Pat McIntosh - The Counterfeit Madam

Maggie looked gratified, but smacked his hand away as he reached for a second cake. ‘Away up the stair wi you, Maister Gil, I tellt you he was asking for you and they’re all up there waiting. You can get another of these after.’

‘Who’s waiting? Who did Sempill bring for witnesses?’

‘Oh, a great crowd. Sempill himsel,’ she counted on her work-worn fingers, ‘and that cousin that’s aye wi him — Philip, is it? Him that swore to revenge Bess Stewart on him and hasny done it yet, that I ever heard. Sempill’s new wife, a couple more fellows, and that Dame Isabella wi a hantle of servants, still heaving her up the stair like a barrel in a sling by the sound of it. No, maister, the cakes is for after, one’s all you’re getting. I better put them by afore they all come down to my kitchen to wait while she gets her business seen to.’

‘Aye, this new wife,’ said Gil. ‘Had you heard of the marriage? Did anyone warn the lassie’s kin?’

‘That’s what I wondered,’ she agreed, with satisfaction. ‘No, I’d not heard, and nor had the old man. He’s right put out about that. I wonder your lady mother never mentioned it, seeing the lassie must be cousins wi her. Maybe she’s too taen up wi Lady Tib’s marriage.’

‘Who was the first husband?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘I take it he was a wealthy man.’

‘That I’ve not heard,’ Maggie said regretfully, ‘but likely you’re right, maister, and he left her better off than he got her. That Sempill wouldny take her without something to sweeten the match. Or maybe this land that Dame Isabella’s to settle on them was the attraction.’

Gil nodded. He had set eyes only once or twice on either Sempill cousin since the episode, almost two years since, when Sempill’s runaway wife Bess Stewart had been discovered dead in the half-built addition to the cathedral. Gil had been directed to find her killer, and in doing so had made the closer acquaintance of Pierre Mason and his daughter Alys; by the time the matter was solved he was betrothed to Alys, his intended career in the church abandoned, and Pierre had agreed to foster Bess’s baby son, with Gil as the boy’s guardian. John Sempill’s interest in the child was solely financial, which in Sempill’s case, he thought now, would be a more powerful attraction than parenthood, and if the man’s financial position had changed then his attitude to the boy had probably changed too.

‘And that Dame Isabella,’ Maggie pursued, ‘I opened the door to her manservant, and the maister cam down the stair to greet her himsel. So she asks him a gey intrusive question and tells him he’s looking his age. As for the names she calls her folk! I’ll keep out her road while I can. And then,’ she went on, setting her hand on the jug of ale to test its temperature, ‘there’s her two nephews, and you’ll never guess who one of them is.’

‘Go on, then,’ he invited as she paused.

‘That lad Lowrie Livingstone,’ she said triumphantly, and lifted the jug. ‘Here, you might as well make yoursel useful.’

The company Maggie had detailed was seated in a half-circle on the new carved backstools, Dame Isabella just taking her seat at the centre beside another lady. To one side were Sempill and his cousin, on the other was the lanky fair-haired Lowrie Livingstone with a man who must be his kinsman. Facing them Canon David Cunningham, senior judge of the diocese, was ensconced in one of the window spaces, surrounded by stools, a succession of documents spread on top of each. His balding head was covered by a black felt coif and round legal bonnet, and his furred gown was drawn up about his ears against the chill of the spring afternoon.

Dame Isabella’s men retired to the door of the other stair, and one of her waiting-women began fanning her with a painted leather fan. As Gil stepped in off the kitchen stair with the tray of buttered ale in his hands, John Sempill, stocky and sandy-haired in a suit of cherry velvet clothes Gil had seen before, leaned round the back of his chair and glowered at him.

‘So there you are, Gil Cunningham. Took your time, did you no?’

‘And God’s greeting to you too, John,’ said Gil with extreme politeness.

‘Gilbert,’ said Canon Cunningham, removing his spectacles. ‘And Peter. Dame Isabella, you mind Gelis’s third son. Mistress Boyd, my nephew. And his good-father, Maister Peter Mason. Gilbert, I think you know all here but Maister Alexander Livingstone.’ He indicated the stranger, who had risen. Beside him Lowrie also leapt to his feet and came to take the tray from Gil, freeing him to raise his hat in a general greeting. ‘And you’ve brought a refreshment. A wee cup of hot ale, friends. Peter, come and be seated.’

‘Get away from me wi that thing, Annot, it’s more harm than good,’ pronounced Dame Isabella in her gruff bark. ‘You two trollops get over by the wall out my road. So you’re Gelis Muirhead’s laddie, are you? And have you had your bowels open at stool the day?’

So that’s how we play this hand, Gil thought. He bowed without answering and turned to help Lowrie who had set the tray on the cupboard.

‘Maister Gil.’ The young man’s ears were flying scarlet. ‘I’m right glad to see you again.’

‘Lowrie.’ Gil nodded to him and began pouring the steaming ale. ‘What brings you back to Glasgow? I thought you had won your degree.’

‘Aye, I determined last autumn.’ Lowrie gave him an embarrassed grin. ‘I’m attending my aunt. Dame Isabella. She was wedded to my great-uncle Thomas the year afore he died,’ he divulged quietly, lifting the first two beakers. ‘And my uncle Eckie’s here to represent the family interest.’

Gil took in all that was not said in this brief speech, noting with approval that there was no attempt to apologize for the old woman, as his uncle said,

‘We’ll drink to a successful settlement, friends, and then we can get to work.’

‘It’s simple enough,’ began Sempill, but was overridden by Dame Isabella.

‘Have you nothing stronger than this, David Cunningham?’ she demanded in that deep bark. ‘Ale doesny suit me, it disagrees wi the bowel and rots the teeth. A wee tait spirits would be more acceptable, it’s my hour for a bit cordial.’

‘Madam, we’ll not expect Canon Cunningham to offer us spirits when it’s hardly past noon,’ objected Maister Livingstone. He was a thin-faced man with the typical nondescript hair and mid-coloured eyes of the Lowland Scot, and a strong family resemblance to the taller, fairer, handsomer Lowrie; he was dressed with ostentation in yellow velvet trimmed with squirrel, neither colour flattering to him. Dame Isabella glared at him and thumped the floor with her stick.

‘You can expect what you like, Eckie, I’m an old woman-’ she began.

‘I believe you’re of an age with Canon Cunningham, madam,’ observed Philip Sempill quietly.

‘Never mind that,’ said Sempill irritably, ‘let’s get on wi the matter at hand. It’s simple enough, like I said. See, we want to disinherit the harper’s brat, and Maidie here will gie it a property in Glasgow in exchange, and then Dame Isabella yonder wants to gie Maidie and me some land somewhere in joint feu-’

‘John.’ His new wife spoke gently, but he was instantly silent, turning to her. She put a hand on his wrist. ‘Will I explain it, John?’

‘I’ll explain it, Maidie,’ Dame Isabella announced, handing her empty beaker to Lowrie.

‘Christ aid, woman, you ken nothing about it!’ objected Sempill.

‘You be quiet!’ she ordered. ‘It’s all as I had Eckie here write it down, David. The harper’s brat would have nothing to complain of, Maidie’s offering it land that brings in a good rent, and we’ve all the papers here wi us,’ she gestured at the men at the door and one of them looked alert, a hand going to his satchel of documents, ‘so we can get it all agreed now. Then when that’s done we’ll see about which of these two properties goes to Maidie and which to this laddie’s sister Isabel.’