The Nicholas Feast

Chapter Seven

‘Did you know them?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘They made off when I shouted, and I was more concerned to see to you than to pursue them. If Alys had not insisted that we left Compline early …’

‘I never got a sight of their faces.’ Gil leaned back against the lavender-scented pillow-beres of the mason’s best bed, and eased his feet out from under the wolfhound, which had been fed already and had returned to its self-appointed guard duty. It appeared to have grown overnight. ‘I am very grateful that you came by. This is damnably inconvenient, but it could be a lot worse.’

‘It isn’t broken, Brother Andrew said.’ Alys set down the tray with the porridge-bowl to reach across and test the temperature of the compress on Gil’s wrist, but would not meet his eye. ‘And nor is your head. I think a night’s sleep has made a lot of difference.’

‘If I’d been wearing my other hat it might be a different story.’ Gil pushed his hair cautiously out of his eyes. Beware of what you wish for, he thought. You might get it. ‘I wish I knew what they wanted, that they attacked me in the High Street in broad day.’

‘It wasn’t your purse,’ said Alys, lifting the tray again. ‘That was untouched. I thought one of them snatched something from your doublet before he ran.’

‘From my doublet?’ repeated Gil. A memory surfaced, and he went on in dismay, ‘Maister Coventry had just given me the list of names. I think I put it in the breast of my doublet.’

‘I found nothing like that. It would have crackled when we stripped you.’ Still avoiding his eye, she put the tray on a stool and turned to reach for the muddy bundle of his clothes. ‘These must be brushed,’ she said critically. ‘I should have seen to it last night. And I know of a furrier who can rescue the cope, but the gown will take several days’ work. There are no papers here, Gil. Do you suppose your friends made a copy?’

‘But why steal a package of papers?’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘Presumably because the right paper was not to be found in William’s chamber or in Nick’s,’ Gil said slowly. ‘Ah, no, you haven’t heard about that. When I got to the college last night I found that Maister Kennedy’s room had been searched while they were all at Vespers. It looked as if a whirlwind had been through it. That was when my gown and cope were damaged.’

‘But they didn’t find whatever they were looking for,’ said Alys, ‘and thought it might be in the papers in your doublet.’

‘There was no loose paper in the boy’s chamber,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘I still think that curious, in a student’s lodging.’

‘But though William’s property was in disorder, nothing was damaged,’ said Gil. ‘I think someone different searched Nick’s chamber, someone unlettered perhaps. Alys is right. It might have been one of the three who attacked me.’

‘One of them won’t be walking straight this morning,’ the mason observed with satisfaction. ‘That was a handy kick you fetched him, Gil. Almost one would have thought you were in Paris.’

‘That’s where I learned the trick.’ Gil tried to move his fingers, and winced. ‘I wonder if Nick still has the notes.’

‘Send word to ask.’

‘It’s too long a word for Luke to remember, and I canny write. We’ll have to postpone the betrothal,’ he added, ‘if I canny sign my name.’

‘You must just make your mark left-handed, and we will witness it,’ suggested the mason.

‘What, like a tinker in the heather? I think not.’

‘I shall write to the college for you,’ said Alys firmly, ‘and we can send Luke, as soon as he is back from taking word to your uncle.’

‘And then he may go and do a little work, if it is not too much trouble.’

Gil looked up at his prospective father-in-law. ‘Do you intend to work too?’

‘What do you want done?’

‘Someone should speak to the dog-breeder, and I thought of another thing that should be done, but it’s left my head.’

‘I must go up to the chantier. Wattie knows what must be done this week, but best if I let him tell me first it is impossible. If Robert Blacader is ever to see his new chapel finished, let us hope I am right and not Wattie.’ The mason looked about him. ‘Then I will come back, and we will think about this matter. Alys, where is my scrip?’

‘It is down in the hall, father.’ She smiled at Gil at last, and he felt the sun had come into the room. ‘I will fetch pen and ink, and see the baby fed, and return to you.’

She lifted the tray and left, slender in her blue dress. The wolfhound raised its head to watch her go, then curled up again. Gil threw back blankets and verdure tapestry counterpane, and swung his legs out from under the sheet.

‘Pierre, help me with my points before Alys comes back,’ he requested, peeling the compress off his wrist.

‘No, no, keep that on!’ exclaimed the mason. ‘Oil of violets to draw out the black humour in the bruising, and sage leaves for the numbness and loss of movement in the fingers — ’

‘I am not going about Glasgow smelling of oil of violets,’ said Gil decidedly, trying to pull on his hose one-handed. ‘Give me a hand here, or Alys will get a sight of my drawers.’

‘She has seen them. She and I stripped you last night,’ said Maistre Pierre, obliging. ‘How tight do you wish to be trussed? I do not think you are fit to go about Glasgow anyway. That was an unpleasant crack on the head.’

‘Fit or not,’ Gil began, and was interrupted by a knocking at the great door of the house.

‘Que diable?’ The mason went to the window and leaned out in the sunshine. ‘Ah, good day, Maister Cunningham! Enter, pray enter! I will descend to you.’

‘My uncle?’ said Gil, battling with his doublet. ‘Sweet St Giles, what did Luke say to him? He hasn’t been down the town since Yule.’

‘I bade him say you had a blow to the head and we had kept you here.’ Maistre Pierre was hastily lacing the doublet. ‘No saying what he told them in the kitchen, of course, and Maggie would relay it with embellishments. Stand still or this will be crooked. There — now you are fit to serve the King. Wait here, I bring your uncle.’

He drew the bed-curtains shut and bustled down the stair to greet his guest. His voice floated up, loud, affable and reassuring, through the floorboards. Gil set out two of the mason’s tapestry backstools and sat down on the window-seat with the sun on his back, wishing his head did not ache so much.

Canon David Cunningham, senior judge of the diocesan court, Official of Glasgow, who rarely left the cathedral precinct at the top of the High Street, ducked under the lintel behind Maistre Pierre and surveyed his nephew with a chilly grey eye. After a moment he relaxed, and nodded.

‘Your mother will be in Glasgow by Nones,’ he said, ‘and I’ve no wish to greet her with the news that you’re at death’s door.’

‘She would likely take exception to the idea,’ Gil agreed.

His uncle’s mouth twitched, but all he said was, ‘Well, well, I can see you are not much damaged. What have you been about? What is this about the college coalhouse? No, let us sit down, Gilbert, Peter Mason here tells me you’d quite a bang on the head.’

Alys brought elderflower wine and small biscuits and slipped away again while Gil and Maistre Pierre between them recounted the events of the feast and what followed. The Official sipped the wine from his little glass, holding it up to the light appreciatively, and said at length, ‘Patrick Elphinstone’s no fool.’

‘He never was,’ Gil said, and got a sharp look.

‘What he’ll want is first to find a culprit he can show Hugh Montgomery, and then to deal with a trial and sentence himself, behind the college yett. He’ll realize soon enough that Montgomery won’t be satisfied with that.’

‘I think Maister Doby has seen it already,’ Gil said.

‘Aye, very likely.’ David Cunningham set his wineglass down. ‘John has had experience of men like Hugh Montgomery.’

‘When was that?’ asked the mason. ‘Maister Doby seems a quiet man.’

‘He wasn’t at fault. When he was maister at the grammar school at Peebles …’ Canon Cunningham paused to count on his long fingers, but shook his head. ‘I canny mind when. A good few years ago now. There was a boy killed when the lads were playing at football. A broken neck, I think. The family were very threatening.’

‘Football is a dangerous game,’ agreed the mason.

‘That’s interesting,’ said Gil thoughtfully. ‘Is it widely known, sir?’

‘Anyone that’s in the diocese would know. The kirk at Peebles is a prebend of St Mungo’s,’ the Official explained to Maistre Pierre. ‘The grammar school there’s in our gift as well.’

‘William was given to extortion,’ said Gil. ‘I saw him speak to Maister Doby before the Mass.’

‘Aye, this William.’ David Cunningham sat back. ‘Who did you say his parents were again?’

‘The Dean described him as the son of an Ayrshire lady now married to another,’ Gil quoted, ‘and a kinsman of Lord Montgomery. His foster-mother, who was nurse to his mother, called her Isobel and said she was close kin to Montgomery and married a Gowdie.’

‘If both parents are close to Montgomery,’ said the Official, ‘they may have been too close to marry. Gowdie. Gowdie.’ He stared thoughtfully over Gil’s head at the thatched roof of the mason’s drawing-loft opposite.

‘Mistress Irvine said something of the sort,’ Gil agreed.

‘Legitimation procedures,’ prompted Maistre Pierre.

‘I wonder if his mother was Isobel Montgomery?’ said Canon Cunningham, lowering his gaze to meet Gil’s. ‘Her father would be a first cousin of Hugh Montgomery’s. There were three sons and the one daughter, and Montgomery had the disposal of the marriages.’ He paused again, considering. ‘He was provident in that, for all he was no more than eighteen or so himself. If I mind correctly, all in one winter, he married one of Argyll’s daughters, he got a Lennox lady for his brother Alexander and a Maxwell for one of the cousins, and betrothed this Isobel to a Maxwell adherent. Pretty good, for one season’s work. I heard she died recently,’ he added.

‘That would fit,’ Gil said.

‘I hadn’t heard of a bairn. I wonder who its father might have been?’

‘It was fostered secretly, perhaps,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘Mistress Irvine didn’t know who the father was,’ Gil said, ‘and she said Gowdie didn’t know of the boy’s existence.’

‘And you mentioned legitimation procedures.’ Canon Cunningham stretched his long legs and began to gather himself together. ‘Aye, well. I haven’t time for idle gossip. If you’ll call my groom, Maister Mason, I’ll away up the hill to my desk and see what I can find out.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Gil rose as his uncle did.

‘I wonder who the father might be,’ the Official said again, frowning. ‘Montgomery’s kin is not so wide.’

‘A groom?’ speculated the mason robustly. ‘The steward? The chaplain? What men does a girl of such a family get to meet?’

‘Who would the chaplain have been?’

‘From the Benedictine house at Irvine, maybe. Or a kinsman, indeed?’ The Official gazed absently at the flowers in the sunny courtyard, then shook his head. ‘Aye, well. What will I send to your mother, Gilbert?’

‘What should you send?’ said Gil uncomfortably. ‘I must see to this matter. Hugh Montgomery is waiting for us to fail, and we have less than two days to it. I will be home tonight.’

‘Aye, well. I think she might take exception to that idea and all.’ Canon Cunningham clapped his legal bonnet over the black felt coif, and shook out the skirts of his cassock. ‘See to your duty, Gilbert. I’ll send something.’

He raised a hand in his customary blessing, and turned to go, then stopped so suddenly that the mason collided with him.

‘Christ and his saints preserve us, what’s that?’ he demanded, staring at the great best bed.

Gil, following his gaze, began to laugh.

‘It’s the young man’s dog,’ he explained.

The wolfhound did not move from its position, long nose poking between the tapestry bed-curtains, one bright eye just visible, but they heard its tail beat on the mattress. Gil moved forward, and the tail beat faster. ‘It’s taken a notion to me,’ Gil went on, drawing the curtain back, ‘and the harper’s bairn’s taken a notion to the dog.’ He urged the animal down on to the floor, where it inspected Canon Cunningham more closely and allowed him to scratch its jaw. ‘He should go outside, Pierre.’

‘He should,’ agreed the mason resignedly. ‘Come, dog. Outside and do your duty.’

Alys slipped back into the room as soon as Maistre Pierre and his guest reached the courtyard.

‘I didn’t stay,’ she said, lifting the tray of little glasses, ‘because I wanted to tell you what I thought of you getting up, and I couldn’t very well do so in front of your uncle.’

‘Why? Do you think he might repudiate the contract when he finds how I’m going to be henpecked?’

Gil stretched his good hand to her. She moved closer, but said earnestly, ‘You should have stayed in bed. Brother Andrew — ’

‘When we are married I’ll stay in bed as long as you like,’ he promised, smiling. She looked away, and the colour rose in her face. ‘For now, sweetheart, I’ve a matter to investigate for the college, and too little time to do it in. We must write a word for Nick — ’

‘I’ve done that,’ she interrupted. ‘I told him you were attacked, not much injured, and the papers stolen, and asked if he took a copy. Luke carried it there a while ago.’

‘You can do everything,’ he said admiringly, drawing her down to kiss her. ‘Even rescue me from robbers. What made you leave Compline early? It was well timed.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I was uneasy. The Office was no comfort to me, I felt I should be elsewhere. And then we came out of Greyfriars’ Wynd and saw the fighting, and realized it was you.’

‘I’m glad you did,’ he said again. ‘I really think you can do everything.’

‘Except make you stay in bed when you should,’ she complained. He would have answered, but her gaze sharpened, and she stared beyond him at the yard. ‘What is my father doing?’

Gil turned to look out of the window. Down in the courtyard the mason was peering into one of the tubs of flowers, assisted by the wolfhound, which had stood up with its front paws on the rim of the tub. As they looked, Maistre Pierre drew something out of the earth under the marigolds. The pup offered to take it, but he held it up out of the animal’s reach, and seeing their watching faces waved the item at them.

‘Papers!’ he called.

‘It was the dog,’ he said, when he had brought papers and wolfhound up to the best chamber. ‘He examined all the tubs, as they do, but he paid extra attention to that one, and then sat down by it and looked at me.’

‘He is an exceptional dog,’ Gil said, patting the creature. ‘I wish I could keep him.’ He unfolded the bundle one-handed, shaking the earth from it. The wolfhound sniffed at the paper and lay down with its head on Gil’s feet. Alys eyed the scatter of soil on the waxed floorboards, but said nothing. ‘Our Lady be praised, they have numbered the pages. Four, five, six — and what’s this? This doesn’t belong — ’

‘It’s different writing,’ said Alys.

‘It’s Nick’s writing. I looked at enough of it when Maister Coventry and I picked up the mess in his chamber. And this most discriminating Peter … Aye, it’s a page of his book.’

‘He has written a book?’ said Alys. ‘I should like to see that.’

‘How did this get here?’ asked her father. ‘How did the papers find their way into your flower-pot, ma mie, and how did a page of the book get into the list of names? Whose is the other writing? Who wrote down the names?’

‘I assume Maister Coventry wrote them down,’ said Gil, leafing clumsily through the pages, ‘and thank God for that. His writing is far clearer than Nick’s. As to how they got there — they were in the tub nearest the pend, weren’t they?’

‘They were,’ agreed the mason. ‘You are thinking that anyone could have come that far, in from the street, hidden them under the marigolds and run off, without being noticed.’

‘I am.’

‘Luke has been in and out,’ said Alys thoughtfully, ‘and Annis is sitting with Davie this morning, and Kittock has swept the front steps and the yard, but otherwise there has been nobody at the front of the house since Prime except for ourselves up here. Your uncle came through the courtyard. Oh, yes, and a messenger from Lord Montgomery.’

‘A what?’ exclaimed Gil.

‘A messenger from Lord Montgomery’ She coloured up again. ‘I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner, but it was only a piece of impertinence. I was to ask you if you were ready to give up the search yet. It was while your uncle was here.’

‘What did you say to him?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

She glanced shyly at Gil. ‘I was annoyed by the way he spoke. And his expression was — anyway, I said, A Cunningham never gives up, and shut the door on him. I hope that was the right thing to say.’

‘You couldn’t have bettered it,’ said Gil, looking at her in amazement. ‘Alys, you are a wonderful woman. How soon can we be married?’

‘You must be handfasted first,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘What puzzles me,’ she persisted, ‘is how Lord Montgomery should know you were here, and why he should think you would give up now.’

‘That’s true, you know,’ said her father. ‘How would he know you were here?’

‘Could he have seen you carrying me home?’ Gil asked. ‘How dark was it by then?’

‘Plenty of light.’ The mason scratched his jaw, his thumb rasping in his neat black beard. ‘I suppose he could, although we were close under the wall when we passed his yett.’

‘But father,’ objected Alys, ‘I was carrying the hat and cloak, and you had Gil head down over your shoulders. Even his mother would not have known him if she had looked out and caught sight of us.’

‘Unless,’ said Gil, ‘Montgomery knew already that I was injured. What was the messenger like, Alys? Had you seen him before? Would you know him again?’

‘He had the Montgomery badge on his shoulder,’ Alys said. ‘Otherwise he was quite ordinary, like anybody’s groom. Middling height, brownish hair, not past forty. Oh, and a limp.’

The mason looked at Gil.

‘As if he had been kicked recently?’ he suggested. Alys burst out laughing.

‘Yes, of course! If I’d realized I’d have offered him a poultice!’ She saw Gil’s expression, and sobered, adding, ‘I’m sure he could have applied it himself.’

‘And he could have tucked these papers under the marigolds as he came into the yard,’ said the mason.

It was, Gil reminded himself, the effect of running a large household; but he knew he had shown yet again how startled he was by Alys’s particular combination of genuine maidenly modesty and breadth of worldly knowledge.

‘What do we know from this?’ he asked rhetorically, recovering his countenance. ‘We know the papers were taken from me by violence last night and returned by stealth this morning.’

‘They were taken by someone looking for something in writing,’ said Alys.

‘But not this writing,’ agreed Gil.

‘And it could have been Montgomery who took them, who returned them, who is searching,’ contributed the mason.

‘And has still not found what he seeks,’ said Alys.

‘And it is likely that the same person — ’

‘Or persons,’ put in Alys.

‘Or persons,’ Gil agreed, ‘searched Maister Kennedy’s chamber and carried off at least one sheet of his writing. But most likely it was someone else who searched William’s chamber.’

‘But what are they all looking for? Not the young man’s red book, I take it, since they snatched a heap of loose papers.’ Maistre Pierre gestured at the list of names. ‘Gil, there is the ciphered writing we found in the purse. Remember?’

‘I remember.’ Gil looked at Alys. ‘It could be important. Have you had time to look at it?’

‘I have not,’ she said firmly, sounding very like her father. ‘What with nursing the sick and injured, the grieving and the fasting, and keeping my hand on this household, my time has been full. I hope to sit down with it this morning,’ she added. ‘Then we may know if it’s important enough to be a prime mover in the matter.’

‘And I must get up the hill to St Mungo’s,’ said her father, ‘to make sure Wattie has not decided to put in a chimney where I have marked a window.’

‘What, for when they elect the next Archbishop?’ said Gil. The mason grinned, then looked beyond Gil into the courtyard. The grin faded.

‘Who is it now?’ he said resignedly. ‘One of the friars, and a student. Who can it be?’

‘It’s Father Bernard from the college,’ said Gil, twisting to look. ‘The chaplain.’

Sighing, Maistre Pierre rose and went away down the stairs. Alys knelt to whisk the scattered earth on the floor into her apron, lifted the tray with the little wineglasses and followed him, eluding Gil’s attempt to make her sit down beside him.

Below, in the hall, the mason could be heard clearly, greeting his guests. The chaplain answered him with the friars’ customary Latin blessing, spoken in his deep musical voice. At Gil’s feet the wolfhound stirred, and raised its head.

‘But certainly,’ said Maister Mason. ‘He is above stairs. Come up, come up. Some refreshment, surely? My daughter will — ’

‘Not for me, I thank you.’ Father Bernard’s Scots was accented like the mason’s. ‘But I’m sure Michael here would be glad of something.’

Michael’s voice, muffled, assented to this. The wolfhound rose slowly to its feet. Gil stroked it and was startled to find its rangy frame rigid and trembling, with the coarse grey fur standing erect. Feet sounded on the stair, and a faint growl began deep in the dog’s throat, becoming gradually louder as the feet approached.

‘Quiet,’ said Gil firmly. The animal’s tail swung against his knees, but the growl continued. Gil grasped the long muzzle, then flung his injured arm round the dog’s chest just in time, as Maistre Pierre led Father Bernard into the room, the friar paused in the doorway to pronounce his blessing and the wolfhound, with a scrabble of claws on the floorboards, tried to launch itself snarling at the intruder.

‘What ails the beast?’ asked the mason, startled into French.

‘I don’t know. Quiet!’ said Gil again. ‘Down! I’m sorry about this.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ said Father Bernard, eyeing the pup’s display of white teeth warily. ‘Dogs often dislike me. Possibly they find the robes alarming.’

‘Shall I remove him?’ offered the mason.

‘He won’t go with you in this state,’ Gil pointed out, hanging on to the sturdy collar. ‘Down! Oh, Alys! Will he go with you?’

‘Whatever is the matter?’ Alys, grasping the collar in both hands, dragged the snarling animal across the floor. ‘What has angered him?’

‘Take care,’ said Father Bernard anxiously. ‘He may bite you.’

‘I’ll feed him,’ said Alys. ‘Come, dog! Come with me! Gil, you must name him. How can we give him orders if he has no name?’ She hauled the dog bodily out on to the stairs, and the mason shut the door quickly behind her.

‘No name? Is it not your animal, then?’ asked Father Bernard.

‘It seems to have belonged to William Irvine,’ said Gil precisely. ‘Good morning to you, sir.’

‘Oh, that dog! Aye, good morning, Maister Cunningham,’ said Father Bernard in his melodious voice. He sat down on one of the tapestry backstools indicated by the mason, and put back the hood of his habit. The dark hair round his tonsure was cut short, and curled crisply; the sunken eyes in the cadaverous face regarded Gil intently. ‘I bring you greetings from Dean Elphinstone and the Principal,’ he continued. ‘Your man brought word that you were attacked in the open street. What a dreadful thing to happen in this peaceful place. But I find you on your feet and clothed. Did you take any scathe?’

‘Very little, thanks to Maister Mason.’ Gil eased his position on the window-seat. He was finding other aches and pains, and his head was throbbing.

‘God in his mercy be praised,’ said the friar, and raised his hand to make the cross.

‘Amen to that. This is very kind of you, father, to visit like this.’

‘The college was most distressed to hear of your misadventure,’ said Father Bernard largely. ‘And was it robbery? Did they make off with anything valuable?’

‘Some papers only,’ said Gil.

‘Nothing important, I hope?’

‘Nothing that cannot be replaced.’

‘Did you know them? Were they common blackguards of the burgh, or someone’s dagger-men? What could their motive have been?’

‘I never got a sight of their faces,’ said Gil.

‘They seemed expert fighters,’ remarked Maistre Pierre. ‘And used to working together, I thought, Gilbert.’

‘Aha!’ said the chaplain. ‘Maister Doby will hear that with relief, and I admit to the same.’

Maistre Pierre looked startled, but Gil said, ‘No, it was none of your flock, father. These were all older than I am, by their movements, and seasoned fighters as Maister Mason says. As to motive, I have no clear idea, but since the papers they took were connected to the matter I am investigating for the college, I assume it was related to that.’

‘Ah, yes. Poor William. Requiescat in pace.’ Father Bernard made the sign of the cross, and Gil and the mason both murmured Amen. After a moment he continued, ‘His burial will be tomorrow, after Sext, and we have arranged a quodlibet disputation in Theology after dinner, to give the boys’ minds a better direction and prevent them falling into melancholy.’

So we have until noon tomorrow, Gil thought, to bring this to a conclusion.

‘Did you know the dead boy well, father?’

‘Why, no, hardly more than his fellows.’

‘There are only forty students just now,’ Gil pursued, ‘few enough to spend the whole year with. Did nothing distinguish William Irvine from the others?’

‘I could not say so. I had little contact with him, except for the music. I know the students of Theology well, of course,’ expanded Father Bernard, ‘mature individuals with well-formed minds, but the young men of the Faculty of Arts come less in my way, other than those who confess to me.’

Gil thought of some Theology students he had known, but did not comment. Instead he said, ‘Who was William’s confessor?’

‘I think perhaps Dean Elphinstone.’

‘Do you know who his parents were?’ asked the mason.

The dark eyes turned to him. ‘I can tell you nothing about his parentage.’

‘Or about his habits of extortion?’ Gil asked.

‘Extortion? Did he — It seems hard that he should be dead in such a way, poor boy, and slandered as well. I am sure he did not practise extortion. Have you discovered nothing that might tell us who killed him?’

‘So he never approached you with threats of any kind?’ Gil asked.

‘Certainly not! What could he threaten me with?’

‘None of us is blameless,’ pronounced the mason.

‘That is very true,’ agreed Father Bernard, attempting to regain control of the conversation, ‘but I hope my faults are not such that a boy of sixteen could frighten me with threats of exposure.’

‘What did he have to show you, father, yesterday in the Outer Close before the procession?’ Gil asked.

‘Yesterday? He showed me nothing,’ began Father Bernard.

‘I brought him a package from his foster-mother,’ Gil said. ‘I gave it to him before the college yett, and went into the close. William passed me, and spoke to you in the courtyard. I thought he said This might interest you, or some such thing. I wondered if it had anything to do with the package.’

‘Oh, now I recall.’ Father Bernard’s sunken eyes turned piously to the ceiling. ‘The poor boy. He wished to show me something, and I had not time to hear him, for I still had to arrange for the music to be carried to St Thomas’s. I promised to give him time later, perhaps after I had given the ordinary Theology lecture, but of course by then he was dead. The poor boy,’ he said again. ‘I suppose we may never know what troubled him.’

‘He is salved of all troubles now,’ Maistre Pierre pointed out. He and Father Bernard crossed themselves simultaneously.

‘And he had never threatened, for instance,’ said Gil almost at a venture, ‘to report you to the Vicar-General of your Order for heresy?’

‘For heresy?’ repeated Father Bernard harshly. ‘Why should he do that?’

‘For quoting Wycliff, perhaps,’ Gil suggested, ‘or discussing Lollardy in your ordinary lectures?’

‘One must encourage students to dispute these points, so that one may expose the fallacies on which they are grounded,’ retorted Father Bernard in Latin.

‘That alone might create trouble if one were in Paris,’ Gil observed.

The theologian snorted. ‘Paris! They’re still licking at Louis’ heels on the nominalist question. They can’t have it both ways.’

‘While Glasgow follows Albert, the subtil clerk and wys. The path of orthodoxy is narrow,’ said Gil, watching the friar carefully, ‘and William was industrious in detecting those who stepped from it in other segments of the University sphere. I speculated, merely, on whether he had approached you in the same way.’

‘No,’ said Father Bernard. Gil waited, while the mason looked from one to the other. ‘But I had wondered,’ said Father Bernard after a moment, reverting to French.

Gil, still waiting, was aware in the corner of his eye of movement in the courtyard. There was a knocking at the house door. Father Bernard’s expression grew troubled and portentous.

‘I thought the boy might have been gathering information,’ he admitted.

‘We know he was doing that,’ Gil agreed. Down in the courtyard Alys in her blue gown hurried out to the pend beside a groom in well-worn riding-gear. ‘Any sort of information in particular?’

‘Information to sell,’ pronounced Father Bernard. The musical voice took on a note of grief. ‘Information of value to one faction or another, the selling of which could only increase the discord with which this poor country is riven.’

‘Espionage?’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘It seems very possible. But who would he sell to, here in Glasgow?’

Gil turned his gaze away, in time to see Alys crossing the courtyard again, leading a guest in to the door in the most formal way. The hand laid on her arm belonged to a slender, graceful woman in muddy travelling-garments, her hair bound up in a coarse black cloth under a battered felt hat like a sugar-loaf with a brim.

Has she not given that hat to the poor yet? he thought in resignation, and looked back at the Dominican, who had closed his mouth over his yellow teeth with the air of one having summed up a situation.

‘Are you saying, father,’ he said, ‘that William was in truth selling information to someone? Which faction did you have in mind?’

‘I have no way of knowing,’ stated the chaplain. ‘He was kin to Lord Montgomery, which would give him an entry to Argyll and his followers.’ Gil nodded, and wished he had not. ‘And he messed with Michael Douglas, who is below in your kitchen, and his friends last year. He would have contact with the Hamiltons and Douglases through that boy.’

‘I think Michael dislikes him,’ Gil observed.

‘A false face, surely, designed to conceal the truth.’ Father Bernard looked over his shoulder as footsteps sounded in the other room. ‘You have another guest,’ he said, rising.

Alys entered the room first.

‘See who is here, father,’ she said. ‘It is Gil’s mother.’ She stepped aside to allow the woman in the sugar-loaf hat to follow her.

Most landholders, when they travelled, took time near their destination to find a sheltered spot, groom the horses and change their clothing, in order to make a good appearance by riding into burgh or castle in velvet and satin and jewels rather than stained travelling gear. This woman’s heavy woollen skirts were bedraggled and spattered, there was mud on her hat and her long-chinned, narrow face, and the gloves she drew from her hands as she stood in the doorway were dark with her horse’s sweat.

Getting to his feet, Gil was aware of a single quick, penetrating, maternal glance before her attention was turned to the mason stepping hastily forward to greet this guest. Watching her dealing expertly with Maistre Pierre’s words of welcome and of apology for not having been at the door to meet her, Gil recalled that Egidia Muirhead, Lady Cunningham, had for years occupied a senior place in the household of Margaret of Denmark, James Third’s devious and melancholy Queen, encountering the many foreign visitors who made their way through the court.

‘Et tecum, Bernard,’ she was saying now in response to Father Bernard’s blessing. ‘How long have you been back in Scotland? You’re not teaching at the college, are you?’

‘I am indeed,’ said Father Bernard in his deep musical voice.

‘And here is your son,’ said Maistre Pierre.

Gil went down on one knee to kiss the offered hand so like his own. Her long fingers gripped his, hard and briefly, and she said in Scots, ‘I’ll have David Cunningham’s hide for cushions. He sent Tam out to meet me, to bid me have no ill-ease for you, so of course I brattled on into Glasgow with all possible haste, and here I find you at the clack with half the burgh. Get up, son, and we can all sit down.’

‘Hardly the half of Glasgow,’ Gil protested, obeying.

Her grasp on his hand tightened again as he straightened up, but all she said was, ‘Don’t argue, my dear. It’s unseemly’ She seated herself on one of the tapestry chairs, and asked kindly, ‘So when did you return to Glasgow, Bernard?’

‘Some years since,’ admitted Father Bernard. ‘And you, madam? I believe you are alone now? Is all well with you?’

‘As well as a poor widow can expect,’ said the lady of Belstane. ‘I have my dower lands. We win a living. Is your mother still alive?’

‘She died two years since at the feast of St Remy, and is buried at Irvine, said Father Bernard with precision. Lady Egidia raised her eyebrows, and he added, ‘She died as the widow of Lord Montgomery’s kinsman Robert. His grandsire’s brother, I believe.’

‘God rest her soul,’ said Lady Egidia. ‘And what are you doing at the college, Bernard?’

‘I have the honour to be chaplain there, and to deliver a course of ordinary lectures. Which reminds me …’ He cast a glance at the sky through the glazed upper portion of the window. ‘I must not tarry longer. I have a disputation to prepare for this afternoon. My colleagues in the Faculty of Arts will rejoice to hear that you took little scathe, Maister Cunningham.’

In a flurry of mingled bows and benedictions he got himself out of the room, followed by Maistre Pierre. Gil’s mother, hardly waiting for their footsteps to disappear down the stair, sat down again saying with satisfaction, ‘He never could stand being questioned. Wretched man. And his mother was a good woman,’ she added. ‘Well, Gil, what is this you’ve got yourself into?’

‘Mother,’ said Gil, ‘this is the demoiselle Alys Mason.’

‘We’ve met,’ said Lady Egidia, smiling at Alys, who still stood by the door. ‘I was met most graciously and hospitably at the yett, and welcomed into the house. It is truly kind of you, my dear, to take my abominable boy in when he was hurt.’

Alys, who had opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, and looked uncertainly at Gil. Suddenly she was wearing the pinched look of distress he had seen before, her high-bridged nose very prominent.

‘Mother, we are — ’ he began.

‘You are embroiled in something at the college, Tam tells me,’ his mother persisted.

‘Mother, what are you — ?’

‘Forgive me,’ said Alys. ‘There are things I must see to in the kitchen.’

She slipped out, and Gil began again.

‘Why don’t you — ?’

‘A most accomplished lassie,’ said his mother, ‘and certainly not the kind to take as your mistress. This is a well-ordered house, and Maister Mason seems a cultured man. I can see they are people who — ’

‘I had your letter.’

‘Oh, you did? I assumed it had gone astray.’ She tipped her head back to look at him. ‘I see you can still blush, dear. Then you know my feelings.’

‘My uncle thinks differently,’ said Gil. ‘He favours the marriage.’

‘Your uncle! He’s a sentimental old man,’ said Lady Cunningham crisply. ‘We educated you for the Church, Gilbert, and — ’

‘I ken that, mother, and I value my learning next to my hope of salvation, but — ’

‘- and I don’t want to see you throw it all away for the sake of a pretty face,’ she continued as if he had not spoken.

‘I have no intention of throwing it away. My uncle is certain I will still get a living in the Law.’

‘What does he know about it?’ demanded his mother, dismissing the senior judge of the Archdiocese with a snap of her fingers. ‘We were determined one of our sons was for the Church, Gil. Your share of the money went to pay for your learning, and I’ve no more to give you. You must have a benefice to live on, so you must be a priest, it’s that simple. Besides, who will say Masses for your father and Hugh and Edward?’

‘Masses?’ repeated Gil. His head was beginning to throb again. ‘What’s wrong with the Masses being said for them already in Carluke? I thought you paid Robert Meikle for that!’

‘Aye, but it’s better if it’s said by blood kin.’

‘Mother, if I had died at Stirling instead of Edward, who would say the Masses then?’

‘Yes, but you didn’t,’ she said unanswerably.

Footsteps, and a rattle of claws, sounded in the room nearest the stairs. Alys appeared in the doorway as the wolfhound scurried in past her, slithered on the waxed boards, and flung itself, yammering ecstatically, into Gil’s arms.

‘Your pardon, madame,’ she said, ‘but Michael wishes to speak to Maister Cunningham, and he must be back at the college soon.’

Michael, following her, made a brief general bow in the doorway. Gil, fending off the pup one-handed, acknowledged the boy’s presence with a sort of relief, but his mother said, ‘Come in, godson. Should you not be at a lecture?’

‘I’ve missed that,’ admitted Michael. ‘We’re supposed to be gated till after St John’s day, but Lowrie said we should tell you, Maister Cunningham, and I drew the straw and Maister Doby said I could get out for this because we’re sort of kin. Just. If you’ll forgive it, madam.’

‘What should you tell me?’

‘Our chamber’s been searched.’