Pat McIntosh - The Nicholas Feast

‘Strange indeed,’ said Maister Coventry. ‘But he was in a strange mood that morning. I thought he seemed elated, out of himself in some way.’

‘I wonder what was in the package from his mother,’ said Gil. ‘And what he did with it.’

‘You think she sent word of who his father was?’ asked Maister Kennedy.

‘I think that might explain a great deal,’ said Gil.

‘Had he never known his father’s name?’ asked Maister Coventry curiously.

‘Montgomery claims that he himself never knew, but had his suspicions,’ said Gil. ‘Though of course there is no saying what the boy had been told.’

‘If anyone else knew it,’ said Nick Kennedy, reverting to realism, ‘William would pick it out of the air. So maybe she’d sent him some kind of proof, then?’

‘Was that why his chamber was searched?’ speculated Maister Coventry.

Gil shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? I feel we are close to a solution, to finding justice for the boy, but the last links in the chain elude us. So many strange things have happened — William’s chamber searched, yours searched, Nick, the pile of William’s papers burning in Jaikie’s brazier.’

‘I have another strange thing to recount,’ said Patrick Coventry. ‘This is why I sent word to you, Gilbert.’ He hesitated. ‘I still — I don’t know its significance.’

‘Spit it out, man,’ said Maister Kennedy bracingly, ‘and let Gil judge for himself.’

‘You know, I think, that I am studying for a bachelor’s in Sacred Theology,’ said the Second Regent, taking refuge in the Latin again. Gil nodded. ‘I should have been at the lecture our chaplain gave on Sunday at two o’clock, save that I was at the feast. So I asked one of my fellow Theology students in advance if I might copy his notes.’

‘We’ve all done it,’ said Maister Kennedy.

‘What with one thing and another,’ said Maister Coventry, ‘and the Montgomery boy having a nightmare, and the death of Jaikie our porter, it was not until yesterday before Vespers that I asked Alan Liddell for his notes in order that I might copy them. But he had no notes. I do not like the implication of what I am saying, but I must say it. Father Bernard did not teach at two o’clock on Sunday. There was no lecture.’

‘None?’ said Gil. ‘Did he cancel it, or not turn up to deliver it?’

‘He cancelled it,’ said Maister Coventry, nodding approval of the question. ‘Alan said he was present in the Theology Schule while they were gathering, and left the room less than a quarter-hour before he was due to start. He was gone for a little time, and returned just after the ringing of the two o’clock bell in order to dismiss the class, saying he was unwell and would give the lecture on another day.’

‘Class is ambitious,’ said Maister Kennedy. ‘There are five of you when you’re all there.’

‘Unwell in what way? Did he specify? Did he seem as normal?’

‘Alan did not tell me that, though he did say that Father Bernard seemed quite distressed, as if ill in truth. I think he said he was trembling. He said that two of the students offered to fetch help, or assist their teacher round to the House, but these offers were spurned.’

‘Well!’ said Gil. ‘Father Bernard went to some trouble to make me think he had taught as usual, although,’ he qualified, reviewing the conversation, ‘I don’t think he lied outright. What did his class do? Did he leave first, or did they?’

‘Alan did not say. It seems the class went up to the Laigh Hall, since it was raining, and held an informal disputation which lasted till the college dinner.’

‘So they would not have seen where their teacher went next.’

‘Probably not,’ agreed Maister Coventry.

‘So Bernard Stewart skipped a lecture,’ said Maister Kennedy. ‘So what? Is it important, Gil?’

‘It might be of great value,’ said Gil cautiously. ‘It confirms something I had suspected. I heard Wycliff mentioned in the Laigh Hall that afternoon. The ship of faith tempestuous wind and rain Drives in the sea of Lollardy that blaws. How close to the wind of reform does Father Bernard sail, Patrick? Is he at risk from a charge of heresy?’

‘Such a charge as William was hinting at on Sunday? It’s hard to teach theology without mentioning ideas which have been thought heretical at one time or another. Wycliff in particular appears from time to time.’ The Second Regent peered out at the much-trampled grass under his window. ‘I should have said Bernard was not at risk. As Dominicans go he is hardly a radical, so if any charge were to be laid his Order would support him without hesitation.’

‘Then William’s hints were an empty threat?’

‘Not completely,’ said Maister Kennedy unexpectedly. ‘There would be questions asked, his teaching suspended, delays to his students, confiscation of his books till somebody got here from Cologne to read them. Bloody inconvenient. And he’d lose the income from the chaplaincy.’

‘That goes to the Order,’ said the Second Regent.

‘Oh, aye, so it does,’ said Maister Kennedy without inflection.

‘It would be an extreme response nevertheless,’ said his colleague, ‘to kill in such a calculating way merely to avert a great inconvenience.’

‘We keep coming back to this,’ said Gil. ‘Those with a reason had no opportunity, those with opportunity had no reason that I can uncover. And yet the boy is dead.’

‘And his funeral is this morning,’ said Patrick Coventry.

‘Christ save us, it is,’ said Maister Kennedy. ‘I’d best be away. I’ve to rehearse the order of the procession with John Shaw. What a day, what a day,’ he mimicked.

‘And I have a lecture to deliver.’ Maister Coventry began searching his desk. ‘More Euclid for the bachelors, though I do not think they will listen. Perhaps Michael will have conned his answer by now.’ He lifted a sheaf of notes. ‘Gilbert, will you attend the funeral?’

‘After Sext, isn’t it? Yes, I’ll try to be there. And after it I have to present some kind of case concerning who killed the boy.’

‘The Dean will speak for most of the morning,’ Maister Kennedy warned him. ‘I’ve seen the notes.’

Gil left by the main door of the college, nodding to the Dominican lay-brother he found on duty there, and turned down the hill and in at the pend of the Masons’ house. Crossing the courtyard, he heard a succession of anguished barks from inside the main block. They continued until the door opened, and the wolfhound hurled itself out and down the steps, to rear up and paw at his jerkin, pushing urgently at his hand with its long muzzle.

‘I always thought wolfhounds were dignified creatures,’ said Alys in the doorway. She was wearing the blue linen gown again, its colour turning her honey-coloured hair to tawny and emphasizing the warm creamy tones of her skin. Impeded by the dog, he hurried up the steps to embrace her, and she returned his kiss, then held him off with a hand on his chest, looking up into his face. ‘What is it, Gil?’

He made a wry face.

‘I had matters out with my mother last night. She would not be persuaded, and in the end I told her I would be married in spite of her views.’

‘And what did she say to that?’ asked Alys, looking troubled.

‘Nothing, at first. Then she compared me to my grandfather Muirhead.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘It wasn’t a compliment, if that’s what you mean. I assured her that she could be certain of our loving duty, and that I spoke for you as well.’

‘But of course.’ She looked up at him, then hugged him tightly. He clasped her close, relishing the warm slender armful she made. The pup, seated at his feet, pawed at his hose again. He looked down at it, and Alys drew away a little as her father crossed the hall.