The Merchant's Mark (4 page)

‘Coin,’ he agreed. ‘How much?’

‘A lot.’

‘Near a thousand merks in each of those, I would guess,’ said Morison authoritatively, ‘depending what coin it’s in, of course. Forbye what’s in the roll of
cloth.’

Gil weighed the first purse in his hand. ‘As you said, Andy, this is heavy. If I had this weight in my saddlebag, I’d make sure there was the same again in the other, though I
suppose it needn’t all be coin. Are you sure there’s no more in the barrel?’

‘We can take it out into the day,’ Andy said. ‘I’m certain.’

‘There are a few shavings of wood,’ said Maistre Pierre, exhibiting the pale soggy curls in the palm of his hand. Gil looked at him, then drew the lantern closer to the saddlebag and
looked at the long strap which was intended to fasten it to the saddle.

‘This has been unbuckled, rather than cut,’ he said. ‘You can see where the leather has stretched with the weight of the coin in the bag.’

‘Does that tell us anything?’ said Morison blankly.

Gil shrugged. ‘No urgency about the deed, I suppose.’

‘I still think it should go to the serjeant,’ protested Morison.

‘Yes,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘but did our friend here steal this bag, or was the other stolen from him, and whose is the treasure?’

‘I can hazard a guess at that,’ said Gil. He unfolded the wet velvet with care. ‘Aye, as I thought. Look at these.’

Pinned to the cloth, an array of elaborate goldsmith work gleamed in the lantern-light.

‘Mon Dieu!’
said the mason. ‘What are these? Look at those rubies!’

‘The sapphires are better,’ said Morison, ‘at least by this light. St Peter’s bones, Gil, what have we got into here?’

‘My mother had a unicorn jewel like that,’ said Gil, touching one of them, ‘save that hers was enamel. It was her badge of service when she was in the Queen’s household.
I reckon these are from the royal treasury.’

‘D’ye mean he’d robbed Edinburgh or Stirling Castle?’ said Andy.

‘No. It’s part of James Third’s missing treasure,’ said Morison with sudden confidence.

‘I think you’re right, Augie,’ said Gil. ‘And if it is, I think we should leave the serjeant out of it. This should go straight to the Provost.’

‘Mind you, I thought James Third’s treasure had all been found,’ said Maister Morison.

‘Not all,’ said Canon Cunningham.

They were in the garden of the stone house in Rottenrow, where Gil and his companions had called on their way to the Archbishop’s castle. They had found the Official admiring a bed of
brightly coloured pinks before he returned to his chamber above the Consistory Court, in the south-west tower of St Mungo’s. He had listened attentively to Gil’s account of the morning,
ignoring the interruptions from Maistre Pierre and Augie Morison, and inspected the contents of the still-wet saddlebag with interest.

‘Robert Lyle spent most of two weeks carping on about it,’ he continued, ‘when the Lords of the Articles met in February there to approve the Treasurer’s
accounts.’

‘Lord Lyle?’ said Maistre Pierre quickly. ‘He is one of the Auditors, no? And a friend to the old King, if I recall. One might suppose he had some idea of how much should still
remain.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Canon Cunningham. ‘I think we all assumed he was simply attacking Treasurer Knollys, and that what was recoverable was now recovered, and any still at large was
spent long since. In the end we issued orders to the Sheriffs to hold secret enquiries about it, only to silence him so he would audit the accounts. In the face of a sum of this size together with
these jewels, which are certainly from the King’s own treasury, there can be no doubt that we were wrong and Robert was right.’

‘Knollys,’ said Maistre Pierre thoughtfully. ‘This is the man who is also Preceptor of the Knights of St John at Torphichen –’ he pronounced the name with some care
– ‘although he has never been either cleric or knight, or been at Rhodes to be confirmed in the post.’

‘The same,’ agreed Canon Cunningham without expression. ‘He sits in Parliament as Lord St Johns. He is a most successful merchant.’

Morison looked from one to the other, baffled by this exchange.

‘But why was all the money in a barrel with the head of an unknown man?’ he asked. ‘Where has it been these four years?’

‘Agreed,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘I do not think that poor soul had been in salt for so long, I would say no more than a few days, and nor has the coin, so the treasure must have
been elsewhere in the meantime.’

‘Good questions,’ said David Cunningham. He clasped his hands behind his back under his rusty black gown, and paced away from them along the gravel path. Maister Morison, crushing a
sprig of lavender between his fingers, watched him anxiously. Gil bent to rub the ears of the young hound Socrates, who had recovered from his initial paroxysms of welcome and was now sitting with
his head firmly thrust against Gil’s knee.

‘Aye, good questions,’ repeated the Official, turning at the far end of his traverse. ‘However, since the head and the treasure both were found in the burgh, it becomes a burgh
matter and it is out of my jurisdiction.’

‘No harm in speculating,’ Gil commented.

His uncle threw him a sharp look, and continued, pacing back towards them, ‘If ye’d been a couple of hours sooner, the Provost could have sent it to Stirling with an armed escort. My
lord of Angus was in Glasgow, with the Chancellor and Andrew Forman, lying at the castle overnight. They left before Terce. Something about reporting a gathering in Ayrshire.’

‘What, is Hugh Montgomery causing trouble?’ said Gil.

‘So it seems. Armed encounter at Irvine betwixt Cunninghams and Montgomerys.’

‘If the Montgomery will not listen to the Earl of Angus,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘he will surely listen to the King.’

‘I think that was Angus’s idea.’

‘But until it’s settled,’ said Gil uneasily, ‘I had better not go alone into Ayrshire. That’s awkward – I want to go to Kilmarnock.’

‘I would agree,’ said his uncle severely. ‘Forbye you will be required when the Provost takes an inquest into the matter. You may have an income now, Gilbert, but no need use
it to pay the fines for non-compearance before the Archbishop’s justice.’

‘The inquest on the head is for this afternoon,’ said the mason. ‘The bellman was crying it as we came up the town just now.’

The Official looked down at the bright majolica dish lying on the grass, in which the saddlebag still wept salt tears, and nudged it with one well-shod foot.

‘As for this,’ he said, ‘there may well be a reward for the finding. Maister Morison deserves some compensation.’

‘Aye, for our books,’ said Morison, reminded of his loss.

‘You could take an inventory,’ Canon Cunningham remarked, ‘and count the coin. No doubt Sir Thomas would find it helpful.’

‘I can do that, I suppose,’ said Morison reluctantly.

‘Come, come, maister,’ said the mason. ‘The money does not smell. We can count it together, and my son-in-law can write down the jewels.’ He lifted the majolica dish on
to the bench and sat down beside it.

‘I must away back up to St Mungo’s,’ said David Cunningham with some regret. ‘I believe I have a case waiting, and two sets of witnesses. What poor Fleming will have done
wi them by now I canny think.’ He raised his hand, blessed Gil in particular and the company in general, stooped to pat Socrates and strode away under the archway which led to the
kitchen-yard and the gate to the street. Just on the other side of the archway he checked, and they heard him say, ‘Aye, Kate. And Alys. Gilbert’s in the garden, with a wee pickle
treasure.’

He strode on and out of sight, and Gil jumped to his feet, dislodging the dog, as the mason’s daughter came into the garden, a slender girl in a blue linen gown, her honey-coloured hair
loose down her back. Her gaze found his immediately, and she smiled.

‘Treasure?’ She came to Gil’s outstretched arm, and curtsied to her father’s fellow burgess. ‘Good day, Maister Morison. What treasure is this?’

Morison, standing to greet her, opened his mouth to reply, and looked beyond her to the archway. He stopped, staring open-mouthed. Gil turned his head, and saw only his sister Kate coming
through the archway on her two crutches, her gigantic waiting-woman Babb at her back.

‘Kate,’ he said. ‘You remember Augie Morison?’

‘I do,’ she said, swinging forward, the crutches crunching on the gravel. ‘Good day, maister.’

‘Lady Kate,’ said Morison, stammering slightly. He hurried forward, holding his hand out, and suddenly realized it was full of coins. Turning to put them back in the majolica dish,
he came forward again but was too late to assist her to a seat in the arbour by the wall.

‘I’ll do here, Babb,’ she said, settling her tawny wool skirts about her. ‘You go and sit with Maggie in the kitchen, I’ll send when I need you.’

‘Aye,’ said Babb grimly. ‘And don’t be too long about sending, my doo.’

She propped the crutches against the wall, near to her mistress’s hand, and strode off, ducking under the archway. Morison cleared his throat and said, ‘I’m right sorry to see
you like this, Lady Kate.’

‘Not as sorry as I am to be like it,’ said Kate.

‘I prayed for you yestreen.’

Kate’s chin went up. ‘You never thought there’d be a miracle, did you?’ she said challengingly.

‘
Une tête
?’ said Alys from beside her father. ‘A head? In a barrel?’

Gil grimaced. Kate looked from one to another of them, and then at the dish of coins on the bench, and raised her eyebrows.

‘It’s mine,’ said Morison awkwardly.

‘What, the head?’ said Kate, and he blushed.

‘Well, it’s not mine, it ought to ha been mine. The fill of the barrel, I mean.’ He took a deep breath and began again, with a more coherent explanation of the circumstances.
The two girls heard him out, Alys sorting coins as she listened.

‘Why should you hand it to the Provost,’ asked Kate when he had finished, ‘and have him take the credit for finding it?’

‘He’s the Archbishop’s depute in the burgh,’ Gil pointed out. ‘It must all be done with due process.’

‘Hah!’ she said, but Alys looked up from a stack of coins and said seriously:

‘And who is the dead man? He cannot be a shore-porter from the Low Countries, can he, Gil? The serjeant must be wrong.’

‘Well, he might, but I don’t see how he can have died there,’ Gil agreed. ‘Unless the King’s treasure has been out of the country and back again. We need to find
out where Balthasar of Liège has gone.’

‘Oh, is that why you wish to go to Kilmarnock?’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘To trace the musician? It is now three months ago he went there. He has surely moved on by now.’

‘The McIans will know,’ said Alys. ‘But I think they are in Stirling.’

‘The McIans?’ said Morison. ‘Is that that harper you were telling me about? And you’re tutor to his son, you said.’ Gil nodded. ‘Is he not here in
Glasgow?’

‘He and his sister came by the house last week,’ said Alys, ‘to see the bairn, and to say they were leaving the burgh for a time. They have invitations to play at one house and
another, and I am sure he said they would be in Stirling by now. You could ask for them there, Gil, at least.’

‘These jewels are bonnie,’ said Kate. Gil looked round, and discovered that Morison had unrolled the wet velvet on the arbour bench beside her. ‘Look at the goldsmith work. And
is that a sapphire? What a colour it is!’

Morison mumbled something. She looked sharply at him, and said as if recalling her manners, ‘I was sorry to hear of Agnes, maister. Two years past, isn’t it?’ He nodded, and
opened his mouth, but she went on speaking. ‘And you’ve – two bairns, I heard. How old are they?’

‘Wynliane is near seven, and Ysonde is four,’ said their father.

She stared at him in disbelief.
‘What
are their names? Wynliane – Ysonde! Augie Morison, only you could have named two bairns like that.’

‘They’re bonnie names,’ he protested, reddening. ‘Out of the romances.’

‘Oh, I ken that.
Greysteil
and
Sir Tristram.
Well, if they hope for either to come and carry them off, they’ll grow old hoping,’ said Kate acidly. ‘There
are no heroes left in Scotland, maister. If you’ve a set of tablets on you we can make a list of these jewels, while my good-sister counts the coin.’

Sir Thomas Stewart of Minto, the Archbishop’s civil depute in Glasgow, Bailie of the Regality and Provost of the burgh, small, neat and balding in good murrey velvet
furred with marten, stood on the fore-stair of his lodging in the castle, surveyed the gathering in the outer yard and scowled.

‘Serjeant, ye’ve rounded up the scaff and raff of the town again,’ he said. ‘I’ll likely need my own men to keep the peace before this is over. Walter,’ he
said to his clerk, ‘gang to Andro and bid him bring five-six of the men, just to keep an eye on things.’

‘It’s none of my doing if the better sort never answers the bellman,’ said the serjeant in righteous indignation as the clerk slipped away, his pen-case and inkhorn rattling at
his waist. ‘I’ve a burgh to watch and ward, sir, I’ve no time to go calling on each man by name for a case like this.’

‘Aye, well,’ said Sir Thomas irritably. ‘Silence them, then, man.’ He glanced at Gil and his companions, standing nearest him. ‘These gentlemen at least have better
matters to attend to than all this giff-gaff. We’ll get done wi and get about our day.’

He glowered at the source of the loudest conversation and comment, the group around the head, which was exhibited on a trestle in the centre of the yard and guarded by the same reluctant
constable and a colleague. The barrel stood on the ground beside the trestle, and had come in for some attention itself; one tavern-keeper from the Gallowgait had already offered to purchase it
from Maister Morison when all was done. Gil recognized Morison’s carter, the stocky, sandy-haired Billy, in the thick of the group, his blue bonnet wagging as he talked to those interested.
What was he telling them? wondered Gil.

The serjeant, shouldering the burgh mace, stepped up on to the mounting block and shouted for silence, his voice carrying without effort across the yard. The clerk returned, half a dozen armed
men tramped after him, and the proceedings began. Gil, used to the Scottish legal process, was not surprised by the length of time it took to select fifteen respectable men to form an assize, but
as the sixth name was agreed upon, he could feel Maistre Pierre becoming restive at his side.