Pat McIntosh - The Merchant's Mark

‘So it simply went on the wrong cart!’ said Kate.

‘That must be it. It should have gone to Leith.’

‘Of course,’ said Gil. ‘The cart for Leith was a big mixed load, so Riddoch said. Far likelier, if it went on that, the exchange could have gone unnoticed till it could be collected.’

They exchanged another look, and Alys nodded agreement.

‘And if the Axeman did not enquire at the cooper’s until Wednesday, there had been time for him to go to Leith and find his barrel was not there and return to Linlithgow. And then he came straight to Glasgow,’ she speculated. ‘He must near have worn a groove in the road.’

Gil, rarely aware of her accent, was suddenly, delightfully, distracted by the foreign turn she gave to the Scottish placenames. Concentrating with an effort, he found his sister saying, ‘But we still don’t know who the Axeman was, or who this Baldy and Feather Hat might be, or whose men they are, or why they are so persistent about it.’

‘A fair summary,’ said Gil.

‘You forgot Sinclair and Knollys,’ said Alys.

Gil opened his mouth to answer her, and was forestalled by a sudden commotion outside in the dark yard. Shrill voices, a thump as if the gate had been slammed, questions and shouting. Women’s voices. Then, through it, a deeper note: ‘Friend, I’m a friend. Word for Maister Cunningham. Is that you, Babb? Is Nan no here?’

‘Matt?’ said Gil. He jumped up and hurried to the house door just as his uncle’s man reached the top of the fore-stair. ‘Matt, is all well?’

Matt stepped in and pulled off his bonnet, saying drily, ‘Aye, Lady Kate. Your watch is waukin.’

‘I never expected callers this late,’ said Babb from the doorway.

‘Watch?’ said Gil. ‘What watch? Kate, what is going on here? Where are the men, anyway?’

‘Sleeping,’ she said, ‘save for two we sent down the Hog again. The rest of them will watch the second half of the night, we’re taking the first half.’

‘Kate!’

‘You can see for yourself it works,’ she pointed out, laughing at him. ‘They caught Matt, but they’ve done him no damage.’

‘Kate, this is a fighting man we’re seeking. How can a bunch of women — ’

‘Wi no argument,’ said Matt succinctly.

‘Aye, well, you came quiet,’ said Babb, grinning, before she turned away to go back down the stair into the yard.

‘I’ll stay here, then,’ said Gil.

‘You will not,’ said his sister, though Alys’s expression brightened.

‘No,’ said Matt. ‘You’re sent for, Maister Gil. The castle. Robert Blacader wants a word.’

‘To the castle?’ repeated Gil blankly. ‘Whatever does he want?’

‘How did he know you were back in Glasgow?’ said Alys.

The moon, five days past the full, was just rising behind the towers of St Mungo’s as Gil made his way by lantern-light up from the Wyndhead towards the castle gatehouse. Noise and bustle floated over the wall; lute music came from the Archbishop’s lodging, a more raucous singing from one of the towers, and a smell of new bread suggested the episcopal bakehouse was working through the night.

Gil gave his name to a guard, and after a short wait a sleepy-eyed page in a velvet jerkin appeared and conducted him across two courtyards, past the fore-stair of the Provost’s lodging — Sweet St Giles, Gil thought, was it only two days since that we had to climb that in a hurry? — and up a turnpike stair. There were lights at most of the windows, and torches burned beside other doorways.

Robert Blacader had given up his own lodging to his monarch. Beyond the great hall and the entrance to the Archbishop’s private chapel, the outer and inner chambers of his suite were crowded, like the string of stuffy chambers at Stirling, with weary members of the court playing cards or dice to music from competing lutenists or discussing the best road to Kilmarnock. Mismatched tapestries hung on the walls, and there seemed to be a shortage of seating. Off the inner chamber, with its ostentatious display of plate set out on the cupboard, the page opened a door and ushered Gil through it.

The closet was panelled, painted and ablaze with light. There were several dozen candles burning round the walls, and more in pricket-stands here and there, flickering in the draught from the window which had been opened to let the heat out. Gil, blinking in the brightness, took in rather slowly that the room was also full of richly dressed people, and that only one of them was wearing a hat.

He snatched off his felt bonnet with an apology, and dropped to one knee.

‘Get up, Maister Cunningham,’ said James Stewart from the centre of the group, ‘and come and tell us how you’ve progressed since we saw you last.’

The King was seated near the fireplace, a card-table beside him as before, though this time it bore only a jug and some glasses. Tonight he was wearing tawny woollen and black silk, the huge sleeves of his gown decked with amber-coloured ribbons. Gil, thinking of his sister’s much-worn gown of the same colour, made a note to tell her about the ribbons. On one side of the table Robert Blacader acknowledged Gil’s salute with a wave of his ring; on the other, expansive in gold-coloured satin with wide fur facings, William Knollys smiled affably. Behind the King a cleric was in deep discussion with the Earl of Angus and my lord Hume the Chamberlain; as he turned his head Gil recognized Andrew Forman the apostolic protonotary, whom he knew to be a friend of his uncle’s. Beyond him a familiar profile must be his mother’s cousin, Angus’s brother-in-law Archie Boyd.

‘Come, maister,’ said the King again. ‘Is there a seat for Maister Cunningham? Now tell us, have you put a name to your man in the barrel?’

‘He’s none of mine, sir,’ said Gil hastily. One of the liveried servants brought forward a stool, and he sat down, assembling his thoughts, filtering, sifting. ‘I have his name and I think I know who killed him and where,’ he added. ‘But I’ve not found the rest of him.’

Choosing his words with caution, passing lightly over any mention of the purpose of moving the treasure, he recounted his visit to the cooper’s yard and what he had learned there, the finding of the patch of blood, the empty barrel, the idea that the other barrel had gone on the wrong cart through simple error.

This was not like discussing matters with Alys or his sister. Every step, every word had to be explained, justified, expounded, to one or other of the two plump, blue-jowled faces scrutinizing his account. Blacader’s questions betrayed a deep concern for the truth, but Knollys’s seemed more directed towards dismantling Gil’s theories and suppositions. At times Gil was aware of impatience in James’s movements, but he listened carefully to the questions and to Gil’s answers, nodding now and then. Behind him the Earl of Angus watched intently.

‘But your own suspicions, maister. Surely you suspect more than you’ve learned?’ the King said, when Gil had recounted his conclusions after his interview with the cooper.

‘I do, sir,’ agreed Gil.

‘You’ve little enough proof for some of your tale, it seems to me,’ said Knollys, still wearing his open smile, though the yellow gems in his rings flashed in the light. ‘Most of the carter’s actions can only be guessed at, for one thing.’

‘Quite so, sir,’ said Gil, ‘but someone opened the gates, someone swept up the shavings, and I think the cooper was telling the truth.’ In that, at least, he thought.

‘And this man with the axe,’ said the King reflectively. ‘He fair gets about. Linlithgow, Glasgow, maybe Leith.’

‘He got about,’ Gil agreed, ‘but he’ll go no further. He’s dead, last night, sir.’