by Pat McIntosh
So Marion Campbell reads the classical authors, thought Gil, and recalled the sheep-like Maister Gregor. It began with D, he had said. It seemed as if nobody could recall the name easily.
‘They’re mounting up,’ said Lady Stewart. ‘Best go and take your places, both of you. Give me the gown, my dear, and I’ll put it safe.’
* * *
‘I took refuge,’ said Davie Drummond, ‘because I was wrongly accused, and I was afraid.’
He was standing braced in front of the altar in the chancel of the little church, behind a row of five of the village men, who had left their work in the fields when they saw the string of riders clattering along the causeway. By the time Sir William and his entourage had dismounted and entered the kirkyard there were ten or twelve men and a handful of women round the door of the Eagleis Beag. They had been invited, with great courtesy, to leave their weapons outside; when Sir William identified Gil, Andrew Drummond and two of his own men to accompany him their numbers were scrupulously equalled. There was no doubt, Gil thought, where the sympathies of the Kirkton lay. He looked down at Alys, watching intently at his elbow, and wondered whose side the villagers had placed her on.
‘Right,’ said Sir William. He had halted at the chancel arch, his escort ranged on either side of him, facing Davie and his bodyguard. Nobody was openly hostile; everyone was alert; even in this light Davie was visibly trembling. Men seiden, I loked as a wilde steer, Gil thought. ‘Now,’ the Bailie continued, ‘I’ve spoke wi those that were present at the time, and I’ve heard what the woman that accuses you had to say.’ He did not sound as though he had enjoyed it. ‘And I’ve spoke wi your man Steenie, Maister Cunningham,’ he added formally, ‘and heard his tale and all. So now I’ll hear yours, Davie Drummond.’
‘I have no tale to tell,’ said Davie, spreading his hands. ‘I was asleep within the house, and woken by shouting of Fire! By the time I had my shirt on and tried to waken the old woman, the roof was well alight. She rose in her shift, and would dress herself, and though – though I tried to help her she – she fell down, and could not rise up again. Murdo Dubh MacGregor came into the house to help me lift her and we carried her,’ he looked down for a moment, his voice cracking, ‘we carried her out and laid her down across the yard, and after a wee while she died. And then I was helping to carry water and put the fire out, only we had no success and the Tigh-an-Teine is burned.’
‘Is that in accord wi what you saw, madam?’ Sir William turned to Alys, still very formal. She nodded, and he faced Davie again. ‘Aye, and the man Steenie says he heard you within when he hammered on the door and shouted Fire. It seems like a piece of foolishness to me,’ he stated bluntly. ‘If the thatch was lit from outside, and you were inside, it doesny seem to me you could ha set the fire.’
‘Then who did?’ demanded Andrew Drummond from Sir William’s other side. ‘Someone set the fire, and brought about my mother’s death. Who was it?’
‘Steenie never saw who it was,’ said Sir William. ‘Nor nobody else, so far as I can jalouse.’
Alys stirred beside Gil, but said nothing. He looked down at her again and saw her biting her lip anxiously.
‘I’ll agree it wasny David,’ persisted Andrew, ‘but it must ha been someone.’
The men standing in front of Davie Drummond were looking sideways at one another, in a kind of wordless communion. Finally one of them said quietly, ‘It was maybe Those Ones set the fire. There has been bad luck enough at Dalriach, so they are saying. Maybe this will be part of it.’
Sir William produced an incoherent gobbling sound, like a blackcock in spring, and finally burst out with, ‘Havers, man, how would the fairy-folk do that? I’ve never heard such nonsense!’
‘They would not be using flint and steel,’ observed one of the Stronvar men, ‘how could they set a fire without flint and steel?’
‘Maybe Sir William would not be talking of them so loud,’ said another of the Kirkton men in diffident tones, ‘even here in St Angus’ own place.’
Sir William growled, and Andrew Drummond said, ‘So we’ve still to seek for whoever set the fire. And what about this matter of the boy Iain? Patrick tells me you sang to him, Davie. Why does his mother think you killed him?’
This was not the way Gil would have wished to handle the matter. This confrontation in the shadowy kirk seemed likely to elicit nothing they had not heard already.
‘She said I killed them both,’ said Davie, his voice suddenly thin and lost. ‘She blamed me for all of it, for the fire and all that followed, and I never –’
‘She said more than that,’ said Sir William. ‘She told me you had moved the bairn into the track of the beasts as they left the fold, so he would be trod to death.’
Davie looked down and shook his head.
‘Likely he crawled into the gateway, poor laddie,’ offered one of the Kirkton men. ‘I was hearing he could crawl a bittie, like maybe a bairn of one year old.’
‘No,’ said Gil. ‘It wasn’t the beasts killed the bairn.’ Sir William turned to glower at him. ‘I saw his body yestreen. His skull was broken, by a blow to the back of the head with a stone, which we found. And he’d been set down in the gateway of the fold, on his back, by someone going barefoot.’
There was a pause, in which several people’s eyes travelled to Davie’s bare feet, planted firmly on the tomb slab before the altar.
‘No,’ said Alys suddenly. ‘Davie had not left the yard when the beasts were let out of the fold. I’ll swear to it.’
‘Will you, madam?’ Sir William swung round to look at her closely. She nodded, and he turned back to Davie.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘All we need now is to know whether your good-sister, or whatever she is to you, will persist in accusing you of arson, for I see no purpose in charging you with the bairn’s death. Far too little to go on, we have –’
‘Sir William!’ It was Murdo the steward, at the door of the kirk. Sir William turned to glare at the man. ‘Sir William, there is folk coming over the causeway. I am thinking it is a party from Glenbuckie, maybe the young folk all in a body.’
‘From Glenbuckie?’ said the Bailie in surprise, and a faint echo at his side seemed to be Andrew Drummond saying the same thing. ‘I’d best come out into the daylight, I suppose.’
Chapter Twelve
It was indeed the young people from Glenbuckie, and it seemed to be a formal deputation. Jamie Beag at their head, dressed once again in the elaborately folded plaid, the yellow-dyed shirt and velvet bonnet he had worn the previous day to greet the mourners, bowed deeply to Sir William, and behind him his sisters and cousin curtsied and stood silent, faces hidden. Jamie cast one quick glance at the door of the kirk, his colour rising, and said in Scots:
‘I have a word for Sir William from me and my uncle, as the tenants of Dalriach.’
‘Have you now?’ said Sir William, glowering at him under his eyebrows. ‘And what might that be? Do I need to hear it now, or can I get on wi this matter of your uncle Davie or whoever he is?’
‘It concerns D – Davie,’ said Jamie, very upright, quite expressionless. At the hesitation Ailidh turned her head to look at him, but did not speak. Why is he so embarrassed? Gil wondered.
‘Go on, man,’ said the Bailie.
‘We have been talking it through, all the matter of the fire and the death of my grandmother and the death of Iain mac Padraig,’ Jamie said, still without expression, ‘and we are concluding that it was the Good Folk that caused all of it.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Sir William.
Jamie nodded, but Andrew said, ‘I’ve decided no such thing, nephew, and you know that!’
‘It was us on the farm that decided it this morning,’ said Jamie steadily. ‘So you will see there is no need for Sir William to be concerning himself with it at all.’
‘Right,’ said Sir William. ‘So you tell me it was nobody set the fire, and nobody caused the bairn’s death –’
‘Excepting the Good Fol
k,’ agreed Jamie.
‘No such thing!’ said Andrew again, but Ailidh drew her plaid away from her face and said quietly, speaking to him direct:
‘My uncle’s wife is agreed to that, in particular.’
‘Caterin?’ said Andrew, arrested. ‘She agrees?’
‘She does,’ said Ailidh.
The two younger girls nodded silently. One of them was Caterin’s daughter, Gil recalled. He looked from one fair-skinned Drummond face to another, and then down at Alys in dismay. Her hand tightened in his, and she nodded, as silent as the Drummond girls; she also had recognized the nature of the bargain which had been struck. So had Sir William, it appeared, and what astonished Gil was that he seemed to accept the matter. The woman will get away with it, he thought, only so that Davie can go free. Is that justice? And who set the fire in any case?
‘Well,’ said Sir William. ‘In that case, you might as well ha your kinsman out of the kirk here. But afore he goes, I want the truth from him.’
He flung round and strode back into the little kirk, taking those around him by surprise. There was a minor scuffle at the door, as Gil tried to give way to the younger Drummonds, whom he felt to have the best claim to be next after Sir William, and first Andrew and then the Stronvar men-at-arms tried to push past. In the disturbance Andrew Drummond’s hat fell off. Gil moved towards it, but Alys got there first and snatched it up.
‘Your hat, Canon,’ she said, brushing it with her cuff, and turned it to make sure it had suffered no damage.
‘My thanks,’ he said in his harsh voice, hand out. She paused, admiring the bright badge.
‘Whatever saint is that?’ she asked innocently. ‘It’s a pretty image, with the sword and the lamp like that. I can’t read the name – is that D-I –?’
‘DIMPNA. It’s St Dymphna,’ he said, hand still extended. She apologized and gave him the hat. ‘My thanks,’ he said again, and turned away before she could ask him anything else.
‘Well done,’ said Gil softly. She gave him a quick smile, and preceded him into the kirk.
By the time he got to the low arch, the Bailie was within the small chancel saying, ‘Right, my laddie. You’ve sworn to your innocence of the charges. And your kin here, if that’s what they are, have decided there’s no charge to bring in any case, so come out of the shadows, will you, and tell me who you are.’
Davie stared at him, eyes and mouth wide and dark in the dim light.
‘No charge?’ he repeated.
‘The woman’s changed her mind,’ said Sir William.
‘Caterin has said it was all done by the Good Folk,’ said Alys, beside Gil. Davie caught his breath on a little sob, and put the back of one hand to his mouth. Ailidh, right by the pillar at one side of the arch, looked at him and then round the rest of the company, and slipped in to stand close to him.
‘Did you hear me, laddie?’ said Sir William, raising his voice a little. ‘I bade you tell me who you are.’
Davie laughed unsteadily, and took his hand down.
‘I told you that already,’ he said, ‘but I’ll swear it again. Here on St Angus’ own grave, I swear to you that I am Davie Drummond.’
‘Aye, but which Davie Drummond?’ demanded Sir William. That’s the right question, thought Gil. ‘Are you the one that vanished away thirty year syne, or are you another? Tell me that, now, while you’re standing on St Angus’ grave!’
‘Who could I be if I wasny that Davie?’
‘Don’t play games wi me, laddie.’ Sir William was becoming angry. ‘Andrew, what do you say? Jamie? You lassies? Is he your kin, the one that vanished away, or is he another?’
Outside, a bell rang, once, twice. It left a humming silence, which seemed to last for ever. Then the door of the little kirk creaked open, and a dark figure appeared against the light.
‘Sir William?’ Robert Montgomery’s voice. ‘Are you here? I’ve a word for you from Sir Duncan, and it’ll not wait.’
Sir Duncan had very little time left. He lay propped on a stack of cushions, sheepskins, folded plaids, to raise him a little on the hurdle on which they had carried him out of his house. Below the kirk the slope of the land made a half-bowl, and the old man had been set down at the centre of this, another very elderly man who must be the clerk kneeling at his feet and weeping. By his side Robert stood, holding the bell; from time to time he rang it twice and then stilled it. Gil would have liked a closer look at it, for it was clearly very old, a box-shaped thing with an extraordinary sweet, carrying sound.
The inhabitants of the Kirkton, leaving whatever occupied them, leaving the hay unturned and the beasts to mind themselves, were gathering in silence on the slopes of the bowl. The sound of the bell must be audible clear along the glen; people could be seen in the distance, making their way in knots of two and three and five, hastening to its summons. Occasionally Sir Duncan raised a hand in blessing; his flesh was so transparent that Gil was surprised when it cut off the sparkles of the sun on the river beyond.
He was uneasily aware that he should set out for Perth as he had planned. There was much to find out there before he could come to any conclusion about James Stirling’s death. He had said as much to Alys, but she said seriously, ‘You may learn more here before you go, Gil. Wait a little longer.’
He had already learned a little. Following Sir William along the path through the kirkyard, he had found Robert Montgomery at his elbow.
‘They’re saying Davie’s safe now, Maister Cunningham,’ he had said abruptly. ‘Is that right?’
‘The woman has withdrawn her charge of arson,’ Gil agreed.
Robert sighed faintly in relief, and crossed himself.
‘St Angus be praised,’ he said. ‘And I’ve a word from the old man for you.’ Gil raised his eyebrows. ‘I was to tell you, he minds no stranger the same week you asked about, but he had spied a bodach in the glen himself the week afore it.’
‘Well, well,’ said Gil. ‘My thanks to Sir Duncan.’ He put his hand briefly on the young man’s shoulder. ‘You’re doing him good service, Robert.’
Robert looked at the hand and then at Gil, gave him a swift startled smile, and slipped off round the people in front of them with his head down, leaving Gil himself to recognize yet again that extraordinary feeling of sympathy for a Montgomery.
He had lost sight of Alys now; she might be with the Drummond girls. Sir William, abrogating responsibility for the scene before them, was sitting on the kirkyard wall, watching the parish gathering and chewing his lip. He had got no answer from Davie Drummond, and it clearly rankled. And where was Davie? Gil wondered. Come to that, where was Doig?
He moved quietly away among the gathering crowd, and made for the priest’s own house. He could hear voices as he approached it, but Doig was seated just inside the door as he had been before, and the conversation ceased before he came close enough to catch words. He rattled politely at the pin nevertheless, and said:
‘I hoped I’d find you, Maister Doig. And is Davie here too?’
‘I am,’ admitted Davie reluctantly as he pushed the door wider.
‘It’s you again,’ said Doig in hostile tones. ‘I suppose you’d better come in. At least you’ll no disturb the auld yin. Did you ever hear o sic a thing as that?’ He jerked his head in the direction of the gathering parish.
‘I have,’ said Davie. He was sitting on one of the painted kists across the room, swinging his bare feet against the wood with regular soft thumps. ‘When St Angus himself died, the whole parish came to say farewell to him, and he sat out there in his preaching-place, that he made by a miracle –’
‘Oh, like St Mungo,’ said Gil, appreciating this.
‘I wouldn’t be knowing,’ admitted Davie.
‘Aye, well, I suppose this one’s near enough being a saint,’ said Doig sourly.
Gil looked from one to the other. They were clearly acquainted, and Davie was comfortable in the older man’s presence, though just now both were watching him closely. And now
he knew that there had been a bodach before the young David vanished, and one when he returned. Robert had clearly not recognized the significance of the message; his mind was probably occupied by his concern for the dying man.
‘Davie,’ he said. ‘Is your father still alive?’
‘James Drummond died years ago,’ said Davie.
‘Not your grandfather. Your father.’
The two of them stared at him, Doig impassive, Davie apprehensive.
‘What I think happened,’ Gil said slowly, ‘was that thirty years ago someone was paid to snatch David Drummond away, on his way back to Dunblane just at this time of year, and take him to the Low Countries and sell him to some kirk or other as a singer.’ Davie’s gaze slid sideways to Doig, but Doig’s eyes were unwaveringly fixed on Gil. ‘I think David prospered where he ended up, maybe even married, had a son anyway. Then this summer the son came back, was dropped off in the same place where his father was snatched, climbed over the pass and was taken for his own father by old Mistress Drummond, who was near blind at close quarters though she could count the sheep on the hillside.’
‘That’s a good tale,’ said Doig approvingly. ‘You should get a harper to set it to music.’
‘What year were you born, Maister Doig?’ Gil asked.
‘Forty-seven,’ said Doig, without thought.
‘So you were sixteen when you lifted David Drummond.’
‘I never said I –’
‘Sir Duncan saw the bodach the previous week. Was it your own business at that time, ferrying information and singers abroad, or were you the junior partner?’
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ said Doig. ‘What would the likes of me do that for? How would I do it?’
‘I’ve met you before, Maister Doig,’ Gil pointed out. ‘So did you bring Davie in by Perth, or by Leith and Dunblane?’
‘Why would I do either?’
Abandoning that for the moment, Gil looked at Davie.