Pat McIntosh - The Counterfeit Madam

Gil Cunningham had hoped that the first time he set foot in the whorehouse on the Drygate would also be the last; but by the time all was settled he felt quite at home within its artful painted chambers.

The first inkling he had of the matter came one day in late April, in the form of a loud knocking at the door of his father-in-law’s house as family and servants were eating their midday meal in the hall. Conversation at the long board ceased and heads turned towards the sound; Gil and Alys exchanged a surprised glance, Alys’s aged French duenna Catherine paused in her absorption of sops-in-wine. The wolfhound Socrates was already on his feet, the hackles standing up on his narrow back. A stranger, Gil concluded.

‘Who calls at the dinner-hour?’ wondered Maistre Pierre, pushing back his great chair. He rose with caution, muttering darkly about his knees, but his young journeyman Luke was before him, opening the big planked door to reveal a serving-man in unfamiliar blue-grey livery bowing on the doorstep, felt bonnet in hand.

‘My mistress, Dame Isabella Torrance, seeks Maister Gil Cunningham,’ he said. ‘Is this where he dwells?’

‘Isabella Torrance?’ Gil repeated in some surprise, going forward as Luke turned to relay the message. ‘She’s still alive, then?’

‘She’s at the gate, maister,’ said the man.

Gil looked down at his wife as she joined him in the doorway. ‘Godmother to my sister Tib,’ he explained. ‘Dwells over by Stirling, I think. I wonder if it’s about Tib’s marriage?’

‘Stirling?’ repeated Alys. ‘Whatever is she doing in Glasgow?’

The servant shrugged his shoulders.

‘Likely she’ll tell you hersel,’ he offered. ‘Will I bid her come in?’

‘Aye, bid her enter,’ said Maistre Pierre from the head of the table. ‘We are still at meat, man, ask her if she will join us.’

‘She doesny eat in the middle of the day,’ the man said, shaking his head regretfully.

There was a commotion in the pend which led out to the street, and a number of people emerged into the courtyard, headed by a short, stout, loud individual with a stick. Their guest had not waited to be invited in. Alys exclaimed briefly and hurried down the steps past Gil to offer a welcome. Her curtsy was spurned with a brief nod, her arm was ignored, and the small dark figure ploughed across the yard to the foot of the steps where it stopped, scowling up at Gil with eyes like jet rosary beads.

Dame Isabella was probably five feet high and the same around, though this girth also engrossed a vast furred brocade gown which hung open over several layers of different, equally expensive, black fabrics. Beneath a black silk Flemish hood with extravagantly long foreparts, finely pleated linen framed her small padded face, heightening its colour unbecomingly; she had a dab of a nose, separated by a dark wispy moustache from a mouthful of very large, improbably white teeth. She seemed to have brought her entire household visiting; at her back were four sturdy grooms, including the man who had come to the door, and two waiting-women.

‘So you’re Gelis Muirhead’s laddie, are you?’ she said in deep, disparaging tones. ‘Aye, you’ve a look of her, though you’re more like your faither.’ This was clearly not a compliment. ‘At least you’ve more sense than get yoursel slain the way he did. And both your brothers, was it?’

‘Dame Isabella,’ Gil said, very politely, and bowed.

‘Welcome to my house. Will you enter, madame?’ offered Maistre Pierre over Gil’s shoulder.

‘Aye, I’ll come in. You’re the good-father I take it. I hope ye’ve a seat for me. I want a word wi young Gilbert, afore that gowk Sempill gets involved. Here, you fools, get me up these steps.’

‘Sempill? John Sempill of Muirend?’ Gil repeated, but the servants who surrounded Dame Isabella had begun the considerable task of hoisting her up the fore-stair, which she endured with much shouting and brandishing of her stick. In his ear his father-in-law said,

‘What does she want with Sempill? Why should he come here?’

‘No idea,’ said Gil, stepping back to allow the nearest manservant elbowroom. ‘When did we see him last?’ He counted on his fingers. ‘It must have been August last year. It’s been the gallowglass — Euan Campbell — who brought me the money for the boy’s keep at both the quarter-days since then.’ He met Maistre Pierre’s eye. ‘If it’s about the boy, it’s likely no good.’

‘So I think,’ agreed the mason. They both turned to look inside the hall, where Maistre Pierre’s foster-child, small John McIan, bastard son of John Sempill’s runaway wife and her lover the harper, was perched on his nurse’s knee at the long table addressing a large crust of bread.

‘Sempill still needs an heir, surely?’ said Maistre Pierre doubtfully. ‘That was why he acknowledged John. What is he about now?’

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Gil.

‘Parcel of fools!’ announced Dame Isabella. Achieving the topmost step, she paused long enough to adjust her grasp on her stick and surged forward, shaking off her gasping servants and ignoring Maistre Pierre’s courtesies as she had ignored Alys’s. Behind her, Alys slipped up the fore-stair and into the hall, with a brief touch on Gil’s hand as she went.

‘You’re at meat, are you?’ continued their guest, staring at the household arranged round the long board. Small John waved his crust and shouted something unintelligible. ‘I hope you’ve all had your bowels open at stool the day. It’s no good to eat on a full bowel.’

‘Will you not join us, madame?’ Alys offered, gesturing at the head of the table. ‘There is good broth, and fresh oatcakes and cheese-’

‘No.’ The black beads considered her. ‘I suppose you’re the French wife. Christ aid us, you’ve a nose on you like a papingo’s. I see he’s no bairned you yet. Has he bedded you? Is your bowels regular? You’ll no take if your bowel’s full, it unbalances the humours.’

Alys stared at the old woman, amazement outweighing her natural courtesy. Gil moved to intervene, but Catherine had already risen and now forestalled him.

‘ Vraiment, madame ,’ she said in her elegant French, ‘you do right to concern yourself with such matters. It is important to keep the humours of the body balanced, but I find the young are often careless of their internal economy.’

‘And who are you?’ demanded Dame Isabella in the same language. ‘You speak French uncommonly well, even if you have not kept your teeth as I have.’

Over the two black-draped heads Alys caught Gil’s eye, her expression carefully neutral. Catherine closed her toothless mouth on whatever reply came first, and Gil said hastily,

‘This is Madame Catherine Calvin, who keeps my wife company. Will you sit in by the hearth, madam, while they clear the board?’

‘Aye, and watch all,’ said Dame Isabella, ‘so I can tell Gelis Muirhead what kind of household you’re wedded into. No, I’ll ha no refreshment. It’s no my hour for it.’

‘Lady Cunningham was with us for a week at Yule,’ observed Catherine. ‘She is a most cultured lady, and speaks excellent French.’

Dame Isabella ignored this shaft, and seated herself nearest the hearth, staring about her. The household, taking the hint, began the process of dismantling the long table, stacking up platters and bowls and sweeping the cloth into a bundle to be shaken into the courtyard. By the time board and trestles were in place against the wall, Dame Isabella’s entourage had been dismissed to the kitchen, save for a man with a huge leather satchel and one waiting-woman who studied Maistre Pierre with intent dark eyes, and the two old ladies were deep in a conversation involving the humours, the elements, and the zodiac. Gil, standing awkwardly by, was aware of his wife conferring with her father, and of the mason’s two journeymen leaving the house, but his mind was occupied with possible reasons for this sudden visitation.