The Nicholas Feast

Chapter Fourteen

Everyone turned to stare at the door, frozen in mid-argument. They could have posed, Gil thought irrelevantly, for a tableau on a cart in one of the big festival processions, though what the subject could be was past speculating. Some obscure martyrdom, perhaps.

‘Forgive this intrusion, Principal, Dean, learned maisters,’ said Egidia, Lady Cunningham. She made a general, formal curtsy and moved into the room, assuming the position which nobody had realized was waiting for her. ‘We would have waited till you were finished, but that might be too late.’

Robert, kicked on the ankle by his uncle, dragged a stool forward and seated her. Straight-backed, her crimson taffeta skirts crackling round her, her head dressed in a complex arrangement of cap, coronet and jewelled caul, she folded her hands in her lap and smiled round the company. Gil recognized the last of her court clothes, and suddenly also recalled the gold-painted headdress on the lady on his father’s tomb. Alys had entered behind his mother and was now standing at her shoulder, elegant in the gown of black Lyons silk brocade which he had seen once before, her hair hidden under the fashionable French hood. She had cast one quick, glinting look at him and another at her astonished father, and was now preoccupied with the twist of black gauze which reached to the nape of Lady Cunningham’s neck. Behind them both, Catherine scowled disapprovingly at all present.

‘Gelis,’ stated the Dean. ‘This isn’t — ’

‘I have been listening, Patrick,’ she said. ‘I am here, with my daughter-in-law and her governess — ’

What? thought Gil.

‘- because I feel this is the moment to point out that although Bernard was deeply attached to Isobel Montgomery — ’

‘I knew that,’ said Lord Montgomery, glaring sideways at the chaplain. ‘Like the rest of us.’

‘There was,’ she continued, ‘someone he was even more attached to.’

‘Oh, aye. You knew his mother,’ said Montgomery in an odd voice.

‘Is this relevant?’ asked Maister Crawford.

‘I knew Bernard’s mother,’ agreed Lady Cunningham. ‘She married into the family, so she was hardly impartial, but she told me often, to the point of boredom, that Bernard would do anything in the world for one person.’

‘Not quite,’ said Gil. ‘Not quite anything.’

‘He wouldny conduct Alexander’s marriage to Maidie Stewart,’ said Montgomery with harsh contempt. ‘Gave me some nonsense about his conscience, didn’t you no, Bernard? I saw what was behind it, and I got him moved before he could contaminate Isobel — ’

‘No!’ said Father Bernard, almost howling. ‘I knew what you thought, my lord, and I never, ever — it was the fondness of a teacher for his pupil. You know, don’t you?’ he appealed to his colleagues. ‘How one pupil, and not necessarily the most brilliant — one particular pupil can make a life’s teaching worthwhile.’

‘Aye, very possibly,’ grunted Montgomery, ‘but what’s that to stop you conducting his marriage?’

Father Bernard bent his head, and gave no answer. Gil cast a quick look round the room. Maister Forsyth, his round face very serious, his lower lip stuck out as he considered this new development. The Dean distasteful, Maister Doby perplexed and disbelieving. Maister Crawford frowning intently, David Gray blankly puzzled, Maister Kennedy critical. Patrick Coventry might have reached the answer already: he had shut his eyes and seemed to be praying. The three women were staring solemnly at the chaplain, though Alys threw him a quick glance and her smile flickered. Montgomery still waited, and behind him his nephew was leaning against the wall, pale and sweating.

Gil looked at Maistre Pierre’s worried frown and reached into his purse.

‘He had already conducted a marriage for Alexander Montgomery,’ he said. ‘This is what was in the package I handed to William on Sunday morning.’

‘What?’

Montgomery took two strides forward, but Gil turned and handed the ragged document to the Dean.

‘Read it out, would you, Dean?’ he requested.

Father Bernard had closed his eyes. Against the wall, Robert covered his face with one hand.

‘It is the document of a marriage,’ pronounced the Dean. ‘It is dated — third of November, 14 … yes, 1475.’ Gil, recalling Alys’s fluent deciphering of the Roman numerals, smiled to himself. ‘It records the marriage of Isobel Montgomery to some man whose name is now missing, and I regret to say the writing appears to be our chaplain’s.’

‘Missing? I thought you said — ’ Montgomery turned savagely on Gil.

Maistre Pierre moved forward watchfully, but Gil retreated a step and said, ‘The name can be made out. Not the surname, I grant you, but we can guess that. William’s draft will was made out in the name of William Montgomery, sometime called William Irvine, so we can assume he had just learned his father, as well as his mother, was a Montgomery. As to the given name — would you look closely at the torn portion, Dean?’

‘It begins with A,’ said the Dean after a moment. ‘Then there is an L. There is a portion missing, but here is N-D.’

‘Where was this?’ asked Montgomery, facing Gil with that soft dangerous manner. ‘Where had ye hidden it, Cunningham law man? Where has it been?’

‘You knew of it, my lord?’

‘I did not.’

‘Tell us where you found it, Gilbert,’ urged Maister Forsyth.

‘It was in a pocket inside the dog’s collar,’ said Gil. ‘William must have hidden it there on Sunday morning after he showed it to Father Bernard.’

Montgomery looked over his shoulder at the chaplain, then suddenly pounced on him, hauling him bodily to his feet.

‘I’ve a good mind to slit your throat now,’ he said. ‘Was that it? Third of November. Not eight weeks before he wed your kinsman’s daughter. Was that why you wouldny conduct his marriage? Was that why Isobel grat that entire winter?’

‘My lord,’ said Father Bernard, stammering slightly but with a dignity and a courage Gil would not have credited to him, ‘as well slit your own throat. They were feart to tell you she went with child by him, and whose doing was that?’

They stared at one another for a long moment, until Montgomery snarled something and thrust the Dominican away from him. Father Bernard went sprawling backwards over the stool, and landed at the painted feet of Socrates and his companion Philosophia. Maister Kennedy came to help him up.

‘This does not,’ said Maister Crawford, valiantly harrying the pursuit, ‘prove that our chaplain is guilty of the crime imputed to him by my colleague. It is all supposition and circumstance, not fit to hang a flea.’

‘But why kill the boy?’ asked Montgomery, his back to the chaplain. ‘Why kill him, Bernard?’

‘I did not kill William,’ repeated Father Bernard steadfastly. Lady Cunningham looked up at Hugh Montgomery with an expression of some sympathy.

‘Then who did?’ demanded Montgomery. ‘This Cunningham’s just spent most of the day proving you did. If it wasny you, who was it, Bernard? Who are you hiding?’

Gil opened his mouth to speak, but was forestalled.

‘Ask yourself, my lord,’ said Maister Forsyth very gravely, ‘who else had much to lose by William’s legitimation. If your brother’s first marriage stood, his second became invalid.’

Hugh Montgomery stared at him for a moment. Then, dawning horror in his eyes, he swivelled to look at his nephew standing against the wall.

‘Robert?’ he said hoarsely.

There was a pause, in which they all followed Montgomery’s gaze. Then Robert nodded, gulping, and Gil realized the boy had been weeping silently for some time.

‘I–I — ’ he began, and then, gaining control, ‘He was boasting of it! He was crowing at me, uncle, how he would be my father’s heir and Hughie and I and my sisters would be bastards and my mother in mortal sin.’ He scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. ‘It was more than anybody could bear.’

‘So when you saw the chance to kill him secretly, you took it,’ said Gil.

Robert nodded again, and suddenly stumbled forward and dropped to his knees at Hugh Montgomery’s feet.

‘Will I hang for it, uncle?’ he whispered.

‘Will he?’ said Alys.

‘Probably not,’ said Gil. ‘I think Montgomery will win. Besides, the boy knows his neck-verse.’

They were seated close together in the hall of the house in Rottenrow, their elder kin about them and the wolfhound asleep on the bench beside Gil. The evening sun was sliding in at the open windows, raising gold lights in the tawny new-honey shades of Alys’s hair and shining on the silk braid which trimmed Egidia Muirhead’s everyday headdress of black velvet and fine black linen.

‘The Dean was very angry,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘Montgomery was angrier still,’ Gil observed. ‘All his promises of vengeance have been set at naught.’

‘It will do Hugh Montgomery great good,’ pronounced Lady Egidia in her fluent French, ‘to recognize that he may be at fault in something that touches him so closely.’

‘Pour us some wine, Gilbert,’ commanded the Official, ‘and tell us all about it. I wish to hear the whole story.’

‘And I, indeed,’ said the mason as Gil moved obediently to the jug and glasses set on the carved cupboard by the hearth. The dog woke and scrambled down to follow him. ‘I thought we were trying to get a confession from the priest. I was as startled as Montgomery when the boy came forward.’

Gil handed his mother wine. She accepted it, then reached up and gripped his good hand tightly, smiling, but did not meet his eye.

‘But what will happen to the boy?’ pursued Maistre Pierre.

‘His uncle will deal with him,’ said Gil, handing more glasses, the dog at his knee.

‘Can he do that?’

‘Montgomery is justice on his own lands,’ said Canon Cunningham. ‘This touches him very close, as you say, Gelis — victim and evil-doer are both his kin, both recently under his tutelage. Properly it should go to be tried at Edinburgh but I have no doubt he will find a pretext for settling the matter privately in his own courts.’

‘He certainly wasn’t going to let anyone else settle it, least of all the University,’ agreed Gil, thinking of the long and painful scene in the Principal’s great chamber after Robert had confessed, ‘and though I suspect the Dean was prepared to argue the point, I’d put my money on Montgomery on this one.’

‘He could of course turn Robert over to the Church rather than the State,’ Canon Cunningham said thoughtfully. ‘The penance for what he did should be heavy enough to satisfy anyone.’

‘And Father Bernard?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘No doubt the Order will pass its own sentence on him,’ said Gil, sitting down again beside Alys. She tucked her free hand under his and smiled at him. The wolfhound jumped up, and settled firmly with its head on his knee.

‘If that creature thinks it’s a lap-dog,’ Gil’s mother commented, ‘you’ll be in trouble in two or three months.’

‘When did you know it was Robert?’ Alys asked. ‘When were you certain?’

He looked down at her.

‘When McIan was talking about his son, and I realized we had proof,’ he said. ‘It was obvious from early on that Father Bernard had some hand in the matter. The way he was lying made that clear. But it also seemed possible Robert was involved. He was one of the people William approached on Sunday morning. I couldn’t see that he had more reason to kill his kinsman than anyone else, until we found the marriage document this morning. And then, when I stepped out from the funeral, I met McIan and his sister in the Blackfriars yard. They were talking about the baby, and Ealasaidh remarked on him throwing his food everywhere, and I remembered how some of it got on your gown.’

‘The belt that smelled of cumin!’ said the mason.

‘Exactly Robert was serving at the high table after William spoke to him. I saw him. His hands must have been shaking, for he nearly spilled the spiced pork on Maister Forsyth, and some of it must have got on his skin or his cuffs, then or later.’

‘And then he heard that his enemy was shut helpless in the limehouse,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘He did insist to his uncle that he went down to bargain with the other boy,’ said Lady Egidia, ‘and only thought of killing him when he saw he was still dazed.’

‘That makes a difference,’ said the Official. ‘Though perhaps only in canon law.’

‘So Father Bernard,’ said Alys slowly, ‘must have looked out of the lecture-hall and seen Robert coming from the limehouse. But why should he think anything was wrong?’

‘Something about Robert’s bearing may have alerted him. After all, he knew William was shut in there.’

‘Ah!’ said the mason. ‘He had overheard those who put him there.’

‘Exactly So he left the lecture-room, as if heading for the kitchen-yard and the privy, and went into the limehouse, and found William newly dead. He must have taken time to check the purse, missed the papers it held under the coin or simply found the document he had already seen was not in it, and threw it behind the lime-sacks. Then he dragged the body into the coalhouse and locked the door, using his own key, to gain a little time. He went back and cancelled his lecture, and then went to search William’s chamber.’

‘Looking for the document?’ suggested Lady Cunningham. ‘But Gil, I thought Alys said all the papers had been removed from William’s chamber. Surely Father Bernard would know his own writing? Why take all the papers away?’

‘I know!’ said Alys. ‘He was pressed for time. Someone else might come at any moment. So he gathered up all the papers to go through them at leisure.’

‘Exactly,’ said Gil, smiling at her. ‘Then he gave them to Robert to put back, as your father overheard, and instead of doing so Robert put them in Jaikie’s brazier. I think from Father Bernard’s demeanour today that Robert may have made confession to him. He was determined to keep the boy’s actions secret.’

‘Did the priest then search the other two chambers?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘I think not. Those were turned over by two different hands. It was likely Robert who went through Michael Douglas’s things, and his friends’, and I would say Nick’s chamber was searched by Montgomery’s men, looking either for William’s notebook or for the coded letter, which Robert had discarded with the purse when he removed William’s belt to — to make use of it. Montgomery plays his cards close — he’s known more than he let on, right from the start.’

‘Though not who killed William,’ said the mason.

‘I have never seen Hugh Montgomery so chastened,’ said Lady Cunningham.

‘And then what?’ said Alys. ‘Was it Montgomery who attacked you? Why did Father Bernard go on lying? What did the porter’s death have to do with it?’

‘Jaikie’s death was a crossed scent,’ Gil admitted. ‘I think it was the result of a quarrel between Jaikie and Doig, who were both involved in the information-gathering. Montgomery said he had heard an argument when he came to the college at noon.’

‘But he saw nobody,’ objected Maistre Pierre.

‘Montgomery was talking to Jaikie, not searching the place, and the room is poorly lit. I surmise that Doig had hidden under the bed. He would fit in there quite well.’

‘The marks in the dust!’

‘Precisely And the dog-kennel smell that Michael noticed. Then when both Montgomery men had left, Doig emerged and killed Jaikie. Possibly the fellow had threatened him in some way. We may never know — Doig has run and the University has no serjeant or armed men to send to bring him back.’

‘No doubt they will make a note at the next meeting,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘that if he comes back he is to be charged with the porter’s death.’

‘He will probably turn up on one of Montgomery’s holdings,’ said Lady Cunningham.

‘And Montgomery and his nephew, though they didn’t lie outright, were each stretching the truth for fear the other had knifed the porter, which led me to assume that neither had done so.’

‘That will also stand in Robert’s favour,’ said the Official.

‘And Father Bernard was protecting his favourite pupil’s son?’ prompted the mason.

‘One of his sons. I wonder which way he would have jumped if William had survived, with his threats?’ Gil cast his mind back over the several interviews he had had with the chaplain. ‘He was protecting the other boy, but he was also trying to cover his own back. The Church will not be pleased to learn of Alexander’s marriage to his cousin. How close were they, mother?’

‘First cousins, if I recall. Much too close to marry without dispensation. And Robert’s mother, poor woman, is a Stewart, no closer than fourth cousin, and brought the family some useful land in — in — ’

‘The Lennox,’ supplied the Official.

‘The one I feel sorry for,’ said the mason heavily, ‘is that wretched creature Ralph.’

‘Patey Coventry was to break it to him,’ said Gil. ‘And I think Nick was going to organize an unofficial game of football, since the quodlibet disputation had to be cancelled.’

‘What is a quodlibet disputation anyway?’ asked Alys.

‘It starts with a serious question — I think Patey was to propound it, and Father Bernard was to answer — but after that has been dealt with the scholars are allowed to ask more frivolous questions of the regents, provided they aren’t obscene or defamatory. It’s always unexpected and sometimes it’s good entertainment.’

‘I recall one,’ said Canon Cunningham, straight-faced, ‘in which John Ireland — yes, I am sure it was John Ireland — was asked what he would do if he found himself standing on the moon. Mind you,’ he added, ‘he spoke for near half an hour by way of answer, and I think he brought in the duties of sovereignty and the Doctrine of Atonement. The bachelor who asked it regretted it. But it seems, Gilbert, as if the young man’s death was a family matter rather than being related to his spying and extortion.’

‘The spying was not connected,’ Gil agreed. ‘So I kept it out of the argument so far as I could. No sense in angering the Montgomery more than was necessary. As for the extortion — well, if William had been a different person, he would have responded differently to the news of his legitimacy, and Robert might not have felt the need to act to protect his mother and siblings.’

‘Montgomery as good as admitted he had attacked you,’ recalled the mason, ‘while you were losing to him at cards.’

‘Losing? Gilbert!’ said his mother, in some amusement.

‘It was deliberate,’ he said. ‘We were exchanging information, a question for every trick, and I don’t think he realized how much his questions gave away.’

‘You never asked him your last two questions,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘I did,’ said Gil, ‘this afternoon, while Robert was packing his goods.’

He hauled the wolfhound further on to his knee, and it turned to lick his hand. He scratched the corner of its jaw, recalling the awkward conversation. Strangely diminished, the angry fire in his eyes banked down to a dark glow, Montgomery had stared hard at Gil, then had suddenly come out with, ‘I canny thank ye for this day’s work, Cunningham.’

‘I’d not expect it,’ Gil had answered him. ‘I’m aware I’ve done you no favour, my lord.’

‘Did ye ken, yesternight? When we played at the cards? Was this where all your questions were leading?’

‘No at the time,’ said Gil. ‘I only pieced it together this morning.’

Montgomery grunted, ignoring the Dean, who was attempting to catch his eye.

‘I owe ye yir two last questions,’ he said at length. ‘I pay my gaming debts. Is there still aught to ask?’

‘Do you pay your legal debts?’ Gil asked hardily. ‘Do I get a fee for this?’ Montgomery’s right arm moved involuntarily, and Gil prepared to dodge a blow. ‘And what of the pup? What will happen to him?’

‘The pup?’ The other man grinned mirthlessly. ‘You can take the brute for your fee, then, Cunningham, and I wish you joy of it.’

‘Will you say that again before witnesses, my lord?’ asked Gil formally. Montgomery nodded impatiently, and gave Gil another diminished stare.

‘I’ll tell ye something else,’ he said abruptly. ‘For another fee, if ye like. I saw your father fall, on Sauchie Muir in ’88.’

‘My lord?’ Gil had said, shocked.

‘I didny strike him down,’ Montgomery continued, ‘never fear, but you may be proud of him. He dee’d well. You minded me of him this afternoon.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Gil had answered, swallowing hard. ‘Thank you indeed.’

‘No trouble,’ said Montgomery ironically, and swung away across the room as his nephew, escorted by Maister Forsyth and Maister Coventry, returned with his bulging scrip and an armful of books. ‘Aye, Robert, bring your books. You’ll have plenty leisure for them.’

Behind Montgomery, Lady Cunningham had risen in her crackling silk to come forward, seizing Gil’s elbow as she passed.

‘Your uncle has the right of it,’ she said quietly. ‘That lassie thinks just as she ought. There are great advantages for you in this marriage, Gil, I see that now.’ Before he could speak she had let go of him and moved on to corner the Dean, saying, ‘Patrick, I want to talk to you.’

‘And I had a long word with Patrick Elphinstone,’ she said now, with the expression of a cat over a dish of cream. ‘He’ll mention your name when he reports to the Archbishop, Gil. He feels you dealt with the whole affair very discreetly and quickly, and I hope he’ll make sure Robert Blacader shows his gratitude properly.’

Did Patrick Elphinstone know he felt that before she had a word with him? Gil wondered, and smiled across his uncle’s hall at her, in affectionate admiration. The Dean had flinched from her a little as she crossed the room, in just the way his father used to. I’ll pass on to her that encomium on my father, he thought, but not here, not now.

Instead he said, ‘Montgomery has given me the dog. A valuable fee.’

‘You must name him then,’ said his mother, ‘if only so you can order him off the furniture.’

‘What will you call a wolfhound?’ asked his uncle. ‘Birsie? Bawtie? Lyart, like the one your father kept?’

‘There was only one Lyart,’ said Gil firmly. ‘William called him Mauger …’ The dog looked up at this, and his stringy tail twitched. ‘But I don’t like that so much. No, I know exactly what to call him, with his long nose and his solemn face.’

‘I know too,’ said Alys, laughing.‘Socrates!’

‘You saw the likeness too?’ he said, turning his head to look at her.

‘Yes — the figure on the hangings behind Father Bernard. And William gave him a scroll to carry, as well! Though I don’t think William would have been convincing as Philosophy,’ she added.

‘No, the metaphor doesn’t stretch that far,’ agreed Gil.

‘Oh — metaphor!’ said the mason. ‘So the dog is yours, and his name is Socrates. Well, I have heard worse things to shout across the Dow Hill. And now tell me, madame. How did you and my daughter and her governess manage to arrive, like the Muses or the Sibyls or three goddesses in a cart of clouds, at precisely the moment it needed to break the impasse? I truly think, if you had not appeared, we could have been there yet with the priest denying everything and telling nothing.’

Lady Cunningham exchanged a look with Alys across the room. They smiled.

‘I must say,’ Gil agreed, ‘Pierre is right, mother. I was beginning to doubt whether either Father Bernard or the boy would ever break.’

‘I was surprised to recognize the laddie himself admitting us,’ she said. ‘I thought you would have kept him under your eye.’

‘His uncle wanted him present,’ said Gil, ‘so I had no need to insist. Your timing was superb, and your contribution was wonderfully apt. Had you been waiting in the outer room all that time?’

‘Lord Montgomery knew we were there,’ said Alys. ‘I could see him wondering what our business might be.’

‘It was obvious that we could assist, so we assisted,’ said Lady Cunningham simply.

‘Speaking of Robert our Archbishop,’ said Canon Cunningham, drawing a paper from the breast of his long gown, ‘as you were this moment, Gelis, I had a letter from him this morning in the bag that came to St Mungo’s.’ He unfolded it, and settled his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose. ‘A scrape in his own hand, what’s more, none of your secretary copies. He sends that he’s minded to do something for you, Gilbert, after the other matter you sorted out, about the bairn’s mother, and that he has two suitable posts in mind, each with a living attached, and he’ll tell us more when he knows which is free.’

‘Let us hope his gratitude is cumulative,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘It sounds promising,’ said Gil. He looked down along his shoulder at Alys, and she smiled quickly at him, then looked away in sudden shyness. ‘We won’t starve, then.’

‘Well, if all else fails,’ said the mason, ‘you may set up a pavilion in my courtyard, and Alys may continue to oversee the household. Then I can send you the broken meats from the dinners Alys cooks for me.’

‘That might not be such a bad idea,’ Gil said, struck by it. ‘Perhaps not a pavilion, in a Glasgow winter, but we could live somewhere about the place, if you had space for us.’

‘You’d be in the midst of the burgh,’ said Alys, ‘and you could hang out your sign as a notary and get the passing trade.’

They looked at each other. There was what seemed to Gil a long pause, as if time was standing still; then Canon Cunningham said in resigned tones, ‘We ’ll have little sense out of either of them the rest of the evening. Take that dog into the garden, Gilbert,’ he ordered, raising his voice slightly, ‘and we’ll get a look at the last few points of that contract while you’re gone. If we can all agree on the wording, it should be ready for signing by the time you can hold a pen.’

The garden was warm in the evening light, full of scents of green stuff and damp soil. A blackbird was singing from the top of the roof, and the occasional sweet, heady waft from the bean patch further down the slope reached them as they walked slowly along the gravel path, Socrates ranging round them.

‘I want to invite Dorothea,’ said Gil, and paused at the gap in the hedge to look out over the burgh. Another blackbird shot across the view, calling in alarm, and the dog turned his head to watch it, ears pricked.

‘To the marriage, you mean?’ He nodded. ‘That’s your sister who is a nun,’ she recalled.

‘That’s the one. And my other sisters as well, I suppose,’ he added.

‘We have no kin in Scotland,’ she observed, ‘but we have friends in plenty in the burgh. It may be a very great feast.’

‘Soon?’ Gil said hopefully. He drew her to a stone bench by the hedge, and Socrates came and sat at her feet.

‘Soon,’ she said. ‘As soon as we can arrange all.’

‘And as soon as we’re certain we have enough to live on,’ he said ruefully. He took her in his arms. ‘But Alys, what did you say to my mother, to make her change her mind?’

She turned within his clasp to look at him.

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I wanted to speak to her. I thought I would assure her of my duty too, just as you said.’ He nodded. ‘So I dressed in my best, and took Catherine, and we had the horses brought and rode up here.’

‘That took courage,’ he said.

‘No, no, for she was perfectly civil to me yesterday, Gil. And so she was today. Maggie served wine and cakes, and I said what I had come for, and then I said I hoped Our Lady would send that we would give her grandchildren, and that we would both wish her to have an eye to their upbringing.’ Gil tightened his arms about her, and she looked down, then shyly up at him again. He bent his head to kiss her. After a while she went on.

‘Catherine talked genealogy with her for a long time. Perhaps it was that,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘I think they found a connection somewhere, though it involved three marriages.’

‘What, between your family and mine?’ he said, alarmed. The wolfhound looked at him anxiously, then put his nose down on his paws again.

‘Between Catherine’s and your mother’s,’ she reassured him, her elusive smile flickering. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t need a dispensation.’

‘Praise Heaven for that!’

‘Amen, indeed. And then your mother asked me about this matter — William’s death, and the messages, and the spying. I told her what we knew, and she saw that what she knew about Father Bernard could be of use to you. So she also put on her best gown, and we went down to the college. But that was all we discussed. I don’t know what made her change her mind.’

‘Garneist with governance so gude Nae deeming suld her deir. She had brought that court dress with her?’ said Gil. Alys nodded. ‘She keeps it for great occasions. I wonder if she came prepared to be talked round?’

‘She certainly seems to favour the marriage now.’ She giggled. ‘And I haven’t heard my father making flowery compliments like that since we left Paris.’

Gil grinned. He had not yet had time for a private conversation with either Maistre Pierre or his mother. By the time he had extracted himself from the University she and Alys had already returned to Rottenrow, and when he and the mason arrived at the house in mid-afternoon she had come down in her everyday clothes to greet them, closely followed by his uncle. The compliments Alys referred to had gone in all directions, even Canon Cunningham making stately puns which not everyone noticed.

‘So we can be married soon,’ he said again.

They sat close in silence for a while. Gil found his mind ranging back over the day again, and further back, to the feast and all its consequences. Some of those young men at the University would be worth keeping an eye on. Ninian Boyd was probably destined to be a small laird and a good master, but the Douglas boy was promising, and Lowrie Livingstone was a very interesting character. Was I like that at seventeen? he wondered. Did our teachers look at Nick and me with that resigned expression? He thought of the Dean, glowering at Alys across the room, and then of Maister Forsyth, who had intercepted him just before he left the college.

‘That was a very impressive discourse just now,’ the old man had said, in the same tone in which he had commended Gil’s last disputation outside the crumbling chapel of St Thomas. ‘You made all clear to us, grounded it in the truth and showed us the inevitable conclusions without fear of an armed adversary. The outcome is grievous for all of us,’ he admitted, ‘but Justice is a harsh mistress, and you have served her well.’ He smiled at Gil’s stammering response. ‘It’s a great pleasure to a teacher, Gilbert, when a student continues so far beyond what one has taught him. And that is your bride,’ he continued, without waiting for a reply.

Gil nodded, bracing himself for a gentler response to the old man’s adverse comments than the remote politeness he had used on Sunday against the Dean.

‘A very good choice,’ said Maister Forsyth, nodding. ‘Clever, discreet and modest. A very good choice for you, Gilbert, and I wish you happy with her.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Gil had said ineptly, and bowed. His former teacher had acknowledged the bow and moved off, leaving Gil staring after him.

The clever, discreet and modest girl in his arms, her thoughts clearly mirroring his, turned to look up at him, putting up one hand to cup his jaw, brown eyes glowing in the last of the sunlight, and said, ‘You know, Gil, that was quite magnificent. In the Principal’s lodging, I mean,’ she expanded. ‘All those learned old men, and you telling them what happened and making all clear to them. And Lord Montgomery was so threatening, and you never flinched from him. I’m glad I was present.’

He turned his head to kiss her palm.

‘I’m glad you were present too,’ he admitted, ‘for I’d never have got so far without you. You deserved to be there.’

‘We make a good team, I think,’ she said diffidently.

‘None better.’ He kissed her palm again, then ran one finger lightly round the scooped neckline of her gown, over the fine linen of her shift, and she shivered. At their feet, the wolfhound turned his head to look at them, then ostentatiously rose and lay down again with his back to them, sighed, and laid his nose on his paws. In a small corner of his mind Gil was aware of his dog’s actions, commended the animal’s patience and admired his discretion.

‘Sweet St Giles, Alys, I must be the luckiest man in Scotland.’ She made a small enquiring noise. ‘An hendy hap ich hab yhent,’ he quoted, as he had done to his mother, and continued the verse, ‘From alle wommen my love is lent, And light on Alisoun.’

‘And mine on you,’ she said. He drew her closer, very conscious of the warmth of her flesh and the movement of her ribcage under the blue gown, and bent his head to kiss her. She put her arms round him, a little shyly, reaching under his jerkin, and leaned into his embrace.

On the ridge tiles the blackbird sang on, the golden notes dropping through the still air as the shadows lengthened in the garden and the first lights pricked in the houses round them.

Socrates sighed again, rolled on to his side and shut his eyes.