Pat McIntosh - The Counterfeit Madam

‘It aye upsets me,’ croaked Dame Isabella, with less than her usual force, ‘when folk crosses me. Don’t let them cross me, Annot.’

‘How your woman’s to prevent it,’ said Sempill angrily, ‘is more than I can see. You’ve crossed the rest of us the day, madam, and I’ll see you-’

‘John.’

‘And I want a word wi you, Sempill,’ added Dame Isabella, suddenly regaining vigour. ‘There’s a matter needs discussion. You’ll attend me this afternoon, or I’ll ken the reason.’

Canon Cunningham glanced over his shoulder at the March sunshine.

‘I must away,’ he said, without visible regret. ‘Richie will have two sets of witnesses and their men of law waiting for me. I’ll leave it in your hands then, Gilbert.’

‘What is your kinsman about, making such an offer?’ asked Maistre Pierre, and hitched the collar of his big cloak higher. ‘Confound this wind. It would bite through plate mail.’

‘I’ve no notion,’ admitted Philip Sempill, closing the gate of his town house behind them. ‘If John was acting alone I’d assume he was up to no great good, but Maidie Boyd is a different matter. She’ll deal honestly.’

‘If I hadn’t recognized the house, she would never have pointed it out to me,’ Gil observed.

‘ Caveat emptor ,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘She is not obliged to do so, after all.’

‘How did John come to wed her? Was it you promoted the match, Philip?’ Gil asked, setting off down Rottenrow towards the Wyndhead.

‘It was,’ the other man agreed, falling into step beside him.

Gil turned to catch his eye.

‘So that was your revenge,’ he said, grinning. ‘And a good one, too.’

‘Revenge?’ Philip repeated, his expression innocent. ‘I proposed a match I thought would suit my kinsman, is all.’

‘But why the whorehouse?’ persisted Maistre Pierre. ‘I should have thought, if it brings in so good a rent, they would sooner hold onto it.’

‘I think Maidie’s embarrassed by it,’ said Philip.

‘I’m flattered,’ said Gil obliquely.

They made their way down the slope of Rottenrow and into the busy Drygate, walking fast in the chill wind. Here the sound of hammers, of shuttle and loom, of wood and metal tools, was all round them. Glass-workers, wax-pourers, metalworkers of many kinds, embroiderers and makers of images, occupied the smaller buildings on the back-lands, practising all the amazing variety of trades which supported the life of a cathedral church. Further down the Drygate itself, past the narrow wynd which led to the tennis-court, a row of shops such as those of the burgh stationer and Forrest the apothecary gave way to houses of stone and then of wood. There were fewer passers-by, and the slope levelled out. Gil stopped beside a gable-end of wattle and daub, looking along the muddy alley which led past the house door.

‘That’s the toft belongs to Holy Rood altar there,’ he said, gesturing at the building they had just passed, ‘so this and the next one are the ones that concern us. This must be Clerk’s Land, where we have three houses and two workshops-’ He craned from the end of the alleyway, counting. ‘There are more buildings than that, we’d need a closer look. What do you think, Philip?’

‘There is a hammerman in this nearest shop,’ observed Maistre Pierre over Philip’s agreement. ‘Smallwares, I think,’ he added, listening to the metallic beating. ‘Perhaps a pewterer. And there is a lorimer yonder, to judge by the leather scraps on the midden.’

‘We can check that later,’ said Gil. ‘For now, I’d be well in favour of accepting this toft on John’s behalf, subject to closer inspection. Would you agree?’

‘Oh, certainly.’ His father-in-law braced himself. ‘Now do we visit this bawdy-house? They will be disappointed when they find we are not customers.’

‘It’s the paintings that interest me,’ said Philip, grinning. ‘Eckie told me more about them.’

The house fronting the street on the next toft was rather more impressive, a wooden-clad structure of three storeys whose doorframe and the beams of the overhanging upper floors were carved and painted with foliage and flowers. The street door bore an incised and brightly-coloured image of a mermaid, well-known symbol of sexual licence.

‘Well, that should attract the passing trade,’ said Gil, surveying this. ‘Was it done for the madam? Did she change the name of the house when she moved in here?’

‘I’ve no a notion,’ said Philip.

Gil rattled the ring up and down its twisted pin. The shutter nearest the door swung open and a maidservant in a headdress of good linen leaned out, gave them one swift assessing glance, and said,

‘We’re closed another hour or more, maisters.’

‘I’d like a word with your mistress on a matter of business,’ Gil said. The woman studied them again, and nodded.

‘Come away in. I’ll fetch the mistress down to ye.’ She drew her head back in and appeared shortly at the door. ‘Come up out the cold and be seated. Madam willny be long.’

She was a pudding-faced woman of forty or so, confident and discreet in her bearing, clad like an upper servant in a gown of good cloth with its skirts pinned up over a checked kirtle. She led them up a newel stair to a wide, brightly painted hall, set padded backstools for them by the warm hearth, and vanished up a further stair. There were footsteps overhead, and women’s quiet voices and laughter. Someone began tuning a lute. Gil, who had been in Long Mina’s establishment once or twice on legal business, recognized that this house was in a different category.

‘I fear we cannot afford their prices,’ said Maistre Pierre, echoing his thought. ‘They must ask enough to recover the cost of these walls.’

‘It was never a local man painted this,’ said Philip, turning about to stare. ‘It’s been someone that studied overseas, surely.’

‘In High Germany,’ said Maistre Pierre confidently. ‘I have seen a St Barbara from Cologne with just such waving gold hair.’ He went over to look closely at a lady clad in nothing but the hair, depicted in a niche of greenery in the company of an armed man. ‘Also that helm is German work.’

‘The colours certainly aren’t local,’ Gil said.

‘Well, now,’ said a husky voice behind them. ‘Three new guests, and I can see you all appreciate the arts. That’s a day to put a nock in the bedpost!’

The woman who came forward from the stair was tall, nearly as tall as Gil, and lean. She was richly gowned and jewelled, and her face was painted in a way the women of Glasgow did not use, the pale blue eyes darkly outlined and the strong mouth tinted a deep red which showed up sharply against her white skin. An elaborate headdress concealed her hair completely, but Gil found himself wondering if her brows were really that dark. Behind her the maidservant slipped past and down to the lower floor.

‘Good day, maisters all,’ she went on, curtsying, and looked from one to the other. ‘I’ve met none of you, but I think I can place you all three. Je crois que vous êtes monsieur le maçon français ,’ she said to Maistre Pierre. ‘Which means you must be his good-son, I think, Maister Cunningham, and you,’ she paused, considering, ‘you’re no Sempill of Muirend, but you’re gey like him. Sempill of Knockmade.’

‘You’re well informed, madam,’ said Gil. ‘And you?’

‘Oh!’ She touched her chin with a lean forefinger and tipped her head sideways in a parody of coyness. ‘You can call me Madam Xanthe,’ she said after a moment. ‘Seat yourselves, maisters. Agrippina will bring us a refreshment, and you can tell me what fetches you here, for I can see it’s no a matter of the usual business of the house.’