Pat McIntosh - The Merchant's Mark

‘Catherine will long since have had the door barred,’ said Alys. ‘No, no, I can very well share a bed with Kate and Babb.’

‘But Kate will go back to Rottenrow, surely,’ he said.

‘Not me,’ said Kate firmly. ‘I’ll not leave without saying farewell to those bairns.’ Her eyes rose to the ceiling, where Morison’s voice could be heard quietly from the floor above. Alys gave Gil another of her significant glances, and shook her head.

‘Leave them,’ said Morison, when he had persuaded his daughters to sleep. ‘I’ll be glad of the company, Gil, to tell truth.’

‘Do you want someone else to watch?’ Gil asked quickly, but Morison shook his head.

‘No, no. That’s no the difficulty. I just — I just — it’s good to have friends round me,’ he achieved, ‘and you have to go back up the hill, if you’re to be at the caichpele betimes. And if Mistress Mason’s to stay and all,’ he added, ‘then all’s decent. The two of them and Babb will be down here in the chamber yonder,’ he nodded at the inner door from the hall, ‘where they can bar the door for privacy, and the men are out in the bothy, and I’m above-stairs within call.’ He glanced at the ceiling-boards, as Kate had done.

‘I’ve no doubt of that,’ said Gil, who had not thought about it. ‘I just thought it might be imposing on the household.’

‘Considering what she’s — they’ve done for me,’ said Morison, ‘I’d say the imposing goes all the other way. Leave them here. They’re more than welcome.’

Now, before Terce, the first beasts of the baggage-train were already making their way down the High Street to cross the river and head south for Kilmarnock. Behind them, arguments, bustle and French curses floated over the castle walls. Across the Wyndhead and into the Drygate, Gil turned up the pend which led to the high wooden walls of the caichpele. There was obviously a game in progress already: he could hear the irregular thud of the ball against the planks, and the occasional spatter of applause.

The door was guarded by two men in royal livery, who let him pass when he gave his name. Within, the near gallery was crowded. Another royal servant greeted him, ushered him into the other gallery, where only two men stood at the far end, their heads together: Angus and his brother-in-law, Boyd of Naristoun. They looked up and nodded to him as he entered, acknowledged his brief bow, went back to their conversation. Gil leaned on the window, watching the play. The young King was serving, his back to them, and Archie Boyd’s brother Sandy was at the hazard end.

‘Still don’t like it,’ said Sandy’s kinsman emphatically at the far end of the gallery.

‘Archie, it might no happen,’ soothed Angus. ‘They’ll maybe no take to one another. She’s got every chance to turn him down.’

‘What, turn down her — ’

‘Wheesht, Archie!’

‘And what does that do to us all,’ Boyd went on, soft but still indignant, ‘if he pursues her and she sends him off?’

‘We find another one,’ said Angus. ‘I’d fly my own Marion at him, but she’s handfasted wi Kilmaurs. Your lassie’s the only other in the close kin that’s the right age for him, but we can try one of the older lassies if we have to.’

Well, well, thought Gil. The players had changed ends, and Sandy Boyd served, putting a spin on the ball that dropped it off the other wall on to the smooth-packed floor before the King could get to it. The scorer called numbers.

‘It might no work.’

Angus made an impatient noise. ‘Christ save us, he’s a Stewart. Ye have to feed his appetites. He’d lose the Honours of Scotland at the cards, or any other game ye name, gin he were left to play unwatched, and as for the other, he’s quite old enough to slip out and pass himself off as second sackbut in the burgh band, only to get closer to some trollop he’s taken a notion to. We have to set him on to a lassie we can trust, for his first. And we have to distract him, Archie. He’s taking altogether too much interest in the business of running the country, and he doesny understand it all yet. You saw him last night.’

‘Mind you,’ said Naristoun thoughtfully, ‘that might pay off.’

‘Wheesht, Archie.’

Sandy Boyd served again, and this time the King was ready for him, or perhaps Sandy put the ball where the King would be ready. There was a chase, the ball bandied back and forth across the net, which ended in a point for the King, and applause from the other gallery under the pent as the two players shook hands. His grace had won the set and, it seemed, the match.

Acknowledging the applause, James stripped off his doublet and threw it to a ready servant, accepted a wet towel from another and a goblet from a third. A clerk approached him with some documents, another with a quiet message, and he looked about.

‘Maister Cunningham?’ he called. ‘What about that game you promised me? Aye, Sandy, a good match. You’re a strong player, sir. Give me five minutes, maister, to deal with these papers, and we’ll have a fresh ball and begin.’

Gil, stripping off gown and doublet in his turn, stepped out on to the court and bowed to his opponent.

It was an excellent game. The King, as he had seen while watching from the gallery, was a vigorous player with a sound grasp of the strategies. He was also in good practice. Gil, willing to play with tact, found he had no need to do so. He was faster, and had a longer reach; the King had a stronger stroke, and the ball they were chasing was from his own box. Set by set, the match went the full eleven, and by the time the King took the final point both men were stripped to the waist, shining with sweat, hair plastered to their faces.

‘And the match point!’ called the scorekeeper, with what sounded to Gil like relief. ‘The King’s grace takes the match.’

There was another patter of applause. Gil lowered his racket and found himself grinning at his opponent, the involuntary response to a rewarding game.

‘St James’s staff and shells!’ said the King. He met Gil’s grin with one of his own, and threw his racket to yet another servant. ‘What a chase, that last set. Maister Cunningham, we’ll ha another game the next time I come through Glasgow, or my name’s no James Stewart.’ He offered Gil his hand, and used the clasp to draw him under the net to his side. ‘I thought you looked like a good player, man. Come and wash.’

He led him towards the service gallery, where Angus and the Boyds still watched. The blue-liveried servants came forward with wet towels, a folding table, goblets, a tray of biscuits, and retired again. James handed Gil a towel, mopped happily at his neck and chest, then said, with another grin, ‘Dicht my back for me, Maister Cunningham, and then I’ll do yours.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Gil inadequately, trying to conceal amazement. James turned, peering into the shade of the gallery. His back was lean, well muscled, decorated here and there with spots. The chain belt showed at his waist above the top of his hose. Gil wadded his own towel and wiped hesitantly at the royal hide.

‘Harder, man,’ commanded the King. ‘You’ll never shift the salt playing pat-a-cake like that. Aye, that’s better. Now, while we’re not to be interrupted,’ he said, staring direct at the three men in the gallery, ‘tell me what you didn’t tell me yestreen.’

Gil froze for a moment, then continued rubbing at the King’s shoulders.

‘How much of it, sir? There’s a fair bit.’

‘Let’s have the kernel of it. Some of my late father’s hoard,’ he crossed himself, and his other hand strayed involuntarily to the iron chain at his waist, ‘was being moved about the country, and it seemed to me someone was trying to thieve it on its way. Am I right?’