Pat McIntosh: The Counterfeit Madam

‘More false coin,’ said Andrew Otterburn glumly.

‘It looks like it,’ said Gil.

The present depute Provost of Glasgow was a lanky Borderer in his forties with a long gloomy face. Gil suspected his mother must have been a Chisholm, to judge by the deep, close set of his eyes, but had never quite liked to ask. The man had a difficult task; Sir Thomas Stewart, Provost of Glasgow for eight or ten years, had demitted office at Yule and Archbishop Robert Blacader had installed Maister Otterburn to take care of his burgh until the election of a new provost at the Town Meeting in the autumn. Sir Thomas had been accepted and respected, and his successor did not meet with unanimous approval. It did not help that Glasgow and the surrounding area was plagued by an outbreak of false coin, of which the first specimens had come to light in the burgh coffers themselves less than a month after Otterburn was put in post.

Now, discovered in the Provost’s lodgings in the Castle, he scrutinized the handful of coins Maistre Pierre offered him as if they were personal bad tidings.

‘Aye,’ he said at length. ‘I’d say they were out of the same workshop. See, these are all the same plack wi James Third on it, and that’s the silver threepenny piece wi four mullets on the back. I’ve had two o these brought me from the bawdy-house. The madam wasny best pleased, I can tell you.’ He turned the coin to the light, then bit it reflectively and shook his head. ‘My lord’s right keen to learn the source of these, but I’ve not found yet where they come fro’, though it seems there are more entering through Dumbarton out of the Isles. How did you come by these, maister?’

‘The placks came back from the market yesterday,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘The maidservant who brought them thought they came from more than one trader. The silver piece I had from Daniel Hutchison, in a bag of coin.’

‘Hutchison,’ Otterburn repeated. ‘Oh, aye, he’s putting a new wing to his house, is that right? Over in the Gorbals. Outside the burgh, strictly,’ he added, spinning one of the placks. It twirled once or twice and fell over.

‘But the coin has come into the burgh,’ Gil pointed out.

‘Oh, I’m not arguing.’

‘You say they come from the Isles?’ Maistre Pierre said. ‘Who should make false coin in the Isles? Is there any source of metal?’

‘None that I ken,’ admitted Otterburn. ‘I’d not say the coin was being struck out yonder, just that it comes back in from there.’

‘So someone is taking it there,’ Gil said thoughtfully. ‘Where from, and why?’

‘Good questions.’ Otterburn spun the plack again. ‘As to where from, likely the same place as these came from, which my lord would like fine to ken as I say, but why’s another matter.’

‘To alter the balance of wealth out there?’ suggested Maistre Pierre. ‘Is there any suddenly rich?’

‘The Islesmen set less store by coin than we do,’ said Gil. ‘It’s a world of barter and payment in kind, wi little call for money within factions. I suppose if one kinship was buying the friendship of another, or buying in gallowglasses — hired fighting men, like the Campbell brothers, from Ireland or another part of the Isles — they might need coin. Is there any word of that kind of thing?’

‘When is there no?’ said Otterburn, making a long face. ‘The King didny settle matters out there, for all he took John of the Isles prisoner last year. Indeed, matters are worse, for they’re all at each other’s throats now to determine who has his place. Word is the King’s Grace is planning to go out again this spring.’ He stacked the coins neatly, considering them. ‘Would this come within your writ, Maister Cunningham? As Blacader’s quaestor? I’m thinking it’s about time we did something about it, other than wringing our hands and passing resolutions in the burgh council.’

‘It would,’ Gil said cautiously, ‘if my lord so instructed me. If you were to suggest to him that I look into it, I’d be glad to-’

‘It’s as good as done, man,’ said Otterburn. He hitched up the shoulders of his fur-lined gown, swept the coins off the table-carpet into his hand and moved to the cabinet beside the tall window. ‘Walter can scribe me a note of where these came from and I’ll put them wi the others, and then he can write to my lord. The day’s despatch has yet to go. And when that’s done and we’ve had my lord’s agreement,’ he added, ‘I’ll let you hear all I ken of the things. It’s no a lot, I confess.’

‘Pursuing false moneyers would make a change from pursuing murderers,’ observed Maistre Pierre as they made their way up Rottenrow.

Gil nodded, thinking about the conversation. Otter-burn’s slow manner and gloomy speech had convinced most of the burgesses of Glasgow that he was a fool, but more than once he had shown a deeper knowledge of what was afoot in his burgh than one might expect after less than four months in post. Sir Thomas’s clerk Walter served him willingly and well, always a good sign. If Otterburn had not yet tracked down the source of the counterfeit money, it must be well hidden.

‘I do not understand what goes on in the Isles,’ Maistre Pierre went on. ‘I had thought all was settled last year, but by what the Provost says-’

Gil eyed his father-in-law, a man in accurate touch with the politics of Scotland and most of Europe.

‘John MacDonald, Lord of the Isles, was forfeit this time last year,’ he said, ‘and did penance for all his crimes in January there, and resigned his lands into the King’s hands.’

‘That part I know. Your uncle tells me he is now the King’s pensioner somewhere in Stirling. But who is in his shoes? Someone must hold his lands and command the wild Ersche.’

‘That’s the problem, as Otterburn said. More than one possible heir, all with influence, none with authority to command the whole of the region.’

‘Has he no direct heir?’

‘He had.’ Gil paused to enumerate. ‘His son Angus Og, which I think means Young Angus, was the obvious successor-’

‘Was,’ repeated the mason.

‘Aye. Angus Og was murdered by his harper in ’90. He was wedded to yet another of old Argyll’s daughters — a sister of the present earl-’

‘So there are Campbells in it. I might have known.’

‘Indeed. There’s a posthumous son, now in this earl’s care-’

‘Ah!’

‘-and John’s two nephews are bickering with Argyll and with McIan of Ardnamurchan about who has de facto control of the Isles. It’s hardly simple at best, but it’s not easy to understand if you’re not from the Isles yourself.’

‘That I agree with.’

The front door of Canon Cunningham’s house was standing open as they approached. There seemed to be a commotion on the stairs within, and a familiar voice reached them shouting abuse from the midst of a group of struggling servants. They strode on without hesitation, to enter the house by the kitchen door, and found Canon Cunningham’s housekeeper Maggie, stout and red-faced, setting the leather beakers on a tray while a jug of buttered ale warmed at the hearth. Clearly Sempill and his party were not the most esteemed clients; those got the glasses from the cupboard in the hall, with wine, white or red, or even the Dutch spirits.

Maggie looked round as they stepped into the vaulted chamber, and nodded to the mason.

‘Good day to ye, maister, and how are ye? Maister Gil, he’s asking where you are. Oh, get off wi you,’ she added, as Gil came to kiss her broad cheek. ‘Are you well? How does Mistress Alys do?’

‘Well enough.’ Gil inspected the rack of little cakes left to cool on the broad scrubbed table. ‘She sends her greetings. These are good, Maggie. There’s nothing comes out of our kitchen quite like them. Try one, Pierre.’