The Merchant's Mark

Chapter Three

‘We need all you can tell us,’ said Gil.

‘About what?’ said Morison blankly.

‘About this barrel,’ said Maistre Pierre.

They were in the chamber which Sir Thomas, muttering curses, had allotted as a prison cell before he hurried off to see to the preparations for the arrival of the Archbishop and more particularly of the King. It was a small, pleasant room two storeys up one of the towers, with a view of the west towers of St Mungo’s and a bed at least as good as Gil’s own on which Morison was seated, leaving Maistre Pierre the stool while Gil hunkered down against the wall.

‘You were there when we broached it,’ said the merchant, ‘you know as much as I do.’

‘Tell us from the beginning,’ Gil said patiently, ‘when you saw it hoisted from Tod’s ship at Blackness. You said it was the only one that size. Are you certain of that?’

‘Well, it’s what Tod said,’ said Morison. ‘I think. It’s all tapsalteerie in my head, Gil.’

‘You didn’t look in the hold yourself?’

‘I was never on Tod’s deck. I stayed on the shore and had an eye to the cransman,’ said Morison more confidently.

‘Certainly he’d no reason to say so if it wasn’t true,’ said Gil. ‘And then what happened? It was put on the cart?’

‘Aye. Well, it stood on the shore till we saw how much there was to go on the cart.’

‘And how much was that?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

Morison dragged his gaze from the towers of St Mungo’s and looked apologetically from one to the other.

‘I canny mind,’ he said. ‘I canny think. It’s all tap-salteerie,’ he said again, demonstrating inversion with one hand. ‘There’s nothing left in my head but the thought of what’s to come to my bairns if … if …’

‘This is the best way to help your bairns,’ Gil said bracingly, though sympathy gnawed at his gut. ‘When you got the cart home, how much was there to be unloaded?’

‘Oh. Aye.’ Morison frowned at his feet. ‘There was the two great pipes that came out of Maikison’s vessel. One was mostly tin-glazed, with a couple steeks velvet for Clem Walkinshaw on the top, and the other was a mixed load. Aye, just the two,’ he nodded. ‘And the puncheon which,’ he went on more certainly, ‘went on at the tail of the cart, roped well in place.’

‘Who roped it on?’

‘One of the men, I suppose. Likely Billy, he’s my carter.’

‘And how many carts did you have with you?’

‘Just the one. Billy and Andy saw to the driving, and Jamesie and I rode alongside.’

‘And where did the cart go?’ prompted Maistre Pierre.

‘Why, it came home,’ said Morison, the blank look appearing again.

‘Straight home in one day?’

‘Don’t be daft, Gil!’ Morison paused. ‘Oh, I see what you want. We lay at Linlithgow Monday night, and Kilsyth on Tuesday.’

‘And what happened to the cart each time? Did you leave it in the inn-yard?’

‘No, no. I take better care of my goods than that. We’ve an arrangement wherever we lie, to run the cart into someone’s yard where it can be secure, and Billy sleeps with it as well.’

‘We’ll need the names of the yards,’ said Gil. ‘Now, after it came home, where did the barrel lie? Where was it yesternight?’

‘Last night.’ Morison frowned. ‘Is that right? Just last night? I suppose it must be. We were so late back, we ran the cart into the barn and shut the doors on it. Billy had to take the mare down to stable her, but I’d not the heart to make them start on the load after.’

‘So the barrel sat in the barn overnight with the rest. Was it undisturbed when you saw it this morning?’

‘Oh, yes. Well, it must have been,’ qualified Morison, ‘for there had been nobody in the barn. Then I got Andy to roll it down and handle it into the shed, and sent him for you while the other men made a start on the pipe of tin-glazed, and … and …’ He paused, staring at nothing. ‘St Peter’s bones, Gil, when he came up out of the water like that!’

‘He was a gruesome sight, poor devil,’ Gil agreed.

‘Aye, but … aye, but …’

‘What is it, Augie?’ Gil asked. It was clear the man needed to say something, and was reluctant to form the words. ‘Out with it, man!’

‘It was the way the water ran from his mouth,’ said Morison in a rush, his face reddening. ‘When — when I saw my Agnes lifted from the milldam. She was all white like that, and she could have been asleep, only for the water running out of her mouth — oh, Gil, it minded me so strongly!’

He scrubbed at his eyes with a sleeve, turning his face away.

Orpheus, thought Gil. Quhair art thow gone, my luve Ewridicess? He rose and walked about the small room, overcome with embarrassment. Behind him Morison groped for his handkerchief and hiccuped, while Maistre Pierre tut-tutted in sympathy.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gil said at last. ‘I never realized she had — ’

‘It was the melancholy,’ Morison explained, and blew his nose resoundingly. ‘After the bairn died. He only lived a week, the poor wee — and I knew she was — I’d to be away too much, but how could I leave the business? And now if my wee lassies are to be left with neither father nor mother, what’s to come of them? What’s to come of the household?’ He turned away again, ramming the damp linen against his eyes.

‘It won’t come to that,’ Gil said firmly. ‘Would you like to see a priest? I forget who’s chaplain here when Robert Blacader’s away, but there’s plenty priests over yonder.’ He waved at the towers of St Mungo’s.

Morison nodded, sniffing unhappily, but said, ‘Or maybe someone from the Greyfriars?’

‘I can send to Greyfriars for you,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘I’ll have a word with Sir Thomas, and then I’ll get away, Augie, for the first thing I need to do is speak to someone about the treasure.’

‘Oh, aye, the treasure,’ said Morison vaguely ‘I keep forgetting that.’ He sniffed again, biting his lip, and Gil patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

‘I hadn’t. I think it may be the key to the whole thing. Keep your spirits up, man,’ he said, ‘and pray for my success, and I’ll see you when I get back to Glasgow.’

‘I see two trails we must follow,’ said Maistre Pierre as they crossed the castle yard.

‘At least two,’ agreed Gil.

‘You must go now, to take advantage of the escort and speak to Robert Blacader,’ continued the mason, ‘but I could set out tomorrow, and trace Morison’s cart back to Linlithgow.’

‘And then I could meet you there,’ said Gil. ‘Pierre, if you can spare the time, I’d be glad of the help.’

‘How fast will the law proceed? How long have we got?’

‘The law will take time,’ Gil admitted, nodding to the men on the gate. He set off right-handed along the rose-coloured outer wall of the castle, and continued, ‘Even if Robert Blacader sits in judgement while he is in Glasgow, which I hope to avert, he would then have to send Augie to Edinburgh for trial, and that would have to wait while the King’s Justice was sent for and the witnesses were summoned from Glasgow. But I’m concerned about Augie’s business and even more about his bairns. The sooner we get this straightened out, the better.’

‘Oh, indeed. But at least we are not attempting to hold the hangman’s arm.’

‘Not yet.’

Maistre Pierre paused by the stone cross at the Wyndhead, where the four roads of the upper town met.

‘We need to give that poor soul a name,’ he said, ‘and find how he died. We must trace your books in their barrel, wherever they have got to.’

‘And we need to find out where the coin has been these four years and how it got into the barrel we have.’

‘But why must you go to Stirling?’ asked Alys, turning within the circle of Gil’s arm to look up at him. ‘Surely if the King and the court will come to Glasgow on Saturday you can ask your questions when they arrive.’

‘It will be late in the day when they get here, and I had sooner make a start today,’ said Gil. ‘Augie is fretting about the bairns and the business. Besides, there’s no saying whether the people I want to speak to will travel with the court.’

‘Leave him, Alys,’ said his sister, from where she sat in bleached dignity in the arbour by the wall. ‘He wants off his leash.’

Gil looked at her with sympathy, and found her looking back at him, a faint ironic smile overlying the tear stains. She was the best-looking of his four surviving sisters; according to their uncle she was bonnier than their mother in her prime. Here in the garden, weary with grief, she looked older than their mother was now. At least, Gil thought, scratching Socrates behind the ears with his free hand, she had recovered enough spirit to rake up old family jokes.

‘What will you do first?’ she asked. ‘Who must you speak to at Stirling?’

‘Treasurer Knollys,’ said Gil. ‘Robert Blacader, of course. The McIans, if they’re in the town.’

‘You should speak to Maister Morison’s men before you go,’ said Alys thoughtfully. ‘They may have noticed something without recognizing its importance.’

‘No time just now. When I get back,’ said Gil. ‘Unless …’

She looked up at him again. Unable to resist, he leaned down to kiss the high narrow blade of her nose. Her smile flickered, but she said seriously, ‘I could do that. My father’s man Thomas likely knows them.’

‘If you have the time,’ he said. She smiled, and he kissed her again, then said reluctantly, ‘I must pack. If I set out as soon as I’ve had a bite, I should be in Stirling before Vespers.’

‘I will have a word with Maggie,’ said Alys. ‘She always has food for you.’

She rose from the bench where they were sitting. Gil caught her hand, attempting to detain her, but she looked down, met his eye, and with a significant glance directed his attention to the arbour, then turned and left the garden. Socrates turned his long nose from Gil to her retreating back and whined.

Kate was sitting quietly, with her hands in her lap, staring out over the burgh. It was only when he went over and sat down beside her that Gil saw the small movements of fingers and thumbs, doggedly tearing at the calloused skin of her palms. He put his hand over hers, to still the movement, and she jumped convulsively and looked round at him.

‘Kit-cat,’ he said gently. She turned her head away sharply. ‘What will you do now?’

‘Babb will help me in for my dinner,’ she said, ‘and then I’ll go to my prayers in our uncle’s oratory, though what I should pray for now is anyone’s guess, and then I suppose Babb will carry me up to my bed, and — ’

‘Kate. You know fine that’s not what I meant.’

She bent her head.

‘Aye,’ she said after a moment, ‘but it saves me answering you.’

‘A life needs a direction. Like a daisy facing the sun, maybe.’

‘You’ve found yours,’ she said. ‘I’ve not said to you before now, Gil. I like my new sister fine.’

‘I’m glad of that,’ he said. ‘Stop changing the subject.’

‘I’m not. There’s nothing else to discuss, for I’ve no direction. My daisies are all in darkness. Maybe I’ll study,’ she said a little wildly, ‘teach myself the Latin or the Greek or High German. That could be it. I may be tocherless and crippled, but I’ll be the most learned crippled ancient maid in Scotland, and doctors of the Laws will come from Spain and Tartary to consult me — ’

‘Better to study the Laws themselves,’ said Gil. ‘You could set up your sign in Lanark and convey documents and write wills. You might earn yourself a tocher that way.’ He put his arm round her. ‘Kate, what was it you dreamed?’

‘Oh, that.’ She was silent a moment, then sighed. ‘I saw the saint himself.’

‘St Mungo?’ he said, startled.

‘Himself,’ she said again. ‘He wasn’t robed as a bishop, he was barefoot in a brown robe like a Franciscan’s, with a great checked plaid over it like mine, of all things, but I knew well it was St Mungo by the bishop’s crook in his hand.’

‘And?’ Gil prompted.

‘I was lying on the grass by the pool — the Linn pool, you mind, Gil. He bent and took my hand, and said, Rise up, daughter, and pulled me to my feet. And then he led me away from the pool, and I could walk on both feet. Gil, do you know, when I’m dreaming I can still walk like other people. But in this dream it was different, because I knew the walking was a gift, it was a grace, something the saint had done for me.’

‘Dreams are strange things,’ he said, past the lump in his throat. ‘Was that it?’

‘One thing more,’ she said bleakly. ‘The final cup of wormwood. Whoever he was, he led me forward to my wedding. I never saw my bridegroom, but I knew he waited for me. And I woke, and not a word of it was true.’

‘Oh, Kate,’ he said helplessly. ‘Kit-cat. I’m sorry.’

‘Gib-cat,’ she said. She put a hand over his where it lay on her shoulder, and sighed. ‘I’ve no doubt there’s a lesson to my spirit in it, but even the old man hasn’t suggested what it might be yet.’

It was some time since Gil had been out of Glasgow, and longer yet since he had the chance to ride fast on a good horse. The road to Stirling was well made, and though it was busy the sight of five well-armed riders moving in a cloud of dust caused most travellers to give them the way. Gil, with the Provost’s two messengers in front of him and two of his uncle’s men at his back, swept through villages scattering hens and attracting barking dogs, slowing to pick their way more carefully through the small towns such as Kirkintilloch and Kilsyth, making most speed in the open farmlands between, where the folk loading hay on to carts or hay-sleds paused to hand the leather bottle of ale and watch them pass. To begin with, Socrates bounded happily alongside, but by the time the messengers left them at Stirling town gates, to hasten up to the castle, the dog was draped wearily across Gil’s saddlebow.

He clattered more slowly up Stirling’s busy High Street, and his uncle’s men followed him, all three horses too done to shy at the raucous cries of the market and the noise of stalls being dismantled. Gil looked about with care in the hope of catching sight of a familiar face, and preferably one who might be of some help.

‘I’ve a cousin’s a stable-hand to Robert Blacader,’ said Tam helpfully behind him. ‘If it’s the Bishop you want, maister.’

‘I know one that’s servant to one of the canons at the Holy Rude,’ offered Rob, not to be outdone.

‘It may come to that yet,’ said Gil, ‘but I’ve no doubt there are others who could get us close to him faster. There’s one, indeed. Maister Dunbar! William!’

The small rat-faced man turned, shading his eyes against the light, and a large wife with a basket of limp greenstuff collided with his back and made her way round him, commenting freely on his common sense.

‘Maister Cunningham,’ he said formally, ignoring her. ‘Good day to you, Gil. And what brings you to Stirling, covered in dust? I thought you were chained to St Mungo’s gateway.’ He smiled sourly. Gil dismounted, handing his reins to Rob, and lifted Socrates down. The dog shook himself vigorously and sat down, yawning.

‘I’m looking for a word with my lord Archbishop,’ Gil said. ‘Where can I find him?’

‘Oh?’ Maister William Dunbar, secretary to Archbishop Blacader, raised his eyebrows. ‘Can you mean something’s actually happened in Glasgow?’ He considered Gil, and the acid smile appeared again. ‘It’s been quiet since May, and now Gil Cunningham wants a word. Another killing? Another secret murder? Who is it this time, the Provost and all the bailies? Or is it something to do with a portion of the late King’s hoard found in a barrel?’

‘Partly,’ said Gil. ‘Where is his lordship?’

‘Oh, attending on the King.’ Dunbar waved in the general direction of the castle, and another passer-by ducked and cursed him. ‘Is that what you’re after? Entry to the court?’

‘Robert Blacader will do well enough,’ said Gil. ‘Can you get me in to him?’

‘I’m bound there the now,’ admitted the smaller man. ‘I should be with him, only he sent me out an errand for the King’s grace. Confidential, I need hardly say.’

‘Oh, of course,’ Gil agreed. ‘And you’ve delivered your message? Can you get me to his lordship?’

‘I can,’ said Dunbar, turning to walk on up the hill. ‘What’s it worth?’

‘I’ll tell you all about it,’ offered Gil, suppressing annoyance. ‘After I’ve spoken to Robert Blacader,’ he added.

Dunbar considered this, his eyes narrowed, and at length he nodded. ‘See your men and your beasts settled,’ he said, ‘and apply for me at the gatehouse in an hour. I’ll do what I can for you. Mind, it had better be a good story.’

‘Oh, it’s all of that,’ said Gil.

‘And I suppose you want a lodging this night as well?’

‘I can see to that for myself. How is the court just now?’

‘Right now, very unsettled,’ said Dunbar morosely. ‘My lord of Angus arrived before noon for a word with him.’ From the emphasis on the pronoun, Gil interpreted it as referring to the young King James. ‘We think he’s planning to go into Ayrshire, and we’re not certain how many of us are wanted. How big a house is the place at Kilmarnock?’

‘Angus’s place? Not big enough for the court,’ Gil replied. ‘You’ll have to lie out in the town, as you do here.’

‘Hmm.’ Dunbar considered this prospect, and halted again. ‘Even my lord Archbishop?’

‘Better ask some of Angus’s people. I’ll leave you here, William. My lodgings are on Back Wynd. In an hour at the gatehouse, then.’

Following Maister Dunbar along a seemingly endless enfilade of stuffy rooms, through waves of conflicting smells of civet and moth-herbs, musk and lavender and stale furs, Gil barely had time to pick out the familiar faces. People he had been at school with, at college with, or met briefly in Glasgow were among those sitting or standing about, playing cards or dice or talking about hunting. One or two showed signs of recognizing him.

‘My lord’s playing at the cards with the King,’ said Dunbar, pausing in a doorway. ‘Wait in this chamber, Gil. I’ll see if I can get him out between games.’

Gil grimaced. A good game of Tarocco could last the best part of an hour. He nodded, and looked about him as Dunbar’s tonsure disappeared past someone’s green brocade shoulder into the next room.

‘I know you,’ said a voice beside him. ‘You’re a Cunningham, aren’t you?’ He turned, to find a big fair man at his elbow, all cherry-coloured velvet and yellow silk. Noll Sinclair of Roslin, friend of his parents and of the late King, clapped him on the shoulder and grinned at him. ‘Gled Cunningham’s youngest. Gilbert, is it?’

‘Sir Oliver,’ said Gil formally, looking into the handsome face level with his. ‘My God, I haven’t heard my father’s by-name in years.’

‘Aye, well.’ Sinclair’s grin vanished briefly. ‘A bad business, that. And your brothers and all. Grievous. How’s your mother? How does she manage?’

‘My mother’s well, thank you, sir. She has her dower-lands near Lanark, and wins a living.’

‘Oh, aye.’ The grin reappeared. ‘She stayed with us at Roslin a time or two, and some of your sisters with her. I mind her then instructing me on horse-breeding. So she’s running horses on her dower-lands, is she?’

‘It’s good enough grazing out by Carluke,’ said Gil, nodding. ‘And it’s high enough to breed hardy beasts. She knows what she’s doing.’

‘I’ve no doubt of that where Gelis Muirhead’s concerned. And what are you doing, yourself? Will you be for the Church or the Law?’

‘The Law,’ said Gil firmly. ‘I’ll take my notary’s oath next month, and hang up my sign in Glasgow.’

‘If I’ve business to do in Lanarkshire I’ll remember that,’ said Sinclair. He hitched at the wide sleeves of his gown, turning back the cuffs so that the yellow silk lining showed to advantage. ‘So it’s the secular life, is it? And a marriage in mind, so I heard.’

‘Contract signed,’ agreed Gil.

‘My good wishes on that,’ said the other affably. ‘And how is Glasgow? What’s this we’ve been hearing today? A piece of the old King’s hoard turned up in the burgh? In a barrel?’

‘I suppose the word would spread fast,’ Gil said in some annoyance.

‘This is the court,’ said Sinclair. ‘There’s nothing to do but gossip or listen to gossip. I thank God fasting every time I come near the King that I’ve no need to hold office.’ Gil, who knew the story of the bargain struck by a previous Stewart with a previous Sinclair, merely nodded. ‘I suppose there’s no doubt that it’s the King’s money?’ Sir Oliver went on, his tone casual. ‘Coin is only coin, after all, it doesn’t have the owner’s badge on it.’

‘It isn’t only money,’ said Gil reluctantly. ‘There are jewels as well. Some of those are the owner’s badge, indeed — very obviously out of the royal treasury.’

‘Oh?’ Sinclair’s eyebrows rose. ‘And where did ye find this? Was it really in a barrel? And what’s this about a head? What like was it? Do you ken whose? Is it some thief or other, or a fighting man?’

‘You’re well informed, sir,’ said Gil. And full of questions, he thought. ‘No, I’ve no notion whose. If I knew where the coin had been hid these four years I might be closer to giving him a name, but it won’t be easy to get an answer to that.’

‘I should say not,’ agreed Sinclair. ‘Ask at Robert Lyle, why don’t you. He seems to have information the rest of us lack.’

‘Gil,’ said Maister Dunbar at his elbow. ‘My lord will see you now.’

‘I’m sure Robert Lyle will want a word,’ reiterated Sinclair. Gil, with some relief, raised his hat and bowed to him before turning to follow the little poet from the chamber.

Robert Blacader, well-found, blue-jowled and tonsured, was waiting in a windowless closet between that room and the next, seated on a folding chair, a stand of newly lit candles on the chest beside him. The light gleamed on the dark brocade of his gown, the silver fittings of belt and purse at his waist. When Gil entered he held out a hand.

‘I can spare you a short time, Maister Cunningham,’ he said. Gil knelt to kiss the ring. ‘I hope your uncle is well?’ Gil murmured something. ‘I believe it was you found this treasure that appeared this morning?’

‘I was present when it was found, my lord,’ Gil parried.

‘Sir Thomas never sent me more than the bare bones of the tale to it.’

‘There’s more to tell now in any case, my lord.’

The Archbishop gestured, and Gil stood obediently and gave him a succinct account of the finding of the head and the treasure, and then of the inquest and its result. Blacader heard him out in growing annoyance, and finally shook his head, saying irritably, ‘The Provost has acted as he must, but Christ aid me, I never heard such nonsense. It’s surely been a wilful false verdict. I’ll send to Sir Thomas the morn, and look into it closer when I reach Glasgow. Has this fellow — what’s his name, Morison? Has he enemies in the burgh?’

‘No more than any successful merchant,’ said Gil. ‘He’s harmless enough, I’d have said. A gentle soul.’

‘Hmm,’ said the Archbishop. ‘And he has asked you to sort it out, has he?’ Gil nodded. ‘Aye. After you dealt with those other two matters, it would be an obvious choice,’ continued Blacader thoughtfully. He stared at Gil for a moment, the candlelight flickering on brow and padded cheeks. ‘I think you must. We’ll not waste the Justiciars’ time with this kind of thing. William,’ he said, and Maister Dunbar stirred at the door of the little room. ‘Something towards Maister Cunningham’s expenses, I think. Ten merks should do it. And you’ll report to me, Gilbert.’

‘Gladly, my lord. Thank you,’ said Gil fervently, going down on one knee again. This was more than he had hoped for: Blacader had just attached him to his own retinue, however informally.

‘And now,’ said the Archbishop, getting to his feet, ‘I must go back to the King. Come with me, Gilbert.’

The inmost chamber was crowded with bystanders and servants in the royal livery, but their gaze, direct or sidelong, showed where to look. Near the empty hearth a table was set up, covered in a silk carpet, the cards still lying on it in tricks as they had been gathered in among the heaps of coin. Three people were seated round it. On the far side King James, aged nineteen, chestnut hair and long-nosed Stewart good looks set off by green velvet and blue silk, was talking to a hulking man whose cropped hair and beard showed streaks of grey: Archibald Douglas, fifth earl of Angus. On this side was a well-found blue-jowled person in furred red silk embroidered with trees of life, a match for the Archbishop save for the lack of a tonsure; plump hands studded with rings were folded on his knee as he watched the conversation with the open smiling gaze of a statesman.

‘His grace will want the story of the finding of the treasure,’ said Blacader, placing himself expertly to catch Angus’s eye, and his counterpart turned his head sharply, his silk rustling.

‘Are ye sure of that, Robert?’ he asked. ‘This is gey public. And is this the man that found it?’ He looked closely at Gil with round pale eyes, and then cast a pointed glance at Maister Dunbar, who stared at the patterned ceiling.

‘Wheesht, William,’ Blacader said, intent on the King, and Gil appreciated that the other man was that chimera of his age, neither cleric nor layman, William Knollys the Treasurer of Scotland and Commendator of the Knights of St John.

The royal conversation paused, and Blacader inserted a practised word. Gil found himself kneeling again, and then somehow seated on a stool which manifested behind him, giving an account of the finding of first the head and then the bag of coin. The two men of state watched him as he talked, intent and impassive, and Angus leaned back to whisper to a servant, but the King listened closely, his mobile face expressing interest, concern, dismay as the narrative proceeded.

‘And what has the inquest found?’ he asked. ‘Did they get a name for the man?’

‘No, sir,’ said Gil. ‘Nobody in the burgh knew him.’

‘No surprise in that, I suppose,’ said the King. ‘He’s likely from wherever the hoard money’s been hid these four years, and not from Glasgow at all. And the barrel came from Linlithgow, you say?’

‘The barrel was exchanged for ours,’ said Gil with care, ‘somewhere between Linlithgow and Glasgow. Or so I believe, sir.’

‘Aye,’ said James thoughtfully. ‘No saying, is there? But why? And why put the head and the coin both into brine?’

‘I hope to find out,’ said Gil.

‘Tell me when you do. And I hope you find your books, maister,’ said the King, and Gil realized this was the first person to whom he had told the tale who had expressed the wish. ‘Meantime, there’s the matter of a reward for finding the treasure. That’s two thousand merks waiting for us in Glasgow, forbye the jewels — we’re certainly grateful, man. My lord Treasurer, you’ll see to that the now, will you?’

Thus dismissed, Gil retreated from the card-room, followed immediately by Knollys, who gestured to one of his own servants and bustled Gil back through the sequence of stuffy crowded rooms, asking affably after his uncle as they went, studying him with those round pale eyes. Gil, recalling Canon Cunningham’s strictures on this man as one of the most litigious in Scotland, answered as non-committally as he could.

‘And this barrel,’ said Knollys, pausing at a door which led out into a courtyard. The servant began striking light for the torch he carried. Knollys stepped into the yard, and Gil followed. Windows glowed above them, and overhead the sky was still greenish with the last of the light. ‘Naught else in it?’

‘No, sir,’ said Gil. ‘Just the saddlebag of coin and the head.’

‘Aye,’ said Knollys thoughtfully. He stopped in the centre of the courtyard, tapping his teeth with a fingernail. One of his rings glittered as his hand moved. ‘What made you so sure it was from the late King’s hoard, then?’ he asked, his tone soft.

‘The only thing that’s certain,’ said Gil with caution, ‘is that along with the coin we found a roll of jewels, including badges of the Queen’s household and the like. There’s no seal on the purses, but we assumed the coin went with the jewels. The saddlebag isn’t marked, the barrel and the head could have come from anywhere.’

‘Aye,’ said Knollys again, and the ring sparked. ‘What like man is it, the head I mean?’

Gil shrugged. ‘He looks like a Scot,’ he began.

‘I never suggested he wasny,’ said Knollys.

‘Maybe a fighting man, by the haircut. No more than thirty year old, maybe less.’

‘Aye,’ said Knollys a third time, tapping his teeth again. The man in the St Johns livery approached, holding the sputtering torch high. ‘I see what you mean. Could be anyone.’ Ignoring his servant, he set off towards the far corner of the courtyard. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll keep the Archbishop informed,’ he added as Gil followed him.

Up two more flights of stairs they reached a tower chamber where, even at this late hour, a clerk was working at a tall desk. The servant stationed himself outside the door, torch in one hand, the other on his sword.

‘Aye, Richie,’ said Knollys to the clerk. ‘Where are your keys? We’ll have the great kist opened, if you please.’ He produced a bunch of keys on a chain at his own belt, and he and the clerk went through the careful procedure of opening the great iron-bound box in the corner of the chamber, selecting and counting out twenty merks, placing them in a canvas purse, closing the box and locking it again.

‘The man who found the treasure will be grateful,’ Gil said, signing the receipt presented to him and thinking of Andy. ‘If it is from the late King’s hoard, is that the last, do you suppose?’

The clerk paused in turning to file the paper, but did not speak; the Treasurer said blandly, ‘Oh, I am certain Robert Lyle thinks there is more out there.’

‘Is there no record of who held the different portions?’ Gil asked.

‘None that I ever saw,’ said Knollys. ‘Or if any was kept, it was lost at the battle. I doubt if even his grace himself knew, by the end, where he’d planted this or that portion.’

‘Who do we know of, that has returned their kists?’

‘Atholl the late King’s uncle,’ said Knollys promptly. ‘My predecessor in this office. Robert Hog at Holyrood. Alan of Avery, or rather his sire.’ The clerk said something. ‘Aye, Richie, I’d forgot that. George Robinson the Edinburgh custumar was said to ha taken a thousand pound o’ the customs money,’ he explained to Gil, ‘and carried it to the north to raise a host, where folk were mostly for the late King. If he did, it’s never been recovered, and in any case I have my doubts. It’s a suspicious kind of sum, a thousand of anything. The sort of amount folk name when they just mean a lot of coin.’

Gil nodded agreement.

‘But you must understand, Maister Cunningham, this was all in my predecessor’s time. I know nothing of the matter, other than what has appeared since the start of the present reign.’

The clerk flicked a glance at his master, but said nothing. Gil nodded again, and took the canvas purse from the desk and stowed it in his jerkin.

‘Why this portion should have appeared now, in such circumstances,’ he said, ‘is beyond me.’

‘Your father was out at Stirling field for the old King, was he no?’ said Knollys.

‘He was indeed, my lord,’ said Gil politely. ‘And died for him too.’

The ruby ring flashed again, but Knollys, a man who had changed sides at the moment most expedient to himself, did not respond. Instead he said, in considered tones, ‘Some of his friends might be a help to you, if you want to know where the barrel came from. Ross of Montgrenan, Ross of Hawkhead, Dunbar of Cumnock, all might have ideas about it.’

‘It’s very possible, my lord,’ Gil agreed. ‘A valuable suggestion.’

‘So now if you’ll excuse me,’ said Knollys, ‘I’ll get back to the cards.’

‘Afore ye go, my lord,’ said the clerk quietly, and his master turned to look at him. ‘If you’d just sign this.’

‘What is it? What is it?’

‘For the coin I gave out to Wilkie and Carson at noon. Expenses.’

‘To — ?’ Knollys bit off the question. ‘Aye, right. I hope to God they catch up with Carson’s brother. Why they ever let him go off his lone — ’ He stopped himself again. ‘You never paid them for that last piece of work, I hope, Richie?’ The clerk shook his head. ‘Right. I don’t pay for failure.’

‘The word was good,’ muttered the clerk, and fell silent at a burning glance from Knollys. Gil made some business of ensuring that his jerkin was laced over the purse he had been given, and Knollys signed the paper and flung the pen down on the desk, shaking his wide furred sleeve down over his rings.

‘So you’ll be into Ayrshire, then,’ he said, making for the door. The man with the torch set off in front of him, to light the stair.

‘One other thing you might be able to tell me, my lord,’ said Gil, following the Treasurer down the spiral. ‘I’m looking for a harper I believe might be in Stirling — the man McIan. He and his sister have played for my lord Archbishop before now. Do you know how I might find out his whereabouts?’

‘Aye, I believe I’ve heard them,’ said Knollys dis-missively over his shoulder. ‘If they’ve played before Robert Blacader, likely Maister Secretary will ken where they’re to be found. Ask at William Dunbar, Maister Cunningham.’

Having warned the household of the Precentor of Holyrude Kirk that he would likely be late, and promised to bar the door when he came in, Gil set off with Socrates towards the lodgings Dunbar had suggested as a likely place to find his friend the harper. Despite the curfew bell there were many people still about, day labourers hurrying homeward, folk going visiting for the evening. A troop of mounted men clattered past him down the hill, the eight-pointed star of the Knights Hospitallers gleaming pale on their black cloaks. The harper’s lodging lay one stair up, well down a vennel off the High Street, but the dog seemed to detect no unusual threat, and Gil picked his way down the darkening alley with no more than ordinary caution.

This much of Knollys’s advice was sound: the harper was clearly at home. There was light in the windows, the shutters were open, and the sound of voices and several conflicting musical instruments floated into the evening. Gil followed the sound and knocked on the door, and was admitted by a man in royal livery with a vièle under his arm and a beaker in his hand.

‘Angus!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Here’s another singer. Christ save us, have we no enough? Have you no instrument, man?’ he added to Gil.

‘I’m no musician,’ said Gil hastily. ‘I’m the audience.’

‘Oh, well,’ said the doorkeeper. ‘We aye need an audience.’ He stood aside, and Gil stepped into a candlelit room full of people in well-worn finery. Nearest him, two more men with vièles of different sizes and another with a German flute were arguing about the pitch of a note someone had just played, but beyond them three lutenists were tuning their awkward, fragile instruments, and a mixed covey of singers beside one of the candles had their heads together over a piece of paper and were humming something.

‘Who is it, Will?’ The harper’s sister Ealasaidh came forward. For a moment Gil did not recognize her: instead of her usual loose checked gown, the common garb of a Highland woman, she wore fine brocade and velvet, and her long dark hair was hidden under a French hood. ‘It’s yourself, Maister Cunningham. Come in, come in. Is the bairn safe?’ she demanded urgently.

‘The bairn is well,’ said Gil reassuringly, annoyed with himself for not thinking of this before. Naturally, their first thought would be for the harper’s motherless infant son. ‘I’m in Stirling about another matter, and I thought the two of you might have the answer to one of my questions.’

‘Another death, is it?’ she said, staring at him from under dark brows. Socrates, uneasy in the crowded room, wagged his tail doubtfully at her and she bent to pat his head.

‘Maister Cunningham?’ called the harper from his chair by the hearth. ‘Come in, maister, and be welcome.’ He rose, clasping his harp. Gil made his way past the lutenists, two men and a woman who had now launched into a plangent setting of I long for thy virginitie, and as he recognized the tune he was assailed by a sudden sharp thought of Alys, and of the impossibility of setting a date for their marriage yet.

‘It will be well,’ said McIan, standing imposing in his blue velvet gown, his white hair and beard combed out like snow over chest and shoulders. He turned his silver eyes towards Gil. ‘It will be well, and worth the wait. Where your treasure is, there will your heart be, but that is not what you have come about.’

Gil, used to enigmatic statements like this, said simply, ‘No, I have a question for you, sir. And some of these others might have an answer to it as well,’ he added.

‘Ask it,’ said McIan, as his sister put a beaker of wine into Gil’s hand. Gil hesitated, wondering where to begin. ‘The woman of the house is right, is she not, maister? It concerns a death? And more than one.’

‘Only one,’ said Gil. ‘When did you last hear of the lutenist called Balthasar of Liège?’

‘What, is it Barty that is dead?’ asked Ealasaidh at Gil’s elbow, and crossed herself in dismay. ‘Sorrow is at me to hear the word.’

‘I don’t know that,’ said Gil. The lutenists stopped playing and turned to stare, and the singers and the broken consort took the opportunity to start a part-song, Scots words to French music. ‘Someone very like him has turned up dead in Glasgow, and I hope you can tell me it’s not him.’

‘Balthasar of Liège?’ said one of the male lutenists. He was wearing a regrettable striped doublet of red and cream with bunches of crumpled green ribbons attached to all the seams, bright even by candlelight. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Barty Fletcher,’ said the woman beside him. ‘I’ve seen him, but no since last week, maister.’

‘When was that?’ Gil asked. ‘Where was he?’

‘When we came through Falkirk,’ the woman said, looking at the third lutenist, more soberly dressed in rubbed blue velvet. ‘Would that be Thursday?’

‘I never saw him,’ he said suspiciously.

‘You were paying for the ale. I never spoke to him, I just saw him go past.’

‘Falkirk,’ said Gil above the music. ‘When would that have been? What day?’

‘Friday,’ said the man, still frowning. ‘When was I paying for the ale?’

‘After we ordered it,’ she said. The singers finished their part-song, and without consultation started it again, the vièles coming in raggedly.

‘Friday,’ said Gil doubtfully, reckoning in his head. ‘Friday of last week?’

‘When did the man die, that was found in Glasgow?’ asked McIan.

‘And why should you think it might be Barty?’ asked his sister.

‘What do you recall about him?’ countered Gil.

‘Nothing that would identify a dead man,’ said the harper rather harshly. ‘Voice and manner do not survive.’

‘His eyes,’ said the lute-woman. The man in blue looked sharply at her.

‘Aye, his eyes,’ agreed Ealasaidh. ‘They are different colours. One blue, one brown.’

‘Yes,’ said Gil. ‘So I recalled.’

‘He has an earring,’ added Ealasaidh. ‘Just the one.’

‘And is that what you have found?’ asked the harper. ‘A dead man with odd-coloured eyes?’

The words fell into a silence as the singers paused again, and suddenly everyone was paying attention.

‘We found,’ said Gil, picking his words with care, ‘the head of a man, put in a barrel of brine. The dead man had short dark hair, he had worn an earring at some time, and he had one blue eye and one brown. We think the barrel had been exchanged for one unloaded at Blackness on Monday last.’

‘Barty’s hair is long,’ said Ealasaidh with relief. ‘Down on his shoulders, it is.’

‘Hair can be cut,’ said McIan.

‘Just his head?’ said one of the singers, a round-eyed woman with gold curls, and a great deal of swelling flesh above her low-cut velvet bodice. ‘Who is it?’

‘Barty,’ said the tenor beside her.

‘Alissy’s saying it’s Barty,’ qualified the bass vièle.

‘Our Lady protect us!’ said the plump singer, crossing herself energetically. ‘And to think I saw him just yesterday.’

‘Yesterday?’ said Gil. ‘Where was this?’

‘Linlithgow, I think,’ she said vaguely.

‘You were here in Stirling yesterday,’ the tenor reminded her.

‘Well, maybe it was the day afore. When were we through Linlithgow, Georgie?’

‘Tuesday,’ said the bass vièle confidently.

‘Oh, aye. I mind now. Everyone was coming from the Mass at St Michael’s, and I saw Barty among them.’

‘Did you speak to him?’ Gil asked.

‘Oh, aye.’

‘Did he answer you, Marriot?’ asked McIan heavily, and Gil recalled tales his nurse had told him, of people seen clearly after they were dead.

‘He did,’ said Marriot, nodding her head so that her gold curls bounced. ‘He said he was fixed in Linlithgow a day or two. He had to meet someone, he said.’

‘And that was Tuesday,’ said Gil.

‘Aye, it was Tuesday,’ agreed the bass vièle. He propped his instrument against his shoulder, reaching round it to count on his fingers. ‘We left Edinburgh on Monday, played at Linlithgow that evening and Falkirk on Tuesday evening, reached here yestreen.’

‘And now he’s deid,’ said Marriot in round-eyed regret.

‘No if you saw him on Tuesday, lass,’ said the tenor next to her. The lute-woman closed her eyes and crossed herself, and the man in blue velvet, without looking at her, gripped the neck of his instrument so that his knuckles showed white in the candlelight.

‘I don’t see what you mean,’ said Marriot, reluctant to be balked of her drama. ‘He could have dee’d after I saw him.’

‘The man who is dead was dead before that,’ said Ealasaidh.

‘The barrel that we found the head in,’ Gil explained, ‘left Linlithgow early Tuesday on a merchant’s cart. By the time you saw Balthasar coming from Mass, both barrel and head were halfway to Castlecary.’

‘Oh,’ said Marriot, not fully convinced.

‘I’m glad to hear you saw him,’ said Gil encouragingly, ‘for I liked the man. I still have to find a name for the dead man, but at least I’ve eliminated one.’

‘Just leaves the whole of the rest of Scotland, eh?’ said the flute player.

‘If the dead had odd eyes like Barty,’ said the man who had admitted Gil, ‘was he maybe some kind of kin to him? It’s no that common a feature, see.’

This was generally agreed to be a good point.

‘There you are, maister,’ said the lutenist with the green ribbons. ‘Gang to Linlithgow, find Barty, and you’ll get a name for your corp.’

‘If he’s still there,’ said the bass vièle.

‘If he wasny, he’d be here, where the pickings are,’ said the tenor singer beside Marriot.

One or two of the men laughed, but McIan said, with sudden authority, ‘Go to Linlithgow the morn, Maister Cunningham, and ask your questions again. There will be answers.’

‘But the now,’ said the bass vièle, ‘he said he was the audience. We aye need an audience. Gie the man another drink, Alissy, and he can listen to this new piece for us. I still say you want to be half a tone higher there, Edward,’ he went on, turning abruptly to the flute player. ‘It’s away too sweet like that.’