Pat McIntosh - The King's Corrodian

Gil said, ‘It’s the shock. It takes folk strangely.’

‘If the fire was so different from the other,’ said Alys, pinning a bandage on Tam’s arm, ‘so ordinary, could it have been set a purpose?’ She looked about her to see if any burns remained unsalved, then considered Gil, moving the candles close to the hearth.

‘Surely never!’ said Euan, shocked, and Dandy muttered agreement. ‘Who would do sic a thing in a house of holy men?’

‘The town’s no so happy wi the Blackfriars, by what we saw,’ observed Tam, rolling down his singed sleeve.

‘It could ha been,’ said Gil grimly, ignoring them. ‘Brother Dickon will come for me as soon as there’s light to see, though Christ Himself kens that’s none so early at this time of year. We’ll search the wreckage, see if we can find the missing laddie, see if we can learn aught else.’

Alys made no comment, but tucked her hand into his and held it tightly. He caressed the knuckles with his thumb, and smiled at her.

‘This is about ready, mem,’ said Jennet, feeling the side of the pan with a cautious hand. ‘Have we beakers, or that?’

Inspecting his boots and jerkin by daylight, Gil found they were not so badly damaged as he had feared, though they stank of smoke like everything else about him. He was buckling on the boots again and contemplating the fact that since he had an established income he could now afford another pair if Nory could not refurbish these for best, when Brother Dickon opened the main door of the guest hall and stepped in, shaking drops of rain from his sleeves.

‘Aye, maister,’ he said, rather than offering the conventional friars’ blessing. ‘How d’ye feel the day?’

‘Hoarse,’ Gil admitted.

‘Aye, me and all, and the rest o the house. You should ha heard us croaking at Prime. And Brother Infirmarer canny help us, by reason o the fire itself, and all his simples consumed.’

‘My wife has a receipt which might help. The most of what it asks is common kitchen stores, she tells me. She’s gone hoping for a word wi the cook, now we’ve broken our fast.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Brother Dickon pulled a face. ‘Good luck to her, though I’d say if anyone can get round Brother Augustine this morn, madam your wife can. He’s no in a charitable state, what wi the broken night, and one o his best knives is missing the day and naeb’dy admitting to having lost it. A good cook, he is, and like all good cooks he’s a wee thing.’ He paused, considering Brother Augustine. ‘Touchy,’ he concluded.

‘Alys can likely deal wi him.’ Gil lifted his plaid. ‘How’s the ruin the day?’

‘A sorry sight.’ Brother Dickon turned back towards the door. ‘I’d a wee look as soon’s it began to lighten,’ he went on as they crossed the courtyard, ‘and it was still smouldering, but this rain’ll likely ha seen to that. I’ve set my lads,’ he ducked into the slype by the library, ‘I’ve set my lads to make a start on the end by the door, where we searched a’ready last night, and you and I’ll have a good nose about at the other end o the building, for the laddie never got out — or if he did,’ he added grimly, ‘he’s vanished into thin air. He’s no been seen.’

The infirmary was an ugly sight, as Brother Dickon had said. The further end had collapsed completely, the roof-tiles in a blackened layer over fallen timbers, part of a wall standing up like a broken tooth. The end by the door was still standing, though much of the roof had fallen in. Over all the reek of smoke hung, and the drizzle had laid the worst of the ash into a clinging slurry. Brother Dickon’s little troop was working hard, habits kilted up, more wet rags bound about their faces to keep the ash out, their sturdy boots and thick leggings smeared with the stuff. Gil’s two grooms were with them, and several young Dominicans, presumably novices of the house, their natural high spirits much subdued by the task. They had already amassed a number of stacks of different salvage, unbroken tiles, timbers only partly burned, a couple of pieces of furniture. Gil accepted a wet rag himself and made his way to the far end of the ruined building, assessing the task before them.

‘The fire was fiercer this end,’ he said. The lay brother grunted agreement. ‘It’s brought the whole structure down here, and yet the two couple o rafters at the other end are still standing.’

‘Have to come down, mind. The whole thing’ll need rebuilt.’ Brother Dickon dragged a charred beam aside, and kicked at the remains of the wall below it, which crumbled obligingly. ‘The laddie was in the end chamber by hissel, by what I can make out, and this should be the one next it.’

‘Where would the Infirmarer have been?’ Gil asked. Brother Dickon surveyed the scene, measured off a section and then another with his forefingers at arm’s length, and finally sketched with decisive gestures a narrow chamber not far from where the door had been.

‘About there,’ he said. ‘He’d be atween the patient and the door, if there was ever anyone kept there the night. Him or Brother Euan. No that Brother James would ha heard if the Last Trump sounded, bless him,’ he added. ‘He’s no so good the day, wasny fit to rise for Terce. I hope he does better. Right, maister. If we can clear the tiles, and they great timbers, we should be able to-Have you ever seen a corp that burned to death?’

‘No,’ Gil admitted. ‘Have you?’

‘Aye. No a bonnie sight.’ The lay brother bent to a blackened timber, and Gil tossed his plaid over a singed rosemary bush and hurried to take the other end. Fragments of tile slid away as they heaved. ‘These tiles is all done, we’ll get none fit to use again.’

They progressed sideways with the length of wood between them, and set it down some distance away.

‘Tell me more about the man Pollock,’ said Gil, rubbing wet ash from his hands, and stepped back into the ruins.

‘Him? Why?’

‘Because nobody else seems to want to talk about him,’ said Gil deliberately, bending to gather broken tiles, ‘and I’d say you were a man to gie me a straight answer. Is there aught like a basket we could use to fetch these out of the mess?’

‘A basket.’ Brother Dickon straightened up with care, stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. One of his industrious team looked up, left his task and joined them at the double. ‘Brother Jamesie, get to the store, will you, find two-three baskets. Sound ones, mind, that will hold these broken tiles. Should ha thought o that mysel,’ he allowed as his henchman trotted off. ‘Pollock. Well, it’s right hard to say aught about him, maister, seeing we’re enjoined no to speak ill o the dead, and him no buried yet either.’

‘If he was still alive, what would you ha said?’

The lay brother’s grizzled beard split in a grin.

‘I’d ha warned you he was a sleekit, spying yadswiver,’ he said promptly. ‘We tellt you as much yesterday, how he’d go about the place, overhearing all sorts that was none o his mind, writing it down in his wee tablets and casting it up at a man later. He’d a go at me,’ he admitted, ‘wishing to call me into trouble for some language I used that was no seemly, but I preferred to take it to Chapter o Faults mysel, and so I tellt him. Wasny any great penance,’ he added.

‘Was he a man given to drink? Could he have been asleep when the fire started?’

‘That’s one thing he was moderate in,’ said Dickon consideringly. ‘I’m no certain I ever seen him fou, nor even a wee thing argumentative wi drink. He’d no need o a drink to start an argument,’ he added, his tone souring.

‘Had he any friend in the convent?’ Gil asked. ‘There’s no other permanent lodger, is there? No other corrodian?’