Pat McIntosh - The Nicholas Feast

‘Was everyone at Vespers?’ Gil asked, standing aside to let the men start work.

‘Nearly everyone,’ admitted the Steward. ‘The kitchen would be busy. With Vespers being early, the scholars’ supper was put back to after it. But they’d all be under Agnes Dickson’s eye.’

‘This cape’s all ower ink,’ said Andro, lifting it cautiously. ‘And the hood an all.’

‘Maister Kennedy will be vexed,’ said the Steward.

‘It isn’t Maister Kennedy’s,’ said Gil in dismay. ‘It’s mine. So’s the gown.’

‘So was the gown,’ corrected Maister Coventry, holding it up. The heavy woollen stuff was slashed and ripped, the lining hanging out here and there. ‘I think this is past repair.’

Nick, when he learned of the damage, was more than vexed.

‘I wouldny have had that happen for all sorts, Gil,’ he exclaimed on a blast of the college aqua-vita. ‘Oh, will you look at the cape!’ He produced a slightly tipsy chuckle. ‘If it was only splashed here and there you could have said it was ermine, but that’s past praying for.’

‘I’ll say one of the skins is in mourning,’ said Gil. ‘John Shaw has all in hand, says your chamber will be habitable by the morn, and I must be away up the town. What happened to that list you and Maister Coventry made for me?’

‘Patey’s got it.’ Nick looked into his glass, but it remained empty. ‘We made the fair copy up in his chamber in the Arthurlie close. I think I left my cope there and all. Fortunately. Likely it’d be covered in ink like your fur if it’d been over this side. God, I loathe Peter of Spain. Three years’ work, and all to do again.’

‘I think when you have put the pages in order you will find there is less damage than appeared at first,’ said Maister Coventry in his graceful Latin. He drew a bundle of papers from the breast of his gown. Something stirred in Gil’s memory, but the Second Regent went on, ‘Here’s your list, Maister Cunningham. I hope you may be able to read it. We wrote down who was present, where they were after the play, and who was with them. Nobody seems to have been alone, so it may not be of much assistance.’

‘If I can eliminate names from the hunt,’ Gil said, ‘it will be of great assistance. And I have another task for you, Maister Coventry, if you are willing.’

The Second Regent’s eyebrows went up.

‘It seems Nick Gray heard the three senior bachelors talking, after they had put William into the limehouse. He told the kitchen, but I’d like to know who else knew of it.’

Patrick Coventry opened his mouth to reply, closed it again, and gazed thoughtfully at Gil with his good eye.

‘Not easy,’ he said at length.

‘No,’ agreed Gil, ‘but better done by an insider.’ He held up the sheaf of papers. ‘I thank you both for this piece of work. And now I must be off. If any of the students comes complaining of another chamber being searched, keep him for me till the morning.’

‘Patey can see to that too,’ said Nick. ‘I’m for my bed. Maister Doby’s put me in a corner here, for which I’ll say a Mass in his name the morn, I swear it. Come and find me in the morning, Gil. If I haveny dee’d of an apoplexy from all the excitement,’ he added sourly. ‘Tell your minnie I was asking for her.’

Gil bade goodnight to Maister Doby, who had taken refuge in a soothing volume of St Jerome, bundled his damaged finery over his arm, and made his way out of the Principal’s lodging. In the evening light a few students were still standing about in the courtyard, but although some nodded or said good evening none accosted him. At the yett he stopped and glanced into Jaikie’s fetid den. The man was sprawled in his chair, with the bottle of usquebae in his grasp. He looked up, but did not speak.

‘Who was past the yett while they were all at Vespers?’ Gil asked.

‘I never saw a thing,’ pronounced Jaikie with slow emphasis. ‘No a feckin thing.’

‘If you think of any more badges,’ Gil said, ‘send and let me know.’

Jaikie leered at him.

‘Maybe I will,’ he agreed indistinctly, ‘and maybe I’ll no. Secrets, secrets,’ he said again, and held up the bottle. ‘The secrets I’ve learned from you, my wee friend.’ He waved the bottle at Gil. ‘Pull the yett ahint ye, maister. I’ll bar it later.’

There seemed to be no point in continuing the conversation. Gil unbarred the yett and stepped out into the quiet street, realizing as he did so that he was still holding the folded list of names in his free hand. He tucked it into his doublet and strode on up the High Street.

It all happened with great suddenness. It was the rush of feet behind him which alerted him. He sprang sideways and whirled, weight on one foot, and as the three men reached him placed a kick with the other where it would do most damage. Its recipient went down in the muddy street, crowing and retching. Gil leapt backwards, groping for his whinger, and realized belatedly that he was not wearing it. His remaining attackers, circling warily now they had lost the advantage of surprise, recognized this in the same moment and moved in. One had a short sword, the other a cudgel. Gil drew his dagger right-handed and raised the other arm, embroiled in heavy folds of fabric, in time to balk the sword.

His opponents were hooded and cloaked in black, the free weapon arms black-garbed. He could see no faces, but a glitter of eyes betrayed another sudden movement, and he was barely in time to duck the cudgel. He whirled, lunging with the dagger, but the man twisted like a salmon and the weapon slashed harmlessly through cloth. The sword whirred, and he jerked his left arm up to parry again, meeting the hilt of the weapon with the bundle of heavy cloth. His other hand came round with the dagger, and he felt the blade connect and heard the grunt of pain.

As he tugged the knife free, the cudgel made vicious contact with his forearm, and the dagger dropped from suddenly useless fingers. He danced sideways to deliver another kick, bringing his protected left arm round as a shield, and his boot made contact with the swordsman’s arm. The sword fell to join his dagger, but as he stepped back there was a stunning blow to his head. The gasping fight, the peaceful street, spun away from him.

Just before they vanished he thought he heard shouting. It sounded like the mason. It can’t be, he thought. He’s at Compline. Then darkness took him.

‘Did you know them?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘They made off when I shouted, and I was more concerned to see to you than to pursue them. If Alys had not insisted that we left Compline early …’

‘I never got a sight of their faces.’ Gil leaned back against the lavender-scented pillow-beres of the mason’s best bed, and eased his feet out from under the wolfhound, which had been fed already and had returned to its self-appointed guard duty. It appeared to have grown overnight. ‘I am very grateful that you came by. This is damnably inconvenient, but it could be a lot worse.’

‘It isn’t broken, Brother Andrew said.’ Alys set down the tray with the porridge-bowl to reach across and test the temperature of the compress on Gil’s wrist, but would not meet his eye. ‘And nor is your head. I think a night’s sleep has made a lot of difference.’

‘If I’d been wearing my other hat it might be a different story.’ Gil pushed his hair cautiously out of his eyes. Beware of what you wish for, he thought. You might get it. ‘I wish I knew what they wanted, that they attacked me in the High Street in broad day.’

‘It wasn’t your purse,’ said Alys, lifting the tray again. ‘That was untouched. I thought one of them snatched something from your doublet before he ran.’