Pat McIntosh - St Mungo's Robin

‘When he was there? Oh, aye. Well, usually. Odd times he was late, he’d slip in at the tail and sit near the choir door.’

‘Oh.’ Gil accepted the returned glass. ‘Next to Anselm?’

‘Oh, you’ve heard about that, have you,’ said Nick, as Maister Veitch had done. ‘No, he wouldny sit next to Anselm. I’m told it can be gey cold in the stall next to Anselm.’

‘Lowrie thought he saw him in that stall this morning, but Millar said it was more likely this other — ’ He stopped, shaking his head.

‘Mm,’ said Nick. ‘No this morning.’

‘You’re very sure.’

‘Sure enough.’ He gave Gil a doubtful look. ‘You’re no priested, this may not make sense to you.’

‘Try me.’

‘Aye, well. I don’t see Anselm’s friend myself but — Look, when you say a Mass, it’s no always the same. Sometimes your words come right back at you as if you were standing next a wall, and sometimes they vanish as if you were speaking down a well,’ said Nick hesitantly, ‘but sometimes — sometimes it’s as if something — some one else you canny see joins in wi you, and the whole thing takes a life of its own. You ken?’

‘Like prayer,’ said Gil simply.

Nick nodded in relief. ‘Aye, exactly. Well, in St Serf’s, when it’s one of the good Masses, the better Masses I mean, then when we go to get a sup of porridge wi the old men, Anselm will be yapping on about his friend being there. It aye happens. And once or twice, when Naismith was making a joke of it at Anselm, trying to make out he’d seen the extra brother himself that day, I could tell what Anselm was going to say for it hadny been one of the uplifted Masses.’

‘And?’

‘It wasny one this morn. What was Anselm saying?’

‘Anselm agreed wi you. So far as he was making sense at all,’ Gil qualified.

Nick’s dark-browed face split in a grin, then became serious. ‘So who did Lowrie see? The boy’s sharp-eyed and sensible, I’d believe he saw something, so who was it?’

‘That’s one of the things I need to find out.’ Gil took another sip of wine. ‘You mentioned Humphrey Agnew, Nick. How was Naismith with him?’

‘No bad, for all his faults, and for all the names Humphrey called him. Better than the poor soul’s brother, at all events. I’ve seen Naismith help Sissie to get Humphrey out the way and calmed down when his brother’s got him rampaging.’

‘The brothers Agnew don’t get on?’

Nick shrugged. ‘Tammas never humours Humphrey. He starts reciting the Apocalypse and Tammas says, No need for that now , or Calm down, Humphrey. Humphrey tells you the Deacon’s a shrike and Tammas tells him no to be ridiculous. A quarter-hour of that and Humphrey goes for his throat, tries to throttle him. Nearly got him a couple of times that I’ve seen,’ he asserted, ‘but the Deacon dragged him away and Sissie got Humphrey out the room. The poor man ought to be somewhere he can be locked up, but he’s happy at St Serf’s.’

‘Why a shrike?’ Gil wondered. ‘He says he’s a robin now, because he’s dead. Oh, and Pierre and I are hoodies.’

‘All in black as you are, wi a grey plaid, I can see how he’d think you were a hoodie,’ said Nick, ‘but a robin? Maybe like the one in the bairns’ rhyme? Who killed cock-robin?’

‘ I, said the sparrow, wi my bow and arrow ,’ recalled Gil. ‘But it was a dagger killed Naismith, no an arrow. I wonder who he’s cast as the sparrow? And do you tell me you have to wait till he’s out of sight after the Mass before you can lave the vessels?’

‘Oh, aye. Or he starts on the Apocalypse again and then gets violent, it seems. I’ve never taken the chance. Let’s talk of something more cheerful. How’s the wedding plans going? Got the bed set up yet?’

‘The painters are still at work.’

‘It’s to be hoped they finish afore the great day,’ said Nick, ‘or we’ll all be covered in paint when we put you to bed. Oh, aye, my new gown came home.’ He got to his feet, setting down his glass, and went to the kist at the foot of his own bed. ‘Wat Paton’s man brought it round this afternoon. Now is that no braw?’ He shook the garment out and held it up, a long gown of dark red velvet with a heavy fur lining. ‘Mind, I still think we should ha been both of us in our Master’s robes, but I’ll do you proud as your groomsman in this, will I no?’

‘We’d be more symmetrical in academic dress,’ Gil agreed, ‘but I’ll tell you, we’ll be warmer in these. Mine’s much the same, but cut in blue brocade. We’ll make a good turnout.’

‘And I’ll get years of wear out of this,’ said Nick, in satisfaction. ‘Provided the moth doesny get into it.’ He stroked the fur again, and folded the rich material with care. ‘I’d ha stood up for you anyway, Gil, you’d no need to bribe me like this. And have you got the rings ready?’

Gil thought briefly of the two circles of gold in their little silk pouch, stowed in his uncle’s strongbox for safety. His was quite plain, set with a single dome-cut garnet; Alys’s was the most delicate work he could commission in Glasgow, ornamented with linked hearts and the single word, SEMPER. Always. He found he was rubbing his ring finger, and stopped.

‘Aye, the rings are ready,’ he said.

By the time Gil left the college, after a quick word with Patrick Coventry the second regent, depute to the gentle Principal Doby it was late. The rain had stayed off, but the cold wind whipping dark clouds across the stars was not an improvement. He paused outside the great wooden yett, hitching his plaid up higher, and considered what to do next. Of the options which presented, going home to the house in Rottenrow was the more sensible and less attractive.

He turned downhill, towards his lodestone.

There were still lighted windows in the mason’s sprawling house, and lute music floated faintly on the wind. Gil picked his way across the courtyard, avoiding the bare plant-tubs; as he set foot on the fore-stair the door opened and more light fell across the damp flagstones.

‘Gilbert,’ said Maistre Pierre with pleasure. ‘Alys thought she heard your footstep. Come in, come in, and take some wine. We have been sitting above stairs. Did you learn anything from the Deacon’s mistress? Is that where you have been? Perhaps,’ he said, and grinned, white teeth catching the candlelight as he lit the two of them up the stair, ‘I should object, if you come to your betrothed from calling on another man’s mistress.’

‘I was well protected,’ Gil assured him, following him into the little painted closet. ‘I took Dorothea with me.’ Alys had set her lute in its case, and turned to greet him, her honey-coloured locks gleaming in the candlelight. He gathered her close and kissed her, then released his clasp as he felt her draw back slightly.

‘How is she, poor creature?’ she asked. ‘The man’s mistress, I mean. And your sister? Is she tired from the journey?’ Her hand slid into his like a little bird into its nest. To see her fingers that be so small! In my conceit she passeth all That ever I saw. But she won’t let me kiss her, he thought.

‘My sister is well,’ he answered her, and sat down with her on the cushioned bench. ‘She’s looking forward to meeting you tomorrow. She and I went to see Marion Veitch after you left us, Pierre, before supper.’

‘And?’ Maistre Pierre was pouring wine, not Malvoisie but the red Bordeaux wine he favoured. Gil took the glass in his free hand and described the visit to the house by the Caichpele.

‘That poor woman,’ said Alys again as he finished. ‘She has been very badly treated. I hope Sister Dorothea was able to comfort her.’