Pat McIntosh - The Counterfeit Madam

‘It would surely be more convenient,’ said Canon Cunningham reasonably, as Maistre Pierre had done, ‘for the Lanarkshire property to go to the Lanarkshire lassie, and the one in Strathblane to go to the lady wi a house in Glasgow, which is that much closer.’

‘We’ll get the other business sorted first,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll see. If you’ve no aquavit’ you can gie me some more o that buttered ale, though I’ve no doubt I’ll regret it. Here’s my beaker, Lowrence.’

‘I’d ha welcomed a chance to think about this ahead of the time, John,’ Gil said, as civilly as he might. ‘As the boy’s tutor I should take it all in advisement.’

‘It would have been more usual,’ commented Philip Sempill from beyond his cousin. Always the voice of reason, thought Gil, but Sempill snarled at him.

‘You keep out of this. Aye, give you warning, Gil Cunningham and let you think up a list of reasons to turn it down! That’s why we-’

‘John.’ Again that quiet voice. Sempill stopped speaking, and Magdalen Boyd smiled at him, then at Canon Cunningham. ‘Sir, my husband has told me the whole tale.’

I’ll wager he hasn’t, thought Gil, studying her. She was a pale creature in her early thirties, a year or two older than Sempill, neither pretty nor plain, dressed decently but without display in a well-cut gown of the natural grey of the wool. Her eyes were a very light blue, even lighter than her husband’s, with pale brows and lashes; her whole face seemed like a faint sketch, silverpoint on white paper, framed by the bands of her linen undercap. The plain black woollen veil pinned over all emphasized her pallor. Her smile, on the other hand, was gentle and without dissimulation, and her voice was low and slightly husky, very attractive to hear.

‘I ken fine the bairn’s none of his get,’ she went on. ‘It seems to me the boy and his well-wishers can hardly complain if we offer him a property wi a good income now as an exchange for a dubious heirship.’ She turned to face Gil. ‘I think we are kin in some degree, Maister Gilbert,’ she went on. ‘I hope we can come to an agreement.’

‘I hope so.’ Gil returned the smile, comparing her in some amazement to the showy, expensive mistress he had encountered in Sempill’s company two years since.

‘We’ll drink to a successful outcome, maisters,’ said Canon Cunningham again, asserting control over the gathering, ‘and then we’ll see whose interests can be served by all these transactions. I’ll say this, John,’ he added reprovingly, ‘it’s away less simple than you let me understand.’

‘He hadny seen half the argument,’ pronounced Dame Isabella, emerging from her beaker. ‘And I’ve another thing to settle wi you, Gilbert,’ she added ominously, ‘but we’ll get the disponement agreed first.’

Drawing up a backstool beside his father-in-law, Gil was aware of Lowrie flinching at this statement. What was the old carline planning, he wondered.

‘Saint Peter’s balls! It’s perfectly simple,’ objected Sempill. ‘ He ,’ he jerked his thumb at Gil, ‘signs the papers as the bairn’s tutor and accepts the two tofts on the Drygate, we tear up all the copies of the agreement about it being my heir, and all’s done. Then you can sort out what comes to us and what goes to his sister.’

‘ Two tofts on the Drygate?’ Gil repeated.

‘Are you deaf, man? That’s what I said.’

‘Which two? Are they contiguous? What’s built on them? You mentioned a good income, but what’s the figure?’ Sempill rolled his eyes. ‘John, you wouldny accept a tract of land for yoursel without checking all these things, you can hardly object if I make certain for the boy.’

‘Indeed not, Maister Gil.’ Lady Magdalen gestured to the man still standing against the wall, and he came forward with his bag of documents. She ignored the rolled parchments, dipped into the bag and selected a folded docket with several seals dangling from it in their little pouches, and then another, and leaned forward to hand these to Canon Cunningham. ‘Here’s the titles, sir. I’ve no knowledge o the Drygate, but they both go into some detail about the boundaries.’

Gil moved to look over his uncle’s shoulder as the older man replaced his spectacles and spread out the first parchment. There was no plan, but as Mistress Boyd had said a wordy description of the boundaries made it clear which toft was discussed and what was built on it.

‘Clerk’s Land. A common boundary to the west with the toft belonging to the altar of the Holy Rood,’ said Canon Cunningham reflectively. ‘That would be — aye, I can place it, a good property, should bring in a substantial rent, Gilbert. Four, no three houses and two workshops built on it. A generous offer.’

‘It’s that, all right,’ said Sempill resentfully. ‘And all good craftsmen, disobliging though they-’ He bit off what he was about to say.

‘And the other?’ Gil said. They must really want rid of any claim wee John might have, he thought. His uncle lifted the other docket and began unfolding it.

‘Is there more o that buttered ale, Lowrence?’ demanded Dame Isabella. ‘As for you, Gilbert, come here beside me and tell me o your sister Isobel. Who is it she’s to wed, anyhow? And what about your own wife? How have ye no bairns yet? Have you no bedded her?’

‘Maister Gilbert is occupied about his pupil’s interests, godmother,’ said Mistress Boyd in her quiet voice.

‘I was lady-in-waiting to the late queen, I think I take precedence over a harper’s bastard,’ pronounced Dame Isabella, and thumped her stick on the floor again. ‘Gilbert! Do as I bid you!’

Gil straightened up and eyed the old woman, trying again to conceal his dislike.

‘I will, madam,’ he acknowledged, ‘as soon as you explain to me why you are so urgent that we accept the property with the bawdy-house built on it.’

There were several reactions in the room. Maistre Pierre’s eyebrows went up; Philip Sempill and both the Livingstone men were startled, some of the servants hid smiles. Sempill himself scowled, his wife looked down in what seemed like a modest woman’s response, and Dame Isabella gave a bark of laughter.

‘I tellt you Gelis Muirhead’s laddie would never miss that!’ She leaned forward and prodded Sempill in the thigh with the stick. ‘But you would aye ken better than your elders.’

‘Is that the new house?’ said Maister Livingstone with interest. ‘The lassies all has strange foreign names to go by, Cleone and the like, and it’s all painted inside, quite remarkable, wi pictures. Or so they say,’ he added, going scarlet as he found everyone looking at him. ‘You’d think Long Mina’s place would ha been enough for a town the size of Glasgow.’

‘That’s the house,’ agreed Dame Isabella, with another bark. Gil, who had heard much the same from one or two of his friends among the songmen, kept silent.

‘You were aware of it,’ Canon Cunningham stated.

‘Aye, we were aware of it,’ said Sempill belligerently. ‘What’s amiss? It’s only been there six month or so. It brings in a good rent, it’s no trouble. What’s your objection?’

‘Just how good is the rent?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

‘It’s no a tenant everyone would welcome,’ said the Official. ‘Gilbert is the boy’s tutor, and has his reputation to consider, as a man of law in this burgh and as the Archbishop’s man.’

Dame Isabella snorted. ‘I could tell ye a tale or two o Robert Blacader, Archbishop or no. Why should a harper’s brat turn up its nose at what an archbishop doesny mind?’

If you have to ask, thought Gil, little point in trying to explain. He looked down at his uncle, who was tracing the description of the boundaries with a long forefinger, and then at Sempill’s wife.