The King's Corrodian (34 page)

Father John bent his head and crossed himself, then turned helplessly to his Prior.

‘What can we do, Davie?’

David Boyd looked for the first time at his colleagues to right and left, and then at Gil, who shook his head slightly.

‘This is beyond our competence, I think,’ said the Prior. ‘Adam, you must be confined, for what you’ve done is no healing surgery but a great blow to the Order and a great wickedness. I’ll ha to write to the Provincial Prior in Edinburgh for advice, and to the Bishop. You may pass your time in reflection on the sin o pride, and in praying that you be not released to the secular arm, for they will certainly hang you for murder and arson.’

‘Take him within, lads,’ said Brother Dickon. Protesting wildly, shouting his innocence and good intentions to the world, Calder was dragged back into the inner chamber and its door closed firmly against him. The Prior rose, and everyone else perforce rose with him.

‘I commend you all to your beds,’ he said heavily, ‘to get what sleep you can afore Prime. As for me, I’ll be in the kirk, asking forgiveness for whatever failings, in mysel and in our community, have led our brother into sic misdeeds and foul ways of thinking.’

And Sir Silvester Rattray, Gil recalled with a sinking feeling, was to call in the morning.

In fact, it was two days before Sir Silvester appeared in the guest hall. On the morning following the very disturbed night their whole party slept late, and when Gil woke, fretful and uncomfortable, Alys studied him, felt his forehead, sniffed his bandages and announced that he would stay in bed. After a short argument she went off to send a message to Mistress Buttergask’s house and to consult in the kitchen about hot stones, pausing to ask Nory to remove all Gil’s hose and hide them in his own baggage.

‘But I need to speak to the Prior,’ Gil said, when she returned with a measure of willow-bark tea.

‘The Prior can wait,’ she said. ‘He has other matters on his mind. They’re ringing the passing-bell for Father James now, but Father Henry has roused, and is in his own mind, and though he will not say what was confessed to him or by whom, he was little surprised to hear of Calder’s being detained. Drink this.’

‘So that young man has caused three deaths,’ Gil said, accepting the bitter stuff. ‘I wish I’d caught him sooner, but it was only after Wilson died I began to isolate him from the other novices.’

‘It seems extraordinary,’ she said. ‘I suppose it must be a sort of
folie de grandeur
, like those madmen who think they are the Pope.’

She left the chamber, and he lay for a while listening to the little bell tolling for Father James, and thinking over the last few days. It had all been very muddled, he thought, with the two cases confused together and the connection with the English Yorkists as well, which was still unclear.

When he next opened his eyes, Alys was sitting by the window with some sewing. It seemed to be linen work, like the mending Margaret Rattray’s woman had been working on. The black cat sat on the windowsill watching her.

‘What are you sewing?’ he asked. She looked up, startled, and then down at her work again, going a little pink.

‘I am making a biggin for my fa— for my good-mother’s baby,’ she said, not quite managing to sound casual.

‘Your father will be pleased,’ Gil said, wondering what had brought this about. He had given up trying to make peace between Alys and her stepmother, much less get her to show any concern for the other woman’s pregnancy. This was a new departure, and a welcome one.

‘I thought that,’ she said, picking up the little cap again.

He lay watching her drowsily, and by a rambling train of thought recalled her great experiment of the previous day. It had been badly overshadowed by the events of the night.

‘Will you tell me about what you learned yesterday?’ he asked. She looked up again, oddly wary.

‘You’re awake. What – what I learned?’

‘I wasn’t asleep. About how Pollock died. You said you had discovered something.’

‘Oh, about that! Yes, yes I did. It’s been interesting, and I think we have proved, not how the man died, but how he might have died.’

‘Tell me,’ he invited again, wondering what else she had thought he meant. She detailed her efforts of the past few days, making him laugh with the account of the exploding crock and the fleeing Franciscans, and then fetched out the linen-wrapped bowl of incinerated meat to show him.

‘And this was a whole piece of mutton?’ he marvelled, poking at the cindery fragments. ‘It does look very like what we picked up in the man’s house. Yes, I suppose if his candle had fallen over, and his gown caught fire, it could have been well ablaze before he knew what was happening.’

‘Yes, and then the fat from the man’s body would melt and run into the garments, like the wick of a candle,’ she agreed, ‘and feed the fire until it was fierce enough to consume all. I think he was a very heavy man.’

Gil suddenly remembered Brother Dickon remarking that his boots had not squeaked since he entered Pollock’s house, and grimaced at the thought.

‘I’m convinced,’ he admitted. ‘Whether the Bishop will understand it, much less the Provost of Perth, is another matter, but I think David Boyd will agree that the death could well have been accidental.’ He gazed admiringly at her. ‘I once told the King you were the wisest lassie in Scotland, and you’ve proved me right yet again.
There is none like to my lady, That ever I saw
.’

Her fleeting smile came and went, and she looked down, going pink across the cheekbones. He put his hand out to grasp hers.

‘I’m right weel cled in my wife,’ he said in Scots. She turned her hand to clasp his and smiled again, less fleetingly.

‘Sir Silvester used the same words,’ she said, ‘when I would not say if I knew anything of Margaret Rattray. He’s seeking her, Gil, I’m not sure why, and her man is dead – the man Skene. He fell into the harbour.’

‘Is he now?’ Gil tried to address this idea, but found it would not stay still long enough to contemplate. ‘You need to let her know that,’ he suggested. ‘Go to her now with the word, or send Tam. Just be careful you’re not followed, if you don’t wish him to find her.’

‘A good idea.’ She looked out of the window at the leaden sky, and began to fold up her sewing. The roofs he could see from where he lay bore a thin layer of snow. ‘There would be time before the dinner.’

As soon as she was out of the room the cat came to join him on the bed, curling up beside his feet, and went to sleep. Some time later, Brother Dickon looked round the door. Socrates’ long nose appeared at knee level, twitching, then the rest of the dog slipped into the chamber. The lay brother followed him.

‘Aye, you’ll live,’ Dickon said, after studying him briefly. The dog, making a longer, closer inspection, tail waving anxiously, seemed to come to the same conclusion.

‘I heard about Faither James,’ Gil said. Dickon’s beard convulsed as his face crumpled, and he crossed himself.

‘Aye. He’d had a good life, mind, all gien ower to the Order, and it was a quiet death, no like some.’ He came in, and drew up a stool by the bedside, ignoring as carefully as Gil and the cat the surreptitious ascent of the wolfhound at the other side of the bed. ‘You should ha woke me.’

‘I thought Tam and I could deal wi him. Turns out I was wrong,’ Gil acknowledged.

‘I’m no surprised. Seems our man has a bit o a past.’

‘What, Calder? At that age?’ Gil said, and then recalled that at the same age he had been in Paris, learning street fighting and other skills not generally offered by the Scots College there.

‘Oh, he began early. Thing is, he’s proud o what he’s done. Chatting away to my lads, explaining how it is, how he’s recognised his vocation to cleanse the world o sin. Started wi ratting, then he cut his dog’s throat for that it wasny an expert ratter, dealt wi a couple o failed hunting dogs the same way. Well, he said they’d failed.’ He glanced at Socrates, now extended at Gil’s side, and quickly away again.

Does he hunt well?
Calder had said, looking at the wolfhound. Gil felt a chill down his back, and put his good hand protectively on the dog’s head. Socrates rolled a dark eye at him.

‘I’ll spare you the details o what else,’ Dickon went on, ‘though I will tell you it turned Jamesie’s stomach, but he’s boasting o scarring a lassie for life for that she was too free wi her favours, and that was when his family decided he was for the Dominicans, I think.’

‘His mother’s name wasny Skene, was it?’ Gil said sourly. Dickon stared at him.

‘How did you ken that?’

‘A guess at a venture.’ Gil considered what he had just heard, caressing Socrates’ ears. ‘And yet, called to cleanse the world or no, he had enough sense to go about it in secret, to try to hide what he was doing.’

‘Strange, that,’ said Dickon. ‘Faither Prior spent a long time wi him the day, trying to bring him to see how he’d been guilty o pride and how it had led him to murder and wickedness, but he’ll no see it. Maintains it’s his vocation.’

‘I wonder how he’ll react if he ever does see it,’ Gil said thoughtfully. Brother Dickon gave him a slantwise look.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering whether to leave a rope in his cell.’

‘It would solve a few problems,’ Gil said, ‘so long as he doesny make use of it to throttle his guards.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Dickon grimly.

*   *   *

Gil’s next visitor, to his great surprise, was Alexander Raitts. Some time after Brother Dickon had left, the librarian sidled furtively round the door, casting wary glances in all directions. The cat woke and leaped down, disappearing under the other bed, and Raitts closed the door behind him and only then said, ‘Can I come in? Madam your wife’s no here? No that she’s, I mean she’s a— I’d not wish to put her out in any way.’

‘She’s out in Perth, I think,’ said Gil, in some amusement, ‘and her maid wi her.’

Raitts sagged in relief, and sat down on the stool by the bedside. Socrates studied him carefully, laid his chin on Gil’s thigh and relaxed again.

‘I came to thank you,’ said Raitts, in a sudden rush. ‘I think it’s your doing they’ve come at the truth. I never,’ he shook his head, ‘I never hurt those three, I never had a knife!’ He shuddered. ‘It’s your doing,’ he said again. ‘Thank you.’

‘Wi God’s help,’ said Gil. ‘And my wife’s,’ he added wickedly.

Raitts looked alarmed, but with some resolution said, almost as if he meant it, ‘A clever lassie, and discreet in her carriage. You’re much to be envied.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gil. There was a slight, awkward silence. Then Raitts drew a book from his sleeve and set it on his knee. It was a small thing, bound in worn brown leather, with a design of some sort pounced onto the cover.

He looked down at it, and said, ‘Came to ask you a favour.’

‘And what is it?’ Gil said encouragingly.

‘This book. That lassie. The one that’s to be wed, I mean.’

‘Mistress Trabboch’s daughter,’ Gil realised. ‘Aye?’

‘I’d like to send the lassie this. This book. It’s a prayer book, as a marriage gift, you ken. Faither Prior said it would be right, and I wondered. I wondered if … well, if you’d …’

‘If I’d see it on its way?’ Gil supplied. ‘Easy enough done. D’you ken her direction?’

There was another awkward silence, as Raitts stared at him.

‘I never – I never thought o that. I could write it for you. The whole o Ayrshire kens Agnes Trabboch,’ he added rather bitterly.

‘Or it could go to her new home,’ Gil suggested. ‘Who is it the girl’s to wed? A Mungo Schaw? I could see it to his dwelling, wherever that is.’

‘That’s a good idea. A better idea. It’s Coilsfield, hard by Tarbolton. It’s a – it’s a nice wee property, she should be comfortable,’ said Raitts, ‘and a sensible man wi the right ideas in his head. Mistress Marion Stair, she is, after her grandam.’

Could the man really be so oblivious to what he gave away with these utterances, Gil wondered.

‘Tell me about the library here,’ he said, on an inspiration. Raitts’s eyes lit up.

‘It’s no the biggest library,’ he said modestly, ‘but it’s a good teaching collection, wi some excellent texts for further study. It’s a right well-endowed house, this, and there’s never been any trouble about the buying of books; we’ve one or two real treasures in the locked case. I’ll let you see them when you’re on your feet,’ he offered generously.

‘I’d like that,’ said Gil, trying to ignore the softly opening door. Socrates beat his tail on the blankets. ‘What kind o treasures?’

‘Torquemada’s writings, for one, and Vincent of Beauvais’ Book of Grace, all neatly printed at Basel,’ said Raitts, his heavy eyebrows writhing in excitement, ‘and James Forrigon, he’s one o ours and all, tales of the saints and the Legenda Aurea and that. There’s some precious books coming out o Basel and Strasbourg the now, maister, you’ve no idea! And we’ve a History of Alexander, a right pretty thing, wi wee images all through it, hand done.’

‘I should like to see that,’ said Alys quietly behind him. Raitts gulped, and scrambled to his feet, dropping the prayer book.

As he bent to lift it Gil said, ‘Brother Sandy wants to send this prayer book to Mistress Trabboch’s daughter for a marriage gift, Alys. I’m sure we could see to getting it to her.’

‘Indeed yes, and what a suitable gift. My faither gave me a prayer book as a marriage gift, sir,’ she said to Raitts, ‘and I value it greatly. I’m certain the lassie will like to have this one.’

He thrust the book at Gil and edged sideways towards the door and away from Alys, looking alarmed. She avoided meeting his gaze, but went on, ‘I’ll be right glad to get back to Glasgow and see my faither. I’ve missed him while we’ve been away.’

‘I, I, I wish you joy of the meeting,’ he said. ‘That’s very, a very proper way to feel. I’ll, I’ll, I’ll pray for you, mistress, and for your faither.’

He slid out of the chamber before she could answer, and was gone. Alys looked at Gil, shaking her head.

‘Poor man,’ she said.

‘How do you always know what to say to his comfort?’ Gil asked.

‘It seemed obvious. Forrigon?’