Pat McIntosh - The Nicholas Feast

‘What did you say to him?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

She glanced shyly at Gil. ‘I was annoyed by the way he spoke. And his expression was — anyway, I said, A Cunningham never gives up, and shut the door on him. I hope that was the right thing to say.’

‘You couldn’t have bettered it,’ said Gil, looking at her in amazement. ‘Alys, you are a wonderful woman. How soon can we be married?’

‘You must be handfasted first,’ said Maistre Pierre.

‘What puzzles me,’ she persisted, ‘is how Lord Montgomery should know you were here, and why he should think you would give up now.’

‘That’s true, you know,’ said her father. ‘How would he know you were here?’

‘Could he have seen you carrying me home?’ Gil asked. ‘How dark was it by then?’

‘Plenty of light.’ The mason scratched his jaw, his thumb rasping in his neat black beard. ‘I suppose he could, although we were close under the wall when we passed his yett.’

‘But father,’ objected Alys, ‘I was carrying the hat and cloak, and you had Gil head down over your shoulders. Even his mother would not have known him if she had looked out and caught sight of us.’

‘Unless,’ said Gil, ‘Montgomery knew already that I was injured. What was the messenger like, Alys? Had you seen him before? Would you know him again?’

‘He had the Montgomery badge on his shoulder,’ Alys said. ‘Otherwise he was quite ordinary, like anybody’s groom. Middling height, brownish hair, not past forty. Oh, and a limp.’

The mason looked at Gil.

‘As if he had been kicked recently?’ he suggested. Alys burst out laughing.

‘Yes, of course! If I’d realized I’d have offered him a poultice!’ She saw Gil’s expression, and sobered, adding, ‘I’m sure he could have applied it himself.’

‘And he could have tucked these papers under the marigolds as he came into the yard,’ said the mason.

It was, Gil reminded himself, the effect of running a large household; but he knew he had shown yet again how startled he was by Alys’s particular combination of genuine maidenly modesty and breadth of worldly knowledge.

‘What do we know from this?’ he asked rhetorically, recovering his countenance. ‘We know the papers were taken from me by violence last night and returned by stealth this morning.’

‘They were taken by someone looking for something in writing,’ said Alys.

‘But not this writing,’ agreed Gil.

‘And it could have been Montgomery who took them, who returned them, who is searching,’ contributed the mason.

‘And has still not found what he seeks,’ said Alys.

‘And it is likely that the same person — ’

‘Or persons,’ put in Alys.

‘Or persons,’ Gil agreed, ‘searched Maister Kennedy’s chamber and carried off at least one sheet of his writing. But most likely it was someone else who searched William’s chamber.’

‘But what are they all looking for? Not the young man’s red book, I take it, since they snatched a heap of loose papers.’ Maistre Pierre gestured at the list of names. ‘Gil, there is the ciphered writing we found in the purse. Remember?’

‘I remember.’ Gil looked at Alys. ‘It could be important. Have you had time to look at it?’

‘I have not,’ she said firmly, sounding very like her father. ‘What with nursing the sick and injured, the grieving and the fasting, and keeping my hand on this household, my time has been full. I hope to sit down with it this morning,’ she added. ‘Then we may know if it’s important enough to be a prime mover in the matter.’

‘And I must get up the hill to St Mungo’s,’ said her father, ‘to make sure Wattie has not decided to put in a chimney where I have marked a window.’

‘What, for when they elect the next Archbishop?’ said Gil. The mason grinned, then looked beyond Gil into the courtyard. The grin faded.

‘Who is it now?’ he said resignedly. ‘One of the friars, and a student. Who can it be?’

‘It’s Father Bernard from the college,’ said Gil, twisting to look. ‘The chaplain.’

Sighing, Maistre Pierre rose and went away down the stairs. Alys knelt to whisk the scattered earth on the floor into her apron, lifted the tray with the little wineglasses and followed him, eluding Gil’s attempt to make her sit down beside him.

Below, in the hall, the mason could be heard clearly, greeting his guests. The chaplain answered him with the friars’ customary Latin blessing, spoken in his deep musical voice. At Gil’s feet the wolfhound stirred, and raised its head.

‘But certainly,’ said Maister Mason. ‘He is above stairs. Come up, come up. Some refreshment, surely? My daughter will — ’

‘Not for me, I thank you.’ Father Bernard’s Scots was accented like the mason’s. ‘But I’m sure Michael here would be glad of something.’

Michael’s voice, muffled, assented to this. The wolfhound rose slowly to its feet. Gil stroked it and was startled to find its rangy frame rigid and trembling, with the coarse grey fur standing erect. Feet sounded on the stair, and a faint growl began deep in the dog’s throat, becoming gradually louder as the feet approached.

‘Quiet,’ said Gil firmly. The animal’s tail swung against his knees, but the growl continued. Gil grasped the long muzzle, then flung his injured arm round the dog’s chest just in time, as Maistre Pierre led Father Bernard into the room, the friar paused in the doorway to pronounce his blessing and the wolfhound, with a scrabble of claws on the floorboards, tried to launch itself snarling at the intruder.

‘What ails the beast?’ asked the mason, startled into French.

‘I don’t know. Quiet!’ said Gil again. ‘Down! I’m sorry about this.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ said Father Bernard, eyeing the pup’s display of white teeth warily. ‘Dogs often dislike me. Possibly they find the robes alarming.’

‘Shall I remove him?’ offered the mason.

‘He won’t go with you in this state,’ Gil pointed out, hanging on to the sturdy collar. ‘Down! Oh, Alys! Will he go with you?’

‘Whatever is the matter?’ Alys, grasping the collar in both hands, dragged the snarling animal across the floor. ‘What has angered him?’

‘Take care,’ said Father Bernard anxiously. ‘He may bite you.’

‘I’ll feed him,’ said Alys. ‘Come, dog! Come with me! Gil, you must name him. How can we give him orders if he has no name?’ She hauled the dog bodily out on to the stairs, and the mason shut the door quickly behind her.

‘No name? Is it not your animal, then?’ asked Father Bernard.

‘It seems to have belonged to William Irvine,’ said Gil precisely. ‘Good morning to you, sir.’

‘Oh, that dog! Aye, good morning, Maister Cunningham,’ said Father Bernard in his melodious voice. He sat down on one of the tapestry backstools indicated by the mason, and put back the hood of his habit. The dark hair round his tonsure was cut short, and curled crisply; the sunken eyes in the cadaverous face regarded Gil intently. ‘I bring you greetings from Dean Elphinstone and the Principal,’ he continued. ‘Your man brought word that you were attacked in the open street. What a dreadful thing to happen in this peaceful place. But I find you on your feet and clothed. Did you take any scathe?’

‘Very little, thanks to Maister Mason.’ Gil eased his position on the window-seat. He was finding other aches and pains, and his head was throbbing.

‘God in his mercy be praised,’ said the friar, and raised his hand to make the cross.

‘Amen to that. This is very kind of you, father, to visit like this.’

‘The college was most distressed to hear of your misadventure,’ said Father Bernard largely. ‘And was it robbery? Did they make off with anything valuable?’