The Counterfeit Madam

Chapter One

Gil Cunningham had hoped that the first time he set foot in the whorehouse on the Drygate would also be the last; but by the time all was settled he felt quite at home within its artful painted chambers.

The first inkling he had of the matter came one day in late April, in the form of a loud knocking at the door of his father-in-law’s house as family and servants were eating their midday meal in the hall. Conversation at the long board ceased and heads turned towards the sound; Gil and Alys exchanged a surprised glance, Alys’s aged French duenna Catherine paused in her absorption of sops-in-wine. The wolfhound Socrates was already on his feet, the hackles standing up on his narrow back. A stranger, Gil concluded.

‘Who calls at the dinner-hour?’ wondered Maistre Pierre, pushing back his great chair. He rose with caution, muttering darkly about his knees, but his young journeyman Luke was before him, opening the big planked door to reveal a serving-man in unfamiliar blue-grey livery bowing on the doorstep, felt bonnet in hand.

‘My mistress, Dame Isabella Torrance, seeks Maister Gil Cunningham,’ he said. ‘Is this where he dwells?’

‘Isabella Torrance?’ Gil repeated in some surprise, going forward as Luke turned to relay the message. ‘She’s still alive, then?’

‘She’s at the gate, maister,’ said the man.

Gil looked down at his wife as she joined him in the doorway. ‘Godmother to my sister Tib,’ he explained. ‘Dwells over by Stirling, I think. I wonder if it’s about Tib’s marriage?’

‘Stirling?’ repeated Alys. ‘Whatever is she doing in Glasgow?’

The servant shrugged his shoulders.

‘Likely she’ll tell you hersel,’ he offered. ‘Will I bid her come in?’

‘Aye, bid her enter,’ said Maistre Pierre from the head of the table. ‘We are still at meat, man, ask her if she will join us.’

‘She doesny eat in the middle of the day,’ the man said, shaking his head regretfully.

There was a commotion in the pend which led out to the street, and a number of people emerged into the courtyard, headed by a short, stout, loud individual with a stick. Their guest had not waited to be invited in. Alys exclaimed briefly and hurried down the steps past Gil to offer a welcome. Her curtsy was spurned with a brief nod, her arm was ignored, and the small dark figure ploughed across the yard to the foot of the steps where it stopped, scowling up at Gil with eyes like jet rosary beads.

Dame Isabella was probably five feet high and the same around, though this girth also engrossed a vast furred brocade gown which hung open over several layers of different, equally expensive, black fabrics. Beneath a black silk Flemish hood with extravagantly long foreparts, finely pleated linen framed her small padded face, heightening its colour unbecomingly; she had a dab of a nose, separated by a dark wispy moustache from a mouthful of very large, improbably white teeth. She seemed to have brought her entire household visiting; at her back were four sturdy grooms, including the man who had come to the door, and two waiting-women.

‘So you’re Gelis Muirhead’s laddie, are you?’ she said in deep, disparaging tones. ‘Aye, you’ve a look of her, though you’re more like your faither.’ This was clearly not a compliment. ‘At least you’ve more sense than get yoursel slain the way he did. And both your brothers, was it?’

‘Dame Isabella,’ Gil said, very politely, and bowed.

‘Welcome to my house. Will you enter, madame?’ offered Maistre Pierre over Gil’s shoulder.

‘Aye, I’ll come in. You’re the good-father I take it. I hope ye’ve a seat for me. I want a word wi young Gilbert, afore that gowk Sempill gets involved. Here, you fools, get me up these steps.’

‘Sempill? John Sempill of Muirend?’ Gil repeated, but the servants who surrounded Dame Isabella had begun the considerable task of hoisting her up the fore-stair, which she endured with much shouting and brandishing of her stick. In his ear his father-in-law said,

‘What does she want with Sempill? Why should he come here?’

‘No idea,’ said Gil, stepping back to allow the nearest manservant elbowroom. ‘When did we see him last?’ He counted on his fingers. ‘It must have been August last year. It’s been the gallowglass — Euan Campbell — who brought me the money for the boy’s keep at both the quarter-days since then.’ He met Maistre Pierre’s eye. ‘If it’s about the boy, it’s likely no good.’

‘So I think,’ agreed the mason. They both turned to look inside the hall, where Maistre Pierre’s foster-child, small John McIan, bastard son of John Sempill’s runaway wife and her lover the harper, was perched on his nurse’s knee at the long table addressing a large crust of bread.

‘Sempill still needs an heir, surely?’ said Maistre Pierre doubtfully. ‘That was why he acknowledged John. What is he about now?’

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Gil.

‘Parcel of fools!’ announced Dame Isabella. Achieving the topmost step, she paused long enough to adjust her grasp on her stick and surged forward, shaking off her gasping servants and ignoring Maistre Pierre’s courtesies as she had ignored Alys’s. Behind her, Alys slipped up the fore-stair and into the hall, with a brief touch on Gil’s hand as she went.

‘You’re at meat, are you?’ continued their guest, staring at the household arranged round the long board. Small John waved his crust and shouted something unintelligible. ‘I hope you’ve all had your bowels open at stool the day. It’s no good to eat on a full bowel.’

‘Will you not join us, madame?’ Alys offered, gesturing at the head of the table. ‘There is good broth, and fresh oatcakes and cheese-’

‘No.’ The black beads considered her. ‘I suppose you’re the French wife. Christ aid us, you’ve a nose on you like a papingo’s. I see he’s no bairned you yet. Has he bedded you? Is your bowels regular? You’ll no take if your bowel’s full, it unbalances the humours.’

Alys stared at the old woman, amazement outweighing her natural courtesy. Gil moved to intervene, but Catherine had already risen and now forestalled him.

‘Vraiment, madame,’ she said in her elegant French, ‘you do right to concern yourself with such matters. It is important to keep the humours of the body balanced, but I find the young are often careless of their internal economy.’

‘And who are you?’ demanded Dame Isabella in the same language. ‘You speak French uncommonly well, even if you have not kept your teeth as I have.’

Over the two black-draped heads Alys caught Gil’s eye, her expression carefully neutral. Catherine closed her toothless mouth on whatever reply came first, and Gil said hastily,

‘This is Madame Catherine Calvin, who keeps my wife company. Will you sit in by the hearth, madam, while they clear the board?’

‘Aye, and watch all,’ said Dame Isabella, ‘so I can tell Gelis Muirhead what kind of household you’re wedded into. No, I’ll ha no refreshment. It’s no my hour for it.’

‘Lady Cunningham was with us for a week at Yule,’ observed Catherine. ‘She is a most cultured lady, and speaks excellent French.’

Dame Isabella ignored this shaft, and seated herself nearest the hearth, staring about her. The household, taking the hint, began the process of dismantling the long table, stacking up platters and bowls and sweeping the cloth into a bundle to be shaken into the courtyard. By the time board and trestles were in place against the wall, Dame Isabella’s entourage had been dismissed to the kitchen, save for a man with a huge leather satchel and one waiting-woman who studied Maistre Pierre with intent dark eyes, and the two old ladies were deep in a conversation involving the humours, the elements, and the zodiac. Gil, standing awkwardly by, was aware of his wife conferring with her father, and of the mason’s two journeymen leaving the house, but his mind was occupied with possible reasons for this sudden visitation.

He had met Dame Isabella once or twice as a boy, and felt she had not improved. She had been a member of Margaret of Denmark’s household alongside his mother, which was presumably why she had been invited to stand godmother to his youngest sister. Lady Cunningham had mentioned her occasionally over the years; he vaguely recalled that she had been wedded at least twice since the death of her royal mistress, though to judge by her black garb and the pleated linen barbe pinned below her chin she was currently a widow. Small wonder, he thought.

As Tib’s godmother, it would be appropriate for her to do something for the girl before her approaching marriage, whether it embraced coin or a gift of land or jewels, and as Tib’s nearest male relative he could expect to be consulted in the transaction. But she had mentioned John Sempill’s involvement. There was no connection between Sempill and Tib that he knew of.

‘Maistre le notaire awaits your convenience, madame,’ said Catherine by the hearth. ‘We should not keep him waiting, perhaps.’

‘He’s got little enough to do,’ pronounced Dame Isabella, but she turned to stare at Gil. ‘Like my servants, the useless troop. Come here, Gilbert. Is that the brat?’ She nodded towards small John, who was just being led towards the kitchen stair by his quiet nurse.

‘That’s John Sempill’s heir,’ agreed Gil, repressing anger. ‘Does this concern the boy? My good-father should be present if so.’

‘Why? What’s it to do wi him?’

‘The boy is in my care,’ said Maistre Pierre, coming forward from the door. Dame Isabella glared at him, grunted, and gestured at the bench opposite her.

‘You may as well sit down and all, then, and listen.’ Catherine rose at this point with a murmured farewell, which was ignored, and Alys moved quietly towards one of the far windows, where she had left her needlework. ‘Now, Gilbert. You’ll ken I’ve two goddaughters, your sister Isobel and a lassie Magdalen Boyd, who’s some kin of yours so Gelis your mother tells me.’

‘Boyd.’ Gil sat down obediently beside his father-in-law, searching his memory of the kindred. ‘Aye, she is. Third or fourth cousin, I’d say. There was a brother too, name of — name of — was it Alexander? They were about penniless, I think.’

‘That was their faither’s doing,’ she said dismissively. ‘Any road, Magdalen has wedded John Sempill for her second husband.’ She looked with satisfaction at his astonished face. ‘Aye, a good match, for the both of them, and I was right glad to support it.’

‘I’d not wed my worst enemy’s daughter to John Sempill,’ said Gil. Beside him Maistre Pierre rumbled agreement.

‘He’s done better than you have, mewed up here in a town wi a barren foreigner. Maidie has no trouble wi him. But the point is, she’s in a likely way.’ Sweet St Giles, when were they wedded, Gil wondered grimly, not looking at Alys. ‘So she’s no wanting another man’s get to be Sempill’s heir, no when she’s in a way to provide him wi one. Sempill’s in full agreement, so they’re proposing that he’ll no recognize the brat as his heir any longer, and in consideration they’re offering it a bit land here in Glasgow where it’s handy.’

Gil stared at her, preserving his expression as best he might. After a moment Maistre Pierre said,

‘But does the man Sempill have anything left to offer? I thought he was hard pressed.’

‘He was,’ Gil said. ‘He was in Glasgow to deal with that when his wife — his first wife,’ he corrected himself, ‘was killed, and left her son motherless. That was why he took the boy for his heir, so old Canon Murray would leave him his fortune, though I think the old man still lives.’ He eyed Dame Isabella, hoping his dislike did not show. ‘I take it his circumstances have changed with the new marriage?’

She gave a bark of laughter.

‘Aye, they’ve changed, and for the better. So will you accept the offer?’

‘We can’t say,’ said Gil without pausing to consult with Maistre Pierre, ‘until we know what the offer might be.’

‘That’s a pity,’ said Dame Isabella, ‘for once that’s dealt wi I’ve a couple of plots to dispose of and all. There’s one of them out Carluke way, been in my family for years, and one in Strathblane, they bring in much the same rent, and we’ll can see about which goes to Maidie and which to your sister Isobel.’

‘It would surely be more convenient,’ said Maistre Pierre reasonably, ‘that the Lanarkshire property go to the Lanarkshire lassie, unless your other goddaughter dwells there also. No, she must be in Renfrewshire,’ he corrected himself.

‘We’ll can see,’ Dame Isabella repeated. Gil sat still, wondering how his mother had ever liked this woman enough to invite her to be Tib’s godmother. The bargain was clear enough: if he agreed to Sempill’s proposal for young John McIan and accepted the offered property in exchange for the boy’s present status as Sempill’s heir, Tib would get the land close to where she would be settled; if not, it was likely she would find herself in possession of a patch of Strathblane, a full day’s ride from her new home, with the attendant difficulties of administering the rent and overseeing the tenants.

‘We need to know more, madam,’ he said as politely as he could, ‘and we’ll need time to consider. As the boy’s tutor and foster-father we should take it all in advisement-’

‘You’ve an hour to think on it,’ she retorted. ‘We’re to meet at your uncle the Canon’s house. He made a right to-do about having no time, this was the only moment in the week he could spare us, as if he didny dwell and work in the burgh, so you’d best no be late.’

It was hardly worth trying to explain, Gil thought, that the Official of Glasgow, the senior judge of the diocese, had a caseload that would tax an elephant and regularly worked all the hours he was not sleeping. Sempill had been fortunate to find a moment when Canon Cunningham could see them. As for the papers he himself had to complete for the next day’s taking of sasines in Rottenrow, that would clearly have to wait until later.

‘Will we convoy you up the road?’ he suggested.

‘No, you’ll no. If you need to consult, you’ll consult, for I want a decision the day, else the whole goes to Maidie.’ She turned her head. ‘Here, Attie scatterwit, where are ye? And you, you worthless frivol. Call the men, and send out to see if Sproat’s waited like I bade him. Time I was on the road.’

When Maistre Pierre returned from seeing their unwelcome guest to the street he found Gil discussing the interview with Alys.

‘Mon Dieu!’ he said, shutting the house door and leaning on it. ‘Quelle horreur de femme! Ma mie, your nose does not in the least resemble a parrot’s, it is the image of that of your sainted mother.’

Gil had already reassured his wife on this point, though she did not seem to be concerned; now he said in Scots,

‘Christ never such another bought That ever I saw. I’ve aye thought it was little wonder Margaret of Denmark died young, given her household. So do we accept?’

‘It depends what the offer is,’ said his father-in-law.

‘I would be glad for John to be clear of Sempill,’ Alys observed, ‘but should we not consult his father?’

‘McIan? Do we know where McIan is?’ Gil wondered.

‘They were to be in Stirling, and then they are coming here, so Ealasaidh sent me the other day.’

‘We’ll not get a reply from Stirling within an hour.’

‘No, I fear not,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘But if we are both to go up the road, there is another matter to see to.’ He crossed to the hearth and reached up onto the carved hood of the chimney-breast. ‘We may take this counterfeit silver to the Sheriff while we are there.’

‘More false coin,’ said Andrew Otterburn glumly.

‘It looks like it,’ said Gil.

The present depute Provost of Glasgow was a lanky Borderer in his forties with a long gloomy face. Gil suspected his mother must have been a Chisholm, to judge by the deep, close set of his eyes, but had never quite liked to ask. The man had a difficult task; Sir Thomas Stewart, Provost of Glasgow for eight or ten years, had demitted office at Yule and Archbishop Robert Blacader had installed Maister Otterburn to take care of his burgh until the election of a new provost at the Town Meeting in the autumn. Sir Thomas had been accepted and respected, and his successor did not meet with unanimous approval. It did not help that Glasgow and the surrounding area was plagued by an outbreak of false coin, of which the first specimens had come to light in the burgh coffers themselves less than a month after Otterburn was put in post.

Now, discovered in the Provost’s lodgings in the Castle, he scrutinized the handful of coins Maistre Pierre offered him as if they were personal bad tidings.

‘Aye,’ he said at length. ‘I’d say they were out of the same workshop. See, these are all the same plack wi James Third on it, and that’s the silver threepenny piece wi four mullets on the back. I’ve had two o these brought me from the bawdy-house. The madam wasny best pleased, I can tell you.’ He turned the coin to the light, then bit it reflectively and shook his head. ‘My lord’s right keen to learn the source of these, but I’ve not found yet where they come fro’, though it seems there are more entering through Dumbarton out of the Isles. How did you come by these, maister?’

‘The placks came back from the market yesterday,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘The maidservant who brought them thought they came from more than one trader. The silver piece I had from Daniel Hutchison, in a bag of coin.’

‘Hutchison,’ Otterburn repeated. ‘Oh, aye, he’s putting a new wing to his house, is that right? Over in the Gorbals. Outside the burgh, strictly,’ he added, spinning one of the placks. It twirled once or twice and fell over.

‘But the coin has come into the burgh,’ Gil pointed out.

‘Oh, I’m not arguing.’

‘You say they come from the Isles?’ Maistre Pierre said. ‘Who should make false coin in the Isles? Is there any source of metal?’

‘None that I ken,’ admitted Otterburn. ‘I’d not say the coin was being struck out yonder, just that it comes back in from there.’

‘So someone is taking it there,’ Gil said thoughtfully. ‘Where from, and why?’

‘Good questions.’ Otterburn spun the plack again. ‘As to where from, likely the same place as these came from, which my lord would like fine to ken as I say, but why’s another matter.’

‘To alter the balance of wealth out there?’ suggested Maistre Pierre. ‘Is there any suddenly rich?’

‘The Islesmen set less store by coin than we do,’ said Gil. ‘It’s a world of barter and payment in kind, wi little call for money within factions. I suppose if one kinship was buying the friendship of another, or buying in gallowglasses — hired fighting men, like the Campbell brothers, from Ireland or another part of the Isles — they might need coin. Is there any word of that kind of thing?’

‘When is there no?’ said Otterburn, making a long face. ‘The King didny settle matters out there, for all he took John of the Isles prisoner last year. Indeed, matters are worse, for they’re all at each other’s throats now to determine who has his place. Word is the King’s Grace is planning to go out again this spring.’ He stacked the coins neatly, considering them. ‘Would this come within your writ, Maister Cunningham? As Blacader’s quaestor? I’m thinking it’s about time we did something about it, other than wringing our hands and passing resolutions in the burgh council.’

‘It would,’ Gil said cautiously, ‘if my lord so instructed me. If you were to suggest to him that I look into it, I’d be glad to-’

‘It’s as good as done, man,’ said Otterburn. He hitched up the shoulders of his fur-lined gown, swept the coins off the table-carpet into his hand and moved to the cabinet beside the tall window. ‘Walter can scribe me a note of where these came from and I’ll put them wi the others, and then he can write to my lord. The day’s despatch has yet to go. And when that’s done and we’ve had my lord’s agreement,’ he added, ‘I’ll let you hear all I ken of the things. It’s no a lot, I confess.’

‘Pursuing false moneyers would make a change from pursuing murderers,’ observed Maistre Pierre as they made their way up Rottenrow.

Gil nodded, thinking about the conversation. Otter-burn’s slow manner and gloomy speech had convinced most of the burgesses of Glasgow that he was a fool, but more than once he had shown a deeper knowledge of what was afoot in his burgh than one might expect after less than four months in post. Sir Thomas’s clerk Walter served him willingly and well, always a good sign. If Otterburn had not yet tracked down the source of the counterfeit money, it must be well hidden.

‘I do not understand what goes on in the Isles,’ Maistre Pierre went on. ‘I had thought all was settled last year, but by what the Provost says-’

Gil eyed his father-in-law, a man in accurate touch with the politics of Scotland and most of Europe.

‘John MacDonald, Lord of the Isles, was forfeit this time last year,’ he said, ‘and did penance for all his crimes in January there, and resigned his lands into the King’s hands.’

‘That part I know. Your uncle tells me he is now the King’s pensioner somewhere in Stirling. But who is in his shoes? Someone must hold his lands and command the wild Ersche.’

‘That’s the problem, as Otterburn said. More than one possible heir, all with influence, none with authority to command the whole of the region.’

‘Has he no direct heir?’

‘He had.’ Gil paused to enumerate. ‘His son Angus Og, which I think means Young Angus, was the obvious successor-’

‘Was,’ repeated the mason.

‘Aye. Angus Og was murdered by his harper in ’90. He was wedded to yet another of old Argyll’s daughters — a sister of the present earl-’

‘So there are Campbells in it. I might have known.’

‘Indeed. There’s a posthumous son, now in this earl’s care-’

‘Ah!’

‘-and John’s two nephews are bickering with Argyll and with McIan of Ardnamurchan about who has de facto control of the Isles. It’s hardly simple at best, but it’s not easy to understand if you’re not from the Isles yourself.’

‘That I agree with.’

The front door of Canon Cunningham’s house was standing open as they approached. There seemed to be a commotion on the stairs within, and a familiar voice reached them shouting abuse from the midst of a group of struggling servants. They strode on without hesitation, to enter the house by the kitchen door, and found Canon Cunningham’s housekeeper Maggie, stout and red-faced, setting the leather beakers on a tray while a jug of buttered ale warmed at the hearth. Clearly Sempill and his party were not the most esteemed clients; those got the glasses from the cupboard in the hall, with wine, white or red, or even the Dutch spirits.

Maggie looked round as they stepped into the vaulted chamber, and nodded to the mason.

‘Good day to ye, maister, and how are ye? Maister Gil, he’s asking where you are. Oh, get off wi you,’ she added, as Gil came to kiss her broad cheek. ‘Are you well? How does Mistress Alys do?’

‘Well enough.’ Gil inspected the rack of little cakes left to cool on the broad scrubbed table. ‘She sends her greetings. These are good, Maggie. There’s nothing comes out of our kitchen quite like them. Try one, Pierre.’

Maggie looked gratified, but smacked his hand away as he reached for a second cake. ‘Away up the stair wi you, Maister Gil, I tellt you he was asking for you and they’re all up there waiting. You can get another of these after.’

‘Who’s waiting? Who did Sempill bring for witnesses?’

‘Oh, a great crowd. Sempill himsel,’ she counted on her work-worn fingers, ‘and that cousin that’s aye wi him — Philip, is it? Him that swore to revenge Bess Stewart on him and hasny done it yet, that I ever heard. Sempill’s new wife, a couple more fellows, and that Dame Isabella wi a hantle of servants, still heaving her up the stair like a barrel in a sling by the sound of it. No, maister, the cakes is for after, one’s all you’re getting. I better put them by afore they all come down to my kitchen to wait while she gets her business seen to.’

‘Aye, this new wife,’ said Gil. ‘Had you heard of the marriage? Did anyone warn the lassie’s kin?’

‘That’s what I wondered,’ she agreed, with satisfaction. ‘No, I’d not heard, and nor had the old man. He’s right put out about that. I wonder your lady mother never mentioned it, seeing the lassie must be cousins wi her. Maybe she’s too taen up wi Lady Tib’s marriage.’

‘Who was the first husband?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘I take it he was a wealthy man.’

‘That I’ve not heard,’ Maggie said regretfully, ‘but likely you’re right, maister, and he left her better off than he got her. That Sempill wouldny take her without something to sweeten the match. Or maybe this land that Dame Isabella’s to settle on them was the attraction.’

Gil nodded. He had set eyes only once or twice on either Sempill cousin since the episode, almost two years since, when Sempill’s runaway wife Bess Stewart had been discovered dead in the half-built addition to the cathedral. Gil had been directed to find her killer, and in doing so had made the closer acquaintance of Pierre Mason and his daughter Alys; by the time the matter was solved he was betrothed to Alys, his intended career in the church abandoned, and Pierre had agreed to foster Bess’s baby son, with Gil as the boy’s guardian. John Sempill’s interest in the child was solely financial, which in Sempill’s case, he thought now, would be a more powerful attraction than parenthood, and if the man’s financial position had changed then his attitude to the boy had probably changed too.

‘And that Dame Isabella,’ Maggie pursued, ‘I opened the door to her manservant, and the maister cam down the stair to greet her himsel. So she asks him a gey intrusive question and tells him he’s looking his age. As for the names she calls her folk! I’ll keep out her road while I can. And then,’ she went on, setting her hand on the jug of ale to test its temperature, ‘there’s her two nephews, and you’ll never guess who one of them is.’

‘Go on, then,’ he invited as she paused.

‘That lad Lowrie Livingstone,’ she said triumphantly, and lifted the jug. ‘Here, you might as well make yoursel useful.’

The company Maggie had detailed was seated in a half-circle on the new carved backstools, Dame Isabella just taking her seat at the centre beside another lady. To one side were Sempill and his cousin, on the other was the lanky fair-haired Lowrie Livingstone with a man who must be his kinsman. Facing them Canon David Cunningham, senior judge of the diocese, was ensconced in one of the window spaces, surrounded by stools, a succession of documents spread on top of each. His balding head was covered by a black felt coif and round legal bonnet, and his furred gown was drawn up about his ears against the chill of the spring afternoon.

Dame Isabella’s men retired to the door of the other stair, and one of her waiting-women began fanning her with a painted leather fan. As Gil stepped in off the kitchen stair with the tray of buttered ale in his hands, John Sempill, stocky and sandy-haired in a suit of cherry velvet clothes Gil had seen before, leaned round the back of his chair and glowered at him.

‘So there you are, Gil Cunningham. Took your time, did you no?’

‘And God’s greeting to you too, John,’ said Gil with extreme politeness.

‘Gilbert,’ said Canon Cunningham, removing his spectacles. ‘And Peter. Dame Isabella, you mind Gelis’s third son. Mistress Boyd, my nephew. And his good-father, Maister Peter Mason. Gilbert, I think you know all here but Maister Alexander Livingstone.’ He indicated the stranger, who had risen. Beside him Lowrie also leapt to his feet and came to take the tray from Gil, freeing him to raise his hat in a general greeting. ‘And you’ve brought a refreshment. A wee cup of hot ale, friends. Peter, come and be seated.’

‘Get away from me wi that thing, Annot, it’s more harm than good,’ pronounced Dame Isabella in her gruff bark. ‘You two trollops get over by the wall out my road. So you’re Gelis Muirhead’s laddie, are you? And have you had your bowels open at stool the day?’

So that’s how we play this hand, Gil thought. He bowed without answering and turned to help Lowrie who had set the tray on the cupboard.

‘Maister Gil.’ The young man’s ears were flying scarlet. ‘I’m right glad to see you again.’

‘Lowrie.’ Gil nodded to him and began pouring the steaming ale. ‘What brings you back to Glasgow? I thought you had won your degree.’

‘Aye, I determined last autumn.’ Lowrie gave him an embarrassed grin. ‘I’m attending my aunt. Dame Isabella. She was wedded to my great-uncle Thomas the year afore he died,’ he divulged quietly, lifting the first two beakers. ‘And my uncle Eckie’s here to represent the family interest.’

Gil took in all that was not said in this brief speech, noting with approval that there was no attempt to apologize for the old woman, as his uncle said,

‘We’ll drink to a successful settlement, friends, and then we can get to work.’

‘It’s simple enough,’ began Sempill, but was overridden by Dame Isabella.

‘Have you nothing stronger than this, David Cunningham?’ she demanded in that deep bark. ‘Ale doesny suit me, it disagrees wi the bowel and rots the teeth. A wee tait spirits would be more acceptable, it’s my hour for a bit cordial.’

‘Madam, we’ll not expect Canon Cunningham to offer us spirits when it’s hardly past noon,’ objected Maister Livingstone. He was a thin-faced man with the typical nondescript hair and mid-coloured eyes of the Lowland Scot, and a strong family resemblance to the taller, fairer, handsomer Lowrie; he was dressed with ostentation in yellow velvet trimmed with squirrel, neither colour flattering to him. Dame Isabella glared at him and thumped the floor with her stick.

‘You can expect what you like, Eckie, I’m an old woman-’ she began.

‘I believe you’re of an age with Canon Cunningham, madam,’ observed Philip Sempill quietly.

‘Never mind that,’ said Sempill irritably, ‘let’s get on wi the matter at hand. It’s simple enough, like I said. See, we want to disinherit the harper’s brat, and Maidie here will gie it a property in Glasgow in exchange, and then Dame Isabella yonder wants to gie Maidie and me some land somewhere in joint feu-’

‘John.’ His new wife spoke gently, but he was instantly silent, turning to her. She put a hand on his wrist. ‘Will I explain it, John?’

‘I’ll explain it, Maidie,’ Dame Isabella announced, handing her empty beaker to Lowrie.

‘Christ aid, woman, you ken nothing about it!’ objected Sempill.

‘You be quiet!’ she ordered. ‘It’s all as I had Eckie here write it down, David. The harper’s brat would have nothing to complain of, Maidie’s offering it land that brings in a good rent, and we’ve all the papers here wi us,’ she gestured at the men at the door and one of them looked alert, a hand going to his satchel of documents, ‘so we can get it all agreed now. Then when that’s done we’ll see about which of these two properties goes to Maidie and which to this laddie’s sister Isabel.’

‘It would surely be more convenient,’ said Canon Cunningham reasonably, as Maistre Pierre had done, ‘for the Lanarkshire property to go to the Lanarkshire lassie, and the one in Strathblane to go to the lady wi a house in Glasgow, which is that much closer.’

‘We’ll get the other business sorted first,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll see. If you’ve no aquavit’ you can gie me some more o that buttered ale, though I’ve no doubt I’ll regret it. Here’s my beaker, Lowrence.’

‘I’d ha welcomed a chance to think about this ahead of the time, John,’ Gil said, as civilly as he might. ‘As the boy’s tutor I should take it all in advisement.’

‘It would have been more usual,’ commented Philip Sempill from beyond his cousin. Always the voice of reason, thought Gil, but Sempill snarled at him.

‘You keep out of this. Aye, give you warning, Gil Cunningham and let you think up a list of reasons to turn it down! That’s why we-’

‘John.’ Again that quiet voice. Sempill stopped speaking, and Magdalen Boyd smiled at him, then at Canon Cunningham. ‘Sir, my husband has told me the whole tale.’

I’ll wager he hasn’t, thought Gil, studying her. She was a pale creature in her early thirties, a year or two older than Sempill, neither pretty nor plain, dressed decently but without display in a well-cut gown of the natural grey of the wool. Her eyes were a very light blue, even lighter than her husband’s, with pale brows and lashes; her whole face seemed like a faint sketch, silverpoint on white paper, framed by the bands of her linen undercap. The plain black woollen veil pinned over all emphasized her pallor. Her smile, on the other hand, was gentle and without dissimulation, and her voice was low and slightly husky, very attractive to hear.

‘I ken fine the bairn’s none of his get,’ she went on. ‘It seems to me the boy and his well-wishers can hardly complain if we offer him a property wi a good income now as an exchange for a dubious heirship.’ She turned to face Gil. ‘I think we are kin in some degree, Maister Gilbert,’ she went on. ‘I hope we can come to an agreement.’

‘I hope so.’ Gil returned the smile, comparing her in some amazement to the showy, expensive mistress he had encountered in Sempill’s company two years since.

‘We’ll drink to a successful outcome, maisters,’ said Canon Cunningham again, asserting control over the gathering, ‘and then we’ll see whose interests can be served by all these transactions. I’ll say this, John,’ he added reprovingly, ‘it’s away less simple than you let me understand.’

‘He hadny seen half the argument,’ pronounced Dame Isabella, emerging from her beaker. ‘And I’ve another thing to settle wi you, Gilbert,’ she added ominously, ‘but we’ll get the disponement agreed first.’

Drawing up a backstool beside his father-in-law, Gil was aware of Lowrie flinching at this statement. What was the old carline planning, he wondered.

‘Saint Peter’s balls! It’s perfectly simple,’ objected Sempill. ‘He,’ he jerked his thumb at Gil, ‘signs the papers as the bairn’s tutor and accepts the two tofts on the Drygate, we tear up all the copies of the agreement about it being my heir, and all’s done. Then you can sort out what comes to us and what goes to his sister.’

‘Two tofts on the Drygate?’ Gil repeated.

‘Are you deaf, man? That’s what I said.’

‘Which two? Are they contiguous? What’s built on them? You mentioned a good income, but what’s the figure?’ Sempill rolled his eyes. ‘John, you wouldny accept a tract of land for yoursel without checking all these things, you can hardly object if I make certain for the boy.’

‘Indeed not, Maister Gil.’ Lady Magdalen gestured to the man still standing against the wall, and he came forward with his bag of documents. She ignored the rolled parchments, dipped into the bag and selected a folded docket with several seals dangling from it in their little pouches, and then another, and leaned forward to hand these to Canon Cunningham. ‘Here’s the titles, sir. I’ve no knowledge o the Drygate, but they both go into some detail about the boundaries.’

Gil moved to look over his uncle’s shoulder as the older man replaced his spectacles and spread out the first parchment. There was no plan, but as Mistress Boyd had said a wordy description of the boundaries made it clear which toft was discussed and what was built on it.

‘Clerk’s Land. A common boundary to the west with the toft belonging to the altar of the Holy Rood,’ said Canon Cunningham reflectively. ‘That would be — aye, I can place it, a good property, should bring in a substantial rent, Gilbert. Four, no three houses and two workshops built on it. A generous offer.’

‘It’s that, all right,’ said Sempill resentfully. ‘And all good craftsmen, disobliging though they-’ He bit off what he was about to say.

‘And the other?’ Gil said. They must really want rid of any claim wee John might have, he thought. His uncle lifted the other docket and began unfolding it.

‘Is there more o that buttered ale, Lowrence?’ demanded Dame Isabella. ‘As for you, Gilbert, come here beside me and tell me o your sister Isobel. Who is it she’s to wed, anyhow? And what about your own wife? How have ye no bairns yet? Have you no bedded her?’

‘Maister Gilbert is occupied about his pupil’s interests, godmother,’ said Mistress Boyd in her quiet voice.

‘I was lady-in-waiting to the late queen, I think I take precedence over a harper’s bastard,’ pronounced Dame Isabella, and thumped her stick on the floor again. ‘Gilbert! Do as I bid you!’

Gil straightened up and eyed the old woman, trying again to conceal his dislike.

‘I will, madam,’ he acknowledged, ‘as soon as you explain to me why you are so urgent that we accept the property with the bawdy-house built on it.’

There were several reactions in the room. Maistre Pierre’s eyebrows went up; Philip Sempill and both the Livingstone men were startled, some of the servants hid smiles. Sempill himself scowled, his wife looked down in what seemed like a modest woman’s response, and Dame Isabella gave a bark of laughter.

‘I tellt you Gelis Muirhead’s laddie would never miss that!’ She leaned forward and prodded Sempill in the thigh with the stick. ‘But you would aye ken better than your elders.’

‘Is that the new house?’ said Maister Livingstone with interest. ‘The lassies all has strange foreign names to go by, Cleone and the like, and it’s all painted inside, quite remarkable, wi pictures. Or so they say,’ he added, going scarlet as he found everyone looking at him. ‘You’d think Long Mina’s place would ha been enough for a town the size of Glasgow.’

‘That’s the house,’ agreed Dame Isabella, with another bark. Gil, who had heard much the same from one or two of his friends among the songmen, kept silent.

‘You were aware of it,’ Canon Cunningham stated.

‘Aye, we were aware of it,’ said Sempill belligerently. ‘What’s amiss? It’s only been there six month or so. It brings in a good rent, it’s no trouble. What’s your objection?’

‘Just how good is the rent?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘It’s no a tenant everyone would welcome,’ said the Official. ‘Gilbert is the boy’s tutor, and has his reputation to consider, as a man of law in this burgh and as the Archbishop’s man.’

Dame Isabella snorted. ‘I could tell ye a tale or two o Robert Blacader, Archbishop or no. Why should a harper’s brat turn up its nose at what an archbishop doesny mind?’

If you have to ask, thought Gil, little point in trying to explain. He looked down at his uncle, who was tracing the description of the boundaries with a long forefinger, and then at Sempill’s wife.

‘The house called the Mermaiden,’ he said. ‘A pleasure-garden, a kaleyard, stables, other offices. It’s quite a property, madam. Are you certain you want to offer it to the boy, with or without the sitting tenant?’

Magdalen Boyd raised her head to look him in the eye.

‘I am quite certain,’ she said. ‘I don’t go back on my word.’

‘I’ll swear to it and all,’ said Sempill. ‘The brat can have both the properties, so long as his keepers accept that he’s no my heir any longer. Name me any relics you please, I’ll swear.’

‘John.’ His wife turned to him. He glanced at her, went red, and muttered some apology. Gil registered this exchange and set it aside to consider later.

‘We need time to think about your proposal,’ he said. ‘The harper ought to be present, and Pierre and I should consult-’

‘They’ve naught to do wi it!’ said Sempill. ‘It was you that signed the last time as the brat’s tutor, you’ll do this time!’

‘I am agreed wi my nephew,’ said the Official, lifting his tablets. He found a suitable leaf, and began to smooth out the previous notes in the wax with the blunt end of his stylus. ‘This is no simple conveyancing matter, John, the conditions you set need a bit thought. At the least,’ he paused, deciphering a word in the document, ‘the boy’s well-wishers have to inspect the properties.’

‘We could do that now,’ suggested Philip Sempill.

‘They’re exactly as it says there!’ said his cousin indignantly. ‘I’m no trying to-’

‘John.’

‘Maidie drives an honest bargain,’ said Dame Isabella as Sempill fell silent. ‘You’ve no need to worry. So how long will you want to think it over, Gilbert? Will you sort it afore your sister’s marriage, d’ye think?’

Gil met her gaze again. The black beads glittered at him, and he said politely,

‘Oh, sooner than that, madam. Give me two days.’

‘Right,’ began Sempill.

‘But before we depart,’ Gil pursued, ‘maybe you’d let me have a sight of the documents for the two properties you’re planning to gift your goddaughters, madam.’

Maister Alexander Livingstone straightened up, paying attention at that.

‘Aye,’ said Dame Isabella after a moment. ‘No such a bad notion. Attie, you scatterwit, bring me those documents again. And a course there’s the other matter and all,’ she added, delving in the bag as her goddaughter had done and passing two wads of parchment across. Beside her Lowrie fidgeted, clearly embarrassed.

‘Two mile from Carluke,’ Canon Cunningham read, unfolding one docket. ‘Banks of the Clyde — oh, aye, I ken the property. A generous gift, madam.’ He removed his spectacles to peer at Dame Isabella. ‘My niece is fortunate in her godmother.’

‘Aye, but she hasn’t got the land yet,’ the old woman pointed out. ‘It’s that or the other. I’ve yet to make up my mind.’

‘The house of Ballencleroch, together wi the whole Clachan of Campsie.’ Gil had reached the description of the boundaries on the second document. ‘Stretching up the Campsie Burn to the edge of the muirland.’

‘What?’ Sempill straightened up sharply, and his back-stool tilted on its carved legs. He caught himself before all went flying, and stared from Gil to his wife. ‘Up the Campsie Burn? I thought that was yours already! You said — your man said-’

‘No, John. That was never mine.’

‘What’s this?’ demanded Dame Isabella. ‘Aye, Ballen-cleroch’s mine. What ails ye, John?’

He frowned at her, chewing his lip, and clearly trying to recall something.

‘I thought it was Maidie’s,’ he repeated.

‘Balgrochan is mine, that lies next to it, east along Strathblane,’ said hs wife gently.

‘Balgrochan,’ Sempill repeated. ‘No Ballencleroch?’

‘I gied Balgrochan to Maidie when you were wedded,’ pronounced Dame Isabella in her harsh deep voice. ‘As you ken well, you light-fingered hempie. I’ll get a word wi you later, John Sempill.’

‘Aye, we will, madam,’ he retorted, scowling at her.

‘When did you come by Ballencleroch, madam?’ asked Maister Livingstone. Dame Isabella did not look at him.

‘Thomas gave it me outright,’ she stated. ‘As a marriage-gift.’

‘Well, he shouldny ha done that,’ said Maister Livingstone. He reached into his sleeve to produce a fat wad of parchment, unfolded it, and leaned forward to hand it to Canon Cunningham. ‘I have the title here, handed me by my brother Archie. It never belonged to Thomas.’

‘What?’ John Sempill leapt to his feet. This time his back-stool clattered to the floor behind him, but he ignored it, lunging forward to snatch at the document. Canon Cunningham held it out of his reach, and Dame Isabella prodded him again with her stick.

‘Sit down and behave, John,’ she ordered him. ‘Eckie, what are ye about? It’s mine, I tell ye, Thomas and me signed the papers. They’re there, David, under the other.’

‘Aye. indeed. Here are two sets of titles to the land,’ Canon Cunningham said, looking disapprovingly from one document to the other, ‘with quite different names on them, conveyed in different hands, and at dates four year apart. This is highly irregular.’

‘Thomas should never have alienated the land,’ said Maister Livingstone firmly, sitting back. ‘It’s a part of the heritable portion, held from the Earl of Lennox and his forebears these fifty year. It went to my faither and now to Archie. Thomas never had a say in it.’

‘You said you’d already-’ Sempill began, glaring at Dame Isabella. Lowrie had quietly assisted Lady Magdalen to set his backstool on its legs; now she thanked him with a smile, put a hand on her husband’s wrist and drew him back to sit again.

‘We need to look at this again, that much is clear,’ she said. ‘Canon Cunningham, I’m right sorry that we’ve taken up your time wi such a guddle. We’ll away now and-’

‘We’ll do nothing of the sort!’ Dame Isabella’s stick thumped again. ‘I tell ye it’s mine, Eckie, and I’ll hear no different! As for you, you great fool,’ she added, baring her large white teeth at Sempill, ‘we’ll need to sort out which of Maidie’s properties it is you’ve been neglecting.’

‘At the very least, Isabella,’ said Canon Cunningham, ‘your possession is questionable and the matter must be replait till it can be studied carefully. No, your good-daughter is right, we can make no decision the day.’

‘Can you look into it, sir?’ asked Lady Magdalen.

‘There’s no need of looking into it!’ declared the old woman.

‘I’d be grateful,’ began Maister Livingstone.

Canon Cunningham shook his head.

‘I haveny the time,’ he said. ‘I’ve a caseload this week would try a team of oxen. This was the only-’ His voice trailed off as he looked at Gil, one eyebrow raised.

‘But what about the other matter?’ demanded Sempill.

‘I’ll take it on,’ Gil said to his uncle, with resignation. ‘If you think it proper, sir. But it will take me longer than the two days I promised you,’ he added, turning to Dame Isabella. ‘I’ll need to talk to a few folk, and I have work o my own to see to.’

‘You’re all in a league against me!’ she declared, thumping the stick again. ‘I’m an old woman, and I-’ She broke off, clutching at her massive chest. One of the waiting-women exclaimed and hurried forward to bend over her anxiously, patting the plump red cheeks, then pulling at her own skirts to reach her purse.

‘Oh, madam! Oh, where have I put your drops? Forveleth, do you have them?’ She tugged at the purse-strings, rummaged in the laden depths without result. The other woman dragged her dark gaze from Maistre Pierre and came forward quietly, producing a tiny flask which Annot unstopped and waved under her stricken mistress’s nose. ‘There, now, no need to go upsetting yourself.’

‘It aye upsets me,’ croaked Dame Isabella, with less than her usual force, ‘when folk crosses me. Don’t let them cross me, Annot.’

‘How your woman’s to prevent it,’ said Sempill angrily, ‘is more than I can see. You’ve crossed the rest of us the day, madam, and I’ll see you-’

‘John.’

‘And I want a word wi you, Sempill,’ added Dame Isabella, suddenly regaining vigour. ‘There’s a matter needs discussion. You’ll attend me this afternoon, or I’ll ken the reason.’

Canon Cunningham glanced over his shoulder at the March sunshine.

‘I must away,’ he said, without visible regret. ‘Richie will have two sets of witnesses and their men of law waiting for me. I’ll leave it in your hands then, Gilbert.’