Pat McIntosh - The Counterfeit Madam

She nodded, and moved to the door, pointing at the feed sack with a sour, unintelligible comment. He looked about again, comparing the small building with the rent he knew Sproat paid and finding it reasonable, and turned to follow her out.

Pain stabbed savagely at his head, and the world went dark.

The next thing he was fully aware of was of lying facedown on grass, soaking wet and shivering, with an upheaval in his stomach which became a paroxysm of vomiting. As it passed off and he collapsed shuddering on one elbow again, a pair of booted feet came into his field of view, followed by a swirl of dark red broadcloth.

‘You see, madam, there he’s, just like I said! And he’s lost his hat!’

He knew the voice. Who was it?

‘Aye, just like you said. Good laddie, Cato, you did very well here. Now gie me a hand to lift him.’ Strong hands seized him, dragged him upright. Pain knifed through his head, the world swung around, and a face came close to his, a bright mouth, painted eyes, gold-edged veil. ‘Well, he’s no been drinking. Come away, son, we’ll get you indoors. Can you walk?’

‘I seen them put him in the burn!’ Cato was at his other side, urging him on. One foot in front of the other, teeth chattering, an expert grip on his elbow holding him up, he moved forward. Grass, a muddy path, more grass. Steps, a gate. A gravel path with weeds. Cato still prattling about the burn. Who had been in the burn? Was that why he was so wet? They were in a house now. The bawdy-house. What was it called? Why did his head hurt? The bawd-mistress was talking too.

‘Cato, I said you’re a good laddie, but you can be quiet the now. Come away in, son, we’ll have you in here by the brazier. There, you can lie down a bit. Cato, send Agrippina to me wi the good cordial, and bid Strephon put some broth to heat, and then fetch me some towels, two o the big ones, I’d say, till we get him dried off.’

Expert fingers were working at his clothes. He tried to push the hands away, mumbling an objection, and there was a firm grip on his chin.

‘Look at me. Look at me, Gil Cunningham.’ He opened his eyes, and found Madam Xanthe’s painted face close to his. ‘You’re wringing wet, we have to get you out those clothes and dry afore you take your death. I’m no threat to your wee wife, man.’ She moved back a little. ‘Ah, Agrippina. See me a glass o that stuff. Come up a wee bit, laddie.’

The cordial was fiery and sweet, bit his throat on the way down but sent warmth through him and seemed to clear his head. He looked about him, as Madam Xanthe dragged his jerkin off and started on the points which fastened hose to doublet. He was half-lying on a padded bench, in a chamber he had not seen before, well lit and full of women’s gear, a basket of spinning and another of sewing on the windowsill. It seemed odd to find such a thing in a bawdy-house.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Did the boy say I was in the burn?’

‘I seen you!’ Cato arrived with an armful of linen towels. ‘It was some o them next door, they carried you out the back gate and threw you into the mill-burn.’

He stared at the boy, trying to work out what this could mean.

‘And it was me got you out,’ Cato continued proudly, ‘for I saw you wereny right awake, and I thought maybe you’d not get out afore you got to the millwheels, so I ran down the bank and I got you out! I never got your hat, but,’ he added deprecatingly.

‘I was in the stable,’ Gil said after a moment. ‘Oh, my head!’

‘And then I came and fetched madam. Right lucky you was back, madam, so it was!’

‘Here,’ said Madam Xanthe, pausing in her activities, and felt round his skull with gentle hands. ‘Is your head broke?’ He flinched as she touched a tender spot. ‘No, the skin’s whole, but there’s a lump like a hen’s egg below the crown here. You’ve had a right dunt, I’d say. What were you at in the stable, that they took exception? No stealing a ride on the donkey, I hope, I’d hate to think o the sight.’

He shook his head, and immediately regretted it.

‘I don’t recall.’ He braced himself as she bent to haul one of his boots off. ‘I was. I was talking to.’ He paused, and the faces swam up in his memory. ‘Sempill and his wife. And then,’ he shivered again, and Agrippina came forward and began loosening the strings of his shirt. ‘Aye, she’s dead.’

‘Who’s dead?’ Madam Xanthe said sharply, staring up at him, the red paint on her lips suddenly stark against her white skin. He swallowed.

‘Dame — Dame Isabella. The man came to tell us. So I needny concern myself wi her lands.’

‘Dame Isabella,’ repeated Madam Xanthe, as Agrippina dragged his shirt over his head and began rubbing at his back and chest with one of the towels. ‘Aye, well, small loss her. Now we’ll ha your small-clothes off. Never fret, we’ve all seen one of those afore. Will you have me send to your wife for dry clothing, or will you borrow what we can find round the place?’ She tittered, with a brief return of her usual manner. ‘It all depends, I suppose, whether you want her to know you’re here.’

That was easy. He must be late for dinner already. Let them know now, explain the situation later. And it would take some explaining, he felt.

‘Send home, if you would,’ he said, giving up one arm to Agrippina’s ministrations. ‘Does the laddie ken where-’

‘I ken where!’ said Cato. ‘It’s the big house right by the Blackfriars.’

By the time the boy returned Gil felt much more human. A bowl of hot broth and a hunk of bread had warmed him and steadied his stomach, only his hair was still damp, and he was beginning to remember what had led up to the moment when someone must have struck him on the head.

‘I stepped out of the stable,’ he said. ‘The woman was ahead of me, it wasn’t her-’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ observed Madam Xanthe with irony from her seat by the window. He looked up, startled, and she met his gaze directly for a moment before the arch smile spread to her eyes. ‘I’d not like to think she’d felt the need to strike you down. You’ve a name in this town, Maister Cunningham.’

That seemed too difficult to work out. He went back to his ruminations.

‘It must ha been someone behind the door. What did the boy see?’

‘All he said to me was that he’d seen them next door throw you into the burn. If he’d seen you struck down he’d ha let us all know.’

‘I suppose nobody else was looking out,’ he said without much hope.

‘Ah, now, there’s a thought. Bide here.’

Draped like an antique statue and without his boots, he was hardly likely to go anywhere, but he said nothing, merely put his aching head back against the panelling behind him and considered what to do next. He had a good case against the tenants of Clerk’s Land, and it seemed he had at least one witness, though how good the boy Cato would be before the bailies was another matter. His immediate instinct was to accept the property on small John’s behalf and evict all the tenants, pausing only to double the rent, but the due process of the law might be a better weapon, and in any case there remained the question of why they had treated him like this. All he had done was look at the premises, make a few notes, and speak civilly to two of the women. Were they hiding something, he wondered, and if so what?

Shortly Madam Xanthe reappeared, followed by a towheaded girl in a low-cut dress who trailed a strong scent of musk and violets and paused inside the door, eyeing Gil speculatively.

‘Cleone was at her practice by the window,’ announced Madam Xanthe, ‘like a good lassie. Though it’s all good lassies in this house, a course,’ she added with another sly, sideways glance. ‘Tell Maister Cunningham what you saw, my dear.’