Pat McIntosh - The Counterfeit Madam

‘It’s a valuable property,’ Gil said, ‘and the madam says she plans to move on soon. I’d be in favour, so long as we had that in writing.’

‘Mm.’ Alys shook out the bundle of linen in her lap and hunted for the needle in the seam. ‘And the other property?’

‘Busy. Four craftsmen and Danny Sproat with his don-key-cart. Again, a good rent-roll, probably we’d get as much as Sempill sends us each quarter from that one alone.’

‘A wise investment, then. How will you proceed?’

‘Maister Livingstone is to come here,’ Gil said, glancing at the fading light from the windows, ‘about now, indeed, and tomorrow I’ll wait on Dame Isabella, and as Pierre says I must get a word with Magdalen Boyd, though I suppose Sempill will be present. Likely the rest of the day’s my own.’

‘And this question of the false money,’ Alys said, and bit off her thread. She selected a second needle from the row stuck ready-threaded into the cushion of the bench beside her, drew the candles closer and began another row of neat stitches. ‘When will you have time to look into that?’

‘When I’ve sorted the other thing.’ Gil grimaced. ‘Though if my lord orders me to see to it, it ought to take precedence.’

‘Is there any person in Glasgow who is suddenly wealthy?’ asked Catherine. ‘I have heard nothing, maistre , but you speak to many people in a day’s work.’

Gil glanced at her in surprise. This small, aged, devout woman knew an amazing amount about what went on in Glasgow despite her lack of any spoken Scots; it was unusual for her to admit ignorance.

‘Nor have I,’ he admitted, ‘but that’s no help. We don’t know that the coiners are in Glasgow, and in any case it wouldn’t be wise to spend all the coin you had forged in the one place. Most folk know exactly how well off their neighbours are. A handful here, a couple of placks there, would be easier to pass off.’

‘As in the Isles,’ observed Maistre Pierre.

‘How noisy is the work?’ asked Alys. ‘I suppose if one must strike each coin the hammering would be heard.’

‘Noisy enough. Hard to keep it secret in the countryside,’ said Gil thoughtfully, ‘unless the workshop was very isolated, and yet in a town the neighbours are just as alert.’

Alys raised her head, listening.

‘Not hammering,’ she said, ‘but someone in the courtyard. Could it be Maister Livingstone?’

‘I’ll take him up to our lodging,’ said Gil, rising as the sound of feet on the fore-stair reached them. ‘We can sit in my closet.’

‘You see,’ said Alexander Livingstone finally, contemplating the array of documents on the bench cushions, ‘we’ve the whole chain here, from when my grandsire Archibald took sasine from Albany’s steward in ’35, down to my brother Archie’s payment of the heriot fee ten year since when he inherited.’ He turned to lift his glass of wine from the window-ledge where he had set it, and drank appreciatively.

‘It’s very clear,’ observed Alys. ‘Is it unusual to find so complete a record?’

‘Not particularly,’ said Gil. ‘My father had a set of papers very like this, the record of sasine from the Hamiltons, with all the succession from his grandsire.’ He bent to the nearest, to reintroduce its crumbling seal into the little linen bag which protected it.

‘I mind my grandsire telling me,’ offered Lowrie, ‘how his faither, that’s old Archibald, had to go to take sasine all over again and get that first instrument given in his hand, only because the King wanted all writ down so it would be clear at law. He aye said there was no need of papers until the King started meddling.’

‘Ah!’ said Alys. ‘So all Scotland suddenly had to get all written down.’ She looked at Gil, her eyes dancing. ‘Notaries’ wives must have come out in new gowns that year.’

‘Those that were wedded,’ said Maister Livingstone seriously, hitching his yellow velvet round his shoulders. ‘Notaries were mostly churchmen at that day.’

Gil’s closet at the end of the short enfilade of chambers was barely big enough for two guests, let alone the armful of documents the Livingstone men had brought. They had abandoned his writing-desk and returned to the outermost room just as Alys arrived with the wine; she had stayed to watch fascinated while Maister Livingstone spread out the succession of parchments under the two candles on the pricket-stand, with a brief comment about each, like a fortune-teller laying out cards.

‘So that’s the original,’ he went on now, gesturing again at the first document with its crumbling seal. ‘Then it passed from Albany to Alan Stewart as feu superior, and then to the present man, John Stewart, that’s now titled Earl of Lennox-’

‘All very clear,’ Gil agreed. ‘And here’s the record of renewal of sasine at your grandsire’s death in ’62, and then at your father’s death ten year since, with the sasine-oxen duly noted.’

‘I like this one,’ said Alys, bending to one of the papers. ‘ Twa oxin, gra hornit and white checkit . They must have been handsome beasts.’

‘They were,’ said Maister Livingstone sourly. ‘I mind those. Best plough-team on the lands, they were.’

‘Where are these usually kept?’ Gil asked, nodding at the array of documents.

‘The strongbox at Craigannet,’ said Lowrie. ‘My faither and me sorted them out afore we set out for Glasgow, all that seemed germane to the auld body’s plans. You should see what we kept back,’ he added, brushing dust from his person.

‘Why?’ asked Gil. Both men looked at him a little blankly, but Alys nodded. ‘Why did your father think the sasines might be needed?’

There was a pause, into which Lowrie said,

‘Ah. Well.’

‘She’s done something of the sort afore,’ said his uncle with reluctance. ‘Archie said, take these along in case, and no to lose them.’

‘Are you saying, in fact, Thomas may not have alienated the lands we’re dealing wi today? That her claim is false?’

‘I’d be surprised if he did,’ said Maister Livingstone, hitching up his yellow velvet again.

‘Tell me about it. When did she wed your uncle? Why did they wed? They must ha been both well up in their age.’

‘For mutual comfort of each other’s possessions,’ muttered Lowrie. Alys suppressed a giggle. ‘He once tellt me he’d known her when they were both young,’ he added. ‘I think they both knew Elizabeth Livingstone. Her that was wedded to John of the Isles,’ he elucidated, ‘she and Thomas, and I suppose my grandsire, were second cousins or thereabouts.’ He found his uncle staring at him, and subsided.

‘Isabella and Thomas was wedded in ’90,’ said Maister Livingstone, returning to the point. ‘I think Thomas had his eye on some lands she had in Strathblane at the time, which would sit nicely alongside these two Livingstone holdings that we’re at odds about now. But she kept a tight grip on their management, no joint feus for her, and yet somehow Thomas’s own property all turned out to have been held in joint feu after he died.’

‘Were they fond?’

‘Doted, more like,’ said Lowrie.

‘In fairness, no,’ said his uncle to that. ‘Thomas was deaf as an adder by then,’ he explained to Gil, ‘which you can see would be an advantage, and the old carline would pat his hand, order his favourite dinner, and go her own way. They were easy enough together. Mostly.’

‘There were some rare brulzies,’ said Lowrie, ‘if he crossed her, but mostly he did as she pleased.’

‘So she’s changed little in the time.’

‘Changed not at all. She’s aye been like that, an arglebarglous steering old attercap, fit to tramp on any man’s toes, or woman besides.’