Pat McIntosh - The Nicholas Feast

‘That was a very impressive discourse just now,’ the old man had said, in the same tone in which he had commended Gil’s last disputation outside the crumbling chapel of St Thomas. ‘You made all clear to us, grounded it in the truth and showed us the inevitable conclusions without fear of an armed adversary. The outcome is grievous for all of us,’ he admitted, ‘but Justice is a harsh mistress, and you have served her well.’ He smiled at Gil’s stammering response. ‘It’s a great pleasure to a teacher, Gilbert, when a student continues so far beyond what one has taught him. And that is your bride,’ he continued, without waiting for a reply.

Gil nodded, bracing himself for a gentler response to the old man’s adverse comments than the remote politeness he had used on Sunday against the Dean.

‘A very good choice,’ said Maister Forsyth, nodding. ‘Clever, discreet and modest. A very good choice for you, Gilbert, and I wish you happy with her.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Gil had said ineptly, and bowed. His former teacher had acknowledged the bow and moved off, leaving Gil staring after him.

The clever, discreet and modest girl in his arms, her thoughts clearly mirroring his, turned to look up at him, putting up one hand to cup his jaw, brown eyes glowing in the last of the sunlight, and said, ‘You know, Gil, that was quite magnificent. In the Principal’s lodging, I mean,’ she expanded. ‘All those learned old men, and you telling them what happened and making all clear to them. And Lord Montgomery was so threatening, and you never flinched from him. I’m glad I was present.’

He turned his head to kiss her palm.

‘I’m glad you were present too,’ he admitted, ‘for I’d never have got so far without you. You deserved to be there.’

‘We make a good team, I think,’ she said diffidently.

‘None better.’ He kissed her palm again, then ran one finger lightly round the scooped neckline of her gown, over the fine linen of her shift, and she shivered. At their feet, the wolfhound turned his head to look at them, then ostentatiously rose and lay down again with his back to them, sighed, and laid his nose on his paws. In a small corner of his mind Gil was aware of his dog’s actions, commended the animal’s patience and admired his discretion.

‘Sweet St Giles, Alys, I must be the luckiest man in Scotland.’ She made a small enquiring noise. ‘ An hendy hap ich hab yhent ,’ he quoted, as he had done to his mother, and continued the verse, ‘ From alle wommen my love is lent, And light on Alisoun .’

‘And mine on you,’ she said. He drew her closer, very conscious of the warmth of her flesh and the movement of her ribcage under the blue gown, and bent his head to kiss her. She put her arms round him, a little shyly, reaching under his jerkin, and leaned into his embrace.

On the ridge tiles the blackbird sang on, the golden notes dropping through the still air as the shadows lengthened in the garden and the first lights pricked in the houses round them.

Socrates sighed again, rolled on to his side and shut his eyes.