Pat McIntosh - The Harper's Quine

‘And who did she tell you would be in the house?’ Gil prompted.

`Himself, and herself,’ said the man, nodding, ‘and a visitor, which I am thinking would be Maister Cunningham.’

‘And what more did she tell you?’

‘Oh, nothing of any importance. Nothing at all, at all.’

Gil moved over to look out of the window.

‘So you promised to protect Mistress Stewart; he said, his back to the man, ‘and to see her safe home. Why, then, did you not search for her after the service?’

‘I thought she was gone home without speaking to the maister.’ There was what seemed like genuine feeling in the voice. ‘He was in the kirk, under my eye, from when I left her in the trees till he went out again and found she wass not there. I thought that was protection enough!’ he burst out. ‘I did not know — ‘ He broke off. Gil turned, to look into patches of green dazzle.

‘What did you not know?’ he asked. Ealasaidh had to repeat the question; she got a reluctant, muttered answer, which she translated baldly:

‘That he would use witchcraft.’

‘Do you think it witchcraft, Maister Cunningham?’ asked the harper.

‘I don’t believe in witchcraft,’ said Gil apologetically. ‘Do you?’

‘What do you call the power of a harper?’

‘Ah, that is different. Anyway, he had no evidence,’ Gil said, watching the gallowglass cross the yard. ‘Supposition is not sufficient. I do not think that John Sempill killed her, though I do not yet know who did. What worries me is how much he learned from your neighbour. Where is the bairn?’

‘If Nancy took him to her mother’s,’ said Ealasaidh, he is up the next stair.’

‘I thought as much.’ Gil turned away from the window. ‘Euan has just gone up that stair. Ealasaidh — ‘

The door was swinging behind her. When Gil caught up, she was just wading into a very promising argument three turns up the next stair, where Euan was holding his ground with difficulty against two kerchiefed women.

‘No, I will not tell you where she’s gone. I don’t know who you are, but my Nancy’s none of your business, and less of your master’s. Be off with you before I call the serjeant on you, pestering decent women — ‘

‘The bairn-‘s — ‘

‘The bairn’s none of hers, and everyone in this pend knows that.’

‘I never said — ‘

‘Bel!’ said Ealasaidh. ‘This one iss from Bess’s man!’

‘Oh, it’s like that, is it?’ said Bel. ‘See me the besom, sister. I’ll Where’s Nancy you, you great — ‘

Gil flattened himself against the wall as the gallowglass broke and ran, followed by shrieks of laughter, and loud and personal comments. As the sound of his feet diminished down the stairs the three women nodded in satisfaction.

‘So where is Nancy?’ he asked. The satisfaction vanished, and two hostile stares were turned on him. He was aware of sudden sympathy with Euan.

‘It iss the man of law from St Mungo’s,’ Ealasaidh explained. ‘Looking for proof it was Sempill killed her.’

‘Looking for proof of who killed her,’ Gil amended. She shrugged, and turned to the two women.

‘So where is Nancy? And the bairn?’

‘She went off this morning. Less than an hour since, it would be, wouldn’t it, sister?’

‘Who with?’ Gil said patiently. ‘Did she go alone?’

‘Oh, I never saw. We were no here, were we, Kate?’

‘We were out at the market,’ amplified Kate. ‘After Prime.’

‘We came back, and she was gone, and the bairn’s gear with her. Tail-clouts, horn spoon, coral — ‘

‘And her plaid.’

‘Has she left no word?’ asked Gil. The two women turned kerchiefed heads to one another, then to him, wearing identical expressions of surprise.

‘Why would she do that?’

‘She’s likely at her married sister’s. Isa has a bairn ages with your wee one.’

‘And where does her sister live?’ Gil persisted.

‘On the High Street. Isn’t it no, sister?’

‘In Watson’s Pend,’ agreed the other one. ‘Second stair. You’ll not miss it.’

Ealasaidh turned on her heel and hurried down the stairs, her deerskin shoes making little sound on the stone. Gil, with a hasty word of thanks, followed her. In the yard she hesitated, glancing up at her own windows.

‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I must know the bairn is safe. But to leave him yet again — ‘

‘I will go,’ Gil offered, ‘and send you word when I have found the bairn.’

She looked from his face to the windows and back. ‘What word? I cannot read Scots.’

‘I will send that I have found the harpstring,’ he said quietly.

Her face lit up in that savage smile. ‘Mac Iain and I will wait your messenger,’ she said, and strode into the mouth of her own stair.

The market was past its climax when Gil reached the corner of the Fishergait. Many stallholders were beginning to pack up by now, and the wives and maidservants of the burgh were beginning to turn for home with their purchases, but the bustle, the hopeful whine of the beggars, the cries of fishwives and pedlars, still spread out from the Mercat Cross.

Gil made his way through the noisy scene with difficulty. Here and there a little group of giggling girls whispered and huddled. Beyond the Tolbooth he saw, quite clearly, both the gallowglass brothers, in deep and separate conversation with more young women. A little further on, James Campbell of Glenstriven, in a green velvet hat of identical cut to John Sempill’s cherry one, was laughing with another girl. Gil hurried on, avoiding all these as well as raucous attempts to sell him eggs, cheeses, ham, a clutch of goose eggs warranted to hatch, and a toebone of the infant St Catherine.

‘The infant St Catherine?’ he repeated, pausing despite himself. ‘What did she walk on when she was grown?’

‘Ah, your worship,’ said the pedlar, leering at him. ‘Who am I to say what the holy woman walked on? Sure, and if her feet touched the earth at all it was only to bless it.’

‘I should report you,’ said Gil. ‘Put that one away and find something more probable to cry, before the Consistory finds you.’

‘Yes, your honour,’ said the pedlar hastily. ‘Forgive me, father, I didn’t see you was a priest, father..

Gil moved on, his jaw tightening. Not yet, he thought, not yet.

‘Why, Maister Cunningham!’ said a voice at his elbow. He turned in sudden hope, and found himself looking into the sparkling, elfin countenance of Euphemia Campbell. ‘Good day to you, sir.’

‘Good day, madam,’ he returned, bowing. She curtsied in reply, her cramoisie velvet pooling on the damp flagstones. It was already marked at the hem. Her neck bent elegantly under the mass of folded linen, and a heavy waft of perfume reached him. ‘Exploring the market?’

This close, he could see that she was older than one thought at first. The fine skin round her eyes was beginning to sag, and there were lines coming between the insignificant nose and the mouth which was now pouting prettily.

‘There’s not much to explore, is there? The apothecary can’t supply enough ambergris for my perfume — I have my own receipt, you know — so I came to look at the rest of the town. Where do Glasgow wives go for linen and velvets?’

‘I have no idea,’ he admitted.

‘Perhaps Antonio knows. Tonino?’ She smiled along her shoulder at the small dark man who stood watchfully at her side, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and spoke briefly in Italian. He shook his head, and she laughed. ‘No? Men never know. Mally can find out for me. Are you for the Upper Town, Maister Cunningham? Can you convoy me?’

‘As far as Greyfriars, gladly,’ he said perforce, offering his arm. Lady Euphemia laid her hand on it, the elegantly embroidered glove in contrast with the dusty black of his sleeve, and turned with him, the small man always at her other elbow.