Pat McIntosh - The Stolen Voice

‘He let the man know he knew,’ said Alys, nodding.

‘He gave it away,’ Gil agreed, ‘for the sake of one of his jokes. He had to be killed before he told the Bishop. So when the steward learned from his own servant that Stirling was alone and outside Perth, he sent a message to decoy him to the dog-yard, found a place to hide and killed him with his crossbow, and hurried back to the house to serve out the Bishop’s supper, which was a little late that evening. He left his servant to dispose of the body, and hid the bow itself in Stirling’s own kist. The tan-yard was handy, and Doig saw a way in, so that was where the body went.’

‘But if he was known to be a good shot,’ said Alys, ‘why did he hide the bow?’

‘I suppose he must have panicked.’ Gil shook his head. ‘There are loose ends, I don’t expect we’ll ever know exactly what Drummond and Stirling discussed, though I can make a guess, I don’t know if the Dunblane cathedral servant fell to his death by accident, and I don’t know who killed the man Mitchel though I assume Currie had paid them to attack our men. I’m right sorry about Donal’s injury,’ he added to Sir William. ‘The Blackfriars’ Infirmarer thinks he’ll do well enough, if it doesny fester.’

‘I wonder how old the lassie is?’ remarked Lady Stewart, who had clearly stopped attending to Gil. ‘And should we make them wed afore they set out?’

‘That really would anger my lord Montgomery,’ said Alys.

‘No, Marion,’ said Sir William firmly. ‘The laddie, or lassie, or whatever she is, is none of our mind. Let the Drummonds see to her, and if Robert leaves the glen on the same day she does, there’s no need to tell your kinsman the boy wasny alone.’

It was several days more before Gil and Alys left the glen in their turn. It had been good to go hunting or laze in the sunshine after the week of hard work and hard riding it had taken him to untangle the death of James Stirling, but Gil was aware that Archbishop Blacader would prefer a report delivered in person rather than the written account he had sent by one of the Stronvar men. When Tam and Ned arrived from Perth with a good account of Donal’s progress, and Lady Stewart declared Steenie well enough to travel, they set out, on a morning full of sunshine and wisps of small white cloud.

Their hosts accompanied them on horseback as far as the Beannachd Aonghais. Crossing the causeway to the Kirkton, Sir William remarked to Gil, ‘You said your wife was a surprising creature.’ Gil, with a slight effort, recalled the occasion and nodded. ‘I’d put it stronger than that, man. I’d say she was byous by-ordinar, the most unusual lassie I’ve met. You’re a lucky man, Maister Cunningham.’

‘I know that, sir,’ Gil assured him.

The byous by-ordinar lassie, his periwinkle of prowess, had turned her horse at the far end of the bridge, and called to him, her face shadowed under her straw riding-hat.

‘Gil, I would like to go into the kirk here before we leave.’

‘A good thought,’ he agreed.

They left the rest of the party at the crossroads, and walked up to the little kirk. Alys paused at the door, looking out at the loch.

‘Davie once said to me,’ she said, ‘that her father, I suppose she meant David, called this a place where you are close to the kingdom of the angels. I can see why.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Gil said, looking where she did, at the still reflections and the smoke rising up from the nearby houses.

‘Not just that,’ she said. ‘It feels — it feels as if — one might almost see — ’

‘That too,’ he agreed. She flashed him one of her quick smiles, and pushed open the heavy door.

He spent a little while on his knees, ordering his thoughts about the two puzzles they had unravelled, asking for justice and mercy for all who had done wrong. He felt it unlikely that the King’s Justiciars would be able to combine the two virtues for Wat Currie, but something of the sort had been achieved in Dalriach, it seemed.

A sudden flare of light distracted him. Rising and looking about him, he found Alys had moved into the chancel, a place usually forbidden to women unless they held a brush or a duster, and must have lit one of the altar candles. When he followed her there, she was standing before the altar, holding the candle in its pewter candlestick, staring down at her feet. He came to stand beside her, and she nodded at the floor.

‘The stone,’ she said, ‘St Angus’ stone. I think he must be under it.’

‘Very likely,’ agreed Gil, taking the candle from her. ‘Shall we go out now? It’s a long ride to Stirling.’

‘Yes, we should go,’ said Alys, still looking at the stone. She bent, tracing the outline chiselled in the sandstone. ‘It isn’t local stone. Do you suppose it’s a portrait of St Angus?’

‘Tomb slabs usually are, aren’t they?’ Gil took hold of her elbow, drawing her away. ‘Mind you, his head must have been on the small side.’

‘Yes,’ she said, studying the outline again, the long robe and broad shoulders, the hands cradling the chalice. ‘Yes, let’s go. It will be good to go home.’