Pat McIntosh - The Merchant's Mark

‘Kit-cat,’ he said gently. She turned her head away sharply. ‘What will you do now?’

‘Babb will help me in for my dinner,’ she said, ‘and then I’ll go to my prayers in our uncle’s oratory, though what I should pray for now is anyone’s guess, and then I suppose Babb will carry me up to my bed, and — ’

‘Kate. You know fine that’s not what I meant.’

She bent her head.

‘Aye,’ she said after a moment, ‘but it saves me answering you.’

‘A life needs a direction. Like a daisy facing the sun, maybe.’

‘You’ve found yours,’ she said. ‘I’ve not said to you before now, Gil. I like my new sister fine.’

‘I’m glad of that,’ he said. ‘Stop changing the subject.’

‘I’m not. There’s nothing else to discuss, for I’ve no direction. My daisies are all in darkness. Maybe I’ll study,’ she said a little wildly, ‘teach myself the Latin or the Greek or High German. That could be it. I may be tocherless and crippled, but I’ll be the most learned crippled ancient maid in Scotland, and doctors of the Laws will come from Spain and Tartary to consult me — ’

‘Better to study the Laws themselves,’ said Gil. ‘You could set up your sign in Lanark and convey documents and write wills. You might earn yourself a tocher that way.’ He put his arm round her. ‘Kate, what was it you dreamed?’

‘Oh, that.’ She was silent a moment, then sighed. ‘I saw the saint himself.’

‘St Mungo?’ he said, startled.

‘Himself,’ she said again. ‘He wasn’t robed as a bishop, he was barefoot in a brown robe like a Franciscan’s, with a great checked plaid over it like mine, of all things, but I knew well it was St Mungo by the bishop’s crook in his hand.’

‘And?’ Gil prompted.

‘I was lying on the grass by the pool — the Linn pool, you mind, Gil. He bent and took my hand, and said, Rise up, daughter , and pulled me to my feet. And then he led me away from the pool, and I could walk on both feet. Gil, do you know, when I’m dreaming I can still walk like other people. But in this dream it was different, because I knew the walking was a gift, it was a grace, something the saint had done for me.’

‘Dreams are strange things,’ he said, past the lump in his throat. ‘Was that it?’

‘One thing more,’ she said bleakly. ‘The final cup of wormwood. Whoever he was, he led me forward to my wedding. I never saw my bridegroom, but I knew he waited for me. And I woke, and not a word of it was true.’

‘Oh, Kate,’ he said helplessly. ‘Kit-cat. I’m sorry.’

‘Gib-cat,’ she said. She put a hand over his where it lay on her shoulder, and sighed. ‘I’ve no doubt there’s a lesson to my spirit in it, but even the old man hasn’t suggested what it might be yet.’

It was some time since Gil had been out of Glasgow, and longer yet since he had the chance to ride fast on a good horse. The road to Stirling was well made, and though it was busy the sight of five well-armed riders moving in a cloud of dust caused most travellers to give them the way. Gil, with the Provost’s two messengers in front of him and two of his uncle’s men at his back, swept through villages scattering hens and attracting barking dogs, slowing to pick their way more carefully through the small towns such as Kirkintilloch and Kilsyth, making most speed in the open farmlands between, where the folk loading hay on to carts or hay-sleds paused to hand the leather bottle of ale and watch them pass. To begin with, Socrates bounded happily alongside, but by the time the messengers left them at Stirling town gates, to hasten up to the castle, the dog was draped wearily across Gil’s saddlebow.

He clattered more slowly up Stirling’s busy High Street, and his uncle’s men followed him, all three horses too done to shy at the raucous cries of the market and the noise of stalls being dismantled. Gil looked about with care in the hope of catching sight of a familiar face, and preferably one who might be of some help.

‘I’ve a cousin’s a stable-hand to Robert Blacader,’ said Tam helpfully behind him. ‘If it’s the Bishop you want, maister.’

‘I know one that’s servant to one of the canons at the Holy Rude,’ offered Rob, not to be outdone.

‘It may come to that yet,’ said Gil, ‘but I’ve no doubt there are others who could get us close to him faster. There’s one, indeed. Maister Dunbar! William!’

The small rat-faced man turned, shading his eyes against the light, and a large wife with a basket of limp greenstuff collided with his back and made her way round him, commenting freely on his common sense.

‘Maister Cunningham,’ he said formally, ignoring her. ‘Good day to you, Gil. And what brings you to Stirling, covered in dust? I thought you were chained to St Mungo’s gateway.’ He smiled sourly. Gil dismounted, handing his reins to Rob, and lifted Socrates down. The dog shook himself vigorously and sat down, yawning.

‘I’m looking for a word with my lord Archbishop,’ Gil said. ‘Where can I find him?’

‘Oh?’ Maister William Dunbar, secretary to Archbishop Blacader, raised his eyebrows. ‘Can you mean something’s actually happened in Glasgow?’ He considered Gil, and the acid smile appeared again. ‘It’s been quiet since May, and now Gil Cunningham wants a word. Another killing? Another secret murder? Who is it this time, the Provost and all the bailies? Or is it something to do with a portion of the late King’s hoard found in a barrel?’

‘Partly,’ said Gil. ‘Where is his lordship?’

‘Oh, attending on the King.’ Dunbar waved in the general direction of the castle, and another passer-by ducked and cursed him. ‘Is that what you’re after? Entry to the court?’

‘Robert Blacader will do well enough,’ said Gil. ‘Can you get me in to him?’

‘I’m bound there the now,’ admitted the smaller man. ‘I should be with him, only he sent me out an errand for the King’s grace. Confidential, I need hardly say.’

‘Oh, of course,’ Gil agreed. ‘And you’ve delivered your message? Can you get me to his lordship?’

‘I can,’ said Dunbar, turning to walk on up the hill. ‘What’s it worth?’

‘I’ll tell you all about it,’ offered Gil, suppressing annoyance. ‘After I’ve spoken to Robert Blacader,’ he added.

Dunbar considered this, his eyes narrowed, and at length he nodded. ‘See your men and your beasts settled,’ he said, ‘and apply for me at the gatehouse in an hour. I’ll do what I can for you. Mind, it had better be a good story.’

‘Oh, it’s all of that,’ said Gil.

‘And I suppose you want a lodging this night as well?’

‘I can see to that for myself. How is the court just now?’

‘Right now, very unsettled,’ said Dunbar morosely. ‘My lord of Angus arrived before noon for a word with him.’ From the emphasis on the pronoun, Gil interpreted it as referring to the young King James. ‘We think he’s planning to go into Ayrshire, and we’re not certain how many of us are wanted. How big a house is the place at Kilmarnock?’

‘Angus’s place? Not big enough for the court,’ Gil replied. ‘You’ll have to lie out in the town, as you do here.’

‘Hmm.’ Dunbar considered this prospect, and halted again. ‘Even my lord Archbishop?’

‘Better ask some of Angus’s people. I’ll leave you here, William. My lodgings are on Back Wynd. In an hour at the gatehouse, then.’

Following Maister Dunbar along a seemingly endless enfilade of stuffy rooms, through waves of conflicting smells of civet and moth-herbs, musk and lavender and stale furs, Gil barely had time to pick out the familiar faces. People he had been at school with, at college with, or met briefly in Glasgow were among those sitting or standing about, playing cards or dice or talking about hunting. One or two showed signs of recognizing him.