Pat McIntosh - The Merchant's Mark

‘My lord’s playing at the cards with the King,’ said Dunbar, pausing in a doorway. ‘Wait in this chamber, Gil. I’ll see if I can get him out between games.’

Gil grimaced. A good game of Tarocco could last the best part of an hour. He nodded, and looked about him as Dunbar’s tonsure disappeared past someone’s green brocade shoulder into the next room.

‘I know you,’ said a voice beside him. ‘You’re a Cunningham, aren’t you?’ He turned, to find a big fair man at his elbow, all cherry-coloured velvet and yellow silk. Noll Sinclair of Roslin, friend of his parents and of the late King, clapped him on the shoulder and grinned at him. ‘Gled Cunningham’s youngest. Gilbert, is it?’

‘Sir Oliver,’ said Gil formally, looking into the handsome face level with his. ‘My God, I haven’t heard my father’s by-name in years.’

‘Aye, well.’ Sinclair’s grin vanished briefly. ‘A bad business, that. And your brothers and all. Grievous. How’s your mother? How does she manage?’

‘My mother’s well, thank you, sir. She has her dower-lands near Lanark, and wins a living.’

‘Oh, aye.’ The grin reappeared. ‘She stayed with us at Roslin a time or two, and some of your sisters with her. I mind her then instructing me on horse-breeding. So she’s running horses on her dower-lands, is she?’

‘It’s good enough grazing out by Carluke,’ said Gil, nodding. ‘And it’s high enough to breed hardy beasts. She knows what she’s doing.’

‘I’ve no doubt of that where Gelis Muirhead’s concerned. And what are you doing, yourself? Will you be for the Church or the Law?’

‘The Law,’ said Gil firmly. ‘I’ll take my notary’s oath next month, and hang up my sign in Glasgow.’

‘If I’ve business to do in Lanarkshire I’ll remember that,’ said Sinclair. He hitched at the wide sleeves of his gown, turning back the cuffs so that the yellow silk lining showed to advantage. ‘So it’s the secular life, is it? And a marriage in mind, so I heard.’

‘Contract signed,’ agreed Gil.

‘My good wishes on that,’ said the other affably. ‘And how is Glasgow? What’s this we’ve been hearing today? A piece of the old King’s hoard turned up in the burgh? In a barrel?’

‘I suppose the word would spread fast,’ Gil said in some annoyance.

‘This is the court,’ said Sinclair. ‘There’s nothing to do but gossip or listen to gossip. I thank God fasting every time I come near the King that I’ve no need to hold office.’ Gil, who knew the story of the bargain struck by a previous Stewart with a previous Sinclair, merely nodded. ‘I suppose there’s no doubt that it’s the King’s money?’ Sir Oliver went on, his tone casual. ‘Coin is only coin, after all, it doesn’t have the owner’s badge on it.’

‘It isn’t only money,’ said Gil reluctantly. ‘There are jewels as well. Some of those are the owner’s badge, indeed — very obviously out of the royal treasury.’

‘Oh?’ Sinclair’s eyebrows rose. ‘And where did ye find this? Was it really in a barrel? And what’s this about a head? What like was it? Do you ken whose? Is it some thief or other, or a fighting man?’

‘You’re well informed, sir,’ said Gil. And full of questions, he thought. ‘No, I’ve no notion whose. If I knew where the coin had been hid these four years I might be closer to giving him a name, but it won’t be easy to get an answer to that.’

‘I should say not,’ agreed Sinclair. ‘Ask at Robert Lyle, why don’t you. He seems to have information the rest of us lack.’

‘Gil,’ said Maister Dunbar at his elbow. ‘My lord will see you now.’

‘I’m sure Robert Lyle will want a word,’ reiterated Sinclair. Gil, with some relief, raised his hat and bowed to him before turning to follow the little poet from the chamber.

Robert Blacader, well-found, blue-jowled and tonsured, was waiting in a windowless closet between that room and the next, seated on a folding chair, a stand of newly lit candles on the chest beside him. The light gleamed on the dark brocade of his gown, the silver fittings of belt and purse at his waist. When Gil entered he held out a hand.

‘I can spare you a short time, Maister Cunningham,’ he said. Gil knelt to kiss the ring. ‘I hope your uncle is well?’ Gil murmured something. ‘I believe it was you found this treasure that appeared this morning?’

‘I was present when it was found, my lord,’ Gil parried.

‘Sir Thomas never sent me more than the bare bones of the tale to it.’

‘There’s more to tell now in any case, my lord.’

The Archbishop gestured, and Gil stood obediently and gave him a succinct account of the finding of the head and the treasure, and then of the inquest and its result. Blacader heard him out in growing annoyance, and finally shook his head, saying irritably, ‘The Provost has acted as he must, but Christ aid me, I never heard such nonsense. It’s surely been a wilful false verdict. I’ll send to Sir Thomas the morn, and look into it closer when I reach Glasgow. Has this fellow — what’s his name, Morison? Has he enemies in the burgh?’

‘No more than any successful merchant,’ said Gil. ‘He’s harmless enough, I’d have said. A gentle soul.’

‘Hmm,’ said the Archbishop. ‘And he has asked you to sort it out, has he?’ Gil nodded. ‘Aye. After you dealt with those other two matters, it would be an obvious choice,’ continued Blacader thoughtfully. He stared at Gil for a moment, the candlelight flickering on brow and padded cheeks. ‘I think you must. We’ll not waste the Justiciars’ time with this kind of thing. William,’ he said, and Maister Dunbar stirred at the door of the little room. ‘Something towards Maister Cunningham’s expenses, I think. Ten merks should do it. And you’ll report to me, Gilbert.’

‘Gladly, my lord. Thank you,’ said Gil fervently, going down on one knee again. This was more than he had hoped for: Blacader had just attached him to his own retinue, however informally.

‘And now,’ said the Archbishop, getting to his feet, ‘I must go back to the King. Come with me, Gilbert.’

The inmost chamber was crowded with bystanders and servants in the royal livery, but their gaze, direct or sidelong, showed where to look. Near the empty hearth a table was set up, covered in a silk carpet, the cards still lying on it in tricks as they had been gathered in among the heaps of coin. Three people were seated round it. On the far side King James, aged nineteen, chestnut hair and long-nosed Stewart good looks set off by green velvet and blue silk, was talking to a hulking man whose cropped hair and beard showed streaks of grey: Archibald Douglas, fifth earl of Angus. On this side was a well-found blue-jowled person in furred red silk embroidered with trees of life, a match for the Archbishop save for the lack of a tonsure; plump hands studded with rings were folded on his knee as he watched the conversation with the open smiling gaze of a statesman.

‘His grace will want the story of the finding of the treasure,’ said Blacader, placing himself expertly to catch Angus’s eye, and his counterpart turned his head sharply, his silk rustling.

‘Are ye sure of that, Robert?’ he asked. ‘This is gey public. And is this the man that found it?’ He looked closely at Gil with round pale eyes, and then cast a pointed glance at Maister Dunbar, who stared at the patterned ceiling.

‘Wheesht, William,’ Blacader said, intent on the King, and Gil appreciated that the other man was that chimera of his age, neither cleric nor layman, William Knollys the Treasurer of Scotland and Commendator of the Knights of St John.

The royal conversation paused, and Blacader inserted a practised word. Gil found himself kneeling again, and then somehow seated on a stool which manifested behind him, giving an account of the finding of first the head and then the bag of coin. The two men of state watched him as he talked, intent and impassive, and Angus leaned back to whisper to a servant, but the King listened closely, his mobile face expressing interest, concern, dismay as the narrative proceeded.