Pat McIntosh - The Counterfeit Madam

‘Then they’re cast into a vat of argol and boiled,’ he related, ‘and then they’re struck.’

‘Argol?’ questioned Alys. ‘What is that, maister?’

‘Er — it’s what you’d call tartar of wine, likely-’

‘The same as I’d use to make sponge-cakes rise?’ she said in amazement. ‘What does that do to them?’

‘I wouldny ken, mistress.’ Livingstone tasted the Malvoisie again. ‘It makes the blanks more ready to take the impress, softens the metal I suppose. Anyway then they’re struck, like I said. You’ve your pile, that’s a column of iron,’ he curved thumb and middle finger of his free hand to demonstrate the breadth, ‘wi a spike at the base to hold it secure in the block, and your trussel, that’s another column. And each of them has one face of the coin engraved on the flat end, so when you put your blank between the two and strike it a few times wi a mell, there’s your coin. Your groat or whatever you set out to strike.’

‘It seems a great deal of work to make a groat,’ she said dubiously.

‘Oh, it’s that,’ he agreed, ‘but you don’t make just the one groat. A good man working wi a basket of blanks can strike twenty or thirty in an hour.’

‘So it is a noisy process,’ said Gil.

‘Aye, it’s noisy. Your moneyer has to strike hard and straight every time, and the pile and trussel ring out, being iron, and then there’s the beater and the shear-man. Plenty o noise in a Mint, there is.’

‘Do the dies have to be iron?’ Gil asked. ‘Would a softer metal do?’

‘Oh, it would do ,’ agreed Livingstone, ‘but it wouldny last. You’d need a fresh die afore the six month was out, and you never get them quite the same, no matter how good your craftsman is. You’d get the Mint accused o making false coin!’ He laughed at that.

‘And how about waste?’ asked Gil. ‘Things go wrong in any craft.’

‘They do,’ Maister Livingstone nodded solemnly. ‘You’ve to make certain each groat’s worth a groat, that there’s as many coins out of a pound of siller as there should be, no more and no less. You need to be sure both images are struck clean and single, wi no double strikes or part strikes, and you need to weigh it all in and all out again to make sure none of it’s walked out in your moneyer’s shoon. And the dies has to be locked up at the day’s end and given out again the next morning.’

‘The dies? So they never go missing?’ said Gil. Maister Livingstone grinned.

‘What do you think, maister? But they’re generally found again. There’s no that many folks can dispose of them, a wee session all round wi the torturer uncovers what happened quick enough.’

‘But surely,’ said Lowrie, and stopped as they all looked at him. ‘Surely an engraver could make you a die if you wanted one? No need to risk stealing what would be missed, just get the man to copy a coin for you — you might even get the same engraver that made the originals, if you paid him enough.’

‘Aye, you could,’ said his uncle with scepticism, ‘but you’ve still to get the siller, which is one of the scarcest things in all Scotland, I’ve no need to tell you, laddie, as well as finding the other craftsmen you need.’

‘How much room does the coiner use for working?’ asked Alys. ‘The Mint must be a good size, I suppose, but if you need not have the assay-house and the strongroom and so forth, could a man work by his own hearth?’

‘Aye, or in an outhouse,’ agreed Livingstone. He considered. ‘The other work has to be done somewhere, a course. I’d agree wi you, a counterfeiter likely won’t trouble himsel wi the assaying, but the metal still has to be cast and cut and annealed.’

‘Somewhere wi space for metalworking, then,’ said Gil. ‘Even if they clear it all away when they’re not at the task. A fire or a furnace, tongs and a crucible and ladle-’

‘Furnace,’ said Livingstone. ‘You’ll not melt siller on a kitchen fire.’ He set down his glass, and looked at the dark window. ‘We’d best away up the road, maister. The auld wife has to be watched, or she’s up to all sorts. I’ll not weep at her funeral, I can tell you. Have I tellt you all you need for now?’

‘We were wedded just before Martinmas,’ said Magdalen Boyd. Gil eyed her, wondering how to put his next question. She saw his expression and smiled faintly. ‘John and I deal excellently well,’ she said. ‘I’ll not deny it was a matter of convenience for both of us, but I’ve found great good in him.’

‘You have?’ said Gil before he could help it. ‘I mean — I’m glad to hear that.’

It was probably not yet Terce, but he had begun the day before Prime recording an exchange of sasines on a muddy toft away along Rottenrow. After a short but frustrating interview with Canon Cunningham, which the older man had ended by claiming an early appointment at his chamber in the Consistory Tower, he had crossed the street to the gates of the town house which had once belonged to John Sempill and was now the property of his cousin Philip. Lady Magdalen had greeted him pleasantly, sent out to find her husband, and sat down to talk to her guest; a tray with small ale and little cakes had appeared immediately.

‘He’s that attentive,’ she went on, ‘far more than my first man, and he manages my estates for me, which is something I found a great burden, for I’ve no understanding o these things.’

Gil stared at her in fascination, trying to reconcile this image of John Sempill with the man he knew. After a moment he abandoned the attempt and said,

‘Tell me more about these two tofts on the Drygate. How did you come by them?’

‘They were a part of my tocher when I was first wedded,’ she said. ‘My brother purchased them in ’89. There’s no need for you to worry about them, they’re mine to dispose of as I please, wi John’s consent, and you can see I have that.’

So the feu superior was either the Archbishop or the burgh, he thought, and the records should be in Glasgow. That simplified that.

‘Did you ken who were the tenants?’

She nodded, going faintly pink across the cheekbones.

‘The wester toft, the one where there’s all the workshops, we took on wi the most of those tenants in place. The other one, the house-’ She bit her lip. ‘My brother purchased that from one of the Walkinshaws. I think it was where their mother dwelt afore she founded the almshouse. We had one tenant or another in it for a year or two, and then this — woman and her business offered me a good rent, and my brother thought I should accept.’

‘You’ve had no dealings direct with her?’

She shook her head.

‘My brother dealt wi’t first, and then John since we were wedded, and I think he’s had no need o speaking wi the woman, she’s sent the rent in good time each quarter-day. To tell truth, maister, I’ve never been in the house. I was right concerned, what Maister Livingstone said about the paintings. Are they — are they-?’

‘The ones I saw were seemly enough,’ he assured her, ‘though the subjects themselves were a touch wanton. A few painted drapes and they’d be fit for anyone’s een.’

‘Hmm.’ She did not sound convinced. ‘Or maybe a good coat o limewash. So have you come to a decision, maister?’

‘Not yet,’ said Gil. ‘I’d like a closer look at all the workshops, and a wee while wi the accounts. But it’s beginning to look like a right generous offer.’

She gave him another gentle smile.

‘It’s only right that John’s heir should be his own get,’ she said, ‘but I’d not want to see the other bairn lose by it. His mother was gently bred, after all.’

So is his father, in his own country, thought Gil, but said nothing. She nudged the plate of little cakes towards him, but anything she might have said was drowned out by the arrival of John Sempill, flinging wide the house door and exclaiming,