The Harper's Quine

Chapter Three

Canon Cunningham was in his chamber in the Consistory tower, working at the high desk in an atmosphere of parchment and old paper. When Gil brushed past the indignant clerk in the antechamber and stepped round the door, his uncle was ferreting through more documents in a tray from the tall narrow cabinet behind him. At his elbow were the protocol books and rolled parchments for the Sempill conveyancing, with his legal bonnet, shaped like a battered acorn-cup, perched on top of the stack.

‘I’ll ring when I am ready,’ he said, without looking up.

‘May I have a word, sir?’ said Gil. At his voice the Official raised his head and favoured him with a cold grey stare. Gil, undaunted, closed the door and leaning on the desk gave a concise account of the morning’s discoveries. His uncle heard him in attentive silence, then stared out of the window at the rose-pink stone tower of the Archbishop’s castle, tapping his fingers on the desk.

‘James Henderson spoke to me at Chapter this morning,’ he said at last. ‘I think he has the right of it. She died on St Mungo’s land, St Mungo’s has a duty to find her killer.’

‘And to determine whether it was forethought felony or murder chaud-melle,’ offered Gil. His uncle glanced at him sharply.

‘Aye. Well, you were aye good at hunting, Gilbert, and you have shown some sense making a start on the trail already. You might as well continue. You’ll report to me, of course, and I’ll take it to Chapter.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Gil, blinking slightly at the unaccustomed praise.

His uncle looked again at the parchments at his elbow.

‘This must be replait, I suppose,’ he said, ‘at least until the poor woman is formally identified. Where will you begin? Where is the trail freshest?’

‘Two places, I think, sir,’ said Gil readily. He and the master mason had already found themselves in agreement on the same question. ‘The lass who was with the mason’s boy must be found, and I wish to speak to John Sempill of Muirend. And additional to that, St Mungo’s yard must be searched carefully, in case we find the great piece of wood with which the boy was struck down. The mason and his men are seeing to that just now. I passed Sempill in the waiting-room here,’ he added, ‘himself, Philip, two witnesses, and one of the gallowglasses.’

‘Well, well,’ said Canon Cunningham. He picked up parchments and protocol books, and moved to sit behind the great table, arranging his documents on the worn tablecarpet. Clapping the legal bonnet over his black felt coif, he continued, ‘Then let us have in Sempill of Muirend and see how he takes the news.’

John Sempill of Muirend, summoned alone, argued briefly with Richard Fleming the clerk in the antechamber, then erupted into the chamber saying impatiently, ‘Yon fool of a clerk says you don’t want my witnesses. Is there some problem, sir?’

‘There may be,’ said David Cunningham calmly. ‘Be seated, Maister Sempill.’

John Sempill, ignoring the invitation, stared at the Official. He was a solid, sandy man, inappropriately dressed in cherry-coloured velvet faced with squirrel, with a large floppy hat falling over one eye. Scowling from under this he said, ‘My damned wife hasn’t compeared, no in person nor by a man of law, but she’s left me anyway, I suppose you know that, so she isn’t concerned in this.’

‘When did you last see your wife, John?’ asked Gil.

The pale blue eyes turned to him. ‘Yesterday, making a May-game of herself at Glasgow Cross. Fine thing for a man to meet, riding into the town — his lawful wife, disporting herself in public for servant-lads and prentices to gape at.’

‘And that was the last you saw her?’ Gil pressed.

‘Yes. What is this?’ Sempill pushed the hat back. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Did you try to have word with her?’

‘Yes, I did, but the bitch never compeared for me either. What is this?’ he demanded again. ‘What’s she done, run off from the harper too?’

‘Not quite,’ said Gil. ‘When were you to have met her?’

‘Last night after Compline. Neil Campbell said he fetched her, but when I came out of the church she wasn’t to be seen. Turned hen-hearted, I suppose. You saw me,’ he added. ‘You came out of St Mungo’s just behind Euphemia.’

‘I did,’ Gil agreed.

‘Maister Sempill,’ said David Cunningham, ‘I think you should know that a woman was found in the Fergus Aisle this morning, dead. She has been provisionally identified as Bess Stewart of Ettrick, your wife.’

The blue eyes, fixed on his, grew round with shock. The broad face sagged and stiffened into a mask of astonishment.

‘Sit down, man,’ said the Official. John Sempill, still staring, felt behind him with one booted foot for the stool and sank on to it.

‘Dead,’ he repeated. ‘When? How? Had she been forced?’ he demanded.

‘No sign of that,’ said Gil. ‘She never went back to her lodgings. She must have died sometime last night.’

‘Dead,’ said Sempill again. ‘And in the Fergus Aisle? You mean that bit of building work in St Mungo’s yard? Why? What happened to her?’

‘That we hope to establish,’ said Gil. ‘Perhaps you can tell us a few things.’

‘So she didn’t run out,’ said Sempill thoughtfully. ‘Poor bitch.’ He looked up, from Gil to his uncle. ‘That means her interest in the Rottenrow plot is returned to me,’ he pointed out firmly. ‘We can continue with that transaction at least.’

‘That must be for you and your witnesses to decide,’ said Gil, rather taken aback. ‘My immediate concern is to discover who killed your wife and bring him to justice. Do you tell me that between the time you rode in at Glasgow Cross yesterday and now, you have not seen or spoken with her?’

‘That’s exactly what I said,’ agreed Sempill irritably. ‘The woman’s dead, what purpose is there in worrying at it?’

‘I think the Bishop — Archbishop,’ Gil corrected himself, ‘could enlighten you on that if your confessor cannot. What was the message that your man took, John?’

Sempill stared angrily at Gil for a moment, then evi-

dently decided to humour him.

‘That she should come up and meet me by the south door of St Mungo’s after Compline. And he delivered it. And he came into Compline and told me she was waiting out-by in the trees. The small belt of haw-trees,’ he elaborated, ‘by the south door. Is that dear enough? You can ask Neil himself if you choose. He’s over in Rottenrow.’

`Thank you, I will. Did you offer her a reason for the meeting?’

‘Aye, but what’s that to do with it?’

‘It will tell us why she would come up the High Street at that hour,’ said Gil mildly. ‘It was late to be out without a reason.’

Sempill stared at him again, chewing his lip. Finally he said, ‘I don’t know what Neil told her.’

‘Understood,’ agreed Gil.

‘I bid him tell her it was a matter of money. Her money. Knew that would fetch her,’ he said, grinning. ‘All Stewarts are thrieveless and she’s no exception.’ The grin faded as the two lawyers looked at him without expression. ‘I was going to offer her her share of the purchase if she agreed to this transaction.’ He nodded at the desk in front of him.

‘You must be desperate for the money,’ Gil said.

Sempill scrutinized this, failed to detect sarcasm, and said, ‘Aye. Well. The Treasury has a long memory. So we might as well go ahead with it.’

‘It seems to me as your conveyancer,’ said Canon Cunningham, ‘that it is only proper the matter should be replait — that it should be set aside to wait until you have identified the corpse yourself. Perhaps you would discuss this with your witnesses, Maister Sempill. And accept our condolences on your loss.’

‘Aye,’ said Sempill again. He glared at both Cunninghams, rose and withdrew with dignity, slamming the door behind him so that documents went flying about the room.

‘Well!’ said Gil, stooping for the nearest. ‘Why is he in such a hurry to get the money?’

‘Paisley Cross,’ said his uncle elliptically.

‘What was it at Paisley Cross?’ asked Maistre Pierre. He had been waiting near the door at the foot of the stair. Without the fur-lined gown he was less bulky but still big, an inch or two shorter than Gil but far broader. He had unlaced and removed the sleeves of his jerkin and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing muscular brown forearms decorated with silver scars. ‘This way, maister,’ he added.

‘It began two years since,’ said Gil, following him down the kirkyard. ‘The Crown granted Paisley burgh status and a market after Stirling field, you remember, and Renfrew took exception to another market two miles away from theirs.’

‘This I knew from Davie. Where does Sempillenter?’

‘The burgesses of Paisley bought stones to make a mar ket cross, and some evil advised persons of the said town of Renfrew,’ Gil quoted with relish, ‘came by night and broke up the stones. If Sempill of Eliotstoun — ‘

‘Ah, the Sheriff of Renfrew — ‘

‘Indeed, and head of the Sempills in the west, was not involved, he certainly knew who was. The Earl of Lennox and his son were charged with putting it right, and naturally they pursued the guilty with all rigour, given their — ‘

‘Great love for all Sempills,’ Maistre Pierre completed. ‘I begin to see. There would be fines to pay, of course. So this particular Sempill is being pursued by the Crown, and having to sell land to raise funds. Is he close kin to the Sheriff of Renfrew?’

‘Not close enough for Eliotstoun to pay his fines for him,’ Gil said, and realized his companion was not listening. He had come to a halt at the edge of the trees and was casting about.

‘Now where — ah, that peeled twig. We search for a weapon, we agreed, or a thing out of place. We have seen no weapon this far, but Luke found this, which is certainly out of place. We left it lying so you also could see where it was.’

He parted the bluebells in front of the marker. Gil leaned down and lifted the harp key which nestled in the long leaves. It was a pretty thing; the metal barrel that gripped the tuning-pins was set into a painted wooden handle. A love-gift, a musician’s gift, acutely personal. Surely the dead woman would have kept such a thing safe?

‘It has flowers on, it must be hers, not?’ the mason continued. ‘Has she been here? Was it she who struck the boy down?’

‘Her hands were clean,’ Gil pointed out. ‘She had not handled the kind of stick we are searching for. No, this came here another way.’

He recounted the incident he had seen just before the mason arrived. Maistre Pierre heard him out, and said thoughtfully, ‘She must have had a purse, to keep it in. I wonder what has happened to that?’

‘My thought,’ agreed Gil.

‘We must find these laddies and question them. It must be nearly noon — will they sing also at Nones? We can catch them then.’

‘More like two of the other boys,’ Gil said. ‘They take turns. It’s cheaper, and doesn’t tire their voices. I’ll speak to Patrick — no doubt he can help. Where are your men now? Have you asked them about Davie’s lass?’

‘Alys spoke to them. I am not certain what she learned. They are up-by, searching the top of the kirkyard, since most of Glasgow is now gone home to its noon piece. Maister lawyer, this gallowglass must be questioned, I think. Suppose you leave us here and go see to that?’

The Sempill property was a large sprawling townhouse, an uneasy mix of stone tower and timber additions set round a courtyard. Three hens and a pair of pigeons occupied the courtyard; voices floated from an open window, and someone was practising the lute. Gil paused under the arch of the gateway, then, on the grounds that he represented St Mungo’s, moved towards the stairs to the main door.

He had taken barely two steps into the courtyard when sound exploded behind him, an enormous barking and clanking and scrabble of claws. He whirled, drawing his sword, leaping backwards through a flurry of wings, as the mastiff hurtled to the end of its chain bellowing threats. Laughter from the house suggested that he had been seen. He took another prudent step backwards, assessing the huge animal with its rolls of brindled muscle. Ropes of saliva hung from the white fangs in the powerful jaws. He looked carefully at the chain, then sheathed his whinger, turned and strolled to the stairs, controlling his breathing with some difficulty. Behind him the dog continued to bay furiously until Sempill appeared in the doorway.

‘Doucette!’ he bawled. ‘Down! You were safe enough,’ he added, grinning as the noise dropped. He had discarded the cherry velvet, and wore a very old leather jerkin. ‘We only let her loose at night.’

‘I hope the chain is secure,’ Gil commented. Behind him metal rattled as the dog lay down with reluctance, still snarling. ‘You could find yourself with a serious action against you if she got loose and killed something.’

The grin vanished. Sempill grunted in answer, and said, ‘I suppose you’re here to ask more questions.’

‘I wish to speak to the man who took your message last night,’ Gil agreed. ‘And perhaps I might ask the rest of your household if they saw anything unusual in the kirkyard when we left Compline.’

‘Why? You were there. You know what there was to see.’

‘Someone else might have noticed something different.’

Sempill stared at him, then said ungraciously, ‘Wait in here, I’ll send Neil to you. I’ll see if the others will speak to you as well — but you’re not to upset Euphemia, mind.’

He showed Gil into a small closet off the hall. It contained a clutter of half-repaired harness, for man and horse, and some leather-working tools laid on the windowsill.

‘Fool of a groom in charge here,’ said Sempill, seeing Gil looking at these. ‘I swear by the Rood, half the leather in the place is rotted, I’m having to overhaul the lot, but if I beat him as he deserves, who’s to see to Doucette out there?’

He strolled off, ostentatiously casual, shouting, ‘Neil! Neil, come here, you blichan!’ Gil sat down by the window and studied the array of tools. There were some nasty triangular needles, a leather palm, a vicious little knife. He lifted the awl and turned it in his hand, feeling the point.

‘Fery sharp,’ said a voice. Gil turned, to see one of the two men-at-arms occupying most of the doorway. ‘The chentleman wished to see me?’

Gil studied the man briefly. Dark hair cut short to go under a helm, dark eyebrows in a long narrow face, blue eyes which slid sideways from his.

‘You are Neil Campbell?’

‘It iss myself.’ The accent was far stronger than Ealasaidh’s. Gil rephrased his next question.

‘You were sent with a message for Maister Sempill yesterday evening?’

‘I am taking many messages for himself.’

This one was to his wife.’

‘That iss so,’ agreed Campbell, the stern face softening momentarily. ‘To his wife. In the Fishergait, where she is liffing with the clarsair.’

‘What was the message?’

‘Oh, I could not be telling that.’ The man’s eyes slid sideways again.

Gil said patiently, ‘Maister Sempill gave me permission to ask you. I know what he bade you say, but I need to know what message reached her.’

‘Oh, I would not know about that.’

‘You know she is dead?’ Gil said.

The blue gaze sharpened. ‘Dhia! You say?’ said the man, crossing himself. ‘The poor lady!’

‘And you may have been the last to see her alive,’ Gil pointed out. ‘Did she come up the High Street with you, or did she follow you?’

‘Oh, I would not know,’ said the man again.

Gil drew a breath, and said with some care, ‘Tell me this, then. Did the message that John Sempill sent for his wife reach her, or not?’

‘Oh, it was reaching her,’ said the other man, nodding sadly. ‘And then she was coming up the hill, and now she is dead. How did she come to die, maister?’

‘Someone knifed her,’ said Gil. The narrow face opposite him froze; the blue eyes closed, and opened again.

‘What do you know about her death?’ Gil asked.

‘Nothing. Nothing at all, at all,’ said the gallowglass, through stiffened lips. ‘The last I saw her she was well and living.’

‘Did she come up the hill with you?’

‘Not with me, no, she did not.’ This seemed to be the truth, Gil thought. The man was too shaken to prevaricate.

‘And what was the message?’

‘That I cannot be telling you.’

‘Why can’t you tell me?’

‘Chust it is not possible. Is the chentleman finished asking at me?’

Gil gave up.

‘Will you tell Maister Sempill I have done with you for the moment,’ he said. ‘I will need to get another word with you later.’

The man turned and tramped out. Baffled, Gil stared after him, then bent his attention to the tools on the sill again. He was still studying them when John Sempill returned.

‘I could have told you you’d not get much out of Neil,’ he said. ‘Him and his brother, they’re both wild Ersche. You need the two tongues to deal with them.’

‘How do you manage?’ Gil asked, controlling his irritation.

‘Oh, they have enough Scots for my purposes. Do you still want to speak to the others?’

‘Yes, if it is possible.’ Gil rose, and followed Sempill across the hall, picking his way past hunting gear and half a set of plate armour, and up a wheel stair at the other side towards a continuous sound of voices. The room at the top of the stair was hung with much-mended verdure tapestry, and replete with cushions, among which Lady Euphemia Campbell was sewing and chattering away like a goldfinch to her middle-aged waiting-woman.

They made a pleasing sight. Lady Euphemia, wearing a wealth of pleated linen on her head, fathoms more rumpled round her, appeared daintier than ever. Her stout companion, stolidly threading needles, merely served to emphasize this further. Under her coarse black linen veil her face reminded Gil of the dough faces Maggie used to bake for him and his brothers and sisters, with small black currant eyes and a slit of a mouth.

‘Here’s Euphemia, making sheets to her bed,’ said Sempill. ‘I can make do with blankets myself, but she’s too delicate for that.’

‘Venus rising from the foam,’ said Gil, and added politely, ‘in duplicate.’

This won him a suspicious look from Sempill and two approving smiles. Someone laughed at the other end of the room.

‘And there’s my cousin Philip and Euphemia’s brother,’ added Sempill.

‘Have some claret, priest,’ suggested one of the two men by the blank fireplace, darkly handsome and much Sempill’s age. ‘Since my good-brother does not see fit to introduce us, let me tell you I am James Campbell of Glenstriven. Are you here to explain why we’ve to wait to finish this sale?’

‘In a way,’ agreed Gil, accepting a cup of wine and adding water. ‘I am Gilbert Cunningham of the Consistory Court.’ He waited until the familiar chill in his stomach dispelled itself, and continued, ‘I’ll drink to a successful conclusion with you. Perhaps John has already explained that Bess Stewart his wife was killed last night in the kirkyard of St Mungo’s. We need to find out who did it and take him up.’

‘Why?’ said Campbell of Glenstriven. ‘She was an adulterous wife, she’s dead. Why bother yourself with her?’

‘That comes well from you, James Campbell!’ said Sempill indignantly.

‘I spoke nothing but the truth.’

‘She was a Christian soul killed on Church land,’ said Gil, ‘and she died unshriven of her adultery. St Mungo’s owes her justice. Moreover, the manner of her death must be clarified before John’s sole right to the land can be certain.’

‘Why?’ said Sempill blankly. ‘What’s that to do with it?’ Behind him there was a pause in the chatter at the other end of the room.

‘You mean in case it was John killed her?’ said Campbell of Glenstriven.

Sempill’s colour rose. ‘I never set eyes on her last night!’ he said loudly. ‘I wanted her agreement, she’d to turn out today and sign her name — I never killed her!’

‘I have not said you did,’ said Gil. ‘Just the same, that’s why the sale must wait.’

Philip Sempill looked up from his wine. Physically he was a paler imitation of his cousin, fair rather than sandy, less stocky, quieter in speech and movement and less forceful in manner. Like him, he was wearing an old leather jerkin, which contrasted oddly with James Campbell’s wide-sleeved green velvet gown.

‘Och, well,’ he said, his voice sounding thickened. ‘Ask away, Gil. We’ll answer you, at least.’

His cousin stared at him.

‘You got the rheum, Philip? You can stay away from Euphemia if you have, I don’t want her getting sick just now.,

‘It’s nothing much,’ said the fair man. ‘Gil?’

Gil hesitated, considering. The three men watched him; the two women had gone back to their sewing, but he was aware that Lady Euphemia flicked him a glance from time to time. Squaring his shoulders, he began:

‘You were all at Compline.’ The three men nodded. ‘Was the kirkyard busy when you went down to St Mungo’s?’

‘I wouldn’t say so,’ said Philip Sempill. ‘A few folk coming down from the Stablegreen and Rottenrow, a last few youngsters going home to a beating for staying out. I saw a couple in that stand of haw-bushes.’

‘Would you know them again?’ Gil asked.

The other man shook his head. ‘Likely not. Oh — the boy had striped hose on. The Deil knows where he got such a thing in Glasgow.’

I saw them,’ said Euphemia Campbell, breaking off her chatter. She had a high pretty voice with a laugh in it, and a dimple came and went in her cheek as she spoke. ‘But they were further down the hill. I wondered where he got the striped hose too. Surely not in Glasgow, I never saw such a dreary place. I swear you can buy better wares in Rothesay.’

‘When did you see them?’ Gil asked.

She giggled. ‘It must have been later, mustn’t it, if they were in the haw-trees when Philip saw them? Maybe after Compline when we all came out?’

I never saw them,’ said Sempill suspiciously.

‘Maybe you were looking at me,’ she cooed. He stared at her as if he could not help it, and she smiled at him so that the dimple flashed then turned back to her sewing and her chatter, with what appeared to be a highly coloured account of how she had purchased the linen. Her waitingwoman nodded in time to her words.

‘Did you see anybody in the kirkyard after the Office?’ Gil asked. The men exchanged glances, and all shook their heads.

‘Not even Bess, damn her,’ said Sempill. ‘I told you — Neil came into the kirk, said he’d left her in the hawbushes, but when I went out she’d gone.’ He stared at the empty fireplace, chewing his lip. ‘Not a sign of her. I checked through the bushes — you can see right through, but I went to the other side. I looked down the kirkyard, and not a thing was stirring.’

‘You are sure of that?’ said Gil.

‘I keep telling you. Besides,’ he added, undermining this statement, ‘I assumed she’d run off. If she could do me an ill turn she would.’

‘We were close enough behind to see him moving about in the haw-bushes,’ said his cousin, and James Campbell nodded and muttered something that might have been agreement.

‘And were you all together during Compline?’

Once more they exchanged glances. After a moment Campbell said, fiddling with his embroidered shirt-duffs, ‘There was some coming and going to other altars. You know the style of thing. I was gone long enough myself to say a prayer to St James and come back to the others.’

‘I left money for candles to St Thomas,’ agreed Philip Sempill. ‘It took me the length of a Gloria, I suppose. John was the only one who stood the Office through. Oh, and one of the men. Euan, maybe.’

‘I thought you were watching us, Maister Cunningham,’ said Lady Euphemia, looking up with her needle poised above her seam. ‘Did you not see where we all were?’

‘My attention may have wandered,’ said Gil drily. Sempill frowned, looking for the insult, but Lady Euphemia cast her eyes down again, and the dimple flashed. ‘And the wee dark fellow?’ Gil continued. ‘What is he, a musician? Where was he?’

‘Antonio?’ said James Campbell dismissively. ‘He’d likely be listening to the music. I’ll swear he thinks in tablature.’

‘Never in Scots, that’s for certain,’ said Sempill. Gil, turning to set down his wine-cup, caught sight of Euphemia’s expression. She was listening to her companion, but her needle had paused again, and her mouth curved, softly crooked as if she was recalling the taste of stolen fruit.

‘And afterwards?’ he continued. ‘ou all came back to the house together?’

‘Oh, yes. And sat together afterwards. We were up here for an hour or so listening to lute music.’ Philip Sempill looked round, and Campbell of Glenstriven said,

‘Aye, that sounds about right. And playing at the cards; he added.

‘Even the two gallowglasses?’

‘Neil and Euan?’ said John Sempill dismissively. ‘They’d be in the kitchen, likely, you could ask Marriott Kennedy.’

‘And what about the dead woman?’ Gil asked. ‘Tell me about her. Why would anybody want to kill her?’

Three pairs of eyes stared, and there was a pause in the chatter behind him.

‘I took it to be some beggar or broken man,’ said Sempill after a moment. ‘Why should it have been deliberate?’

‘I hoped you could tell me that.’

‘She was a quiet body,’ said Philip Sempill thickly, shaking his head.

‘Quiet!’ exploded his cousin. ‘She scarcely had a word, and that not civil.’

‘That was after you took your belt to her.’

‘And why would I not? I needed an heir — she knew I needed an heir — and then she lost it, the clumsy bitch. So after that she never spoke to me. And if she had I’d have clouted her round the lug for what she cost me.’

Rage boiled up, a physical presence in Gil’s chest. He put up a hand to finger his upper lip in concealment, taking a moment to compose himself, astonished at the strength of the response. Never condemn, his uncle had said, you’ll get the story clearer. He had been referring to pleas of divorce, but it applied just as firmly here.

‘Cost you?’ he asked, when he was sure of his voice.

‘Aye. Well. My uncle. He’s made it clear I have to settle down, not only wedded but with an heir, if I’m to get his estate. So she lost the brat, and ran off before I could get another, and if the old ruddoch dies at the wrong moment the whole lot goes to Holy Church and I’ll not get my hands on it, may they both rot in Hell for it.’

‘It might have been a lassie,’ Philip Sempill pointed out. His cousin snarled at him.

‘Did your wife have friends?’ Gil asked.

‘Other than the harpers, you mean?’ said Euphemia. Sempill swivelled to look at her. ‘I’m sorry, John, but it was notorious. Every musician that came to Rothesay was in her chamber.’ She giggled, and the dimple flashed at Gil. ‘They say she had a key for every harp west of Dumbarton, and her own ideas about speed of performance.’

Sempill glared at her, and her brother said, ‘Now, Euphemia,’ and raised an admonishing finger in a gesture which Gil found suddenly familiar.

‘So it might have been a jealous lover,’ she finished triumphantly. Sempill made a move towards her, but she lifted her chin and smiled at him, showing little white teeth, and he stopped.

‘What — ‘ said Campbell of Glenstriven rather loudly. ‘What did you mean, Maister Cunningham, about the couple in the bushes? Was it just the state of sin they were in, or had you a purpose asking about them?’

‘I did,’ said Gil. ‘We’ve found the laddie, but he’s no help. We need to find his sweetheart.’

‘Can he not tell you who she is?’

‘He can tell us nothing. He was struck on the head there in the kirkyard and now lies near to death. There may have been two ill-doers abroad in St Mungo’s yard last night.’

Lady Euphemia, suddenly as white as her linen headdress, stared at Gil for a moment. Then her eyes rolled up in her head and she slipped sideways into the arms of her companion. Sempill, with a muffled curse, sprang forward to land on his knees beside her, patting frantically at her cheek and hands.

‘Euphemia! Mally, a cordial! Wine — anything!’

‘It’s just a wee turn,’ said the companion, putting a cushion under the sufferer’s head. ‘She’ll be right in a minute.’

Sempill, still rubbing at the limp little hand in his grasp, turned to glare at Gil over his shoulder.

‘I warned you not to upset Euphemia; he said forcefully. James, get him out of here!’

Campbell of Glenstriven got to his feet, and indicated the door with a polite gesture. Gil, aware of unasked questions, considered brazening it out, but something about James Campbell’s bearing changed his mind. He rose, said an unheeded goodbye and went down the wheel stair. As Campbell emerged into the hall after him he turned to say, ‘You were in Italy after St Andrews?’

‘Bologna,’ agreed the other. ‘I was back there just last autumn, indeed. And you? Glasgow and …?’

‘Paris,’ Gil supplied. ‘But of course the subtle doctor is a Bolognese.’ He raised the admonishing finger in imitation, and they both grinned.

‘Was it that gave me away, or was it a good guess?’ Campbell asked, moving towards the door.

‘hat and other things. There were Italian students. Dress, deportment, your dagger. Is it Italian? The pommel looks familiar.’

James Campbell drew the blade and laid it across his palm.

‘From Ferrara. I brought several home this time. I like the wee fine blade they make. It has a spring to it we can’t achieve here. Least of all in Glasgow,’ he added.

‘Was that all you brought?’

‘Five miles or so of lace. Two-three lutes and a lutenist to play on them. Oh, did you mean a sword? No, those were beyond my means. The daggers were dear enough.’ Campbell opened the front door, and the mastiff raised her head and growled threateningly. ‘Good day to you, brother.’

Maistre Pierre drank some wine and chewed thoughtfully on a lozenge of quince leather. Further down his table two maids were whispering together and the men were eating oatcakes and cheese and arguing about football, ignoring the French talk at the head of the long board.

‘Why did she swoon, do you suppose?’ he asked.

Gil shrugged. ‘Alarm at hearing there were two dangerous persons in the churchyard? Her gown laced too tight? I don’t know.’

‘These little fragile women are often very strong,’ remarked Alys, pouring more wine for Gil. ‘Was it a real swoon?’

‘Real or pretended, you mean?’ Gil considered. ‘Real, I should say. Her mouth fell open.’

‘Ah.’ Alys nodded, as at a bright student, and her elusive smile flickered.

‘And what of the boys who found the harp key? Or the unknown sweetheart?’ said her father fretfully. ‘She must hold the key to the mystery.’

‘Luke tells me,’ said Alys, glancing along the table, ‘that she is called Bridie Miller and she is kitchenmaid to Agnes Hamilton two doors from here. I thought to go after dinner and ask to speak with her.’

Gil opened his mouth to object, and closed it again, hardly able to work out why he should have anything to say in the matter.

‘Very good,’ said her father, pushing his chair back. ‘That was an excellent meal, ma mie. Maister Cunningham, what do you do now?’

‘I accompany the demoiselle; said Gil. Alys, supervising the clearing of an empty kale-pot and the remains of a very handsome pie, turned her head sharply. ‘Mistress Hamilton’s son Andrew found the harp key,’ he elaborated, ‘with William Anderson, the saddler’s youngest.’

‘Better still,’ said the mason. ‘Take your cloak, Alys, the weather spoils. Wattie, Thomas, Luke! To work! We seek still this weapon.’

‘In a moment; said Alys. ‘I must see that Catherine and Annis are fed and set someone to watch Davie. Kittock, do you carry this out, and I will bring the wine.’

The household began to bustle about. Gil, retreating to the windowseat, found not one but two books half hidden under a bag of sewing. When Alys reappeared, in plaid and dogs like any girl of the burgh, he was engrossed.

Maister Cunningham?’ she said. He looked up, tilting the page towards her.

‘I like this,’ he said. ‘Cease from an inordinate desire of knowledge, for therein is much perplexity and delusion. I’ve often felt like that when confronted with another pile of papers.’

There are many things,’ she agreed, ‘which when known profit the soul little or nothing.’

‘ou read Latin?’ he said, startled.

‘It is my copy. I have to confess — ‘ The apologetic smile flickered. ‘I take refuge in Chaucer when it becomes too serious for me.’

‘What, this one? The story-tellers on pilgrimage?’

She nodded. ‘I am cast out with Patient Grissel at the moment.’

‘I never had any patience with Patient Grissel or her marquis.’ Gil laid the Imitation of Christ on the sill and followed her to the door. ‘Any man that treated one of my sisters so would have got his head in his hands to play with as soon as we heard of it.’

‘Her lord cannot have loved her, for sure, though he claimed to.’ She clopped down the fore-stair into the courtyard. And he took all the power and left her none.’

‘Power?’ said Gil. This girl, he recognized again, was exceptional.

‘If the wife has responsibilities,’ Alys said seriously, ‘duties, about the house, she must have power to order matters as she wishes. Grissel must do all, but has no power of her own. It is as if she is her marquis’s hand or foot and must do only as he directs.’

‘You think that is wrong? Holy Kirk teaches us — ‘

‘I know the husband is the head of the wife, it’s in St Paul’s letters somewhere,’ Alys said, pausing beside a tub of flowers in the middle of the yard. She had taken the ribbon out of her hair and it hung loose down her back. She pulled at a soft fair lock. ‘But what sort of head cuts off its own right hand to test it?’

‘I had not thought of it that way, I admit,’ Gil said. ‘To my mind, she would have had good grounds for a lawful separation a mensa et thoro, though I suppose the Clerke of Oxenfoord would not have given us the tale of Patient Grissel Divorced.’ Alys giggled. ‘We see a lot of marriages,’ he said. ‘The ones I admire most are those where the wife is allowed to think for herself and decisions are made by both spouses together. Myself, I think …’ He paused, groping for words to fit his idea. ‘Women have immortal souls and were given the ability to seek their own salva tion. How can they do that if someone else takes responsibility for their every deed and thought?’

Alys considered this, twirling the lock of hair round one finger.

‘St Paul thought we were capable of more than that. The unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife,’ she quoted, in the Latin. ‘Although,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘St Paul contradicts himself more than once. Is that what you think learning is for? To seek salvation?’

‘That was not what I said, but it’s surely one of its purposes. You think so too, do you not? You use yours to read Thomas A Kempis and the New Testament.’

She nodded, pushing the lock of hair back over her shoulder, and hitched her plaid up.

‘When free of my duties about the house. Shall we go? Do you know Agnes Hamilton? Or her husband?’

‘I was at the College with her brother Hugh,’ he said, accepting the change of subject. ‘She was new married, and generous with the bannocks and cheese when we had a free hour or two.’

Agnes Hamilton, it was well seen, was still generous with the bannocks and cheese. She met them in her doorway, vast and flustered, with exclamations of distress.

‘And the dinner late, and Andrew in such a mood, and not a hand’s turn done in the kitchen since the news came, they’re all so caught up with Bridie’s troubles — my dear, it’s a pleasure to see you any time, you know that, but maybe not the now. And is that you, Gil Cunningham?’ she said, peering up at him under the folds of her linen kerchief. ‘I’d not have known you, you’ve changed that much — ‘

Distantly behind her there was a great outbreak of wailing. Mistress Hamilton cast a glance over her broad shoulder.

‘Listen to that!’ she said unnecessarily. ‘The girl will choke herself weeping! And I can do nothing with the rest of them. They’ve let the fire go out.’

‘Is it Bridie Miller?’ asked Alys briskly. ‘May I try? We need a word with her about Davie.’

‘He’s not — the boy’s not …?’

‘He’s not dead,’ Gil said, ‘but he’s still in a great swound. If Bridie knows anything it would be a help.’

‘Well …’ said Mistress Hamilton doubtfully. She led them along the screened passage, past the door to the hall where several men sat about listening glumly to the noise, and out to the yard at the back. The kitchen, built of wattle-and-daub, was set a few feet away from the house, and from its door and windows came the sound of many weeping women. Gil found his feet rooted to the spot.

‘Do — do you need me?’ he asked, despising himself.

Alys glanced up at him, and said with some sympathy, ‘You will be no help. Go and find the boy. Agnes, I will need the key to your spice-chest.’

She took the bunch of keys Mistress Hamilton unhooked from her girdle, hitched up her plaid and plunged forward into the noise. Agnes Hamilton watched her go, hand over her mouth, then turned helplessly to Gil.

‘I forget at times she’s just sixteen,’ she confessed. ‘Do you know she reads three languages?’

‘Three?’ said Gil, and realized this must be so.

‘I had a book once, but Andrew sold it. Gil, it’s grand to see you, but I can offer you nothing but cowslip wine and suckets — ‘

‘I’ve had my dinner,’ he assured her. ‘I need a word with Andrew, and then I’ll go, and come back another time.’

Her face changed.

‘He’s not very pleased at his dinner being late,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he’d talk to you.’

‘That’s a pity,’ said Gil. ‘Patrick Paniter bade me tell him — ‘

‘Oh!’ said Mistress Hamilton in some relief. ‘You mean wee Andrew! Come in here out of all this noise and I’ll find him. Drew! Doodie! Oh, that laddie, where has he got to now?’

She disappeared, leaving Gil standing in the hall with the hungry men eyeing him sideways. After a moment she returned, towing a grubby boy by one ear, exclaiming over the torn hose, of which a good length was visible below his blue scholar’s gown.

‘And you be civil, mind,’ she prompted. ‘Maister Cunningham’s here from St Mungo’s, with a message from Maister Paniter.’

‘Not quite that important,’ said Gil hastily, seeing all chance of getting an answer from the boy slipping away. ‘May I get a word with you, Andrew?’

Andrew stared at him apprehensively. Nudged by his mother he achieved a clumsy bow and muttered something. Gil stepped back out into the yard, where the wailing from the kitchen was not much reduced, and beckoned the boy after him.

‘Two boys found something this morning,’ he said. ‘Maister Paniter was angry, and took it off them, and I found it again.’ Well, by proxy, said his conscience. ‘I need to ask a couple of questions about it.’

Andrew, fiddling with his belt, said indistinctly that he kenned nuffin.

‘Now, that’s a pity; said Gil, ‘for the boy who told me what I need to know might get a penny.’

Andrew brightened noticeably. Gil fished the harp key out of the breast of his jerkin and held it up.

‘Was that what you found?’ he asked. ‘I know it was a harp key — is this the right one?’

Andrew nodded eagerly.

‘It’s got the same flowers on,’ he volunteered. ‘e saw it shining in the grass when we came to Prime.’

‘What, just like this? It wasn’t in a purse or anything?’

‘No, maister,’ said Andrew, a touch regretfully. ‘There was never a purse. It was just lying in the grass.’

‘Where?’ Gil asked. ‘as it among the trees?’ I should be dismissed the court, he thought, for prompting the witness, but Andrew shook his head.

‘We’d no have seen it among the trees,’ he pointed out kindly. ‘It was on the grass near the door.’

‘Which door?’

‘The door we go in by,’ said Andrew. ‘The south door by St Catherine.’

Gil stood looking down at him, thinking this over. The boy, misreading his silence, said after a moment, ‘It’s true, maister. You can ask Will. Can I get it back, maister?’

‘I’ve no doubt it’s true,’ Gil said. ‘I need to keep it, but here’s your penny, Andrew. Those were good answers.’ Andrew seized the coin, but any thanks he might have

returned were drowned in an extraordinary commotion from the kitchen. The multiple sounds of grief suddenly stopped, to be replaced abruptly by a succession of squeals which escalated into a violent outburst of sneezing. The door flew open, and first one, then another girl staggered out, sneezing and sneezing, until the yard was full of spluttering, wheezing, exploding women.

Behind the last one came Alys, her plaid drawn over her face, dusting the other hand off on her blue skirts. Letting the plaid fall, she looked at Agnes Hamilton, who was peering round Gil’s shoulder with her mouth open, and said, ‘Well, that was a waste of time.’

‘What — ‘said Agnes helplessly. ‘What happened? What’s wrong?’

‘They quarrelled on Good Friday,’ Alys elaborated. ‘She hasn’t seen him for ten days. I can’t tell if she was weeping for Davie, or for danger avoided, or lost opportunity, and nor can she, but she can’t help us. Agnes, I’ve a cold pie in the larder. If we send someone up for it, you and the men can eat.’

‘And the girls?’ said Gil, indicating the suffering household.

‘Oh, that.’ Alys flapped her skirts again, face turned away. ‘I’ve seen that happen in a nunnery. Everyone weeping and nobody able to stop. It’s all right, it isn’t the pestilence. Here are your keys, Agnes. I’m afraid I’ve used up your year’s supply of pepper.’