The Merchant's Mark

Chapter Ten

This attack was rather more professional.

They were making good speed round the flank of the Pentlands, with Edinburgh town under its pall of coal-smoke on their left, the castle at one end and Arthur’s Seat outlined against the hills of Fife at the other. In the fields below them, the hay had been cut, and in places was still being turned; here and there was a field of wheat, sheared and stooked and waiting to be carried home, and everywhere the barley stood golden and rustling in the August afternoon like the grain they had seen by Linlithgow.

Gil was ruminating on what they had learned so far, but at his side, Maistre Pierre rode watchful, and the Hospitaller sergeant brought up the rear with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Socrates was ranging on either side of the track again, alarming the rabbits.

‘I’ve kin in Edinburgh,’ remarked Luke. ‘My sister’s man has a cousin that’s a journeyman saddler on the High Street. Or so he claims,’ he added darkly.

‘There’s a mony saddlers,’ began Rob. His voice cut off, and he choked.

Johan shouted, and Gil turned in the saddle to see his man clutching at his throat, bright blood spurting between his fingers.

‘Rob!’ he exclaimed, and made out the cold blue end of a crossbow quarrel in the midst of the blood. He kneed his horse about, looking for the source of the bolt. Luke had already drawn his whinger, and Tam was reaching left-handed for his cudgel, staring at his colleague with a bemused expression.

‘Da!’ said Johan. He was pointing with his sword to the hillside above where a flock of sheep scattered bleating. A big man in black was leaping down across the rough grass, his long-hafted axe whirling in a double loop before him, and after him one, two, three other men rose from the ditch where they had hidden and rushed downwards, long swords gleaming in the light over their heads.

The party on the road had just time to group, the three trained swordsmen to the fore with Johan in the centre, Luke behind them with the two injured men, before the axeman reached them. His rush had carried him well in front of his fellows, but this did not seem to deter him. Gil knotted his reins on the saddlebow and drew his own sword and dagger. Well aware both of what such a weapon could do if it made contact and of the fact that this very knowledge was the axeman’s greatest strength, he tried to ignore the bubbling, choking sounds Rob was making, and concentrate on the feel of his sword in his hand and the likelihood of controlling this horse in a pitched fight. He had to admit it was not good.

As Socrates reached them and took up position snarling under the belly of Gil’s horse, the axeman leapt on to the earth dyke at the side of the road, checked his rush, and grinned at them past the blue steel axehead. It was longer and wider than his flat big-featured face, the hooked point at the back of the blade the same shape as the scrap of beard on his chin.

‘Come on, then,’ he taunted, and growled back at the dog. ‘Are ye up for it? Who’s first? Or will ye just lay down yir weapons the now and gie us yir packs? Grrh!’

‘Vot does he say?’ asked Johan. Maistre Pierre beyond him, watching the axeman, translated absently into a mixture of French and High Dutch, and the sergeant shook his head.

‘Vy ve should do zis?’ he asked.

‘Because there’s four of us,’ said the big man, grinning again, ‘and only three of you can fight. Because Maidie here,’ he kissed the axeblade, ‘says ye should.’ The three swordsmen jumped on to the dyke beside him. ‘Because we’re coming to get yez!’ he shouted, and sprang forward at Johan, who deflected the swing of the axe with a sweeping blow of his long blade, following it by a kick to the man’s shoulder. He slid away from it, and Gil had time to think, He has fought mounted men before, and then he was dealing with two swordsmen at once, his horse squealing as a parried stroke caught it a glancing blow on the shoulder. Below it Socrates leapt growling for the nearest man’s thigh.

It was all very hectic for several minutes. The man on Gil’s left was hampered by the dog, and by his own crossbow slung on his back. He was further discouraged by a boot and a backhanded dagger-blow, and Luke contrived to urge his horse forward and strike him down, leaving Gil to manage his own horse and parry the attack on his right. This man was good, and had also fought mounted men before, but Socrates was now slashing with sharp teeth at his thighs and codpiece. Moreover, the grizzled warrior who had taught Gil and his brothers swordplay had been at least as good, and Gil had not wasted his free time when he was in France. Standing in the stirrups as his mount trampled screaming in circles, he blocked the swordsman’s attack, aware on the edge of vision of Johan’s horse reared on its haunches and punching with iron-shod hooves at the axeman while its rider’s sword beat the axe aside. More blacksmithing noises beyond them suggested that the mason was well engaged.

Then, as Gil seized his chance and disarmed his opponent in a move old Drew would have approved of, the axe flew sideways, its haft split in two, and with an agonized cry the axeman fell, first to his knees and then, when Johan’s sword descended on his helm, into the dust and gravel of the track.

‘Run, Baldy!’ shouted Maistre Pierre’s opponent, leapt away from his attack and set off downhill in the general direction of Edinburgh. Gil’s opponent, leaving his weapon in the dust, dived between Gil’s horse and Luke’s and over the dyke, and followed him. Socrates soared after them and set off in pursuit. As Gil whistled furiously for his dog the mason turned his horse as if to join the chase, looked at his companions, looked again at the fleeing men, reined back and sheathed his sword.

‘Mon Dieu!’ he said. ‘They are persistent.’

‘But alvays run avay,’ said Johan. He had already dismounted, and now kicked the axeman accurately in the fork, nodded approvingly when there was no reaction, and knelt beside Rob, who had fallen from his horse some time since. Tam, unable to kneel, was standing over him, holding his bonnet with its St Christopher medal, tears running down his face.

‘He’s away, sir,’ he said. ‘Dead and gone. I showed him my St Christopher, but it never held him back.’

‘He looked on it earlier,’ said Luke, ‘for I seen him. Maybe he’s no gone yet.’

Johan stripped off his heavy gloves and touched Rob’s face with gentle fingers. Gil dismounted and dropped to one knee opposite him, taking up one of the limp, bloody hands. Socrates returned, to sit down at his master’s side panting and nudging his long nose under Gil’s other elbow. Gil patted him, but his attention was on his servant.

‘Rob?’ he said. Rob’s eyes opened, staring unseeing at the sky. His lips moved, but only a faint bubbling sound emerged. Now Johan was asking the urgent, familiar questions about repentance and salvation, taking the answers for granted, almost as if he was a priest. The hand in Gil’s was growing colder. It gripped his, briefly; the bubbling stopped; Johan sketched a cross on Rob’s brow and muttered, ‘Dominus deus te absolvet,’ and Gil crossed himself, not sure if Rob had heard the words or not. He would hear nothing more, that was certain, though he still stared unseeing at the white clouds above him until Johan closed his eyes with that gentle touch.

Tam crossed himself stiffly, flinching as his bruised elbow twinged. Luke and Maistre Pierre were standing by, holding the reins of the horses. Gil stayed where he was, holding Rob’s slack hand and looking down at the empty face, at the bright blood caking on his throat and on the neckband of his shirt. A Lanarkshire man, he thought. Born in the Monklands, ten years or so older than I am, fought as a mercenary alongside Matt in the wars in Germany, travelled to Rome so he told me once, and came home safe. And here he is, killed by robbers on a hillside in the Lothians. And in a twincling of an eye Hoere soules weren forloren. Why?

‘Nur Gott weisst,’ said Johan, gripping his shoulder briefly, and he realized he had spoken aloud.

‘This one’s deid, maister,’ said Luke, pointing to the man they had taken down between them. ‘I never killt him, I think one of the horses tramped him.’

‘Zis vun not.’ Johan stepped over to the axeman and kicked him again. This time he elicited a groan. ‘Ve take.’

It was some time before they were back on the road. Luke, it turned out, had a slash on the arm, and Gil’s horse was now drooping and shivering while the cut on its shoulder dripped into the dust. These had to be dealt with, by Maistre Pierre and Johan acting once again in committee. Gil stepped away from the group, leaving Tam still standing over his colleague’s body, and stared out at Edinburgh. Socrates leaned hard against his knee.

Someone has died, he thought, caressing the dog’s soft grey ears, because of an action I took. If I had never set out for Roslin, he would be alive now. Despite Johan’s efforts, Rob had died without confession, unshriven. Gil had his own views on the importance of that, preferring to trust in the all-merciful justice which Rob now faced, but to the man’s kin and friends that would matter.

‘What kin had he?’ he asked, turning to Tam.

The man wiped his eyes with his sleeve. ‘He’s an auntie in the Monklands, near to my folks, for he mentioned her more than once, but I’ve no more notion than that, Maister Gil.’ He managed a shaky grin. ‘It comes to us all, soon or late, maister. He’d ha wanted to go quick like that.’

Gil nodded. But maybe that was too quick, he thought.

They stripped the dead thief of his effects. Boots, sword, crossbow, all went into the Hospitaller’s pack along with the remains of the axe; the Order could make use of them. Rob’s body was wrapped in his own cloak and tied on his horse, but the other was left by the roadside. Someone might come out from Roslin to bring him in for burial, or might not. Maistre Pierre stood by him for a few minutes with head bent, fingering his beads. The axeman, coming back to full, blasphemous consciousness, found his arms bound and a rope about his neck, its other end tied to Johan’s saddle.

‘Where’s Maidie?’ he demanded, staring round. ‘Where’s — where’s ma axe?’

‘Never mind zat. You vok!’ said Johan, prodding the man with the point of his long sword.

‘Aye, think yoursels clever,’ said the man, and spat at the sergeant. ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you afore long, so you will.’ He leered at Gil. ‘And how’s Blacader’s new man? And yir bonny sister, how’s she walking now?’

Gil stared at him open-mouthed, silenced by the flare of rage that rose in his throat at the words. The man was bound, one could not -

‘Vot you say?’ demanded Johan, prodding again.

‘What do you know about my sister?’ said Gil, finding his voice.

‘Go to Glasgow and find out,’ said the axeman savagely. ‘Aye, that’s got you worried, hasn’t it no? As for that clever wee lassie you’re ettling to marry — ’

‘Yes?’ said Maistre Pierre, turning away from the dead thief. ‘What of my daughter?’

‘Away and find out,’ repeated the axeman, and spat again. Johan’s sword arm jerked. ‘Christ’s bollocks, man, leave me alane wi that wee dirk o yours.’

‘You vok,’ repeated Johan, nodding along the track towards Roslin.

‘What’s he mean about the mistress?’ asked Luke anxiously.

‘And Lady Kate,’ said Tam.

Gil moved forward. ‘Tell us,’ he said. ‘What do you mean? What are you saying?’

‘Aye, ye’d like to hear it,’ said the axeman.

‘We will hear it,’ said Maistre Pierre. He exchanged a glance with Johan, who nodded, and untied the end of the rope about the prisoner’s neck from his saddle. ‘Any man can be made to talk, given time.’

The axeman gave him a wolfish leer.

‘Your lassies didny find that,’ he said. ‘They done their best, I’ll say they did,’ he licked his lips suggestively, ‘but they never got a word of what they wanted to know.’

Someone was shouting in Gil’s ear. His hands were about something, the dog barked once, and again. Socrates never barks, he thought. As his vision cleared, he found himself staring into the empurpled face of the prisoner while Maistre Pierre’s big hands tried vainly to slacken his grip on the man’s throat. Socrates leapt around them, desperate to defend his master, unwilling to attack a friend, and compromising by pawing at their arms and baying, huge deep sounds like a great bell.

‘Let go, Gilbert,’ repeated the mason. ‘We may kill him after he has told us — ’

Gil loosened his hands and stepped back, shaking, unable to answer. Johan eyed him respectfully, and the axeman sucked in a long breath, glaring with furious popping eyes, and also took a step backwards to the limit of the rope. Socrates, silent, pawed eagerly at his master.

‘Now tok!’ commanded Johan.

The man threw him a surly look and shook his head. ‘Canny talk — like this,’ he gasped hoarsely.

‘Let us get down to Roslin,’ said Maistre Pierre in disgust. ‘Someone there will assist us, surely. Sinclair himself may be in the place by now.’

They mounted up; Johan prodded the prisoner before him, the rope about his neck tied once more to the saddlebow, and they went on, silent at first, round the final angle of the Pentlands and down toward the distant wooded valley of the North Esk.

Gil, leading his own horse and Luke’s, was grappling with a turmoil of emotions such as he had not felt since boyhood. There was grief at Rob’s death, mingled with a furious anger with himself and with whoever was behind the repeated attacks on their group, as the cause of his death, and — yes, he admitted, with whichever horse had kicked in the head of the man carrying the crossbow. Revenge for his servant would have been good.

And what had the axeman meant by his unpleasant remarks about the girls in Glasgow? Had they somehow become involved in this? He was aware of painful anxiety for Kate, his favourite among his three younger sisters, and burning through everything a fierce apprehension for Alys. Curiously, he was unconcerned about the insinuation the man had made, though it had triggered his attack on him. It was so far from what he knew of either Alys or his sister that he simply did not believe it.

As for his own behaviour — exploring his heart, he had to admit that he felt neither remorse nor embarrassment about his attempt to strangle a bound man. He knew both would be appropriate, but he could only find a sort of amazement at himself for giving way to his rage and a faint regret that Maistre Pierre had stopped him. It would be much more sensible to question the man and then hang him for theft, but it would be by far less satisfactory.

‘Do we cross that river?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘No,’ said Johan. Gil looked about him, and discovered they were well down off the hillside and nearing the Esk. ‘Roslin that vay.’

‘And the castle is beyond the town, in the gorge,’ Gil supplied.

Maistre Pierre glanced at him, and nodded. ‘You are with us again, are you?’ he said. ‘You have been cheerful company these three miles. Tell me, is this where there is the wonderful church of St Matthew building? I have the right place?’

‘Yes,’ said Gil, ‘though I believe building stopped east of the crossing when the old lord died. They’re putting the roof on what’s there, my uncle said.’

‘Ah. The builder is dead, is he? I have heard much of it. I shall try to visit.’

The inn was large, prosperous, and conveniently placed for Maistre Pierre’s purpose, right beside the scaffolding-shrouded mass of the church. A board with a painting of a man holding a book swung from its ale-stake: the St Matthew Inn. The evangelist had a squint. Inside, the taproom was crowded, but the service was quick. Spooning down fish stew while the dog dealt with yesterday’s ham bones under the bench, Gil realized that it was nearly Compline and they had not eaten since Bathgate.

‘Ve stop here?’ asked Johan, wiping his spoon on his sleeve.

‘I think we must,’ said Gil. ‘One night at least. We need to find one man in the place, possibly two, maybe more.’ Maistre Pierre frowned at this, obviously reckoning in his head. ‘I wish Sinclair had been at home.’

‘Perhaps he will return this evening,’ suggested the mason.

Sir Oliver’s sub-steward, a plump and self-consequential individual, had received them with ale and small cakes and a worried frown which grew deeper when he set eyes on their prisoner. No, no, he told them anxiously, Sir Oliver was from home, he could not say when he was expected. If they had really seen him in Linlithgow that morning, perhaps he had gone by the Edinburgh house. Yes, he could house the prisoner, there was a cell empty. At this the prisoner cursed hoarsely, but was silenced by Johan’s still-vigilant blade. No, he couldny question the prisoner till Sir Oliver came home. They would have to make depositions on oath about the charges, he would have to fetch the notary -

‘I can set it down,’ said Gil.

That had taken an hour. A point-blank enquiry for Barty Fletcher or Nicol Riddoch had been met with another worried frown: were these names the steward should know? Did Maister Cunningham want to stop in Roslin, if he was to meet someone? Maister Preston could give them a token would warrant them a room and a welcome at the St Matthew.

This had proved to be true. Moreover, Rob’s body had been laid, curled as he had stiffened over the saddle, on a board in a space just off the scullery, sworn to be rat-free and patrolled by the St Matthew’s terrier. In the morning he could be washed, shrouded, and buried in the kirkyard of the little parish church on the other side of the town. The terrier herself, after making sure that Socrates knew who was in charge here, had bustled off on her rounds.

‘Are we to ask after that musician here and all?’ Luke asked his master.

‘I’ve asked,’ said Gil. ‘I asked the fellow at the tap.’

This time the question had met with understanding; the tapster knew Barty Fletcher. He just couldny say if he was in the town the now.

‘Bide you there wi your jug of our good ale, maister, and I’ll ask about for ye,’ the man offered, wiping the inside of another jug with his apron. ‘My brother’s marriet on Alice Fletcher, he can likely find out.’

‘I’d be grateful.’ Gil indicated his gratitude with a coin on account, which vanished inside the tapster’s doublet. Since then he had been aware of quiet questions going about the room, of the odd curious glance in his direction. Someone came in, spoke to the tapster, went out again. What have I set in motion? he wondered.

‘But who else do we look for?’ asked Maistre Pierre now.

‘The dog should go out,’ said Gil. ‘Let us walk him.’

‘I kom viz you,’ pronounced Johan.

‘Johan,’ said Gil, ‘I sink ve could lose ze accent.’

‘Accent?’

‘I heard you shriving Rob,’ said Gil, and bit back another tide of mixed emotion. After a moment he went on, ‘Your Scots is near as good as Pierre’s, here.’ The sergeant met his challenging look, and then shrugged and smiled wryly. ‘Have we said anything useful?’

‘No,’ the other man admitted. ‘But it vos — was worth the try.’

‘Can you tell me why the Preceptory is interested?’

‘No.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Gil, ‘but if you won’t, then why should I help you? You don’t kom viz us.’

‘Fair enough,’ echoed the Hospitaller, shrugging again.

Accompanied by a well-fed dog, Gil and Maistre Pierre strolled outside and gravitated naturally into the building site next door. In the evening light, piles of timber and slates lay under tarred canvas, but the stone-cutter’s lodge stood empty. Work had stopped for the day, and the masons had all gone home to the houses which the chapel’s founder had built for them, more than doubling the size of the castle’s little town.

‘Ah, mon Dieu!’ said Maistre Pierre, soft-voiced. ‘Look at those lines. The proportions.’

‘I can’t see past the scaffolding,’ said Gil with regret.

‘So who do we look for?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘The musician,’ said Gil quietly. The mason nodded agreement. ‘The cooper’s boy. The dead man’s kin, very possibly.’

‘Why should those be here?’

‘Because Riddoch’s yard lies at the back of the Engrailed Cross tavern. Those were Sinclair’s men I saw in the street before the tavern, and Sinclair’s men were collecting the barrels of salt herring when we arrived. I saw one going into the barn where we found the empty barrel. I’ll wager Sinclair owns the whole of that toft and has let the backlands to Riddoch for his house and his yard. Riddoch is Sinclair’s man.’

‘Ah,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘As well as — ’ He stopped short, staring into the distance. Gil made no comment, and the mason went on, ‘So is Sinclair behind all this?’

‘I’d say he is involved,’ said Gil. ‘He asked me, when I saw him in Stirling, whether our friend in the barrel was a thief or a fighting man. And I think he has our books.’ He kicked at the scraps of wood and slate underfoot. ‘But I don’t think he is behind these repeated attacks, any more than the Preceptory.’

‘Heaven forbid,’ said Maistre Pierre involuntarily.

‘I think St Johns is involved.’ He looked at his friend in the evening light. ‘If they send this fellow with us, an experienced fighting man who is also a priest, though priests aren’t supposed to bear arms — ’

‘No,’ said Maistre Pierre, distracted. ‘He is probably not priested. I have not asked him,’ he admitted, ‘but I have seen this before, where they will confess and absolve a companion in extremis, where no priest is present.’

Socrates, ranging round them, paused in his inspection of a stack of timber and stared at the gate of the site. Gil looked round, to see a familiar, elegant figure picking its way across the trampled ground. Clad in a worn leather doublet and patched hose, the man still had all the presence of a performer. He halted in front of them and bowed, waving his feathered hat in the elaborate French style.

‘Balthasar of Liège at your service, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I’m told you were asking for me.’

He straightened up and looked from one to the other. Even in the dwindling light, the colour of his eyes was obvious: one blue, one brown.

‘I’m very glad to see you alive, man,’ said Gil. ‘Do you mind me? Gil Cunningham, from Glasgow.’

‘I do, sir,’ said the musician. ‘You were a good friend to the McIans a few months back, were you no?’

‘And still am, I hope,’ said Gil.

‘So what can I do for you, maisters?’

‘We may have sad news for you,’ said Maistre Pierre. Balthasar raised his eyebrows. ‘Have you any kin with your eye colour?’

‘What, odd eyes? It runs in the family. I’ve a sister has one ee green and one grey.’

‘No, but have you male kin,’ said Gil, ‘with one blue and one brown?’

The musician looked at him. ‘This is serious, isn’t it?’ he said, and scratched his jaw. ‘I wonder, maisters, have you found my cousin Nelkin? We’d looked for him back afore this.’

‘Ah,’ said Gil. ‘Where had he been?’

Balthasar shrugged. ‘We heard word he’d gone on a pilgrimage,’ he said, ‘to Tain or some such. It didny seem like our Nelkin,’ he added.

‘And who had you heard this from?’

‘From himself.’ Balthasar jerked his head in the general direction of the castle. ‘From Sinclair. He’s been one of Sir Oliver’s men-at-arms these ten years.’

‘Ah!’ said Maistre Pierre.

Gil glanced at him, and said, ‘Noll Sinclair told you he’d gone on a pilgrimage?’

‘Well, no,’ admitted the musician. ‘That fool Preston told his sister, but he said it as if the word came from himself — from Sinclair.’

‘Is that all the word you’ve had?’

‘I think so. What’s this about, maister? Have you found him? You’re saying he’s deid, and canny answer for himself, are you no?’

‘It seems very like it,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘I am sorry. Was he close to you?’

‘He was kin,’ said the musician tensely. ‘What came to him? What have you found?’

‘We found,’ said Gil carefully, ‘a man’s head. Short dark hair, one ear pierced, odd coloured een. Oh, and the remains of a blued ee.’ He touched his cheekbone. ‘He’d been headed, and the head put in a barrel of brine along wi a bag of coin and jewels from the old King’s hoard.’

Balthasar bent his head and crossed himself.

‘It sounds like,’ he said. ‘The blued ee sounds like our Nelkin. Ah, weel, I feart as much. When the laddie — ’

‘What laddie?’ asked Gil.

‘Oh, just — just one o his kin.’

‘Nicol Riddoch, would that be, the cooper’s boy?’ guessed Gil. Balthasar’s head came up sharply. ‘What kin is he to you?’

‘None o mine. His stepmother’s some kind o kin by marriage to Nelkin’s brother.’ The musician crossed himself again. ‘Would you excuse me, maisters? I’ll need to break it — ’

‘I could do with a word with Nicol Riddoch,’ said Gil. ‘What did he say? I take it he didn’t see your kinsman killed, but did he bring the other bag of coin here?’

Balthasar stared at Gil in the failing light.

‘You ken the maist o it already, sir,’ he said. ‘Why are you asking me?’

‘I never heard what it was,’ said Nicol. ‘Just it was worth a good bit.’

He stood uneasily before them, a spare youngster at the hands and feet stage, with a strong resemblance to his father the cooper. He had emerged reluctantly from the inner chamber of the house to which Balthasar had delivered them, and was taking some persuasion to fill in the gaps in Gil’s account of what had happened. Socrates, lying at Gil’s feet, watched him carefully.

‘It was part of the rent, you see,’ he added. ‘We owe his lordship duty of carriage, and he turned up two week since, said to my faither he was calling in the duty for the year.’

‘So you and Nelkin were set to fetch this great load of coin,’ Gil prompted, ‘and not told what you were carrying.’

‘Just the two of them!’ expostulated the householder, whose name seemed to be Robison. He had big scarred hands and a round, weatherbeaten face; Gil had lost his place in the reckoning but thought the man was a cousin of the late Nelkin’s sister-in-law. ‘Two men, to bring home a load like that.’

‘It does not seem enough,’ agreed Maistre Pierre, shifting on the bench beside Gil. The cushion slid with him, jolting Gil sideways.

‘Aye, but nobody else kent what it was neither,’ said Nicol. ‘Except maybe Nelkin.’

‘And you fetched it from one of Sinclair’s other properties by Stirling,’ Gil said.

The boy nodded. ‘Garden-Sinclair,’ he agreed. ‘It was well hid. The man that holds the place never kenned it was there neither, so Nelkin tellt me.’

‘But how did you carry it?’ demanded Robison.

‘In two bags on the old horse’s packsaddle, under that load o withies,’ said the boy. Robison sat back in his great chair, frowning.

‘And when you got to your father’s yard,’ said Gil, ‘thinking you were home and safe, you were attacked. Did you expect the gate to be open?’

‘No,’ admitted Nicol. ‘I was to sclim ower and unbar it,’ he grinned wryly. ‘I’ve done it a few times. But here it was open, standing just on the jar. So we pushed it open, and there was naught stirring, so in we went, thinking nothing of it, and we’d no more than got the first o the saddlebags off and put it in a barrel as Nelkin said he’d arranged wi his lordship, when these three men came at us, all quiet in a rush.’ He shivered. ‘I seen the axe, and the swords, and then Nelkin shouted to me to run, and I grabbed the reins and louped on the old horse wiout thinking, all on top o the withies, and ran for it, and I — and I — ’ He swallowed. ‘Did you say he was heidit, maister?’

Gil nodded, and the boy crossed himself.

‘I feared it,’ he whispered. ‘When he never followed me here, I feared it. I should never ha left him.’

‘Just as well you did, laddie,’ said Robison. ‘You’d ha gone the same way, unarmed against a chiel wi a great axe.’

‘Aye, but …’ said the boy, and shook his head. ‘He was our good friend, and Jess’s kin. I should never ha left him.’

‘If he ordered you to run,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘and you obeyed, you did right.’

‘And then you came here?’ said Gil.

‘Turned up at first light,’ supplied Robison, ‘chapping the shutters there and gied us the fright o our lives. The auld horse just about foundered, half the withies snapped and hanging off the pack, and him half-dead wi fright. And nae wonder. What Nelkin was about, taking a laddie wi him on a duty like that — ’

‘It was for the horse,’ said Nicol. ‘He wanted me to lead the horse. Old Pyot’ll do anything for me, so he will.’

‘Well,’ said Gil. ‘And you say you never kent what you were carrying?’

‘Well,’ said the boy, and looked at Robison.

‘No, he never,’ said the householder. ‘And no more do I.’

‘No till you looked once he got it here,’ suggested Gil.

‘I wouldny do such a thing!’

Socrates raised his head to look at the man, and Gil said deliberately, ‘Then you’re more of a fool than I took you for.’

Maistre Pierre’s eyebrows went up, and Robison bridled.

‘Well, maybe I took a wee look,’ he conceded.

‘And?’

‘More coin. All coin, it was, by the feel of it, in three great purses, all sealed,’ said Robison regretfully. ‘Two wi the Spitallers’ seal and one wi the old King’s.’

‘Ah!’ said Gil. He heard an echo at his side, and the bench-cushion shifted again. Not looking at his friend, he went on, ‘So where is it now?’

‘Now that I canny tell you, sir.’

‘Do you mean you don’t know?’ Gil asked. ‘Who took it? Why was it not put safe?’

‘I mean I canny tell you,’ repeated Robison.

‘You may tell me,’ said Maistre Pierre, and his big hands stirred on his knee. ‘As a fellow craftsman.’ That’s the second time today he has used that expression, Gil thought. What does he mean? ‘Are you working on the church, Maister Robison? I’ve heard there are two great pillars at its heart. A pity the builder is dead, for the complete building would have astonished the world.’

Robison stared at him, his scarred fingers also moving. The dog had sat up, and was looking intently at the shuttered window. Gil stroked his head.

‘Aye,’ said Robison. ‘I’m working on the roof, wi square and level and plumb, but I still canny tell you, sir, for I’m no the master in charge.’

‘Uncle,’ said the boy quietly. Robison turned to look at him. ‘Would his lordship — ?’

‘He’s from home,’ said Gil.

‘He cam back an hour since,’ said Robison. ‘I saw him ride in off the Edinburgh road.’

‘He’s here,’ said Balthasar of Liège, stepping in at the door, Oliver Sinclair behind him.

‘Oh, indeed there’s more of it,’ said Sinclair. Seated in Robison’s great chair, large, fair and handsome in a big-sleeved gown of blue wool, he dominated the room. ‘I have the half-load the laddie here brought on Monday night, which I take to be the other half of the shipment that turned up in Glasgow in your barrel. It’s safe enough here. If you want it, you’ll have to convince me you’ve a right to it, Gil Cunningham.’

‘I’ve no right to any of it, sir,’ said Gil politely. ‘But we’ve a sergeant of the Hospitallers with us, looking for their portion, and I feel the treasury would like to see the late King’s hoard again.’

‘I’ve no doubt they would,’ said Sinclair, with irony. ‘And so would this fellow you brought in as prisoner. Who the deil is he? D’you think he’s a treasury man?’

‘Not a treasury man, no,’ said Gil. Sinclair’s eyebrows went up at the emphasis. ‘Have you asked him yourself?’

‘I have not. He’s got away. That fool Preston never chained him, and he struck down the guard and ran.’ Gil and Maistre Pierre looked at one another in dismay. ‘But Will Knollys can whistle for the treasury portion. It’s safer in my care.’ He grinned at Gil. ‘And I’ll deny saying that, on oath.’

‘And there are our books,’ added Gil.

Sinclair’s expression changed, and the sapphires on his hat caught the light as he pushed it forward. ‘Oh, aye, those books. Quite a surprise, that was, when we unstitched the canvas just now and found Knowe well to Dye in black velvet, rather than a wee box of coin. D’ye ken what else is in the batch?’

‘I’ve got Halyburton’s docket,’ said Gil. ‘Have you unpacked any more?’

‘Not yet. If there’s anything good, I might make you an offer.’

‘Fair enough, but I want the Morte Darthur.’

Maistre Pierre stirred on the bench beside Gil. ‘This treasure. Some of it was, I take it,’ he said, picking his words with care, ‘a loan from the Hospitallers to the late King?’ An interesting assumption, thought Gil. ‘I think they want it back.’

‘Seems likely,’ agreed Sinclair.

‘I also think,’ continued the mason, ‘if it is hid in the obvious place, that we need to get it out before work begins in the morning.’

Sinclair gave him a sharp look, then nodded. ‘Also likely. I’d need proof the Order’s looking for it, of course.’

‘I think Johan can give you that,’ interposed Gil.

Sinclair looked round the room, and rose to his feet.

‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘We’ll go and find this Johan, will we? Where is he, in the Skelly Matt?’

The sky was still greenish to the west, but overhead it was dark, and the moon had not yet risen. The torches made little difference, and the shadows of the pinescented timber stacks around the church jumped distractingly.

‘We do better without,’ said Johan, tramping his out underfoot. ‘Now where?’

‘The roof,’ said Sinclair.

The Hospitaller looked upwards, into the web of poles. ‘You mean we go up the scaffolding?’

‘There’s a ladder in the lodge,’ said Robison, ‘and another within the kirk.’

Behind him the musician eyed the towering bulk of the building in its cloak of timbers, and turned away.

‘Which part of the roof?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘Above the vault?’

‘No,’ said Sinclair. He grinned, in the leaping light of the torch in Robison’s grasp. ‘I’ll tell you no more. It’s well protected. If you’re the craftsman I think you are, you’ll find it, and if you can find it, you can take the St Johns share. But mind, the rest’s to stay where it is, till it suits me to gie it ower.’

‘We’ll need lanterns,’ said Gil, ‘rather than torches.’

‘You come too?’ said Maistre Pierre doubtfully. ‘I cannot take two who are new to scaffolding.’

‘I’ll be careful,’ said Gil. ‘My brothers and I climbed every tree from Glassford to Carscallan.’

‘I also,’ said Johan.

Balthasar returned across the building site with three lanterns in his arms.

‘From the Skelly Matt,’ he said, distributing these. ‘Your dog’s fair creating, maister. Your man says he’s no sure how long he can hold him.’

‘Well,’ said Maistre Pierre, lighting the candle from his lantern at Robison’s torch. He fitted it back on to the spike and closed the trap. ‘Let us go, then, and solve this puzzle we are set.’