Authors: Pat McIntosh
‘No matter,’ said Gil easily. ‘It was just to confirm a couple o things, you’ll likely be able to tell me just as well.’
‘Me, maister?’ said the man dubiously. ‘I’m no privy to the Canon’s business, it’s no my place to tell things.’ He glanced over his shoulder, into the house. ‘And I’ve the Canon’s dinner to get, I’ve no time to—’
‘I’m happy enough in a kitchen,’ Gil assured him. ‘I’ll sit by while you work, so long as you can answer me.’
Reluctantly persuaded, the man led Gil through the dark entry of the house into a large, vaulted kitchen. Light from high narrow windows showed kists and presses, two broad dusty tables, a charcoal range with no fire in it, a wide hearth where another man rose, startled, doffing his cap to the stranger.
‘Here’s Nory, that’s servant to our guests,’ said Canon Muir’s man. ‘This is Canon Cunningham’s nevvy from across the way, Nory, that’s hunting down the lassie missing from the Cross that your maisters is hoping to wed wi.’ He caught up a basket of vegetables, a knife, a chopping-board, and drew another stool to the hearth. ‘Hae a seat, maister, and ask away, and you’ll forgive me if I get on wi my tasks like you said I should.’
Gil sat down, the dog leaning against his leg. The servant’s own name, he suddenly recalled, was William. He was elderly, though not as old as his master, and clearly set in his ways. Maggie would give a lot for a kitchen the size of this, he thought, and so would his own household, but here was this fellow ignoring its conveniences, chopping roots on a board on his knee, tossing them into a stewpot on the hearth.
‘And you’re caught up in the business at the hostel, aren’t you no, maister?’ William added. ‘What was it happened last night? The Canon was right distressed when he cam home, could gie me no sensible account o the matter. Was it the Deil himsel slew the woman right enough?’
‘What, in a chapel?’ said Nory derisively. ‘What did slay her, maister?’
Resignedly, Gil gave them as concise an account as he might of events at the hostel, while Socrates grew bored and lay down with his nose on his paws. They listened avidly, exclaiming in shock, and agreed that this was certain to have upset Canon Muir right bad, seeing as he was patron of the place. Eventually William recalled Gil’s stated errand.
‘Here we’re channering on about this, and you wi matters to see to, maister. What was it you wanted to ken?’
He arranged his ideas, and said carefully,
‘The night you and your maisters arrived in Glasgow, Nory.’ Both men nodded. ‘When did the household retire for the night? What time did the bar go on the door?’
The two looked at one another.
‘Couple hours afore midnight,’ said William definitely. ‘That’s when I aye put the bar up. The Canon doesny like it to be later.’
‘Was later than that,’ demurred Nory, ‘for my maisters was out in the town, you mind, it was well after midnight afore they cam in, I’d to get up and see them to their bed.’
‘I thought Canon Muir said he was still up when they came in,’ Gil said.
‘Oh, aye,’ said William. ‘He’d be asleep in his chair wi his mouth open, the sowl, thinking he was at his prayers or his books. He aye spends his evenings like that these days, maister. He wakened up when they cam in, which you’re right, Nory, it was after midnight, it must ha been well after it when I put the bar up. Then he seen them to their beds and gied them his blessing, and then Nory had to get them out their fine clothes and put young Henry’s shirt in the soak. That was never ale, Nory, was it?’
‘No,’ said Nory baldly. He was a skinny man, older than his charges though much younger than William, neatly and plainly dressed in dark blue.
‘I’d never let the Canon wear a shirt like that where he was going to get in a fight,’ said William, provoking a series of startling images in Gil’s head.
‘You think I’d argue wi them? Henry wears what he wants,’ Nory said. ‘The good broidered shirt, the high-necked doublet, he calls for it and I find it in his kist, and the same for Austin, if I value my skin.’
‘How’s his neck healing? Did that popilio unguent I gied you never work for it?’
‘No,’ said Nory again. ‘It’s right angry. Likely that collar’s rubbing it, no to mention getting the grease off the unguent all ower the lining. If I could persuade him to sit wi a hot cloth, it would maybe draw it, but he’ll no listen.’
‘It must be hard work,’ said Gil at a venture, ‘keeping garments as fine as those two wear. I’ve never had a man to tend my garments, not since I left my mother’s house, my wife sees to all. What’s involved?’
Nory gave him a quick, disparaging look which encompassed his well-worn black doublet and hose and the unfashionable sleeves of his good cloth gown.
‘Aye,’ he said inscrutably. ‘Well, it’s to keep them clean, which is no easy when your maisters is as careless wi their garments, and brush them to keep the moth away, and sew the braid back on when it gets torn off, and see their linen gets washed when needed, and—’
‘Tell him about that satin gown,’ urged William, casting another handful of chopped leaves into the pot.
‘He’s no needing to hear about the satin gown.’
‘Difficult to clean, was it?’ Gil suggested. ‘When was this?’
‘Just last night,’ said William chattily. ‘That bonnie sad red satin gown he had on, Deil alone kens what he was at wi it, for it cam home stained and stiffened, and I think he’s spilled Geneva spirits all down it forbye, did you no say, Nory?’
‘It’s no sad red, it’s marron coloured,’ said Nory.
‘Satin?’ said Gil, thinking of remarks he had heard his sisters make. ‘How do you clean satin? You’ll never send that to the wash?’
‘If I’d had it when it was first stained,’ said Nory, ‘I’d ha put oatmeal on it straight, but as it is, well! I’ve cut the braid off it, and put it to soak wi pearlash in the water, but I doubt it will be ruined, there’s as much dye coming out the thing, the water’s like blood already, and the canvas in the breast will shrink, see, and pull it in, and whose blame will it be when it canny be worn? No his, that’s for certain.’
‘Did he come in like that?’ Gil asked. What had Henry been wearing at the pilgrim hostel last night? Not red satin, he thought, or marron coloured either, whatever that was.
‘No, no, he gaed out in the marron satin after his dinner, and they were back an hour or so after, in and out the house like a whirlwind, and when I gaed up to see what they wanted I found this flung on the floor, and the other yin’s murrey velvet and all, though it’s no marked, Christ be thankit, and they’d took other gowns out the kist and gone out again, no thought o whether the colours consorted well or nothing.’
‘May I see it?’ Gil asked. ‘I’d like to ken what colour that is. My wife’s like to ask me,’ he invented, though Nory seemed unsurprised by his interest.
‘It’s in thon bucket,’ said William, adding a pile of shredded leaves to the stewpot. ‘By the wall.’
Nory was already rocking the leather bucket, dragging a quantity of wet dark-red cloth up from its depths. The water running off it was indeed red, though whether with dye or with something more it was hard to tell.
‘Course you canny tell the colour right when it’s wet,’ he said.
Extricating himself from Canon Muir’s kitchen, Gil made his way down Rottenrow, thinking deeply, the dog at his heels. With the facts he had collected today some of what he was investigating began to make more sense, though not all of it could be fitted into the same picture. It was still hard to see how the death of Barnabas was connected to anything else, and he was dubious about the attempt to strangle the dead girl at the Cross, but the rest appeared to follow a pattern. And with what Doctor Januar had told him, he hardly needed to worry himself about a motive, a reason for the deaths.
Both courtyards of the Castle were teeming with pack-animals, men in livery, clerics of all ranks, scurrying hither and yon. On the steps of the Archbishop’s lodging Otterburn, looking as near flustered as Gil had seen him, and Robert Blacader himself, in grim irritation, were surveying the bustle. Behind them the Archbishop’s rat-faced secretary, Maister Dunbar, was making notes in a set of tablets. Blacader’s glance fell on Gil, and he raised a hand and beckoned sharply.
‘Gilbert,’ he said, when Gil had elbowed his way to the foot of the steps. ‘What progress have you made? Have we a name for this grievous sinner yet?’
‘No with any certainty, my lord,’ said Gil, hat in hand, bowing over the proffered ring as he spoke.
‘Hmm.’ Blacader considered this, his heavy blue jowls stilled for a moment. ‘I’m to read the anathema tonight after Vespers. I suppose it can be done without naming him.’
‘That might be a good thing,’ Gil observed. The Archbishop scrutinised him, and nodded.
‘Fetch him out of cover, you mean. Aye, I suppose. We’ll go ahead with
Quicunque vehementer percussit,
then, whoever violently slew this woman.’ Gil, whose Latin was at least as good as the Archbishop’s, bowed at this and prepared to retreat, but his master gestured to him to remain. ‘Provost, you’ll send the Bellman out, I hope, wi the summons to Vespers and the ensuing. They’ve all to be there, I want as many of the burgh as possible to hear it, we’ll have no doubt what comes to any that desecrate a sacred building.’
‘The Bellman’s gone out already,’ said Otterburn. The Archbishop nodded, and looked about him, gathering up his retinue.
‘Gilbert, I want you wi me the now, I’ll go up to the hostel, St Catherine’s is it, and see the place. Canon Muir’s no fit to make sense, I need someone that kens what’s what. I need to ken whether the place is scrubbed clean, I’m no consecrating blood and brains. And as for St Mungo’s,’ he added, almost as an aside, ‘I canny think what Dean Henderson’s about, a course that chapel needs cleansing. We’ll ha the full process there and all. And this lassie that’s vanished and reappeared, well!’
Gil’s father had been wont to say that the husbandman’s best muck was on his own boots. After an hour of watching the episcopal equivalent of this, Gil was in no doubt, if he ever had been, that Robert Blacader was well fitted to be a prince of the Church.
Striding up past the Castle walls to the hostel at the Archbishop’s elbow, a retinue of secretaries and chaplains hurrying behind them, he had explained as much of the situation as he dared. His master had listened without comment, but when they reached St Catherine’s it was clear he had taken in all that was said. Sir Simon, Lockhart, Doctor Januar, had all been dealt with crisply and effectively, Annie had been confessed and apparently released from her vow of uncleanness on a technical detail of the original wording, her sisters-in-law and the rest of the household had been blessed. Some of the time had been spent at the bedside of the dying man, and the rest had gone on a thorough inspection of the chapel.
‘Cold water, lye, hot water, your grace, my lord,’ Bessie gabbled, bobbing in a sort of curtsy with every word. ‘And I scrubbed and scrubbed it. And the candlestock, cold water and sand, and the hangings pit to soak or burnt, a’ seen to, your grace, my lord—’
‘I can see that,’ said Blacader. ‘You have worked very hard, daughter. Well done.’
Bessie fell on her knees, crossing herself, and Sir Simon observed,
‘Bessie and Attie her man are faithful servants of the hostel, my lord.’
‘You’ll speak to William here,’ the Archbishop said, ‘about what’s needed for the reconsecration. All the moveable furnishings, books, hangings, vestments, all that, to be laid out on trestles for the thurifer. Seating for the deacons. William kens what’s needed.’ Behind him Maister Dunbar nodded resignedly. ‘We’ll sort it the morn’s morn after Sext.’
‘The morn?’ repeated Sir Simon in astonishment. ‘But my lord—’
Maister Dunbar murmured something in his master’s ear.
‘Well, the next day then. We canny leave it longer, the King’s Grace is for the Isles again and all the Court wi him. Which calls me to mind, I’ll want you wi us, Gilbert.’
Turning over this startling news, Gil made now for home and his dinner. His last trip to the Isles in May had been eventful, and had brought him once again to the attention of his King. Another trip could be interesting, though he would probably have to leave Alys at home again; it certainly meant that he had to find out who killed Barnabas, and Peg Simpson, and Dame Ellen Shaw, before he left.
Lowrie was in the hall when he stepped into the house, pulling off his boots while the women set up the table and Euan gathered up plaids and saddlebags to carry upstairs. Catherine had emerged from her chamber in anticipation of the meal. Alys was just pouring ale; seeing Gil she smiled, and reached for another beaker. Socrates padded forward to greet them both, tail waving.
‘Success!’ the young man said. ‘I’ve news aplenty, Maister Gil. But what’s happening in the burgh? What’s the Bellman crying? Did I see the Archbishop’s standard at the Castle?’
‘You did,’ Gil agreed, taking a pull at his ale. ‘Ah, I needed that. There’s been all sorts happening here. I’ve collected a deal of news too, and Alys has found Annie Gibb safe.’
‘Found—?’ Lowrie stared in awe at Alys over his ale. ‘Mistress, I truly believe there is nothing you can’t do. Where was she?’
Over the meal Catherine listened intently as they discussed the return of Annie Gibb, and what Gil had learned from the day, and finally turned to Lowrie’s errand over the second course, a dish of almond tartlets.
‘I found James Bowling easy enough,’ he said. ‘He dwells hard by the Cross, I’d to ask no more than two people afore I found him. He’s forty I suppose, stout burgess prospering well, it’s clear the town supports more than one man of law in good style. I gave him your letter, which he read, and sends greetings, very civilly.’ Gil bent his head in acknowledgement. ‘Then I tellt him the whole tale, as I had it last night a course, and asked could he shed any light on any of it. At which he hummed and hawed a while about confidentiality and the respect of his clients, till I mentioned the Archbishop, and reminded him how much we kent already, whereupon he agreed to answer questions but no to volunteer what wasny asked.’
‘I’d ha done the same, I suppose,’ said Gil.
‘Indeed, it shows a very proper attitude,’ said Catherine in French.