Pat McIntosh - The Harper's Quine

‘It might have been a lassie,’ Philip Sempill pointed out. His cousin snarled at him.

‘Did your wife have friends?’ Gil asked.

‘Other than the harpers, you mean?’ said Euphemia. Sempill swivelled to look at her. ‘I’m sorry, John, but it was notorious. Every musician that came to Rothesay was in her chamber.’ She giggled, and the dimple flashed at Gil. ‘They say she had a key for every harp west of Dumbarton, and her own ideas about speed of performance.’

Sempill glared at her, and her brother said, ‘Now, Euphemia,’ and raised an admonishing finger in a gesture which Gil found suddenly familiar.

‘So it might have been a jealous lover,’ she finished triumphantly. Sempill made a move towards her, but she lifted her chin and smiled at him, showing little white teeth, and he stopped.

‘What — ‘ said Campbell of Glenstriven rather loudly. ‘What did you mean, Maister Cunningham, about the couple in the bushes? Was it just the state of sin they were in, or had you a purpose asking about them?’

‘I did,’ said Gil. ‘We’ve found the laddie, but he’s no help. We need to find his sweetheart.’

‘Can he not tell you who she is?’

‘He can tell us nothing. He was struck on the head there in the kirkyard and now lies near to death. There may have been two ill-doers abroad in St Mungo’s yard last night.’

Lady Euphemia, suddenly as white as her linen headdress, stared at Gil for a moment. Then her eyes rolled up in her head and she slipped sideways into the arms of her companion. Sempill, with a muffled curse, sprang forward to land on his knees beside her, patting frantically at her cheek and hands.

‘Euphemia! Mally, a cordial! Wine — anything!’

‘It’s just a wee turn,’ said the companion, putting a cushion under the sufferer’s head. ‘She’ll be right in a minute.’

Sempill, still rubbing at the limp little hand in his grasp, turned to glare at Gil over his shoulder.

‘I warned you not to upset Euphemia; he said forcefully. James, get him out of here!’

Campbell of Glenstriven got to his feet, and indicated the door with a polite gesture. Gil, aware of unasked questions, considered brazening it out, but something about James Campbell’s bearing changed his mind. He rose, said an unheeded goodbye and went down the wheel stair. As Campbell emerged into the hall after him he turned to say, ‘You were in Italy after St Andrews?’

‘Bologna,’ agreed the other. ‘I was back there just last autumn, indeed. And you? Glasgow and …?’

‘Paris,’ Gil supplied. ‘But of course the subtle doctor is a Bolognese.’ He raised the admonishing finger in imitation, and they both grinned.

‘Was it that gave me away, or was it a good guess?’ Campbell asked, moving towards the door.

‘hat and other things. There were Italian students. Dress, deportment, your dagger. Is it Italian? The pommel looks familiar.’

James Campbell drew the blade and laid it across his palm.

‘From Ferrara. I brought several home this time. I like the wee fine blade they make. It has a spring to it we can’t achieve here. Least of all in Glasgow,’ he added.

‘Was that all you brought?’

‘Five miles or so of lace. Two-three lutes and a lutenist to play on them. Oh, did you mean a sword? No, those were beyond my means. The daggers were dear enough.’ Campbell opened the front door, and the mastiff raised her head and growled threateningly. ‘Good day to you, brother.’

Maistre Pierre drank some wine and chewed thoughtfully on a lozenge of quince leather. Further down his table two maids were whispering together and the men were eating oatcakes and cheese and arguing about football, ignoring the French talk at the head of the long board.

‘Why did she swoon, do you suppose?’ he asked.

Gil shrugged. ‘Alarm at hearing there were two dangerous persons in the churchyard? Her gown laced too tight? I don’t know.’

‘These little fragile women are often very strong,’ remarked Alys, pouring more wine for Gil. ‘Was it a real swoon?’

‘Real or pretended, you mean?’ Gil considered. ‘Real, I should say. Her mouth fell open.’

‘Ah.’ Alys nodded, as at a bright student, and her elusive smile flickered.

‘And what of the boys who found the harp key? Or the unknown sweetheart?’ said her father fretfully. ‘She must hold the key to the mystery.’

‘Luke tells me,’ said Alys, glancing along the table, ‘that she is called Bridie Miller and she is kitchenmaid to Agnes Hamilton two doors from here. I thought to go after dinner and ask to speak with her.’

Gil opened his mouth to object, and closed it again, hardly able to work out why he should have anything to say in the matter.

‘Very good,’ said her father, pushing his chair back. ‘That was an excellent meal, ma mie. Maister Cunningham, what do you do now?’

‘I accompany the demoiselle; said Gil. Alys, supervising the clearing of an empty kale-pot and the remains of a very handsome pie, turned her head sharply. ‘Mistress Hamilton’s son Andrew found the harp key,’ he elaborated, ‘with William Anderson, the saddler’s youngest.’

‘Better still,’ said the mason. ‘Take your cloak, Alys, the weather spoils. Wattie, Thomas, Luke! To work! We seek still this weapon.’

‘In a moment; said Alys. ‘I must see that Catherine and Annis are fed and set someone to watch Davie. Kittock, do you carry this out, and I will bring the wine.’

The household began to bustle about. Gil, retreating to the windowseat, found not one but two books half hidden under a bag of sewing. When Alys reappeared, in plaid and dogs like any girl of the burgh, he was engrossed.

Maister Cunningham?’ she said. He looked up, tilting the page towards her.

‘I like this,’ he said. ‘Cease from an inordinate desire of knowledge, for therein is much perplexity and delusion. I’ve often felt like that when confronted with another pile of papers.’

There are many things,’ she agreed, ‘which when known profit the soul little or nothing.’

‘ou read Latin?’ he said, startled.

‘It is my copy. I have to confess — ‘ The apologetic smile flickered. ‘I take refuge in Chaucer when it becomes too serious for me.’

‘What, this one? The story-tellers on pilgrimage?’

She nodded. ‘I am cast out with Patient Grissel at the moment.’

‘I never had any patience with Patient Grissel or her marquis.’ Gil laid the Imitation of Christ on the sill and followed her to the door. ‘Any man that treated one of my sisters so would have got his head in his hands to play with as soon as we heard of it.’

‘Her lord cannot have loved her, for sure, though he claimed to.’ She clopped down the fore-stair into the courtyard. And he took all the power and left her none.’

‘Power?’ said Gil. This girl, he recognized again, was exceptional.

‘If the wife has responsibilities,’ Alys said seriously, ‘duties, about the house, she must have power to order matters as she wishes. Grissel must do all, but has no power of her own. It is as if she is her marquis’s hand or foot and must do only as he directs.’

‘You think that is wrong? Holy Kirk teaches us — ‘

‘I know the husband is the head of the wife, it’s in St Paul’s letters somewhere,’ Alys said, pausing beside a tub of flowers in the middle of the yard. She had taken the ribbon out of her hair and it hung loose down her back. She pulled at a soft fair lock. ‘But what sort of head cuts off its own right hand to test it?’

‘I had not thought of it that way, I admit,’ Gil said. ‘To my mind, she would have had good grounds for a lawful separation a mensa et thoro, though I suppose the Clerke of Oxenfoord would not have given us the tale of Patient Grissel Divorced.’ Alys giggled. ‘We see a lot of marriages,’ he said. ‘The ones I admire most are those where the wife is allowed to think for herself and decisions are made by both spouses together. Myself, I think …’ He paused, groping for words to fit his idea. ‘Women have immortal souls and were given the ability to seek their own salva tion. How can they do that if someone else takes responsibility for their every deed and thought?’