Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

‘There are gaps,’ said Gil. She nodded. ‘But I suppose she has held the house rent-free more than three years. Well, hardly rent-free,’ he admitted, ‘but the law doesny allow for that form of service. She has had only custom on her side to prevent him putting her out of it when he pleased. Had he any other requirements of her?’

‘He had her dine him and his friends every few weeks,’ said Dorothea, ‘provide the dinner from the money he gave her, but hide herself and the bairn out of sight. She did some fine sewing for St Mungo’s, hoping to turn a penny or two of her own that way, and he took the money she got by it.’

‘Ah!’ said Gil. ‘That would have counted for her if it had come to law. It could be considered as rent, even without a contract.’

‘Aye, but it hasny come to law.’ Dorothea looked down at her hands again. ‘And finally he announced in front of the household that he planned to be married to someone else, who would get her house.’

‘He’s humbled her,’ said Gil. ‘I suppose she wouldny wish to show that to me.’

Dorothea turned to give him an approving look.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘She never loved him, but she’s done her duty according to their original agreement, and he served her like that.’

‘He’s no been a man I’d care to have either as friend or client,’ said Gil roundly.

Dorothea laughed.

‘There’s my brother,’ she said. He raised his eyebrows. ‘It was strange to watch you the now, acting like a man of law, questioning Marion so clearly, acting just the way I would myself with one of our pupils in trouble.’

‘Why not? A man of law’s what I am.’

‘No doubt of that. None the less, Gil, last time I saw you you were fourteen and your voice was just changing. But there the now you sounded like the brother I mind.’

‘You’ve changed and all, but no as much as I have, then, for I’d have known you anywhere,’ said Gil. ‘Are you happy, Dawtie? What’s it like, being the bride of Christ? It’s what you aye wanted, but is it what you expected?’

Her face lit up, visible even in the dimness.

‘Gil, you can have no idea. This is what I was made for, in particular since I’ve been sub-Cellarer. To have charge of so much, to be responsible for my share of the House’s dispositions, and wi all that, to be — no just allowed, but required to take all the time I could wish to my prayers — there was once a sister, one of ours, a German, wrote that she felt like a crumb of bread dipped in a jar of honey. That’s it exact.’

‘And the obedience to your superiors?’

Her long mouth quirked. ‘Oh, well. It’s the price one pays. If I’d stayed in the world I’d be obedient to Mother, or a husband, or someone.’

‘Or to me,’ he said. The quirk became a wry smile.

‘Or to you,’ she agreed. ‘Just as well I’m no, you’ve enough to deal wi, what wi Tib and Alys. What is it between you and Alys, Gil? I thought, from what Mother wrote, the lass chose you herself, but I don’t see all well wi you just now.’

‘No — no, it’s fine,’ he said, aware of his face stiffening.

‘Is she changing her mind, or something?’

‘I …’ he began. ‘A course not, but …’

‘But?’ She watched him for a moment, then said, ‘Is she maybe a wee thing less loving than she seemed a while since?’

‘How did you ken that?’ he asked helplessly.

‘I’ve seen one or two brides in the weeks afore their marriage. And it happens to novices, indeed we worry if it doesny. They start to wonder, to have doubts, to question the decision.’

‘I — that’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘You’re in no doubt yoursel, Gil?’

‘No! No, My love will not refreyd be, nor afound. But …’ he halted, unable to bring out the words. She eyed him with sympathy, and finally supplied:

‘If she had changed her mind, you wouldny hold her to it.’ He nodded dumbly. ‘So of course you darena ask what’s wrong for fear it might be that.’

It was almost a relief to have it spoken. He drew a deep breath, and nodded again. She put a hand over his, and they sat in silence for a while.

‘Dawtie, I’ll need to go out after supper,’ said Gil after a time. ‘I’m sorry for it, when you’ve just got here.’

‘Mm?’ said Dorothea, as if from a great distance. She turned to look at him again. ‘Never apologize. I can go down to see Kate. What do you have to do?’

He sighed. ‘I ought to go back to the bedehouse. And I need to see Agnew.’

‘Who is that? Oh, Naismith’s man of law, is it? And brother of one of the bedesmen, you said.’

‘Aye. He has a chamber in the Consistory tower, I can likely find him there.’

‘What will you ask him?’

‘About the will. About whether Naismith met him yestreen. Whether he kens who Naismith was planning to marry, since nobody else seems to.’ He got to his feet, and stretched his back. ‘He’ll not have the answer to the other question I have just now.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Who was Frankie’s father? Naismith was a well-set-up fellow, going bald, but brown-haired. Marion’s hair is gold, and her brother’s near as fair. The wee one has Marion’s eyes, but she never got a head of curls that colour from Naismith. Her father must be dark, and probably curly-headed.’

‘And light-eyed,’ said Dorothea. ‘Brown eyes carry strong, remember.’

‘Aye,’ said Gil. So Alys’s children will have brown eyes, he thought. That’s if — that’s assuming -

‘All will be well, Gil,’ said his sister, watching him in the shadows. She patted his elbow then cocked her head at the darkening windows and continued, ‘I must go up to the castle and say Vespers. Have you time to get over to the Consistory before Maggie has the supper on the table?’

Asking one of the clerks of the Consistory tower at the west end of St Mungo’s got Gil directions to a chamber on an upper floor, above the courtrooms by a different stair from the one he himself used. Climbing up the spiral he was aware of the smell of success at this end of the tower; traces of sandalwood and cedarwood from furs which had to be guarded from the moth mingled with beeswax (furniture worth polishing and servants to polish it, he thought) and the distinctive scent of the heavy straw matting, all shot through with the familiar musty intimation of paper, parchment and ink. On the landing he had been referred to, the smell of matting was even stronger, and fragments of straw lay underfoot as if someone had recently swept out the chambers. He recalled the flakes of straw in the sleeve of Naismith’s fur gown. This must be where they had come from.

He tapped on Agnew’s door and called the man’s name, but there was no response. After a moment the door to the next chamber opened and a head popped out, level with his elbow.

‘Tammas is away down to St Serf’s,’ it announced. ‘Oh, it’s you. David Cunningham’s nephew, are you no? Blacader’s Quaestor, now, they tell me.’

Gil admitted this, and the other man stepped on to the landing and tipped his head back to look at him, holding his legal bonnet on with one hand. He was more than a foot shorter than Gil, dressed in a belted gown of rusty black whose fur lining showed worn at collar and sleeves. A name swam upwards in Gil’s mind: Maister Robert Kerr, one of the forespeakers of the Consistory court. David Cunningham spoke of him with respect.

‘A bad business, this at the bedehouse,’ Kerr said. ‘Was it one of the brothers killed him right enough? Tammas is beside himself for fear it should be shown his own brother did it, poor soul.’

‘There’s no saying yet,’ Gil answered. ‘We’ve more questions to ask. I was hoping Maister Agnew could help me himself. Is he long gone?’