Pat McIntosh - The Fourth Crow

Both courtyards of the Castle were teeming with pack-animals, men in livery, clerics of all ranks, scurrying hither and yon. On the steps of the Archbishop’s lodging Otterburn, looking as near flustered as Gil had seen him, and Robert Blacader himself, in grim irritation, were surveying the bustle. Behind them the Archbishop’s rat-faced secretary, Maister Dunbar, was making notes in a set of tablets. Blacader’s glance fell on Gil, and he raised a hand and beckoned sharply.

‘Gilbert,’ he said, when Gil had elbowed his way to the foot of the steps. ‘What progress have you made? Have we a name for this grievous sinner yet?’

‘No with any certainty, my lord,’ said Gil, hat in hand, bowing over the proffered ring as he spoke.

‘Hmm.’ Blacader considered this, his heavy blue jowls stilled for a moment. ‘I’m to read the anathema tonight after Vespers. I suppose it can be done without naming him.’

‘That might be a good thing,’ Gil observed. The Archbishop scrutinised him, and nodded.

‘Fetch him out of cover, you mean. Aye, I suppose. We’ll go ahead with Quicunque vehementer percussit, then, whoever violently slew this woman.’ Gil, whose Latin was at least as good as the Archbishop’s, bowed at this and prepared to retreat, but his master gestured to him to remain. ‘Provost, you’ll send the Bellman out, I hope, wi the summons to Vespers and the ensuing. They’ve all to be there, I want as many of the burgh as possible to hear it, we’ll have no doubt what comes to any that desecrate a sacred building.’

‘The Bellman’s gone out already,’ said Otterburn. The Archbishop nodded, and looked about him, gathering up his retinue.

‘Gilbert, I want you wi me the now, I’ll go up to the hostel, St Catherine’s is it, and see the place. Canon Muir’s no fit to make sense, I need someone that kens what’s what. I need to ken whether the place is scrubbed clean, I’m no consecrating blood and brains. And as for St Mungo’s,’ he added, almost as an aside, ‘I canny think what Dean Henderson’s about, a course that chapel needs cleansing. We’ll ha the full process there and all. And this lassie that’s vanished and reappeared, well!’

Gil’s father had been wont to say that the husbandman’s best muck was on his own boots. After an hour of watching the episcopal equivalent of this, Gil was in no doubt, if he ever had been, that Robert Blacader was well fitted to be a prince of the Church.

Striding up past the Castle walls to the hostel at the Archbishop’s elbow, a retinue of secretaries and chaplains hurrying behind them, he had explained as much of the situation as he dared. His master had listened without comment, but when they reached St Catherine’s it was clear he had taken in all that was said. Sir Simon, Lockhart, Doctor Januar, had all been dealt with crisply and effectively, Annie had been confessed and apparently released from her vow of uncleanness on a technical detail of the original wording, her sisters-in-law and the rest of the household had been blessed. Some of the time had been spent at the bedside of the dying man, and the rest had gone on a thorough inspection of the chapel.

‘Cold water, lye, hot water, your grace, my lord,’ Bessie gabbled, bobbing in a sort of curtsy with every word. ‘And I scrubbed and scrubbed it. And the candlestock, cold water and sand, and the hangings pit to soak or burnt, a’ seen to, your grace, my lord-’

‘I can see that,’ said Blacader. ‘You have worked very hard, daughter. Well done.’

Bessie fell on her knees, crossing herself, and Sir Simon observed,

‘Bessie and Attie her man are faithful servants of the hostel, my lord.’

‘You’ll speak to William here,’ the Archbishop said, ‘about what’s needed for the reconsecration. All the moveable furnishings, books, hangings, vestments, all that, to be laid out on trestles for the thurifer. Seating for the deacons. William kens what’s needed.’ Behind him Maister Dunbar nodded resignedly. ‘We’ll sort it the morn’s morn after Sext.’

‘The morn?’ repeated Sir Simon in astonishment. ‘But my lord-’

Maister Dunbar murmured something in his master’s ear.

‘Well, the next day then. We canny leave it longer, the King’s Grace is for the Isles again and all the Court wi him. Which calls me to mind, I’ll want you wi us, Gilbert.’

Turning over this startling news, Gil made now for home and his dinner. His last trip to the Isles in May had been eventful, and had brought him once again to the attention of his King. Another trip could be interesting, though he would probably have to leave Alys at home again; it certainly meant that he had to find out who killed Barnabas, and Peg Simpson, and Dame Ellen Shaw, before he left.

Lowrie was in the hall when he stepped into the house, pulling off his boots while the women set up the table and Euan gathered up plaids and saddlebags to carry upstairs. Catherine had emerged from her chamber in anticipation of the meal. Alys was just pouring ale; seeing Gil she smiled, and reached for another beaker. Socrates padded forward to greet them both, tail waving.

‘Success!’ the young man said. ‘I’ve news aplenty, Maister Gil. But what’s happening in the burgh? What’s the Bellman crying? Did I see the Archbishop’s standard at the Castle?’

‘You did,’ Gil agreed, taking a pull at his ale. ‘Ah, I needed that. There’s been all sorts happening here. I’ve collected a deal of news too, and Alys has found Annie Gibb safe.’

‘Found-?’ Lowrie stared in awe at Alys over his ale. ‘Mistress, I truly believe there is nothing you can’t do. Where was she?’

Over the meal Catherine listened intently as they discussed the return of Annie Gibb, and what Gil had learned from the day, and finally turned to Lowrie’s errand over the second course, a dish of almond tartlets.

‘I found James Bowling easy enough,’ he said. ‘He dwells hard by the Cross, I’d to ask no more than two people afore I found him. He’s forty I suppose, stout burgess prospering well, it’s clear the town supports more than one man of law in good style. I gave him your letter, which he read, and sends greetings, very civilly.’ Gil bent his head in acknowledgement. ‘Then I tellt him the whole tale, as I had it last night a course, and asked could he shed any light on any of it. At which he hummed and hawed a while about confidentiality and the respect of his clients, till I mentioned the Archbishop, and reminded him how much we kent already, whereupon he agreed to answer questions but no to volunteer what wasny asked.’

‘I’d ha done the same, I suppose,’ said Gil.

‘Indeed, it shows a very proper attitude,’ said Catherine in French.

‘By which means I established,’ said Lowrie, nodding at this, ‘that William Craigie is altogether well kent in Ayrshire. It’s not spoken of but widely kent that he was one of a party that burned the kirk o Tarbolton, and a course as a priest he was hit wi a heavy penance for it. He’s to contribute stone for the rebuilding-’

‘The quarry!’ said Alys.

‘Exactly. He was fined coin and all, which he’s paying over a few merks at a time, and has been going the rounds of the men of law in Ayrshire, trying to get one of them to take on his case that he should ha been left the quarry you were asking Maister Mason o last night.’

‘Was it only last night?’ marvelled Gil. ‘Aye, before Attie summoned us to the hostel. Go on, Lowrie. This is extraordinarily useful.’

‘Why should he have been left it?’ Alys wondered. ‘Was there any reason?’

‘There was. Annie’s paternal grandmother was a Craigie. I think the land came to her father that way.’

‘And he claimed to be unrelated to Annie,’ said Gil. ‘Very good. Very useful indeed, Lowrie.’