Pat McIntosh - The Harper's Quine

Alys considered this, twirling the lock of hair round one finger.

‘St Paul thought we were capable of more than that. The unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife,’ she quoted, in the Latin. ‘Although,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘St Paul contradicts himself more than once. Is that what you think learning is for? To seek salvation?’

‘That was not what I said, but it’s surely one of its purposes. You think so too, do you not? You use yours to read Thomas A Kempis and the New Testament.’

She nodded, pushing the lock of hair back over her shoulder, and hitched her plaid up.

‘When free of my duties about the house. Shall we go? Do you know Agnes Hamilton? Or her husband?’

‘I was at the College with her brother Hugh,’ he said, accepting the change of subject. ‘She was new married, and generous with the bannocks and cheese when we had a free hour or two.’

Agnes Hamilton, it was well seen, was still generous with the bannocks and cheese. She met them in her doorway, vast and flustered, with exclamations of distress.

‘And the dinner late, and Andrew in such a mood, and not a hand’s turn done in the kitchen since the news came, they’re all so caught up with Bridie’s troubles — my dear, it’s a pleasure to see you any time, you know that, but maybe not the now. And is that you, Gil Cunningham?’ she said, peering up at him under the folds of her linen kerchief. ‘I’d not have known you, you’ve changed that much — ‘

Distantly behind her there was a great outbreak of wailing. Mistress Hamilton cast a glance over her broad shoulder.

‘Listen to that!’ she said unnecessarily. ‘The girl will choke herself weeping! And I can do nothing with the rest of them. They’ve let the fire go out.’

‘Is it Bridie Miller?’ asked Alys briskly. ‘May I try? We need a word with her about Davie.’

‘He’s not — the boy’s not …?’

‘He’s not dead,’ Gil said, ‘but he’s still in a great swound. If Bridie knows anything it would be a help.’

‘Well …’ said Mistress Hamilton doubtfully. She led them along the screened passage, past the door to the hall where several men sat about listening glumly to the noise, and out to the yard at the back. The kitchen, built of wattle-and-daub, was set a few feet away from the house, and from its door and windows came the sound of many weeping women. Gil found his feet rooted to the spot.

‘Do — do you need me?’ he asked, despising himself.

Alys glanced up at him, and said with some sympathy, ‘You will be no help. Go and find the boy. Agnes, I will need the key to your spice-chest.’

She took the bunch of keys Mistress Hamilton unhooked from her girdle, hitched up her plaid and plunged forward into the noise. Agnes Hamilton watched her go, hand over her mouth, then turned helplessly to Gil.

‘I forget at times she’s just sixteen,’ she confessed. ‘Do you know she reads three languages?’

‘Three?’ said Gil, and realized this must be so.

‘I had a book once, but Andrew sold it. Gil, it’s grand to see you, but I can offer you nothing but cowslip wine and suckets — ‘

‘I’ve had my dinner,’ he assured her. ‘I need a word with Andrew, and then I’ll go, and come back another time.’

Her face changed.

‘He’s not very pleased at his dinner being late,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he’d talk to you.’

‘That’s a pity,’ said Gil. ‘Patrick Paniter bade me tell him — ‘

‘Oh!’ said Mistress Hamilton in some relief. ‘You mean wee Andrew! Come in here out of all this noise and I’ll find him. Drew! Doodie! Oh, that laddie, where has he got to now?’

She disappeared, leaving Gil standing in the hall with the hungry men eyeing him sideways. After a moment she returned, towing a grubby boy by one ear, exclaiming over the torn hose, of which a good length was visible below his blue scholar’s gown.

‘And you be civil, mind,’ she prompted. ‘Maister Cunningham’s here from St Mungo’s, with a message from Maister Paniter.’

‘Not quite that important,’ said Gil hastily, seeing all chance of getting an answer from the boy slipping away. ‘May I get a word with you, Andrew?’

Andrew stared at him apprehensively. Nudged by his mother he achieved a clumsy bow and muttered something. Gil stepped back out into the yard, where the wailing from the kitchen was not much reduced, and beckoned the boy after him.

‘Two boys found something this morning,’ he said. ‘Maister Paniter was angry, and took it off them, and I found it again.’ Well, by proxy, said his conscience. ‘I need to ask a couple of questions about it.’

Andrew, fiddling with his belt, said indistinctly that he kenned nuffin.

‘Now, that’s a pity; said Gil, ‘for the boy who told me what I need to know might get a penny.’

Andrew brightened noticeably. Gil fished the harp key out of the breast of his jerkin and held it up.

‘Was that what you found?’ he asked. ‘I know it was a harp key — is this the right one?’

Andrew nodded eagerly.

‘It’s got the same flowers on,’ he volunteered. ‘e saw it shining in the grass when we came to Prime.’

‘What, just like this? It wasn’t in a purse or anything?’

‘No, maister,’ said Andrew, a touch regretfully. ‘There was never a purse. It was just lying in the grass.’

‘Where?’ Gil asked. ‘as it among the trees?’ I should be dismissed the court, he thought, for prompting the witness, but Andrew shook his head.

‘We’d no have seen it among the trees,’ he pointed out kindly. ‘It was on the grass near the door.’

‘Which door?’

‘The door we go in by,’ said Andrew. ‘The south door by St Catherine.’

Gil stood looking down at him, thinking this over. The boy, misreading his silence, said after a moment, ‘It’s true, maister. You can ask Will. Can I get it back, maister?’

‘I’ve no doubt it’s true,’ Gil said. ‘I need to keep it, but here’s your penny, Andrew. Those were good answers.’ Andrew seized the coin, but any thanks he might have

returned were drowned in an extraordinary commotion from the kitchen. The multiple sounds of grief suddenly stopped, to be replaced abruptly by a succession of squeals which escalated into a violent outburst of sneezing. The door flew open, and first one, then another girl staggered out, sneezing and sneezing, until the yard was full of spluttering, wheezing, exploding women.

Behind the last one came Alys, her plaid drawn over her face, dusting the other hand off on her blue skirts. Letting the plaid fall, she looked at Agnes Hamilton, who was peering round Gil’s shoulder with her mouth open, and said, ‘Well, that was a waste of time.’

‘What — ‘said Agnes helplessly. ‘What happened? What’s wrong?’

‘They quarrelled on Good Friday,’ Alys elaborated. ‘She hasn’t seen him for ten days. I can’t tell if she was weeping for Davie, or for danger avoided, or lost opportunity, and nor can she, but she can’t help us. Agnes, I’ve a cold pie in the larder. If we send someone up for it, you and the men can eat.’

‘And the girls?’ said Gil, indicating the suffering household.

‘Oh, that.’ Alys flapped her skirts again, face turned away. ‘I’ve seen that happen in a nunnery. Everyone weeping and nobody able to stop. It’s all right, it isn’t the pestilence. Here are your keys, Agnes. I’m afraid I’ve used up your year’s supply of pepper.’

Out in the street, they stood at the foot of the Hamiltons’ fore-stair and looked at one another.

‘A false scent,’ said Gil.

‘Luke was very certain,’ said Alys in faint apology.