Pat McIntosh: The Stolen Voice

‘Indeed I think there are many of the Good People dwelling in these parts,’ said Alys seriously. Gil met her gaze across the table, startled, and she smiled quickly at him.

‘Get on wi your tale, Murdo, man,’ commanded Sir William.

‘There is little more to tell, Sir William kens. Thirty year ago, that was the year of the great drought, like I was saying, Davie and Andrew was away singers at Dunblane, for they were singing like linties the both of them. Davie came home to Dalriach at Lammastide, and he went away scarce a week later before St Angus’ fair, though his mother wished him to be staying to sing at the great service in the kirk here. He was going away up the glen by the track that goes over into Strathyre, and past the sidhean , and was never seen more in this world for thirty years, until a month since he came walking down the glen and his mother spied him coming a great way off and knew him for her son.’

‘It’s quite a surprise, your wife speaking Ersche,’ said Sir William.

‘She’s a surprising creature,’ said Gil. ‘A periwinkle of prowess .’

‘Aye, and a bonnie one.’ Sir William, ignoring the quotation, strolled along his gravel path towards the last of the sunshine. Gil followed, Socrates at his knee. ‘How long since you were wed? Eight month? Aye, too soon, too soon. I don’t wonder you wanted her wi you.’

Gil repressed comment, and looked about him in the evening light. They were in the garden, a hard-won patch of small flower beds defined by low aromatic hedges, with a sturdy fence round it against the goats. Below them lay the house of Stronvar, from where Sir William was expected to keep order and the law of Scotland in a sprawling, unruly stretch of the Highlands. Below it again hills and sky were reflected in Loch Voil as in a mirror, and across the narrow water smoke rose from the group of houses around the little kirk, the great bare rock above them catching fire from the westering sun. Apart from the clouds of biting insects, kept at bay by the herbs burning pungently in a little pot which Lady Stewart had given them, it was very pleasant out here, but Gil thought he could imagine it in winter. He had never expected to feel so much of a foreigner in his own country.

‘How much did Robert Blacader tell you?’ said Sir William abruptly.

‘Very little,’ said Gil. There had been one hurried interview with his master when the Archbishop halted in Glasgow two days since, on his way to Dumbarton with the King and half the Council. ‘Something about vanishing singers, and now that this one has reappeared his mother wants him back in his place at Dunblane. The Chapter at Dunblane were in disagreement about it, and Bishop Chisholm referred it to the Archbishop. My lord seemed to feel the two matters were connected, and directed me here.’

‘Aye,’ said Sir William, sitting down on the bench at the top of the little enclosure and placing the smoking pot beside him.

‘They’ve moved gey fast at Dunblane,’ Gil commented, and hitched the knee of his best hose to seat himself beside his host. The dog, who had trotted ahead, returned and settled on his feet. ‘In general sic a thing would take months to be resolved even that far.’

‘Aye, well. It’s a Drummond,’ said Sir William, as if that explained all.

‘Does your steward genuinely believe it’s his playmate come back, do you think?’

‘Murdo?’ Sir William looked about him, as if to make certain they were not overheard. ‘No telling, to be truthful. I like these wild Ersche,’ he said, in the tone of one admitting to liking squirrels, or hares, or some such unchancy creature, ‘but there’s no denying they go their own way. If the old woman accepts the laddie, the rest of the Drummonds will, as my lady was saying, and if the Drummonds accept him Balquhidder folk would never tell me if they’d any doubts.’

He was silent for a little, then went on, ‘So Blacader never tellt you the full tale?’ Gil made a small negative noise. ‘Aye, well.’ He stared out across the loch, apparently seeking inspiration. ‘These singers,’ he said at length. ‘The great kirks aye hunt about for good singers, you’ll ken that, but in general they arrange matters atween themselves, maybe a donation of money or the gift of a benefice in exchange for a good high tenor. Good tenors are like hen’s teeth, so they tell me.’

‘I’ve heard that.’ Gil rubbed Socrates’ ears and grinned, thinking of his friend Habbie Sim’s strictures on the high tenors in the choir of Glasgow Cathedral.

‘But now there’s been three or four songmen left their posts in Perthshire alone in the last year, and no sign of where they’ve gone to. It’s almost as if they’re no still in Scotland.’

‘No trace of them anywhere?’

‘None. Spirited away like the Drummond lad.’

‘These are grown men?’ said Gil. ‘Priested?’

‘As it happens, no. In minor orders, naturally, but none of them priests.’

‘So none of them has broken any vow of obedience. Where have they vanished from? When? Do you have the details? And are they all tenors, indeed?’

‘One Dunkeld man,’ said Sir William, ‘one from Dunblane, two from Perth.’ He paused. ‘One less than two weeks since, the two Perth fellows in May, one in March. Not all tenors. I think they’re different voices. One was an alto, I recall.’

‘This is hardly the best place to start from, if I’m to ask questions in Dunkeld or Perth,’ said Gil. ‘Hidden away in the mountains like this.’

‘It’s closer to either than Glasgow is,’ said Sir William unanswerably. ‘Forbye you’ll find George Brown spends the most of his time in Perth. It’s safer than Dunkeld.’

‘And what else has gone missing?’

The older man turned sharply to look at Gil. After a moment he said, ‘Aye, I see why Robert Blacader speaks well of you. That’s the nub of the matter,’ he acknowledged. ‘No so much what’s missing as what he took wi him in his head, so to speak. The last one that’s vanished, the Dunkeld man, that went in July there just ten days since, is no singer. He’s secretary to Georgie Brown.’

‘The Bishop of Dunkeld.’ Gil stared into the gathering evening. The fire had fallen away from the rock above the little church, and the sky was darkening above it. ‘Who assisted William Elphinstone when he received the ambassadors from England in June.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Sir William.

‘But why should that be a problem?’ asked Alys. ‘The truce was signed six weeks since. Surely the terms are common knowledge across Europe by now.’

‘I assume,’ said Gil cautiously in French, ‘there must be more to learn than that, since the Council is concerned about it.’

They were alone. The dog and the two grooms they had brought with them were snug above the stables with the other outdoor servants, but Gil and Alys had been lodged in a guest apartment on the principal floor of the house. Its two chambers were furnished with ostentation, and the images and crowned IS monograms on the painted linen bed-hangings suggested that it had housed one King James or the other, presumably on a hunting expedition, in the time since Sir William was put in place here. Two candle-stands and another pot of burning herbs made it a little stuffy, but it was both comfortable and private, and the girl whom Lady Stewart had supplied to be Alys’s tire-woman had left giggling, after unlacing the blue silk gown and hanging it reverently on a peg.

Now Gil shut the door behind her, and sat down on the faded embroidery of one of the folding chairs by the bed. ‘They would hardly tell me what it is, I suppose, but they are clearly anxious about where the information has gone,’ he added.

‘They must be,’ said Alys, closing her jewel-box. She drew off her linen undercap, shook out her hair and took up her comb. ‘So where must we begin?’