Authors: Pat McIntosh
‘The oldest brother, who held Kittymuir, died at Stirling Field,’ she said now, ‘the same as Father and our brothers. As Uncle David said. It’s a strange thing,’
she digressed, ‘that so few were slain on the King’s side, the late King’s side, and yet we seem to know the most of them.’
‘No,’ objected Gil, ‘none so strange surely, it tells where the fighting was thickest. So they were left without money, were they?’
‘From what she says,’ said Dorothea, recalled to her account, ‘John was at sea, which must be right, and the sleekit William was a priest by then, somewhere over in Ayrshire,
and their mother died of grief that same summer. So when they couldny pay the fine in the autumn, Marion was put out of the land, and took refuge with William in the first place. Then William found
she was carrying Frankie, which can’t,’ she said thoughtfully, counting on her fingers, ‘have been before Yule of that year, of
’88
, or even the next spring, and he
put her out of his house and all. And John still being at sea, she accepted Naismith’s offer of shelter and she’s kept that house for him ever since. I suspect it may have been William
who got Naismith the post here in Glasgow as part of the bargain.’
They looked at each other in the failing light.
‘There are gaps,’ said Gil. She nodded. ‘But I suppose she has held the house rent-free more than three years. Well, hardly rent-free,’ he admitted, ‘but the law
doesny allow for that form of service. She has had only custom on her side to prevent him putting her out of it when he pleased. Had he any other requirements of her?’
‘He had her dine him and his friends every few weeks,’ said Dorothea, ‘provide the dinner from the money he gave her, but hide herself and the bairn out of sight. She did some
fine sewing for St Mungo’s, hoping to turn a penny or two of her own that way, and he took the money she got by it.’
‘Ah!’ said Gil. ‘That would have counted for her if it had come to law. It could be considered as rent, even without a contract.’
‘Aye, but it hasny come to law.’ Dorothea looked down at her hands again. ‘And finally he announced in front of the household that he planned to be married to someone else, who
would get her house.’
‘He’s humbled her,’ said Gil. ‘I suppose she wouldny wish to show that to me.’
Dorothea turned to give him an approving look.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘She never loved him, but she’s done her duty according to their original agreement, and he served her like that.’
‘He’s no been a man I’d care to have either as friend or client,’ said Gil roundly.
Dorothea laughed.
‘There’s my brother,’ she said. He raised his eyebrows. ‘It was strange to watch you the now, acting like a man of law, questioning Marion so clearly, acting just the way
I would myself with one of our pupils in trouble.’
‘Why not? A man of law’s what I am.’
‘No doubt of that. None the less, Gil, last time I saw you you were fourteen and your voice was just changing. But there the now you sounded like the brother I mind.’
‘You’ve changed and all, but no as much as I have, then, for I’d have known you anywhere,’ said Gil. ‘Are you happy, Dawtie? What’s it like, being the bride
of Christ? It’s what you aye wanted, but is it what you expected?’
Her face lit up, visible even in the dimness.
‘Gil, you can have no idea. This is what I was made for, in particular since I’ve been sub-Cellarer. To have charge of so much, to be responsible for my share of the House’s
dispositions, and wi all that, to be – no just allowed, but required to take all the time I could wish to my prayers – there was once a sister, one of ours, a German, wrote that she
felt
like a crumb of bread dipped in a jar of honey.
That’s it exact.’
‘And the obedience to your superiors?’
Her long mouth quirked. ‘Oh, well. It’s the price one pays. If I’d stayed in the world I’d be obedient to Mother, or a husband, or someone.’
‘Or to me,’ he said. The quirk became a wry smile.
‘Or to you,’ she agreed. ‘Just as well I’m no, you’ve enough to deal wi, what wi Tib and Alys. What is it between you and Alys, Gil? I thought, from what Mother
wrote, the lass chose you herself, but I don’t see all well wi you just now.’
‘No – no, it’s fine,’ he said, aware of his face stiffening.
‘Is she changing her mind, or something?’
‘I . . .’ he began. ‘A course not, but . . .’
‘But?’ She watched him for a moment, then said, ‘Is she maybe a wee thing less loving than she seemed a while since?’
‘How did you ken that?’ he asked helplessly.
‘I’ve seen one or two brides in the weeks afore their marriage. And it happens to novices, indeed we worry if it doesny. They start to wonder, to have doubts, to question the
decision.’
‘I – that’s what I’m afraid of.’
‘You’re in no doubt yoursel, Gil?’
‘No! No,
My love will not refreyd be
,
nor afound.
But . . .’ he halted, unable to bring out the words. She eyed him with sympathy, and finally supplied:
‘If she had changed her mind, you wouldny hold her to it.’ He nodded dumbly. ‘So of course you darena ask what’s wrong for fear it might be that.’
It was almost a relief to have it spoken. He drew a deep breath, and nodded again. She put a hand over his, and they sat in silence for a while.
‘Dawtie, I’ll need to go out after supper,’ said Gil after a time. ‘I’m sorry for it, when you’ve just got here.’
‘Mm?’ said Dorothea, as if from a great distance. She turned to look at him again. ‘Never apologize. I can go down to see Kate. What do you have to do?’
He sighed. ‘I ought to go back to the bedehouse. And I need to see Agnew.’
‘Who is that? Oh, Naismith’s man of law, is it? And brother of one of the bedesmen, you said.’
‘Aye. He has a chamber in the Consistory tower, I can likely find him there.’
‘What will you ask him?’
‘About the will. About whether Naismith met him yestreen. Whether he kens who Naismith was planning to marry, since nobody else seems to.’ He got to his feet, and stretched his back.
‘He’ll not have the answer to the other question I have just now.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Who was Frankie’s father? Naismith was a well-set-up fellow, going bald, but brown-haired. Marion’s hair is gold, and her brother’s near as fair. The wee one has
Marion’s eyes, but she never got a head of curls that colour from Naismith. Her father must be dark, and probably curly-headed.’
‘And light-eyed,’ said Dorothea. ‘Brown eyes carry strong, remember.’
‘Aye,’ said Gil. So Alys’s children will have brown eyes, he thought. That’s if – that’s assuming –
‘All will be well, Gil,’ said his sister, watching him in the shadows. She patted his elbow then cocked her head at the darkening windows and continued, ‘I must go up to the
castle and say Vespers. Have you time to get over to the Consistory before Maggie has the supper on the table?’
Asking one of the clerks of the Consistory tower at the west end of St Mungo’s got Gil directions to a chamber on an upper floor, above the courtrooms by a different
stair from the one he himself used. Climbing up the spiral he was aware of the smell of success at this end of the tower; traces of sandalwood and cedarwood from furs which had to be guarded from
the moth mingled with beeswax (furniture worth polishing and servants to polish it, he thought) and the distinctive scent of the heavy straw matting, all shot through with the familiar musty
intimation of paper, parchment and ink. On the landing he had been referred to, the smell of matting was even stronger, and fragments of straw lay underfoot as if someone had recently swept out the
chambers. He recalled the flakes of straw in the sleeve of Naismith’s fur gown. This must be where they had come from.
He tapped on Agnew’s door and called the man’s name, but there was no response. After a moment the door to the next chamber opened and a head popped out, level with his elbow.
‘Tammas is away down to St Serf’s,’ it announced. ‘Oh, it’s you. David Cunningham’s nephew, are you no? Blacader’s Quaestor, now, they tell
me.’
Gil admitted this, and the other man stepped on to the landing and tipped his head back to look at him, holding his legal bonnet on with one hand. He was more than a foot shorter than Gil,
dressed in a belted gown of rusty black whose fur lining showed worn at collar and sleeves. A name swam upwards in Gil’s mind: Maister Robert Kerr, one of the forespeakers of the Consistory
court. David Cunningham spoke of him with respect.
‘A bad business, this at the bedehouse,’ Kerr said. ‘Was it one of the brothers killed him right enough? Tammas is beside himself for fear it should be shown his own brother
did it, poor soul.’
‘There’s no saying yet,’ Gil answered. ‘We’ve more questions to ask. I was hoping Maister Agnew could help me himself. Is he long gone?’
‘A half-hour or so,’ Kerr offered. ‘Aye, he was telling me he had spoken wi Naismith yestreen. Indeed, I knew that from my own observing, for I was still at my desk when the
man came up the stair, and I heard Tammas welcome him by name.’
‘What time would that be, maister?’ Gil asked.
‘Late,’ Kerr said, and grimaced. ‘The clerk that brought Naismith up here lingered to ask how long they would be, since Compline was long over, and they’d be wanting to
lock the doors and go. I never realized how late it was myself till then. I rose and left my papers immediate. My steward wasny well pleased wi me,’ he admitted, grinning ruefully and showing
chipped teeth, ‘for my supper was spoiled.’
‘So you’ve no idea how long Naismith was here? Or what they talked about?’
‘No to the first,’ said Kerr with legal precision, ‘and as to the second, I could hardly tell you if I did hear what they discussed, seeing it would be private between Tammas
and his client.’
‘True,’ agreed Gil. ‘So it was a legal matter, then? No a social visit for a glass of Malvoisie or the like.’
‘I assume so, since Naismith came here and no to Tammas’s own lodging. As to the wine,’ he added, ‘I’ve never heard Tammas offer it to a client. A mistake, that. It
brings in good custom, young Cunningham.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind, sir,’ said Gil, nodding. ‘Do you know where that might be? Maister Agnew’s lodging, I mean.’
‘Vicars’ Alley,’ said Kerr after a moment’s thought. ‘This end, right by St Andrew’s chapel. Likely you’d get him there nearer supper-time. Unless he
lingers over his papers,’ he added, with another rag-toothed grin, and vanished back into his own chamber.
All three Cistercians were in the hall when Gil got back to the house in Rottenrow. Climbing the stairs from the front door he heard Dorothea’s voice, and as he stepped
into the hall he had just time to see that his uncle was showing the elderly priest one of his books by the light of a branch of candles, while the two women helped Tib to set up the table. Then he
was struck in the chest by Socrates’ forepaws. Tib paused in her distribution of wooden trenchers to watch the dog leaping round him, simmering with delight at his master’s safe return
from the dangers of the burgh, and said caustically,
‘Mother said that beast thought he was a lapdog, and I see he’s not learned any different yet.’
‘He’s not a year old, Tib. He’ll be calm in a moment.’ Gil snapped his fingers at his pet. ‘Down! That’s better. Am I late?’
‘No to say late,’ said his uncle, breaking off his discussion, ‘since Maggie kept the supper for you. Likely we can eat as soon as she hears you’re in the
house.’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ said Gil, bending his knee in a bow. ‘I went out again to look for Maister Agnew. Just as well I missed him, or I’d ha been later still.’
‘Have you found out who did it yet?’ asked Tib, setting the salt on the board.
‘No,’ said Gil, ‘though we’ve cast all about and asked a great many questions.’ He turned to the pottery cistern which hung by the door, and ran water to wash his
hands.
‘Who have you questioned?’ Tib asked.
‘Marion Veitch and her brother,’ supplied Dorothea.
Tib flicked her a glance but said nothing. The laysister dragged one of the benches to the table, and Gil said, ‘Most of the almshouse, Nick Kennedy’s two servers, but not yet
Naismith’s man of law.’ He lifted the linen towel to dry his hands, and Socrates stood up, one paw against the wall, and lapped at the soapy dregs in the brightly glazed basin. ‘I
might go over and see if he’s home after we’ve had supper,’ he said, looking at Dorothea, and she nodded.
‘Not bad for one day,’ commented Canon Cunningham, coming forward. ‘Tib, shout down to Maggie that your brother is home, then perhaps we may eat.’
Once the household was seated at the long board, and all were served, Tib returned to the subject, demanding, ‘What happened at the bedehouse, anyway? All you said before was that the man
had been found stabbed. When did it happen? Why do they not know who did it?’
‘You put yourself forward too much, Isobel,’ said her uncle severely.
She went scarlet, and stared at him in indignation, but Dorothea said, ‘No, uncle, I think she does right to ask. It was almost within earshot of the house here, any of us wants to know
what’s being done to find the guilty.’
‘A true word, Lady Dawtie,’ said Maggie roundly. Gil, with resignation, helped himself to another portion of baked salmon and summarized a select few of the facts he had gathered so
far. Well aware that anything he said in front of his uncle’s household would soon be common property in the Chanonry, he restricted himself to the finding of the corpse, Mistress
Mudie’s evidence, Agnew’s statement that he had last seen the Deacon about Compline, and the traces at the Stablegreen gate of the almshouse.
‘Over the
wall
?’ repeated Tib, white-faced. This time her uncle did not rebuke her, but Dorothea put a hand over hers. ‘Do you mean the back wall? The one by the
Stablegreen? When? When was this?’
‘I do,’ agreed Gil. ‘I think by means of a ladder, or so the traces tell me, at any road. It isny there any more,’ he said reassuringly, seeing that she was still very
pale. ‘The body’s in the washhouse waiting while it softens, and I’ve no idea where the ladder can be. As to when . . .’ He paused, considering what he knew. ‘That
depends on who moved the corpse and how many people were involved,’ he said finally. ‘Maybe between nine and ten, maybe later.’