Pat McIntosh - The Merchant's Mark

‘On ye go, then, King’s men,’ said the one who had challenged them. ‘And a peaceful night to ye, maisters.’

‘And the same to yersels, neighbour,’ said the torch-bearer, and they moved on. The Watch plodded past them and on up the hill. After a little Gil found the feeling of being followed had dissipated, though he still felt on edge, as if the hunt was only on the next hillside.

At the gate to Morison’s Yard he halted. Beside him Morison reached out and touched the heavy planks caressingly.

‘This is the place,’ Gil said to their escort.

‘We’ll see you through the gate, maisters,’ said the left-hand torchbearer in a strong Stirling accent. ‘Is it barred, maybe? Will you need to rouse the house?’

Gil leaned on a leaf of the gate, and it swung easily, as before. Bait? he wondered. Or has there been trouble?

He peered inside, but there was no movement in the yard. There was light at the house windows, and his sister’s voice came faintly, making Morison turn his head to listen. The moon slid out from behind a cloud and lit the open expanse between gate and door, silvering the wet edge of the fore-stair. Nothing there. Why do I still feel I’m being watched?

‘All quiet?’ said the torchbearer.

‘I think so,’ Gil said, a little reluctantly, and reached for his purse. ‘Thanks for your time, fellows. You can get up the road and into the dry.’

The group, suitably rewarded, stepped back and waited while he drew Morison in and barred the gate. He heard them tramp off up the High Street and turned towards the house. The door was open, though nobody was visible. The back of his neck prickled. Drawing his whinger, catching his plaid round the other arm, he took Morison’s elbow and moved forward through the moonlit rain, two steps, three.

The creak of the gate warned him, in the same moment as a quiet voice from the house said, ‘Behind you.’

Heart thumping, he straightened his left arm, pushing the unarmed Morison sharply towards the house, and sidestepped, sword at the ready, turning towards the rush of footsteps.

One figure was approaching from the gate, another leaping down from it as he looked. The nearest had a weapon raised against the dark sky, which he knocked spinning across the yard with a sweeping blow. Wood clattered on the flagstones, and there was time to think, This has happened before, and also, This is quite ridiculous.

The other man seemed at first to have huge black wings, but as Gil ducked away, shouting, they turned into great folds of cloth which brushed across his arm. He dodged sideways and snatched out his dagger, then braced himself, the two blades poised to attack, and several more figures emerged from the shadows as if in answer.

‘Aye, Maister Gil!’ said one of them in Andy’s voice, and bent to seize the cudgel as it rolled across the yard. The man who had wielded it tripped over his stooping form, knocking him flat, stumbled over him and ran cursing for the gate, closely pursued by two more of the shadowy figures. The other assailant was struggling with someone, but a dark shape which could only be Babb loomed over the conflict and pounced; there was a startled yelp, and in the same moment a thump and rattle from next to the gate, an outcry, and then a long-drawn-out sliding, slithering crash.

Someone groaned.

‘Well done!’ said Kate from the house door. The whole thing had taken only a few heartbeats.

‘Christ and his saints preserve us!’ said Andy’s voice. Gil, peering round, placed the small man, just climbing to his feet. ‘Have we got them, then?’

‘Well, that was a welcome,’ said Morison from the darkness, sounding more alert than he had for the past hour.

‘Maister?’ said Andy, and started forward.

‘Augie?’ said Kate from the door. Morison turned and moved towards her.

‘What the deil’s name’s goin on out there?’ bellowed a voice from overhead. Gil looked up, and saw Maister Morison’s neighbour leaning out of an upper window, his linen nightcap pale in a brief gleam of moonlight. ‘Is it more thieves in the yard there?’

‘Aye, Maister Hamilton, it’s thieves,’ answered Andy. From under the thatch of Morison’s house came a child’s wail.

‘Yell need to put up a sign for them,’ said Maister Hamilton in disgust, ‘then they can just come in quietlike. Call the Watch, man, and let’s us get our sleep.’

‘We’ve got this one,’ said Babb, shaking her catch.

‘We have this one also,’ said Alys from the shadows by the gate, ‘but I think he is hurt.’

‘Alys!’ said Gil. ‘Alys, what are you — ?’

He sheathed his blades and hurried over. She was bending over two shapes, which as the moon came out again resolved into a kneeling man with a knife at the throat of a recumbent one. The light slid on the glazed rims of countless tumbled pots and dishes which surrounded them. The recumbent man groaned again. Under the roof the child was still wailing.

‘The rack fell,’ Alys said. ‘All these crocks landed on him. Gil, was that Maister Morison?’

‘Come on, man,’ said the one kneeling. ‘Get on your feet.’

‘I canny,’ said the recumbent man with difficulty. ‘I’m hurt. I’m hurt bad.’

‘Let’s get him in the house,’ Gil said, ‘and the other one, and see how bad it is. Andy, is there a hurdle we can put him on?’

‘Aye, do that,’ shouted Maister Hamilton, ‘and be quiet about it!’

‘What’s to do?’ demanded another voice, from somewhere across the street.

‘Thieves at Augie’s yard,’ responded Hamilton. A dog started barking, and another answered it. ‘They should call the Watch, and let the rest of the town get some sleep.’

‘I’m right sorry, Andro,’ began Morison, from the fore-stair.

‘Augie! Is that you let loose, man? Did they let you off, then?’

To an accompaniment of mixed congratulation and heckling from neighbours and dogs, the injured man was heaved groaning on to a wicker hurdle and carried indoors. Morison issued a general invitation for the morning and went in, Babb’s prisoner was dragged in after him, and for a precious moment, as windows slammed shut to one side and another, Gil was alone in the yard with his betrothed.

‘Alys, are you all right?’ he said in soft French, and reached out to her. She came willingly to his embrace, and he drew her close, relishing the feel under his hands of the warm curves he had glimpsed earlier.

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Why should I not be? That was exciting.’

He stared down at the pale outline of her face in the moonlight, struck yet again by her power to astonish him.

‘Perhaps I should teach you to use a sword,’ he said, and kissed her.

‘I should like that,’ she said hopefully after a moment, leaning against him. ‘We ought to go in, Gil. These men must be questioned. And was that really Maister Morison? Is he free?’

‘Soon,’ he said, and kissed her again. ‘Oh, I have missed you. Nas never pyke wallowed in galantyne As I in love am wallowed and ywounde .’

‘And I have missed you, trewe Tristram the secounde ,’ she said, capping the quotation, and kissed him back.

When they finally went into the brightly lit hall, Kate was seated rather stiffly in Morison’s great chair, Morison himself on his knees beside her with his arms full of two small girls. Gil looked at his sister’s expression and found his mind going back to an older poem than the Chaucer he had just quoted to Alys: Yern he biheld hir, and sche him eke, Ac noither to other a word no speke . The two captives were before them in the centre of the hall. Babb still had a punishing grasp of the man in the cloak, but it was evident that the other was unlikely to run far. Alys went forward and knelt beside him, and he opened his eyes.