Pat McIntosh - The Nicholas Feast

The last of the sentences wound to a close, and Father Bernard lifted up his powerful, musical voice in the opening words of the funeral Mass. Gil, half attending, surveyed the congregation and turned over in his mind what he must say to the Faculty afterwards.

As Maistre Pierre suggested, a number of those present were probably moved by curiosity. A burial following a murder that touched the college and also the landed class would be a great draw. But the Provost’s steward was here as a courtesy to the college, and there was also a scattering of journeymen from within the burgh. Gil recognized James Sproat’s junior man, come straight from the cordiner’s shop with his leather apron bundled under his arm. William must have been a good customer, he reflected.

The Dean was speaking. The Latin phrases flowed elegantly over the heads of most of his hearers, who took the opportunity to continue their various conversations. Two men near Gil appeared to be compounding some transaction concerning their masters’ goods, to be ratified by their principals later in the week. Behind the Dean the scholars stood in obedient silence with the younger regents watching them. Gil saw Maister Kennedy glare at Walter. At the other end of the same row Ralph Gibson was weeping openly, and Patrick Coventry put his arm about the boy’s shoulders.

In the middle of the ranks of bachelors, both junior and senior, Robert Montgomery stood, head tipped back, glaring down his nose at the Dean’s back. Gil glanced at the other side of the church, and found Hugh, Lord Montgomery, in identical pose, glaring at the Dean’s face.

‘They breed true, these Montgomery men,’ said the mason, who had evidently seen where he was looking.

‘They do,’ said Gil, adding absently, ‘ Lyk as a strand of water of a spring Haldis the sapour of the fontell well .’

He was very close to the solution, he was certain. He could feel the shape of the argument. But there was still something missing, something which did not quite support his proof.

The Dean’s address wore on, but from the back of the church, what with the surrounding noise, Gil could hear only the occasional word. Those phrases he did catch seemed to convey the wish, rather than the hope, that William’s time in Purgatory would be shortened by his academic achievements and the respect he had borne his teachers. Maister Kennedy’s face as he heard this was studiously blank, and Gil recalled that his friend had seen the Dean’s notes.

The Dean reached a benediction, and seated himself. One of the Theology students leaned forward and gave out a note, marking the beat with his hand raised above his head, and the scholars launched into another funerary setting.

‘I must go outside,’ Gil said to Maistre Pierre, and got a nod in reply. He slipped out of the open west door into the yard, and stood for a moment in the brighter light, looking about him. To his right, at the corner of the church, was the bell-tower whose base served as mortuary chapel. It seemed likely that Jaikie was still laid out there. To his left the cloister wall extended south of the church, with the small guarded gate by which guests entered or the friars went out into the burgh to preach. In front of him, stretching to the back walls of the small properties on the High Street, the lumpy grass of the public graveyard was broken by a few bushes and the occasional marker of wood or stone. A mound of fresh earth near the bell-tower indicated William’s immediate destination. Trying not to think about that, or about the clump of bigger bushes in the far corner where a girl had been stabbed ten days since, Gil wandered along the cloister wall. One of Montgomery’s men emerged from the church and strode to the gate, where he leaned against the pillar watching Gil and stropping his dagger on his leather sleeve.

There was an elder-tree by the gatehouse, covered in creamy platters of blossom. Gil stopped beside it, breathing the mixture of the rank odour of the leaves and the sweet, heavy scent of the flowers, and the porter put his head out of his lodge, hand raised to deliver the customary blessing.

‘The funeral’s in the kirk, my son,’ he said. ‘Oh, it’s yourself, Maister Cunningham. Not seeking any more bodies in the kirkyard, are you? We’ve enough for the moment.’

‘I think Dean Elphinstone feels the same way,’ Gil said. ‘No, I was admiring the bour-tree.’

‘We’ll have a good crop of berries off that in the autumn,’ said the wiry Dominican. ‘The cellarer makes a good wine with them.’ He smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘Good for coughs and colds, that is.’

‘Better a linctus with cherries,’ said a familiar voice behind Gil. He turned, to see both the harper and his sister approaching. The watcher at the gate glowered after them.

‘And upon you, brother,’ said McIan in reply to the porter’s blessing. ‘Good day, Maister Cunningham. We came for the burial, but I think we are late.’

‘The boy’s no yirdit yet,’ said the porter. ‘They’ll come out in procession shortly. Wait up yonder by the college wall if you want to be nearer.’ He surveyed them with a bright eye, assessing the need for his professional services. ‘It gars any man look over his shoulder for his own fate, to see so young a laddie put in the ground.’

‘I have much to be thankful for,’ said McIan, and his sister nodded. ‘With God’s help, my own son is brought back from the brink of death. I came to offer prayers for the kin of this boy, since they have lost what I have regained.’

‘We were by the house the now,’ said Ealasaidh to Gil. Her severe expression cracked into a fond smile. ‘It seems the bairn will feed himself, so Nancy says, and shouts with wrath because his sops go everywhere but into his mouth.’

‘I mind that stage,’ said Brother Porter unexpectedly. ‘My sister’s eldest ate porridge with his fingers till he was two. Mind you, he canny count beyond ten with his boots on,’ he added. ‘How old is your boy?’

‘Not eight months,’ said Ealasaidh proudly. Brother Porter looked properly impressed. Behind them the west door of the church was opened wide, and the processional cross was borne out, followed by the singers. Gil ignored them. He found himself thinking of his nephew, who as an infant had borne a strong resemblance to Maister Forsyth. But then, he reflected, most babies looked like Maister Forsyth.

The last fragment of the picture fell into place.

The scholars, filing past, each stooped to lift a handful of earth from the mound and throw it into William’s grave. As the clayey lumps thudded on to the elm coffin-lid, Gil found Maister Kennedy at his elbow.

‘They’re comporting themselves well, Nick, but is this wise?’ he commented. ‘It sounds like the drums for the Dance of Death. You’ll have nightmares again tonight, surely.’

‘A touch of the Ut sum, cras tibi ? No, I think it means they can be the more certain William’s dead,’ said his friend, and then with more formality, ‘Maister Gilbert, the Dean commands me to say that he and the Faculty will hear your findings on this matter in the Principal’s chamber after this. Lord Montgomery will also be present.’

‘I am ready to make a report,’ replied Gil with equal state. He looked across the scene of the burial, and encountered three stares: the Dean’s blue and acute, Maister Doby’s anxious, and off to one side Hugh Montgomery’s hotly alert. He raised his hat and flourished it in a general bow, and the two academics nodded and turned away to take their places in the procession as it formed.

‘I’ll see you there,’ said Maister Kennedy, and slipped away to round up the last few scholars before Gil could comment.