The King's Corrodian

Chapter Fourteen

In fact, it was two days before Sir Silvester appeared in the guest hall. On the morning following the very disturbed night their whole party slept late, and when Gil woke, fretful and uncomfortable, Alys studied him, felt his forehead, sniffed his bandages and announced that he would stay in bed. After a short argument she went off to send a message to Mistress Buttergask’s house and to consult in the kitchen about hot stones, pausing to ask Nory to remove all Gil’s hose and hide them in his own baggage.

‘But I need to speak to the Prior,’ Gil said, when she returned with a measure of willow-bark tea.

‘The Prior can wait,’ she said. ‘He has other matters on his mind. They’re ringing the passing-bell for Father James now, but Father Henry has roused, and is in his own mind, and though he will not say what was confessed to him or by whom, he was little surprised to hear of Calder’s being detained. Drink this.’

‘So that young man has caused three deaths,’ Gil said, accepting the bitter stuff. ‘I wish I’d caught him sooner, but it was only after Wilson died I began to isolate him from the other novices.’

‘It seems extraordinary,’ she said. ‘I suppose it must be a sort of folie de grandeur, like those madmen who think they are the Pope.’

She left the chamber, and he lay for a while listening to the little bell tolling for Father James, and thinking over the last few days. It had all been very muddled, he thought, with the two cases confused together and the connection with the English Yorkists as well, which was still unclear.

When he next opened his eyes, Alys was sitting by the window with some sewing. It seemed to be linen work, like the mending Margaret Rattray’s woman had been working on. The black cat sat on the windowsill watching her.

‘What are you sewing?’ he asked. She looked up, startled, and then down at her work again, going a little pink.

‘I am making a biggin for my fa- for my good-mother’s baby,’ she said, not quite managing to sound casual.

‘Your father will be pleased,’ Gil said, wondering what had brought this about. He had given up trying to make peace between Alys and her stepmother, much less get her to show any concern for the other woman’s pregnancy. This was a new departure, and a welcome one.

‘I thought that,’ she said, picking up the little cap again.

He lay watching her drowsily, and by a rambling train of thought recalled her great experiment of the previous day. It had been badly overshadowed by the events of the night.

‘Will you tell me about what you learned yesterday?’ he asked. She looked up again, oddly wary.

‘You’re awake. What — what I learned?’

‘I wasn’t asleep. About how Pollock died. You said you had discovered something.’

‘Oh, about that! Yes, yes I did. It’s been interesting, and I think we have proved, not how the man died, but how he might have died.’

‘Tell me,’ he invited again, wondering what else she had thought he meant. She detailed her efforts of the past few days, making him laugh with the account of the exploding crock and the fleeing Franciscans, and then fetched out the linen-wrapped bowl of incinerated meat to show him.

‘And this was a whole piece of mutton?’ he marvelled, poking at the cindery fragments. ‘It does look very like what we picked up in the man’s house. Yes, I suppose if his candle had fallen over, and his gown caught fire, it could have been well ablaze before he knew what was happening.’

‘Yes, and then the fat from the man’s body would melt and run into the garments, like the wick of a candle,’ she agreed, ‘and feed the fire until it was fierce enough to consume all. I think he was a very heavy man.’

Gil suddenly remembered Brother Dickon remarking that his boots had not squeaked since he entered Pollock’s house, and grimaced at the thought.

‘I’m convinced,’ he admitted. ‘Whether the Bishop will understand it, much less the Provost of Perth, is another matter, but I think David Boyd will agree that the death could well have been accidental.’ He gazed admiringly at her. ‘I once told the King you were the wisest lassie in Scotland, and you’ve proved me right yet again. There is none like to my lady, That ever I saw.’

Her fleeting smile came and went, and she looked down, going pink across the cheekbones. He put his hand out to grasp hers.

‘I’m right weel cled in my wife,’ he said in Scots. She turned her hand to clasp his and smiled again, less fleetingly.

‘Sir Silvester used the same words,’ she said, ‘when I would not say if I knew anything of Margaret Rattray. He’s seeking her, Gil, I’m not sure why, and her man is dead — the man Skene. He fell into the harbour.’

‘Is he now?’ Gil tried to address this idea, but found it would not stay still long enough to contemplate. ‘You need to let her know that,’ he suggested. ‘Go to her now with the word, or send Tam. Just be careful you’re not followed, if you don’t wish him to find her.’

‘A good idea.’ She looked out of the window at the leaden sky, and began to fold up her sewing. The roofs he could see from where he lay bore a thin layer of snow. ‘There would be time before the dinner.’

As soon as she was out of the room the cat came to join him on the bed, curling up beside his feet, and went to sleep. Some time later, Brother Dickon looked round the door. Socrates’ long nose appeared at knee level, twitching, then the rest of the dog slipped into the chamber. The lay brother followed him.

‘Aye, you’ll live,’ Dickon said, after studying him briefly. The dog, making a longer, closer inspection, tail waving anxiously, seemed to come to the same conclusion.

‘I heard about Faither James,’ Gil said. Dickon’s beard convulsed as his face crumpled, and he crossed himself.

‘Aye. He’d had a good life, mind, all gien ower to the Order, and it was a quiet death, no like some.’ He came in, and drew up a stool by the bedside, ignoring as carefully as Gil and the cat the surreptitious ascent of the wolfhound at the other side of the bed. ‘You should ha woke me.’

‘I thought Tam and I could deal wi him. Turns out I was wrong,’ Gil acknowledged.

‘I’m no surprised. Seems our man has a bit o a past.’

‘What, Calder? At that age?’ Gil said, and then recalled that at the same age he had been in Paris, learning street fighting and other skills not generally offered by the Scots College there.

‘Oh, he began early. Thing is, he’s proud o what he’s done. Chatting away to my lads, explaining how it is, how he’s recognised his vocation to cleanse the world o sin. Started wi ratting, then he cut his dog’s throat for that it wasny an expert ratter, dealt wi a couple o failed hunting dogs the same way. Well, he said they’d failed.’ He glanced at Socrates, now extended at Gil’s side, and quickly away again.

Does he hunt well? Calder had said, looking at the wolfhound. Gil felt a chill down his back, and put his good hand protectively on the dog’s head. Socrates rolled a dark eye at him.

‘I’ll spare you the details o what else,’ Dickon went on, ‘though I will tell you it turned Jamesie’s stomach, but he’s boasting o scarring a lassie for life for that she was too free wi her favours, and that was when his family decided he was for the Dominicans, I think.’

‘His mother’s name wasny Skene, was it?’ Gil said sourly. Dickon stared at him.

‘How did you ken that?’

‘A guess at a venture.’ Gil considered what he had just heard, caressing Socrates’ ears. ‘And yet, called to cleanse the world or no, he had enough sense to go about it in secret, to try to hide what he was doing.’

‘Strange, that,’ said Dickon. ‘Faither Prior spent a long time wi him the day, trying to bring him to see how he’d been guilty o pride and how it had led him to murder and wickedness, but he’ll no see it. Maintains it’s his vocation.’

‘I wonder how he’ll react if he ever does see it,’ Gil said thoughtfully. Brother Dickon gave him a slantwise look.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering whether to leave a rope in his cell.’

‘It would solve a few problems,’ Gil said, ‘so long as he doesny make use of it to throttle his guards.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Dickon grimly.

Gil’s next visitor, to his great surprise, was Alexander Raitts. Some time after Brother Dickon had left, the librarian sidled furtively round the door, casting wary glances in all directions. The cat woke and leaped down, disappearing under the other bed, and Raitts closed the door behind him and only then said, ‘Can I come in? Madam your wife’s no here? No that she’s, I mean she’s a- I’d not wish to put her out in any way.’

‘She’s out in Perth, I think,’ said Gil, in some amusement, ‘and her maid wi her.’

Raitts sagged in relief, and sat down on the stool by the bedside. Socrates studied him carefully, laid his chin on Gil’s thigh and relaxed again.

‘I came to thank you,’ said Raitts, in a sudden rush. ‘I think it’s your doing they’ve come at the truth. I never,’ he shook his head, ‘I never hurt those three, I never had a knife!’ He shuddered. ‘It’s your doing,’ he said again. ‘Thank you.’

‘Wi God’s help,’ said Gil. ‘And my wife’s,’ he added wickedly.

Raitts looked alarmed, but with some resolution said, almost as if he meant it, ‘A clever lassie, and discreet in her carriage. You’re much to be envied.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gil. There was a slight, awkward silence. Then Raitts drew a book from his sleeve and set it on his knee. It was a small thing, bound in worn brown leather, with a design of some sort pounced onto the cover.

He looked down at it, and said, ‘Came to ask you a favour.’

‘And what is it?’ Gil said encouragingly.

‘This book. That lassie. The one that’s to be wed, I mean.’

‘Mistress Trabboch’s daughter,’ Gil realised. ‘Aye?’

‘I’d like to send the lassie this. This book. It’s a prayer book, as a marriage gift, you ken. Faither Prior said it would be right, and I wondered. I wondered if … well, if you’d …’

‘If I’d see it on its way?’ Gil supplied. ‘Easy enough done. D’you ken her direction?’

There was another awkward silence, as Raitts stared at him.

‘I never — I never thought o that. I could write it for you. The whole o Ayrshire kens Agnes Trabboch,’ he added rather bitterly.

‘Or it could go to her new home,’ Gil suggested. ‘Who is it the girl’s to wed? A Mungo Schaw? I could see it to his dwelling, wherever that is.’

‘That’s a good idea. A better idea. It’s Coilsfield, hard by Tarbolton. It’s a — it’s a nice wee property, she should be comfortable,’ said Raitts, ‘and a sensible man wi the right ideas in his head. Mistress Marion Stair, she is, after her grandam.’

Could the man really be so oblivious to what he gave away with these utterances, Gil wondered.

‘Tell me about the library here,’ he said, on an inspiration. Raitts’s eyes lit up.

‘It’s no the biggest library,’ he said modestly, ‘but it’s a good teaching collection, wi some excellent texts for further study. It’s a right well-endowed house, this, and there’s never been any trouble about the buying of books; we’ve one or two real treasures in the locked case. I’ll let you see them when you’re on your feet,’ he offered generously.

‘I’d like that,’ said Gil, trying to ignore the softly opening door. Socrates beat his tail on the blankets. ‘What kind o treasures?’

‘Torquemada’s writings, for one, and Vincent of Beauvais’ Book of Grace, all neatly printed at Basel,’ said Raitts, his heavy eyebrows writhing in excitement, ‘and James Forrigon, he’s one o ours and all, tales of the saints and the Legenda Aurea and that. There’s some precious books coming out o Basel and Strasbourg the now, maister, you’ve no idea! And we’ve a History of Alexander, a right pretty thing, wi wee images all through it, hand done.’

‘I should like to see that,’ said Alys quietly behind him. Raitts gulped, and scrambled to his feet, dropping the prayer book.

As he bent to lift it Gil said, ‘Brother Sandy wants to send this prayer book to Mistress Trabboch’s daughter for a marriage gift, Alys. I’m sure we could see to getting it to her.’

‘Indeed yes, and what a suitable gift. My faither gave me a prayer book as a marriage gift, sir,’ she said to Raitts, ‘and I value it greatly. I’m certain the lassie will like to have this one.’

He thrust the book at Gil and edged sideways towards the door and away from Alys, looking alarmed. She avoided meeting his gaze, but went on, ‘I’ll be right glad to get back to Glasgow and see my faither. I’ve missed him while we’ve been away.’

‘I, I, I wish you joy of the meeting,’ he said. ‘That’s very, a very proper way to feel. I’ll, I’ll, I’ll pray for you, mistress, and for your faither.’

He slid out of the chamber before she could answer, and was gone. Alys looked at Gil, shaking her head.

‘Poor man,’ she said.

‘How do you always know what to say to his comfort?’ Gil asked.

‘It seemed obvious. Forrigon?’

‘Voragine, I suspect. The Golden Legend. Tales of the saints, rather gruesome in places. I’ve seen a copy, and I think Augie Morison once ordered one and it failed to arrive for some reason.’

‘Of course, I remember it. Mère Isabelle had a copy for the library in Paris. Do not try to distract me. You will not succeed in making me ignore this dog,’ she went on, emphasising chien, ‘this dog who is on the bed.’ Socrates dipped his ears and thumped his tail at her, but did not otherwise move.

‘He’s being a doctor. And keeping me warm,’ Gil added absently, inspecting the prayer book. It was not so sumptuous as Alys’s, which had paintings of the saints, and a riot of plant life in its margins; this was a printed copy with images added, fine ink drawings of fanciful landscapes, animals, birds, and a few tinted woodcuts of good quality. On its first leaf the name Alexr Stair had been neatly crossed out and Marryon Stair written in below it.

‘Well, if he has fleas, you may sleep on that side, instead of me.’ She sat down on the stool Raitts had vacated. ‘It will be dinnertime soon but I need to tell you this. Gil, we are to send to Sir Silvester to let him know where Mistress Rattray may be found. I thought to send Tam round after the dinner. She was quite boule versée to learn of his existence, and that he is searching for her.’

‘Oh, good news indeed!’

‘She was doubtful at first,’ she admitted, ‘but I persuaded her that it could only be a good thing, that since her husband is now dead Sir Silvester can help her get access to her property, and if he knows of her existence it could be some protection for her.’

‘Very wise,’ Gil agreed.

‘And he might help her find someone to teach the little boy. She would not want him to be a harper, I suppose, like our John’s father, but there must be something he can do. Unless she has enough property to keep him in comfort,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘and even then he must be able to manage it.’

‘Rattray will advise her,’ said Gil. She looked sharply at him.

‘You will sleep after the dinner,’ she pronounced ‘Does it hurt? You had better have some more willow-bark tea.’

By next morning Gil felt a great deal better, and having won the argument with Alys and persuaded Nory to retrieve his hose he left his bed and also left off his sling, though he found it wise to be cautious in movement. So he was present to watch while she rehearsed her experiment to the same group of Dominicans as had witnessed the confession of Adam Calder, along with Sir Silvester Rattray and the Bishop, expounding her method and findings with confidence, answering their questions clearly but without conceit. In effect, he felt, and was consumed with pride in the idea, his wife was successfully defending a thesis. If only women could be admitted to the degree of doctor, he thought, what a worthy admission hers would be.

The examiners had been particularly impressed by a comparison of the twisted trivets from the experiment and the half-melted key from Pollock’s house. By the time they went in procession to dinner, served with great formality before a roaring fire in the great hall of the royal lodging, Gil felt she had certainly convinced the Prior and his subordinates of what had happened to Leonard Pollock, though as Boyd had said, it remained to be seen whether the Provincial and the two Archbishops of Scotland would accept the explanation.

‘I’m no entirely clear about it,’ confessed Maister Gregor in Gil’s ear as they entered the hall. ‘Is the lassie, madam your wife I mean, saying the man turned into a leg o mutton and burned up? So was that the Deil’s work?’

Gil, to his relief, was prevented from replying by the Priory servant who appeared to lead him to his seat. He found himself placed beside Bishop Brown, while Alys, at the other end of the table, had been assigned to share a mess with Rattray as the only man present other than Gil who was not a churchman. He wished he could hear what was being said, but the Bishop was speaking to him.

‘I hope your wife isny in the habit o putting hersel forward like that in public gatherings,’ he was saying anxiously. ‘A bonnie young woman like that, it’s asking for trouble to make hersel too noticed. Quiet, Jerome! Bad dog!’ he added. ‘The big doggie’s as much right as you to be here!’

Jerome was inclined to dispute this; Socrates curled his lip, showing several of his white fangs, and lay down on Gil’s feet under the elegant folds of the linen cloths which covered the table, with his head ostentatiously averted.

‘I’ve never known her to do so,’ Gil said. ‘She’s the grein in gold that godly shon, well comported at all times as well as wise and beautiful.’ Bishop Brown looked disapproving, and he belatedly recalled the final lines of that poem, in which the poet wished to hide between his lady’s kirtle and her smock. ‘It’s quite remarkable what she discovered,’ he added.

‘Indeed, aye. Very original work,’ said the Bishop. ‘Very clever. A course, if Michael Scott from the Greyfriars was in charge, it would be original.’ He heaved a satisfied sigh. ‘So it seems as if Pollock’s vanishing wasny what we feared at all, but something quite natural. And this other matter, o the novice that ran mad and slew two others,’ he went on, as a servant placed a dish of roasted meat in gravy and another of turnips in pepper sauce between them. ‘That’s been a bad business, a very bad business, but I think we can say it’s ended well. You did good work there and all, Gilbert; it was convenient you being here. I’m right glad I had Davie ask for you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Gil, spooning turnips onto the Bishop’s platter.

‘Mind you,’ said Brown critically, ‘I’m no so sure the lad should ha had access to a rope. I’d ha thought better o Brother Dickon, he’s usually sharper than that in matters o discipline and custody.’ He fed his dog a piece of the meat, while Gil preserved a tactful silence. ‘But now Calder’s hanged hissel, I think we can assume it was because he’d come to a realisation o his wickedness, which is something, even if he never confessed, and it spares us the trial and all, which would ha been a speak for the whole o Scotland, whether Holy Kirk had handled it or we’d turned him ower to the secular arm.’

‘That’s a true word,’ Gil agreed, thinking that there was probably no point in repeating Brother Eck’s account of the last conversation he had had with Calder, in which the young man had railed bitterly against a world which did not appreciate his motives or his worth. Nor was there any point in revealing his own doubts about the position of the knot in the rope which had been convincingly arranged about Calder’s neck when he saw the corpse. Brother Dickon’s men must all have been trained to kill in various ways, he reflected.

‘But it’s strange he was never recognised to be mad afore this,’ pursued Bishop Brown.

‘The insane can be cunning indeed,’ said David Boyd, when the tables had been lifted and they had all settled around the cavernous fireplace. At a secular feast, there would have been music and dancing; here, there was wine and candied fruit, and one of the servants by the window with a lute. The Prior seemed to Gil to have aged ten years since he first saw him. ‘Our brother Adam managed to hide what he was from all of us, even his fellow novices, even his teachers.’

‘Is that right?’ said Sir Silvester Rattray, in a tone of polite disbelief, and accepted a sweetmeat from the platter the novice Brother George was handing him.

‘Most folk prefer to think the best of others,’ said Alys. ‘It’s natural.’

The Prior gave her an approving look. Another churchman conquered, Gil thought, hiding a smile in his glass of the excellent white Rhine wine.

‘None the less,’ said Rattray, ‘my kinsman was murdered here in the safety o this Priory, a young man to whom you owed the duty o a parent, leaving his only sister unprotected, unsupported, in fear o a violent man.’

Yes, you have studied the law, as Alys said, Gil thought.

‘Hardly unsupported,’ said the Prior, ‘if you’re taking on responsibility for her.’

‘I’ve a wife and bairnies to see to,’ said Rattray unconvincingly, adjusting his velvet gown so that the silver braid on the sleeves caught the dull light from the windows. ‘I can lend her countenance, but she needs resources o her own.’

‘Indeed,’ said Boyd, gesturing to the man with the flagon to pour Rattray more wine. ‘I’ve discussed it wi our factor and our man o law, as it happens, and it seems to us, since the boy never finished his noviciate, it would be reasonable to return a portion o the lands he brought to us when he was tonsured. One-third seems like a good offer.’

‘Does it indeed?’ Rattray raised his eyebrows.

Gil caught Alys’s eye, and she smiled at him. Mistress Rattray was secure, then, though it seemed unlikely Rattray would countenance any approach Tam might make for her marriage.

‘This might be better discussed at another time,’ he suggested.

‘Wi our man of law present,’ said the Prior. ‘I think you’re acquaint wi Edward Gilchrist, Sir Silvester.’

Rattray’s face cleared.

‘I am that. A reasonable man, Gilchrist,’ he said. ‘Aye, I’ll meet him and discuss the matter.’

‘Sir Silvester,’ said the Bishop, ‘what’s your thought now concerning the death o Leonard Pollock?’

‘Aye, the man Pollock.’ Rattray seemed to increase in height, and his manner became more formal. ‘Other than to condole wi you on the recent violent happenings, I would like to say, Prior, that having witnessed Mistress Mason’s proceedings in Mistress Buttergask’s kitchen, and now heard her expound the whole matter wi sic excellent lucidity, I’m convinced o what happened to Pollock. I believe he was consumed by fire when his garments caught light, and that what I saw that night was the smoke from his burning, though Bessie,’ he caught himself up, ‘Mistress Buttergask, will maintain it was the Devil carrying off the man’s soul.’

‘No reason it should not be both,’ observed the Prior, and crossed himself.

Rattray bowed in acknowledgement of this, and went on, ‘I’ll send to the Provost to say the same, and I’ll make it clear to any that mention it to me. Likely we’ll no convince the entire town, but we’ll maybe get them to leave off the talk o witchcraft and devilry.’

‘That would be an act o great friendship,’ said the Prior.

Later, in the milling about in the chilly cloister while his men were called for and the Dominicans assembled to escort their two noble guests to the gate, Rattray drifted deliberately to Gil’s side.

‘A word wi you,’ he said quietly, and led him aside. Having done so he seemed reluctant to begin, studying the flagstones under his feet with some interest.

Gil said, ‘Has Mistress Buttergask contrived to clean out her oven yet?’

‘Oh, that!’ Rattray laughed. ‘Aye, though the bread tasted mighty strange the day, what wi the soap and the mutton fat! I like your wife, Cunningham.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Gil politely. ‘So do I.’

‘You may well.’ Rattray grinned. ‘She had me near convinced she kent naught o Margaret Rattray. I was right glad to have your man come yesterday wi the lassie’s direction. I was round on her doorstep within the hour, and Bessie’s there the day trying to persuade her to move in. Two bairns and their mammy to fuss over, she’d be overjoyed to have her.’

‘That would be a good solution,’ Gil said. ‘At least till Mistress Rattray’s found her own feet.’

‘Aye.’ Rattray gazed across the yard at the drawing on the battered shutters of Pollock’s house. ‘I’ll pass your findings about that business ower yonder to the Treasury. They’ll deal wi the rest themsels. No need for you to delve into that at all.’

‘What, the man wi the …’ Gil gestured at his chest where a badge might hang, and Rattray nodded significantly. ‘I’d no intention o doing so, but I’m glad the matter’s in good hands. If James Stewart or those close to him want to send coin out o Scotland, I’ll not interfere, no matter what I think o’t.’

‘Quite so,’ said Rattray. ‘And another thing I thought to mention.’ There was a pause, in which he dug with the toe of his boot at a weed growing between two flagstones. ‘Bessie — Mistress Buttergask,’ he began. Gil waited. ‘She hears voices,’ said Rattray at last. ‘In her head. I’m never sure if it’s a version o the Sight, seeing she’s from north o here, but the thing is, her voices tell her things, and one or two o them she’s repeated to me and they’ve been close to the mark, gey close to the mark.’

‘I know a couple of folk wi the Sight,’ Gil said.

‘Aye, well, you ken how what they see, what they tell you, can be right, but no always quite how you expect. Thing is, I think Bessie said something to Mistress Mason, and it worked strong on her. I didny ask either o them about it, but Bessie passed a remark or two to me later.’

‘Did she?’ Gil said. Could that be what had altered Alys’s mood so much the other night?

‘Aye. No idea what it was she said, what it was about, but I’d take it seriously if I was you. Bessie seemed to think it was important.’

In the quiet hour before supper, when all the visitors had left, Alys was off brewing a final batch of cough linctus, and Gil and Socrates were sitting quietly by the fire in the lesser chamber, accompanied by the kitchen cat, a tap on the doorframe heralded the three remaining first-year novices, Munt, Mureson and Simpson. The dog got to his feet to inspect them, and they entered diffidently, with a certain amount of nudging and hanging back, until Mureson got up enough courage to speak.

‘We thought we ought to ask how you’re doing, maister. Is it — were you badly hurt?’

‘A few scratches, that’s all,’ Gil said, oddly touched by this. ‘I’ll live. Come in to the fire. How are you all?’ he asked when they were seated.

They looked at each other, and Munt said, ‘Well enough, maister. A bit — a bit surprised, maybe.’

‘Surprised?’ he repeated. ‘About Calder, you mean?’

‘Aye, that’s it,’ agreed Simpson. ‘We aye thought he was daft, but we never thought him mad. Brother Archie was telling us how he was boasting o what he’s done, making out he was called to it. Called to cleanse the world o sinners? That must be madness. And then to lay hands on himsel and all.’

‘The thing is, though, now when you think about it,’ said Mureson, ‘the signs were there, but it never occurs to you to — to think sic things o someone you see every day and night.’

‘It creeps up on you,’ offered Simpson. ‘He’d got worse lately, since Andrew was confined, more o his stuff about the body and the limbs and that, and he,’ he swallowed, ‘he tellt us lately how he put his dog away, cut its throat after it let a rat past it. I’m right glad to see your dog safe, maister. He’s a bonnie wolfhound.’

‘He’s safe and well, as you can see,’ Gil assured them.

Munt put a hand out for Socrates to sniff, and Simpson nodded at the cat, which was sitting upright gazing into the fire.

‘And Our Lady be praised,’ he said, ‘Brother Augustine’s cat never put a foot wrong these last months. We’d ha been eating plain boiled stockfish and dry oatcakes for weeks if anything happened to DominiCattus.’

‘It’s no catching, is it?’ Munt wondered. ‘Madness, I mean. Just he seemed right ordinary, right up to the time Faither Prior announced what had happened, who’d killed Andrew and Brother Thomas, and that Brother Sandy was back in the library and no to blame for any o’t.’

‘Don’t be daft, Sandy,’ said Simpson, and caught himself up. ‘I mean, try to use your intelligence,’ he said in Latin, in Father Henry’s very diction, and the other two grinned again. Gil recognised the light-headed effect of great shock and release.

‘How is Father Henry?’ he asked, to change the subject. ‘Have you been able to see him?’

‘No yet,’ said Mureson, ‘but he’s sent out word to thank us for our prayers, and that he’ll be glad to see us when he’s permitted.’

‘And were we studying the work he gave us last,’ said Munt. ‘You can tell he’s no much harmed.’

‘I still canny believe it,’ said Simpson. ‘That Adam could- och, well. Our Lady have him in her care, bring him to knowledge o his sins.’

‘Amen,’ they all said.

Then Mureson looked at Gil, hesitated, and went on, ‘We brought you something, maister. Sandy, do you have it?’

‘Oh!’ Munt began searching his person. ‘Aye, here it is.’ He drew a squarish linen-wrapped object from his sleeve. ‘Here it is,’ he said again, and held it out. ‘It’s from us all. We was all three working on it.’

Puzzled, surprised and moved, Gil lifted the package and unwrapped the linen, and stared, transfixed, at what lay within it.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said after a moment, still staring. ‘How can I–It’s beautiful.’

‘We did it off one o Andrew’s drawings,’ said Simpson. ‘Sandy and me both worked on the carving, and Sandy, the other Sandy,’ he nodded at Mureson, ‘limned it. We’d been working at it since Andrew … I mean, we meant it for when he cam out o confinement, only he … only, anyway. Anyway, we’d like you to have it,’ he finished in a rush.

Gil looked up, from one to another of the intent, embarrassed, concerned young faces, and back at the little image.

‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘It’s a gift to remember you all by. I’ll hang it by my desk, where I can see it all the time.’

On a panel of wood about the size of his hand was carved, in low relief, an image of the Virgin and Child with St John. It had been painted, with a light delicate touch, and seemed almost to glow in the dwindling daylight; the blue of the Virgin’s cloak and the flesh tones of the children were particularly radiant.

It must be some purely fortuitous accident of the brush or the light that gave the Virgin a shadowy scar across one eye.