The Merchant's Mark (7 page)

‘You were there when we broached it,’ said the merchant, ‘you know as much as I do.’

‘Tell us from the beginning,’ Gil said patiently, ‘when you saw it hoisted from Tod’s ship at Blackness. You said it was the only one that size. Are you certain of
that?’

‘Well, it’s what Tod said,’ said Morison. ‘I think. It’s all tapsalteerie in my head, Gil.’

‘You didn’t look in the hold yourself?’

‘I was never on Tod’s deck. I stayed on the shore and had an eye to the cransman,’ said Morison more confidently.

‘Certainly he’d no reason to say so if it wasn’t true,’ said Gil. ‘And then what happened? It was put on the cart?’

‘Aye. Well, it stood on the shore till we saw how much there was to go on the cart.’

‘And how much was that?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

Morison dragged his gaze from the towers of St Mungo’s and looked apologetically from one to the other.

‘I canny mind,’ he said. ‘I canny think. It’s all tap-salteerie,’ he said again, demonstrating inversion with one hand. ‘There’s nothing left in my head
but the thought of what’s to come to my bairns if . . . if . . .’

‘This is the best way to help your bairns,’ Gil said bracingly, though sympathy gnawed at his gut. ‘When you got the cart home, how much was there to be unloaded?’

‘Oh. Aye.’ Morison frowned at his feet. ‘There was the two great pipes that came out of Maikison’s vessel. One was mostly tin-glazed, with a couple steeks velvet for Clem
Walkinshaw on the top, and the other was a mixed load. Aye, just the two,’ he nodded. ‘And the puncheon which,’ he went on more certainly, ‘went on at the tail of the cart,
roped well in place.’

‘Who roped it on?’

‘One of the men, I suppose. Likely Billy, he’s my carter.’

‘And how many carts did you have with you?’

‘Just the one. Billy and Andy saw to the driving, and Jamesie and I rode alongside.’

‘And where did the cart go?’ prompted Maistre Pierre.

‘Why, it came home,’ said Morison, the blank look appearing again.

‘Straight home in one day?’

‘Don’t be daft, Gil!’ Morison paused. ‘Oh, I see what you want. We lay at Linlithgow Monday night, and Kilsyth on Tuesday.’

‘And what happened to the cart each time? Did you leave it in the inn-yard?’

‘No, no. I take better care of my goods than that. We’ve an arrangement wherever we lie, to run the cart into someone’s yard where it can be secure, and Billy sleeps with it as
well.’

‘We’ll need the names of the yards,’ said Gil. ‘Now, after it came home, where did the barrel lie? Where was it yesternight?’

‘Last night.’ Morison frowned. ‘Is that right? Just last night? I suppose it must be. We were so late back, we ran the cart into the barn and shut the doors on it. Billy had to
take the mare down to stable her, but I’d not the heart to make them start on the load after.’

‘So the barrel sat in the barn overnight with the rest. Was it undisturbed when you saw it this morning?’

‘Oh, yes. Well, it must have been,’ qualified Morison, ‘for there had been nobody in the barn. Then I got Andy to roll it down and handle it into the shed, and sent him for you
while the other men made a start on the pipe of tin-glazed, and . . . and . . .’ He paused, staring at nothing. ‘St Peter’s bones, Gil, when he came up out of the water like
that!’

‘He was a gruesome sight, poor devil,’ Gil agreed.

‘Aye, but . . . aye, but . . .’

‘What is it, Augie?’ Gil asked. It was clear the man needed to say something, and was reluctant to form the words. ‘Out with it, man!’

‘It was the way the water ran from his mouth,’ said Morison in a rush, his face reddening. ‘When – when I saw my Agnes lifted from the milldam. She was all white like
that, and she could have been asleep, only for the water running out of her mouth – oh, Gil, it minded me so strongly!’

He scrubbed at his eyes with a sleeve, turning his face away.

Orpheus, thought Gil.
Quhair art thow gone, my luve Ewridicess?
He rose and walked about the small room, overcome with embarrassment. Behind him Morison groped for his handkerchief and
hiccuped, while Maistre Pierre tut-tutted in sympathy.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gil said at last. ‘I never realized she had –’

‘It was the melancholy,’ Morison explained, and blew his nose resoundingly. ‘After the bairn died. He only lived a week, the poor wee – and I knew she was –
I’d to be away too much, but how could I leave the business? And now if my wee lassies are to be left with neither father nor mother, what’s to come of them? What’s to come of the
household?’ He turned away again, ramming the damp linen against his eyes.

‘It won’t come to that,’ Gil said firmly. ‘Would you like to see a priest? I forget who’s chaplain here when Robert Blacader’s away, but there’s plenty
priests over yonder.’ He waved at the towers of St Mungo’s.

Morison nodded, sniffing unhappily, but said, ‘Or maybe someone from the Greyfriars?’

‘I can send to Greyfriars for you,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘I’ll have a word with Sir Thomas, and then I’ll get away, Augie, for the first thing I need to do is speak to someone about the treasure.’

‘Oh, aye, the treasure,’ said Morison vaguely ‘I keep forgetting that.’ He sniffed again, biting his lip, and Gil patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

‘I hadn’t. I think it may be the key to the whole thing. Keep your spirits up, man,’ he said, ‘and pray for my success, and I’ll see you when I get back to
Glasgow.’

‘I see two trails we must follow,’ said Maistre Pierre as they crossed the castle yard.

‘At least two,’ agreed Gil.

‘You must go now, to take advantage of the escort and speak to Robert Blacader,’ continued the mason, ‘but I could set out tomorrow, and trace Morison’s cart back to
Linlithgow.’

‘And then I could meet you there,’ said Gil. ‘Pierre, if you can spare the time, I’d be glad of the help.’

‘How fast will the law proceed? How long have we got?’

‘The law will take time,’ Gil admitted, nodding to the men on the gate. He set off right-handed along the rose-coloured outer wall of the castle, and continued, ‘Even if Robert
Blacader sits in judgement while he is in Glasgow, which I hope to avert, he would then have to send Augie to Edinburgh for trial, and that would have to wait while the King’s Justice was
sent for and the witnesses were summoned from Glasgow. But I’m concerned about Augie’s business and even more about his bairns. The sooner we get this straightened out, the
better.’

‘Oh, indeed. But at least we are not attempting to hold the hangman’s arm.’

‘Not yet.’

Maistre Pierre paused by the stone cross at the Wyndhead, where the four roads of the upper town met.

‘We need to give that poor soul a name,’ he said, ‘and find how he died. We must trace your books in their barrel, wherever they have got to.’

‘And we need to find out where the coin has been these four years and how it got into the barrel we have.’

‘But why must you go to Stirling?’ asked Alys, turning within the circle of Gil’s arm to look up at him. ‘Surely if the King and the court will come to
Glasgow on Saturday you can ask your questions when they arrive.’

‘It will be late in the day when they get here, and I had sooner make a start today,’ said Gil. ‘Augie is fretting about the bairns and the business. Besides, there’s no
saying whether the people I want to speak to will travel with the court.’

‘Leave him, Alys,’ said his sister, from where she sat in bleached dignity in the arbour by the wall. ‘He wants off his leash.’

Gil looked at her with sympathy, and found her looking back at him, a faint ironic smile overlying the tear stains. She was the best-looking of his four surviving sisters; according to their
uncle she was bonnier than their mother in her prime. Here in the garden, weary with grief, she looked older than their mother was now. At least, Gil thought, scratching Socrates behind the ears
with his free hand, she had recovered enough spirit to rake up old family jokes.

‘What will you do first?’ she asked. ‘Who must you speak to at Stirling?’

‘Treasurer Knollys,’ said Gil. ‘Robert Blacader, of course. The McIans, if they’re in the town.’

‘You should speak to Maister Morison’s men before you go,’ said Alys thoughtfully. ‘They may have noticed something without recognizing its importance.’

‘No time just now. When I get back,’ said Gil. ‘Unless . . .’

She looked up at him again. Unable to resist, he leaned down to kiss the high narrow blade of her nose. Her smile flickered, but she said seriously, ‘I could do that. My father’s man
Thomas likely knows them.’

‘If you have the time,’ he said. She smiled, and he kissed her again, then said reluctantly, ‘I must pack. If I set out as soon as I’ve had a bite, I should be in
Stirling before Vespers.’

‘I will have a word with Maggie,’ said Alys. ‘She always has food for you.’

She rose from the bench where they were sitting. Gil caught her hand, attempting to detain her, but she looked down, met his eye, and with a significant glance directed his attention to the
arbour, then turned and left the garden. Socrates turned his long nose from Gil to her retreating back and whined.

Kate was sitting quietly, with her hands in her lap, staring out over the burgh. It was only when he went over and sat down beside her that Gil saw the small movements of fingers and thumbs,
doggedly tearing at the calloused skin of her palms. He put his hand over hers, to still the movement, and she jumped convulsively and looked round at him.

‘Kit-cat,’ he said gently. She turned her head away sharply. ‘What will you do now?’

‘Babb will help me in for my dinner,’ she said, ‘and then I’ll go to my prayers in our uncle’s oratory, though what I should pray for now is anyone’s guess,
and then I suppose Babb will carry me up to my bed, and –’

‘Kate. You know fine that’s not what I meant.’

She bent her head.

‘Aye,’ she said after a moment, ‘but it saves me answering you.’

‘A life needs a direction. Like a daisy facing the sun, maybe.’

‘You’ve found yours,’ she said. ‘I’ve not said to you before now, Gil. I like my new sister fine.’

‘I’m glad of that,’ he said. ‘Stop changing the subject.’

‘I’m not. There’s nothing else to discuss, for I’ve no direction. My daisies are all in darkness. Maybe I’ll study,’ she said a little wildly, ‘teach
myself the Latin or the Greek or High German. That could be it. I may be tocherless and crippled, but I’ll be the most learned crippled ancient maid in Scotland, and doctors of the Laws will
come from Spain and Tartary to consult me –’

‘Better to study the Laws themselves,’ said Gil. ‘You could set up your sign in Lanark and convey documents and write wills. You might earn yourself a tocher that way.’
He put his arm round her. ‘Kate, what was it you dreamed?’

‘Oh, that.’ She was silent a moment, then sighed. ‘I saw the saint himself.’

‘St Mungo?’ he said, startled.

‘Himself,’ she said again. ‘He wasn’t robed as a bishop, he was barefoot in a brown robe like a Franciscan’s, with a great checked plaid over it like mine, of all
things, but I knew well it was St Mungo by the bishop’s crook in his hand.’

‘And?’ Gil prompted.

‘I was lying on the grass by the pool – the Linn pool, you mind, Gil. He bent and took my hand, and said,
Rise up, daughter
, and pulled me to my feet. And then he led me away
from the pool, and I could walk on both feet. Gil, do you know, when I’m dreaming I can still walk like other people. But in this dream it was different, because I knew the walking was a
gift, it was a grace, something the saint had done for me.’

‘Dreams are strange things,’ he said, past the lump in his throat. ‘Was that it?’

‘One thing more,’ she said bleakly. ‘The final cup of wormwood. Whoever he was, he led me forward to my wedding. I never saw my bridegroom, but I knew he waited for me. And I
woke, and not a word of it was true.’

‘Oh, Kate,’ he said helplessly. ‘Kit-cat. I’m sorry.’

‘Gib-cat,’ she said. She put a hand over his where it lay on her shoulder, and sighed. ‘I’ve no doubt there’s a lesson to my spirit in it, but even the old man
hasn’t suggested what it might be yet.’

It was some time since Gil had been out of Glasgow, and longer yet since he had the chance to ride fast on a good horse. The road to Stirling was well made, and though it was
busy the sight of five well-armed riders moving in a cloud of dust caused most travellers to give them the way. Gil, with the Provost’s two messengers in front of him and two of his
uncle’s men at his back, swept through villages scattering hens and attracting barking dogs, slowing to pick their way more carefully through the small towns such as Kirkintilloch and
Kilsyth, making most speed in the open farmlands between, where the folk loading hay on to carts or hay-sleds paused to hand the leather bottle of ale and watch them pass. To begin with, Socrates
bounded happily alongside, but by the time the messengers left them at Stirling town gates, to hasten up to the castle, the dog was draped wearily across Gil’s saddlebow.

He clattered more slowly up Stirling’s busy High Street, and his uncle’s men followed him, all three horses too done to shy at the raucous cries of the market and the noise of stalls
being dismantled. Gil looked about with care in the hope of catching sight of a familiar face, and preferably one who might be of some help.

‘I’ve a cousin’s a stable-hand to Robert Blacader,’ said Tam helpfully behind him. ‘If it’s the Bishop you want, maister.’

‘I know one that’s servant to one of the canons at the Holy Rude,’ offered Rob, not to be outdone.

‘It may come to that yet,’ said Gil, ‘but I’ve no doubt there are others who could get us close to him faster. There’s one, indeed. Maister Dunbar!
William!’

The small rat-faced man turned, shading his eyes against the light, and a large wife with a basket of limp greenstuff collided with his back and made her way round him, commenting freely on his
common sense.

‘Maister Cunningham,’ he said formally, ignoring her. ‘Good day to you, Gil. And what brings you to Stirling, covered in dust? I thought you were chained to St Mungo’s
gateway.’ He smiled sourly. Gil dismounted, handing his reins to Rob, and lifted Socrates down. The dog shook himself vigorously and sat down, yawning.