Pat McIntosh - The Nicholas Feast

‘What one was that? Where was it?’

‘Aye, ye’d like to know, wouldn’t ye no? I’ll tell ye what it was, though.’ Jaikie took another mouthful of spirits, and belched resoundingly. ‘The fish-tailed cross, it was.’

‘What, the cross of St John?’ said Gil, startled. ‘Who was carrying that?’

‘Secrets, secrets,’ said Jaikie, leering at him. ‘No Christian soul, I’ll tell ye.’

Feet sounded in the tunnel, and someone knocked on the twisted planks of the door. Gil drew it open and Jaikie said aggressively, ‘And what are you after, Robert Montgomery?’

‘Maister Kennedy wants his friend sent for,’ said Robert, looking down his nose in a manner very like his dead kinsman’s.

‘What friend? Is it this one here?’

Robert transferred his gaze to Gil, now looking at him round the door, bent the knee briefly and said with more civility, ‘Maister Cunningham, aye, it is. Maister Kennedy wants you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gil. ‘Is he in his own chamber?’

‘Aye,’ said Robert, ‘and he’s got his troubles the now.’

The truth of this became evident as they stepped into the courtyard. A number of students loitered about the door of Maister Kennedy’s stair, sniggering from time to time, and the well-loved teacher’s voice floated out, raised in what Gil at first took to be fervent prayer and then recognized for equally fervent cursing.

‘What in the world — ?’ he said.

‘Ye should go on up, maybe,’ said Robert. ‘Maister Kennedy’s a wee thing overset.’

‘I can hear that.’ Gil picked his way through the group and into the stair tower. The words became clearer as he ascended, a startling mixture of several languages, presumably gleaned from colleagues who had studied abroad. He reached the chamber door as its occupant paused for breath.

‘What ails you, Nick?’ he began, and stopped, open-mouthed on the threshold as the question answered itself.

The room was wrecked. Like most scholars, Maister Kennedy had few enough possessions, other than his books, but what he possessed was strewn across the floor and trampled. A shoe with the sole ripped off lay on an ink-dabbled shirt, more ink daubed the fur of a shoulder-cape on the bench, paper in single sheets was everywhere, and the straw mattress had been slashed open and emptied. The bookshelf gaped unoccupied.

‘Christ and his saints preserve us,’ said Gil. Maister Kennedy turned to look at him.

‘Come in, Gil,’ he said savagely. ‘Come and see the reward for three years’ work. I think they got everything.’

‘When did this happen?’ Gil asked.

‘While we were at Vespers. The Dean did William proud — Christ aid, you’d think he’d been the next Pope but two, the way he went on — must have been near an hour for that alone, let alone the singing. I got back here not long since and found this.’

‘Has anyone else been searched?’ Gil began lifting handfuls of straw and stuffing them back into the mattress.

‘How would I know? I’ve been here.’

‘Have you told the Principal? The Steward?’

‘I tell you I’ve been here. The students ken — maybe they’ve tellt someone.’ Maister Kennedy picked his way to the bench and sat down. ‘I canny think. Maybe I should tell the Principal.’

‘I’ll send someone.’ Gil left the mattress and went down to the courtyard. The group of students was beginning to disperse now that Maister Kennedy was no longer performing, but a few remained.

‘You two,’ he said to the nearest, ‘will you carry a word to Maister Doby for me?’ They nodded, looking apprehensive. ‘Say to him with my compliments that I’d be grateful to see him in Maister Kennedy’s chamber as soon as convenient. Can you mind that?’

One of them repeated the message accurately enough, and they hurried off. Gil looked at the remaining boys.

‘And you can find out for me, if you will, whether anyone else found anything wrong when they came back from Vespers, and if so, send them to me here.’

‘Aye, maister,’ said one of them. ‘How bad is it, maister? It looked a fair old fankle.’

‘Well, I hope nobody intended a joke,’ said Gil, ‘for it’s far beyond that.’

He went back up to the fair old fankle. His friend was now lifting odd sheets of paper and throwing them down again, staring round helplessly.

‘I canny see what’s missing,’ he confessed. ‘St Nicholas’ balls, Gil, they’ve wrecked my only shoes, I’ll ha to wear these boots till I get them seen to.’

‘Who was it?’ Gil wondered. ‘And what were they after?’

‘None of the college. We were all at Vespers.’

‘All?’

‘I think so. We can find out. Besides, who in the college — ?’ Nick looked round. ‘Maybe someone hates me.’

Slow footsteps on the stair proclaimed the arrival of Maister Doby He halted in the doorway as Gil had done, staring, until Patrick Coventry appeared at his back and eased him into the room.

‘My faith,’ said the Principal at length. ‘Who has done this?’ He groped his way to the other end of the bench and sat down. ‘What a day! What a day, with two such evil-doers in our midst. All your papers, Nicholas, and your ink-horns. And your books!’ he exclaimed in horror as Maister Coventry lifted an abused volume from under the bed-frame.

‘Principal, if I might make a suggestion,’ said Maister Coventry in the brisk tones of one actually giving an order, ‘I think our brother Nicholas would be better out of this. Might you take him back to your lodging the now? Then Maister Cunningham and I can sort matters here, till the Steward can spare a couple of servitors to redd up.’

Gil, admiring the way the Second Regent did not say that the servitors could not be trusted to deal with the books and papers, added, ‘Perhaps you would have a drop of aqua-vita or usquebae for him, maister? I think he could do with a restorative.’

‘Aqua-vita,’ said the Principal, brightening. ‘A good thought, Gilbert. Come, Nicholas. Come to my lodging and we will think about where you are to lie tonight. Certainly you canny sleep here.’

Nick, with the prospect of strong drink, was persuaded to accompany the Principal. As Maister Doby’s shocked exclamations dwindled down the stairs Maister Coventry said, ‘Is the Principal right? The same as searched William’s room, or not?’

‘What do you think?’ countered Gil, lifting the neighbour of the savaged shoe.

‘William’s property was not damaged. This is vicious.’

‘Or unlearned. An unlettered man or men, unused to handling an ink-horn, searching for something particular.’ Gil extracted a book from the fireplace and smoothed the pages. ‘Something small, flat, easily hidden. A bundle of paper, perhaps, of a different size or quality from this stuff Nick uses.’

‘William’s writing was very distinctive,’ observed Maister Coventry. ‘I have seen it often when he took notes. He wrote very small, with the hooks and tails cut off short. Nick’s writing is not the same at all. Even an unlettered man could tell the difference.’

‘True,’ agreed Gil, recalling the tiny script he had been studying earlier. ‘So, an unlearned man or men searching for paper with William’s writing on.’

‘Or a book?’ Maister Coventry lifted another ill-treated volume and shook straw from the leather binding. ‘Or both?’

They had lifted and stacked the pages of Maister Kennedy’s vigorous, looping fist which were flung around the room, and were restoring his six books to their place on the bookshelf when Maister Shaw appeared with two of the college servants, exclaiming in shock and annoyance at such a thing happening in the college.

‘And during the Office, too! What a day, what a day! Tammas, you lift that straw. Andro, see to the clothes. That sark’ll take a year’s bleaching.’