Pat McIntosh - The Nicholas Feast

Father Bernard’s deep-set eyes turned towards him, glittering in the light.

‘That’s what I want to know too,’ said Montgomery. ‘Why, Bernard? Did you not ken he was Isobel’s boy?’

‘Oh, I recognized his parentage,’ said Father Bernard. ‘You had only to look at him. But I repeat, I did not kill William.’

‘Then where were you before the two o’clock lecture? Why did you cancel it? Why did you search William’s chamber?’

‘I admit nothing!’

There was a movement beyond the door, a footstep and another and a rustle of taffeta.

‘Perhaps I can shed some light,’ said a voice.

Everyone turned to stare at the door, frozen in mid-argument. They could have posed, Gil thought irrelevantly, for a tableau on a cart in one of the big festival processions, though what the subject could be was past speculating. Some obscure martyrdom, perhaps.

‘Forgive this intrusion, Principal, Dean, learned maisters,’ said Egidia, Lady Cunningham. She made a general, formal curtsy and moved into the room, assuming the position which nobody had realized was waiting for her. ‘We would have waited till you were finished, but that might be too late.’

Robert, kicked on the ankle by his uncle, dragged a stool forward and seated her. Straight-backed, her crimson taffeta skirts crackling round her, her head dressed in a complex arrangement of cap, coronet and jewelled caul, she folded her hands in her lap and smiled round the company. Gil recognized the last of her court clothes, and suddenly also recalled the gold-painted headdress on the lady on his father’s tomb. Alys had entered behind his mother and was now standing at her shoulder, elegant in the gown of black Lyons silk brocade which he had seen once before, her hair hidden under the fashionable French hood. She had cast one quick, glinting look at him and another at her astonished father, and was now preoccupied with the twist of black gauze which reached to the nape of Lady Cunningham’s neck. Behind them both, Catherine scowled disapprovingly at all present.

‘Gelis,’ stated the Dean. ‘This isn’t — ’

‘I have been listening, Patrick,’ she said. ‘I am here, with my daughter-in-law and her governess — ’

What? thought Gil.

‘- because I feel this is the moment to point out that although Bernard was deeply attached to Isobel Montgomery — ’

‘I knew that,’ said Lord Montgomery, glaring sideways at the chaplain. ‘Like the rest of us.’

‘There was,’ she continued, ‘someone he was even more attached to.’

‘Oh, aye. You knew his mother,’ said Montgomery in an odd voice.

‘Is this relevant?’ asked Maister Crawford.

‘I knew Bernard’s mother,’ agreed Lady Cunningham. ‘She married into the family, so she was hardly impartial, but she told me often, to the point of boredom, that Bernard would do anything in the world for one person.’

‘Not quite,’ said Gil. ‘Not quite anything.’

‘He wouldny conduct Alexander’s marriage to Maidie Stewart,’ said Montgomery with harsh contempt. ‘Gave me some nonsense about his conscience, didn’t you no, Bernard? I saw what was behind it, and I got him moved before he could contaminate Isobel — ’

‘No!’ said Father Bernard, almost howling. ‘I knew what you thought, my lord, and I never, ever — it was the fondness of a teacher for his pupil. You know, don’t you?’ he appealed to his colleagues. ‘How one pupil, and not necessarily the most brilliant — one particular pupil can make a life’s teaching worthwhile.’

‘Aye, very possibly,’ grunted Montgomery, ‘but what’s that to stop you conducting his marriage?’

Father Bernard bent his head, and gave no answer. Gil cast a quick look round the room. Maister Forsyth, his round face very serious, his lower lip stuck out as he considered this new development. The Dean distasteful, Maister Doby perplexed and disbelieving. Maister Crawford frowning intently, David Gray blankly puzzled, Maister Kennedy critical. Patrick Coventry might have reached the answer already: he had shut his eyes and seemed to be praying. The three women were staring solemnly at the chaplain, though Alys threw him a quick glance and her smile flickered. Montgomery still waited, and behind him his nephew was leaning against the wall, pale and sweating.

Gil looked at Maistre Pierre’s worried frown and reached into his purse.

‘He had already conducted a marriage for Alexander Montgomery,’ he said. ‘This is what was in the package I handed to William on Sunday morning.’

‘What?’

Montgomery took two strides forward, but Gil turned and handed the ragged document to the Dean.

‘Read it out, would you, Dean?’ he requested.

Father Bernard had closed his eyes. Against the wall, Robert covered his face with one hand.

‘It is the document of a marriage,’ pronounced the Dean. ‘It is dated — third of November, 14 … yes, 1475.’ Gil, recalling Alys’s fluent deciphering of the Roman numerals, smiled to himself. ‘It records the marriage of Isobel Montgomery to some man whose name is now missing, and I regret to say the writing appears to be our chaplain’s.’

‘Missing? I thought you said — ’ Montgomery turned savagely on Gil.

Maistre Pierre moved forward watchfully, but Gil retreated a step and said, ‘The name can be made out. Not the surname, I grant you, but we can guess that. William’s draft will was made out in the name of William Montgomery, sometime called William Irvine, so we can assume he had just learned his father, as well as his mother, was a Montgomery. As to the given name — would you look closely at the torn portion, Dean?’

‘It begins with A,’ said the Dean after a moment. ‘Then there is an L. There is a portion missing, but here is N-D.’

‘Where was this?’ asked Montgomery, facing Gil with that soft dangerous manner. ‘Where had ye hidden it, Cunningham law man? Where has it been?’

‘You knew of it, my lord?’

‘I did not.’

‘Tell us where you found it, Gilbert,’ urged Maister Forsyth.

‘It was in a pocket inside the dog’s collar,’ said Gil. ‘William must have hidden it there on Sunday morning after he showed it to Father Bernard.’

Montgomery looked over his shoulder at the chaplain, then suddenly pounced on him, hauling him bodily to his feet.

‘I’ve a good mind to slit your throat now,’ he said. ‘Was that it? Third of November. Not eight weeks before he wed your kinsman’s daughter. Was that why you wouldny conduct his marriage? Was that why Isobel grat that entire winter?’

‘My lord,’ said Father Bernard, stammering slightly but with a dignity and a courage Gil would not have credited to him, ‘as well slit your own throat. They were feart to tell you she went with child by him, and whose doing was that?’

They stared at one another for a long moment, until Montgomery snarled something and thrust the Dominican away from him. Father Bernard went sprawling backwards over the stool, and landed at the painted feet of Socrates and his companion Philosophia. Maister Kennedy came to help him up.

‘This does not,’ said Maister Crawford, valiantly harrying the pursuit, ‘prove that our chaplain is guilty of the crime imputed to him by my colleague. It is all supposition and circumstance, not fit to hang a flea.’

‘But why kill the boy?’ asked Montgomery, his back to the chaplain. ‘Why kill him, Bernard?’

‘I did not kill William,’ repeated Father Bernard steadfastly. Lady Cunningham looked up at Hugh Montgomery with an expression of some sympathy.

‘Then who did?’ demanded Montgomery. ‘This Cunningham’s just spent most of the day proving you did. If it wasny you, who was it, Bernard? Who are you hiding?’