the Lammastide holiday,’ Gil suggested. There was a pregnant pause. ‘Had he come home in other years, before you were lifted away?’

  After another pause Davie said, ‘I don’t recall. Is that not strange?’

  ‘It was thirty year syne,’ Robert protested, looking from one to the other. ‘At least –’

  ‘Not for Davie,’ said Gil. ‘How long has it been, Davie?’

  Pale in the shadows, Davie shrugged one linen-clad shoulder.

  ‘Who can say? Time passes differently under the hill. Andrew was aye glad to get away from Dalriach,’ he added. ‘He never felt he had what was due to him there.’ Gil made a questioning noise. ‘Och, with there being two brothers older, he was never hearkened to, for all he was a clerk and could read the Psalter.’

  ‘That’s how it is,’ muttered Robert, ‘whatever your place in the family.’ Davie broke the clasp of their hands and laid his own rather diffidently on the other young man’s shoulder, and Robert looked sideways and nodded brief acknowledgement.

  ‘And last month,’ said Gil. Both faces turned to him. ‘When you were set down at the foot of the path over the hill did you see anyone?’

  ‘I did,’ he answered readily. ‘A poor misshapen wretch from Stronyre township they cry Euan Beag nan Tobar. Wee Euan of the Well,’ he translated for Robert, who nodded again rather impatiently. ‘He spoke to me, gave me my name. It seems he – saw me taken up, all those years since. We talked about my friends Billy Murray and Jaikie Stirling, and he gave me news of Billy, who was born at Stronyre. He’d no knowledge of Jaikie, and I never expected it.’

  ‘Jaikie Stirling’s dead,’ said Gil, more abruptly than he had intended.

  ‘Dead? I’m grieved to hear it. When? What came to him?’

  ‘Two weeks since,’ said Gil. ‘I’m seeking his murderer.’

  ‘Murdered,’ Davie repeated in a whisper, and crossed himself. ‘And since I came – the poor man. Poor Jaikie.’ He bent his head, murmuring the same prayer for the dead as Rob the chaplain had used in the Bishop’s garden.

  ‘Stirling?’ said Robert. ‘Is that –?’ He broke off, and after a moment Gil said:

  ‘He was secretary to Bishop Brown.’

  ‘Oh, at Dunkeld,’ said Robert dismissively.

  ‘He died in Perth.’

  Robert crossed himself, muttered a perfunctory prayer, and said with determination, ‘If you’ve naught more to ask us, Cunningham, we should get on and make that loft fit to dwell in. Davie won’t want to leave the kirk, and it’s over a year since we moved Sir Duncan into his house out of here, it’s likely damp and full of cobwebs.’

  ‘And I was to tell you,’ said Gil, ‘that the house is near dry. Doig said you should fetch in water.’

  At his feet Davie Drummond jerked as if he had been stabbed. Robert said sharply, ‘You’ve spoken wi Doig? What was he saying?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Gil. ‘Quite determinedly, nothing. But as I told him, it’s near as useful when he won’t speak as when he does.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Robert sourly. ‘My uncle tellt me no to get into conversation wi you.’

  * * *

  ‘Did he really?’ said Alys in amusement, turning her head against his shoulder. ‘I’d have thought he would see what he was giving away.’

  ‘I suppose he didn’t consider it,’ Gil said lazily. ‘He seemed mostly concerned about young Drummond.’

  They were lying against the pillows within the linen-hung bed in their chamber, close and reassuring. He had returned from the Kirkton to be informed by Lady Stewart t
hat Alys still needed to rest and directed to make sure she did so. Rest was not what either of them needed most, but he had accepted the order with pleasure. Now, sated and comfortable, each certain the other was safe and hale, they were discussing what they had learned.

  ‘So he reports to Lord Montgomery, and gets word back,’ she said now, still speaking French. ‘And that since we got here. I suppose Lady Stewart corresponds with her cousin.’

  ‘It’s the likeliest route,’ he agreed. ‘And Davie knew Doig’s name. He also confirmed meeting Euan nan Tobar, poor creature, and seems to be making friends with Robert. Myself, I’d as soon befriend an adder on a rock, but I suppose the lad has his merits.’

  ‘You’re hardly impartial.’ She rubbed her cheek on his bare chest. ‘We must take care how we speak of this – Lady Stewart could be involved in whatever Robert is doing. And do you suppose she and Sir William know Doig is here?’

  ‘I don’t know that, but they’re well aware of him in the village. I wish you had been in Perth with me – I’ve missed talking things over like this. I missed you.’

  ‘And I have missed you. What brought you back here so prompt, Gil?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘I woke before the dawn, and knew you needed me. We set out as soon as it was light. Not as vivid a summons as Andrew Drummond’s, but one I couldn’t ignore.’

  ‘I did need you,’ she said wonderingly, ‘and just at that time. I was so frightened, and the fire – and the old woman dying like that – and then the boy – it was such a night, Gil.’

  ‘It’s over, and you are safe, St Giles be thanked.’ He kissed the crown of her head. Her hair was silky under his lips; it smelled of an unfamiliar hairwash and, faintly, of smoke. ‘I owe him several candles.’

  ‘But how did you know? You were so far away – forty miles, Lady Stewart said.’

  ‘I don’t think the distance matters. Tell me about it again, sweetheart.’

  She recounted the events of the night, shivering a little as she described the two deaths, steadfastly repeating the wild accusations the dead boy’s mother had flung at Davie Drummond.

  ‘The woman was in much the same state when she found me examining the boy,’ he said. ‘That wild flyting is very hard to withstand. But I suppose if they believed her, they’d have been down here before now burning the thatch off the kirk to get him out.’