‘I think Maister Doby has seen it already,’ Gil said.
‘Aye, very likely.’ David Cunningham set his wineglass down. ‘John has had experience of men like Hugh Montgomery.’
‘When was that?’ asked the mason. ‘Maister Doby seems a quiet man.’
‘He wasn’t at fault. When he was maister at the grammar school at Peebles . . .’ Canon Cunningham paused to count on his long fingers, but shook his head. ‘I canny mind when. A good few years ago now. There was a boy killed when the lads were playing at football. A broken neck, I think. The family were very threatening.’
‘Football is a dangerous game,’ agreed the mason.
‘That’s interesting,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘Is it widely known, sir?’
‘Anyone that’s in the diocese would know. The kirk at Peebles is a prebend of St Mungo’s,’ the Official explained to Maistre Pierre. ‘The grammar school there’s in our gift as well.’
‘William was given to extortion,’ said Gil. ‘I saw him speak to Maister Doby before the Mass.’
‘Aye, this William.’ David Cunningham sat back. ‘Who did you say his parents were again?’
‘The Dean described him as
the son of an Ayrshire lady now married to another,’
Gil quoted,
‘and a kinsman of Lord Montgomery.
His foster-mother, who was nurse to his mother, called her Isobel and said she was close kin to Montgomery and married a Gowdie.’
‘If both parents are close to Montgomery,’ said the Official, ‘they may have been too close to marry. Gowdie. Gowdie.’ He stared thoughtfully over Gil’s head at the thatched roof of the mason’s drawing-loft opposite.
‘Mistress Irvine said something of the sort,’ Gil agreed.
‘Legitimation procedures,’ prompted Maistre Pierre.
‘I wonder if his mother was Isobel Montgomery?’ said Canon Cunningham, lowering his gaze to meet Gil’s. ‘Her father would be a first cousin of Hugh Montgomery’s. There were three sons and the one daughter, and Montgomery had the disposal of the marriages.’ He paused again, considering. ‘He was provident in that, for all he was no more than eighteen or so himself. If I mind correctly, all in one winter, he married one of Argyll’s daughters, he got a Lennox lady for his brother Alexander and a Maxwell for one of the cousins, and betrothed this Isobel to a Maxwell adherent. Pretty good, for one season’s work. I heard she died recently,’ he added.
‘That would fit,’ Gil said.
‘I hadn’t heard of a bairn. I wonder who its father might have been?’
‘It was fostered secretly, perhaps,’ said Maistre Pierre.
‘Mistress Irvine didn’t know who the father was,’ Gil said, ‘and she said Gowdie didn’t know of the boy’s existence.’
‘And you mentioned legitimation procedures.’ Canon Cunningham stretched his long legs and began to gather himself together. ‘Aye, well. I haven’t time for idle gossip. If you’ll call my groom, Maister Mason, I’ll away up the hill to my desk and see what I can find out.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Gil rose as his uncle did.
‘I wonder who the father might be,’ the Official said again, frowning. ‘Montgomery’s kin is not so wide.’
‘A groom?’ speculated the mason robustly. ‘The steward? The chaplain? What men does a girl of such a family get to meet?’
‘Who would the chaplain have been?’
‘From the Benedictine house at Irvine, maybe. Or a kinsman, indeed?’ The Official gazed absently at the flowers in the sunny courtyard, then shook his head. ‘Aye, well. What will I send to your mother, Gilbert?’
‘What should you send?’ said Gil uncomfortably. ‘I must see to this matter. Hugh Montgomery is waiting for us to fail, and we have less than two days to it. I will be home tonight.’
‘Aye, well. I think she might take exception to that idea and all.’ Canon Cunningham clapped his legal bonnet over the black felt coif, and shook out the skirts of his cassock. ‘See to your duty, Gilbert. I’ll send something.’
He raised a hand in his customary blessing, and turned to go, then stopped so suddenly that the mason collided with him.
‘Christ and his saints preserve us, what’s that?’ he demanded, staring at the great best bed.
Gil, following his gaze, began to laugh.
‘It’s the young man’s dog,’ he explained.
The wolfhound did not move from its position, long nose poking between the tapestry bed-curtains, one bright eye just visible, but they heard its tail beat on the mattress. Gil moved forward, and the tail beat faster. ‘It’s taken a notion to me,’ Gil went on, drawing the curtain back, ‘and the harper’s bairn’s taken a notion to the dog.’ He urged the animal down on to the floor, where it inspected Canon Cunningham more closely and allowed him to scratch its jaw. ‘He should go outside, Pierre.’
‘He should,’ agreed the mason resignedly. ‘Come, dog. Outside and do your duty.’
Alys slipped back into the room as soon as Maistre Pierre and his guest reached the courtyard.
‘I didn’t stay,’ she said, lifting the tray of little glasses, ‘because I wanted to tell you what I thought of you getting up, and I couldn’t very well do so in front of your uncle.’
‘Why? Do you think he might repudiate the contract when he finds how I’m going to be henpecked?’
Gil stretched his good hand to her. She moved closer, but said earnestly, ‘You should have stayed in bed. Brother Andrew –’
‘When we are married I’ll stay in bed as long as you like,’ he promised, smiling. She looked away, and the colour rose in her face. ‘For now, sweetheart, I’ve a matter to investigate for the college, and too little time to do it in. We must write a word for Nick –’
‘I’ve done that,’ she interrupted. ‘I told him you were attacked, not much injured, and the papers stolen, and asked if he took a copy. Luke carried it there a while ago.’
‘You can do everything,’ he said admiringly, drawing her down to kiss her. ‘Even rescue me from robbers. What made you leave Compline early? It was well timed.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I was uneasy. The Office was no comfort to me, I felt I should be elsewhere. And then we came out of Greyfriars’ Wynd and saw the fighting, and realized it was you.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ he said again. ‘I really think you can do everything.’
‘Except make you stay in bed when you should,’ she complained. He would have answered, but her gaze sharpened, and she stared beyond him at the yard. ‘What is my father doing?’
Gil turned to look out of the window. Down in the courtyard the mason was peering into one of the tubs of flowers, assisted by the wolfhound, which had stood up with its front paws on the rim of the tub. As they looked, Maistre Pierre drew something out of the earth under the marigolds. The pup offered to take it, but he held it up out of the animal’s reach, and seeing their watching faces waved the item at them.
‘Papers!’ he called.
‘It was the dog,’ he said, when he had brought papers and wolfhound up to the best chamber. ‘He examined all the tubs, as they do, but he paid extra attention to that one, and then sat down by it and looked at me.’
‘He is an exceptional dog,’ Gil said, patting the creature. ‘I wish I could keep him.’ He unfolded the bundle one-handed, shaking the earth from it. The wolfhound sniffed at the paper and lay down with its head on Gil’s feet. Alys eyed the scatter of soil on the waxed floorboards, but said nothing. ‘Our Lady be praised, they have numbered the pages. Four, five, six – and what’s this? This doesn’t belong –’
‘It’s different writing,’ said Alys.
‘It’s Nick’s writing. I looked at enough of it when Maister Coventry and I picked up the mess in his chamber.
And this most discriminating Peter . . .
Aye, it’s a page of his book.’
‘He has written a book?’ said Alys. ‘I should like to see that.’
‘How did this get here?’ asked her father. ‘How did the papers find their way into your flower-pot,
ma mie,
and how did a page of the book get into the list of names? Whose is the other writing? Who wrote down the names?’
‘I assume Maister Coventry wrote them down,’ said Gil, leafing clumsily through the pages, ‘and thank God for that. His writing is far clearer than Nick’s. As to how they got there – they were in the tub nearest the pend, weren’t they?’
‘They were,’ agreed the mason. ‘You are thinking that anyone could have come that far, in from the street, hidden them under the marigolds and run off, without being noticed.’
‘I am.’
‘Luke has been in and out,’ said Alys thoughtfully, ‘and Annis is sitting with Davie this morning, and Kittock has swept the front steps and the yard, but otherwise there has been nobody at the front of the house since Prime except for ourselves up here. Your uncle came through the courtyard. Oh, yes, and a messenger from Lord Montgomery.’
‘A what?’ exclaimed Gil.
‘A messenger from Lord Montgomery’ She coloured up again. ‘I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner, but it was only a piece of impertinence. I was to ask you if you were ready to give up the search yet. It was while your uncle was here.’
‘What did you say to him?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
She glanced shyly at Gil. ‘I was annoyed by the way he spoke. And his expression was – anyway, I said,
A Cunningham never gives up,
and shut the door on him. I hope that was the right thing to say.’
‘You couldn’t have bettered it,’ said Gil, looking at her in amazement. ‘Alys, you are a wonderful woman. How soon can we be married?’
‘You must be handfasted first,’ said Maistre Pierre.
‘What puzzles me,’ she persisted, ‘is how Lord Montgomery should know you were here, and why he should think you would give up now.’
‘That’s true, you know,’ said her father. ‘How would he know you were here?’
‘Could he have seen you carrying me home?’ Gil asked. ‘How dark was it by then?’
‘Plenty of light.’ The mason scratched his jaw, his thumb rasping in his neat black beard. ‘I suppose he could, although we were close under the wall when we passed his yett.’
‘But father,’ objected Alys, ‘I was carrying the hat and cloak, and you had Gil head down over your shoulders. Even his mother would not have known him if she had looked out and caught sight of us.’
‘Unless,’ said Gil, ‘Montgomery knew already that I was injured. What was the messenger like, Alys? Had you seen him before? Would you know him again?’
‘He had the Montgomery badge on his shoulder,’ Alys said. ‘Otherwise he was quite ordinary, like anybody’s groom. Middling height, brownish hair, not past forty. Oh, and a limp.’
The mason looked at Gil.
‘As if he had been kicked recently?’ he suggested. Alys burst out laughing.
‘Yes, of course! If I’d realized I’d have offered him a poultice!’ She saw Gil’s expression, and sobered, adding, ‘I’m sure he could have applied it himself.’
‘And he could have tucked these papers under the marigolds as he came into the yard,’ said the mason.
It was, Gil reminded himself, the effect of running a large household; but he knew he had shown yet again how startled he was by Alys’s particular combination of genuine maidenly modesty and breadth of worldly knowledge.
‘What do we know from this?’ he asked rhetorically, recovering his countenance. ‘We know the papers were taken from me by violence last night and returned by stealth this morning.’
‘They were taken by someone looking for something in writing,’ said Alys.
‘But not this writing,’ agreed Gil.
‘And it could have been Montgomery who took them, who returned them, who is searching,’ contributed the mason.
‘And has still not found what he seeks,’ said Alys.
‘And it is likely that the same person –’
‘Or persons,’ put in Alys.
‘Or persons,’ Gil agreed, ‘searched Maister Kennedy’s chamber and carried off at least one sheet of his writing. But most likely it was someone else who searched William’s chamber.’
‘But what are they all looking for? Not the young man’s red book, I take it, since they snatched a heap of loose papers.’ Maistre Pierre gestured at the list of names. ‘Gil, there is the ciphered writing we found in the purse. Remember?’
‘I remember.’ Gil looked at Alys. ‘It could be important. Have you had time to look at it?’
‘I have not,’ she said firmly, sounding very like her father. ‘What with nursing the sick and injured, the grieving and the fasting, and keeping my hand on this household, my time has been full. I hope to sit down with it this morning,’ she added. ‘Then we may know if it’s important enough to be a prime mover in the matter.’
‘And I must get up the hill to St Mungo’s,’ said her father, ‘to make sure Wattie has not decided to put in a chimney where I have marked a window.’
‘What, for when they elect the next Archbishop?’ said Gil. The mason grinned, then looked beyond Gil into the courtyard. The grin faded.
‘Who is it now?’ he said resignedly. ‘One of the friars, and a student. Who can it be?’
‘It’s Father Bernard from the college,’ said Gil, twisting to look. ‘The chaplain.’
Sighing, Maistre Pierre rose and went away down the stairs. Alys knelt to whisk the scattered earth on the floor into her apron, lifted the tray with the little wineglasses and followed him, eluding Gil’s attempt to make her sit down beside him.