A Pig of Cold Poison (28 page)

‘The custumar,’ said Gil, looking about him. Dumbarton Rock loomed over them against the stars, the narrow moon slid in and out of clouds, and one or two windows in the town showed lights. Here on the shore, apart from the two fires, there was little to see. It was still some hours to dawn, he reckoned, and by far too dark for customs work or for loading or unloading goods unless the matter was urgent. As it was now. The custumar would be virtuously asleep in his bed.

‘I ken him,’ said Syme unexpectedly. ‘James Renton. He’s a cousin of my oldest brother’s wife.’

‘Where does he stay?’

‘One of those, I would think, convenient for the shore.’

Peering where Syme pointed, Gil made out several taller houses. He was debating asking at the fireside which was the custumar’s when Stockfish Tam tramped back to them, followed by four or five of the dark shapes from the firesides.

‘I’ve tellt these fellows what’s abroad,’ he said, ‘and there’s one of them willing to take you out to the Dutchman, rouse her skipper, and we’ll pass the word along the shore and a hantle more o us lie out and wait for
Cuthbert
when she comes down the channel. That’s supposing he hasny sunk her off of Bowling,’ he added bitterly. ‘Right?’

‘Right,’ said Gil slowly, putting the image that comment generated firmly from his mind. He would by far rather take the first opportunity to get Alys to safety, but he had to admit he would be less use in a brawl in a small boat, if it came to that, than he would be on board the
Sankt Nikolaas
persuading her skipper to help them.

‘I could wake the custumar,’ said Syme diffidently. ‘He’ll want to inspect the baggage Nicol has wi him, I’ve no doubt. If he sends a boat out, it might hold things up.’

‘Aye, do that,’ said Gil. ‘A good notion.’

Crouched in the stern of a small boat, a stout son of Dumbarton hauling on the oars in the darkness, Luke shuddering beside him, he watched the approaching riding-lights swaying high up near the stars.

‘How can you tell which is which?’ he asked.

‘I can mind where yer boatie was by day,’ said their oarsman. ‘Unless Gerrit moved her after sunset, she’ll be in the same place.’ It seemed to be a joke; he laughed shortly, leaned on his oars for a moment, then rowed on.

‘Maister Gil,’ said Luke tremulously. The boy was obviously terrified of being on the water, Gil recognized. He should never have accepted his help. ‘Maister Gil, do you speak Dutch? Will you can talk to this skipper?’

‘A little,’ he said. ‘I’m hoping he’ll speak Scots.’

‘Gerrit?’ said the oarsman. ‘No a lot. He gets by, the most of them does.’

‘Will we get the mistress back, by doing this?’

‘We’d better,’ said Gil.

Five, six more strokes, and the oarsman backed one oar, swung the little boat round, bumped against the side of a much larger vessel.

‘There ye are,’ he said. ‘Will I hail them for ye, or are ye wanting to take them by surprise?’ It was too late for that: a hoarse voice spoke from the darkness above them. ‘Aye
Nikolaas
,’ said the boatman. ‘Here’s an archbishop’s questioner for you, wanting a word wi Dutch Gerrit.’

Gil found a ladder of rope and wood at his shoulder; he tugged it cautiously, and scrambled up, aware of the familiar scents of tar and salted wood, hemp and damp wool, and climbed over the side on to the deck. Luke tumbled after him, almost sobbing with relief at being on a bigger boat. The deck swung under his feet, a barefoot man beside him held a dagger which gleamed in the light of the lantern slung beside the crucifix on the stern-castle railing, and across the waist someone moved towards him, very large in the shadows.

Deliberately he drew off his hat, saluted the cross, turned to the approaching man. No, men, there were two more, their bearing hostile. Mustering his few words of Low Dutch, he took a breath and said hopefully, ‘Skipper Gerrit?’

By the time Syme and the custumar joined them, Gil had contrived to set aside his anxieties, concentrate on his ability with words, and explain matters to the skipper.

He had observed before that the men of the Low Countries seemed to come in two sizes, small and fine-boned or very large. Gerrit van ’t Haag was definitely one of the latter, filling the after-cabin, nodding and wrinkling his large nose, his fair head bent to listen to the mixture of Low Dutch, French and Scots they were using.

‘Klaas – Nicol t’ief your
vrouw
,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘Is
niet goed
. I help. Help you,’ he clarified, grinning and stabbing a sausage-like finger at Gil.

‘And we’ll have his baggage sealed afore you sail, captain,’ said Maister Renton. The custumar, woken by his kinsman, had apparently reacted strongly to the idea of uncustomed goods leaving his port, and turned out in person, his doublet fastened awry and his clerk rubbing bleary eyes and lugging the canvas bag with the great custom-book in it. ‘The idea, slipping past me in the night like this!’

The skipper gave him an innocent look. ‘
Niet goed
,’ he agreed, shaking his head.

‘The boatmen are out waiting,’ said Syme to Gil. ‘They told Maister Renton where they would lie afore we came on board.’

The custumar appeared to be passing the information to the skipper, to judge by his gestures. The big man reached past him, without rising, to open the cabin door.

‘
Allons-y
,’ he said. But Gil had already slipped out on to the deck, impelled by a sudden surge of fear. Luke followed as if glued to his elbow. Out in the dark there was bustle and movement, several men with cudgels, the mate issuing curt, guttural orders. He stepped to the side, peering into the night past the pre-dawn lights of Dumbarton and the black bulk of the Rock.

Away across the water, a voice suddenly spoke, a woman’s voice, high-pitched and frightened. Heart thumping, he stared tensely towards the sound. Alys? He thought not, but – Another voice rose in a loud shout that lifted a flock of flapping seabirds, which whirred over their heads, making Luke cross himself, exclaiming a blessing. Several of the sailors did likewise.

‘Ah!’ said the skipper behind him. ‘
Kommt Klaas. Waar sint
other
schouten?
’

Out in the dark there was an exchange with one of the other rocking vessels, and another loud
halloo!
and a shout of
Gerrit!
Then over towards the Rock an outbreak of more shouting, of struggles and splashing, a scream.

‘To the boat!’ proclaimed the skipper in thick Scots, and seized Gil’s elbow. ‘Ve save your
vrouw
!’

Six men at the oars shifted the ship’s boat across the flat water, across the wind, at a brisk pace. Gerrit in the stern steered towards the noise, Gil beside him. He had persuaded Luke quite readily to stay with Syme and the custumar. Lights showed on another of the merchant vessels, someone shouted a question. Gerrit answered, and shortly another boat followed them. It seemed to take for ever to cross the dark water to where shouting and splashing, a high quivering lantern, the white glimmer of spray identified the battle, and when they reached it and Gerrit’s men tumbled over the side into the shallows it was hard to work out who was on which side. Scots voices challenged and answered. The men of Dumbarton seemed to be fighting with one another as much as with Nicol.

‘Mind her, Erchie! She’s got a knife!’

‘And where’s my two groats? Where are they? Eh?’

‘Alys?’ Gil said sharply into the turmoil.

‘No to mention you’ve run her aground!’

‘Gerrit!’ Nicol’s voice. ‘
Par là! Attrape-elle!
’

Gerrit lurched past him over the side of the boat, splashed into the night, surely not walking on the – it must be a sandbank, Gil surmised, drawing his dagger, and followed, ducked past a whirling cudgel and plunged after the big Dutchman. There was certainly someone out there, hurrying through the shallows towards the lights of the town. Gerrit, more used than he to moving through the tide, was gaining on him and on the running figure, then with a flurry of splashes the big man pounced.

‘
Waar komms du, ma fille?
’ he said. ‘
Votr’ mari ist hier
.’

‘Alys!’ said Gil again.

‘Gil!’ Her voice was tight with fear. ‘Oh, Gil!’

By the time they got back aboard the
Nikolaas
in the greying dawn, one thing was clear to Gil: if and when he got his wife to bed, she was unlikely to turn her back on him as she had done the last few nights. She clung to him as they waded back towards the boats, her teeth chattering with delayed shock; she seemed almost dazed with relief, and when he bent to kiss her she shivered and pressed her body against his as if to assure herself he was really there.

‘I thought I might not see you again,’ she said.

‘So did I.’ As they moved her wet skirts dragged through the water, which was surely deeper. ‘Is that another gown ruined?’

‘And the shoes.’

‘
Komm, p’tits pigeons
,’ called Gerrit ahead of them. ‘Later for that. Mine
schout
drifts,
wir mussen
–’ He abandoned the attempt to explain further and shouted abuse at his men in Low Dutch. Two of them splashed after the escaping boat. In the lantern-light Nicol Renfrew and his wife, a number of Dumbarton shoremen, the remainder of the mariners from the
Sankt Nikolaas
, were shouting at one another. Two Dumbarton men held Nicol by the elbows, his nose dripping darkly, Stockfish Tam confronting him from a handspan away with repeated demands for his two groats and the money to make good any damage from the grounding. Grace, also in the clutch of a couple of boatmen, was dishevelled and half-weeping, but when she caught sight of Alys she seemed to relax slightly.

‘What here?’ demanded Gerrit over the noise. ‘What passes?’

Stockfish Tam turned and reiterated his claim. Gerrit heard him, looked at the heap of baggage, kicked
Cuth-bert
’s planks where the boat lay on the sand, and nodded.

‘Two groat,’ he said to Nicol.

‘I’d ha given him his money long since,’ said Nicol, ‘only that these fellows willny let go my arms.’

‘And the baggage into mine
schout
,’ continued the big Dutchman, ‘before water deepens. Hoy there – Martin, Tonius, bring here the
schout
! Klaas, Custumar Renton
t’attend
.’

‘The custumar? I suppose I’ve you to thank for that, maister lawyer,’ said Nicol sourly. He handed some coins to Stockfish Tam, who inspected them in the lantern-light, abruptly ceased his complaints and stood aside for the
Sankt Nikolaas
men to transfer the boxes and bundles to their own boat. Thus lightened,
Cuthbert
was easily pushed off the sand into the deepening channel. The tide must have turned some time since, Gil understood, as water swirled round his calves.

‘You!’ Gerrit grasped the arm of one of the shoremen, and indicated Gil and Alys. ‘You take these two
Sankt Nikolaas, ja
?
Is goed
.’ He gestured to the men who still held Nicol. ‘And you, leave Klaas and
vrouw
in mine
schout
. We see to all now.’

Sitting in the bow of yet another small boat, Alys clamped to his side, Gil contrived not to tell the boatman what was going on, while he thanked him for turning out at low tide.

‘Aye, well,’ said the man, hauling on the oars in a leisurely way. ‘Tam’s no a bad sort, even if he is fro Glasgow. We’d no go out all on the mud for just anyone, ye ken.’

‘Mud?’ said Gil. ‘I thought it was sand.’

‘Sand where
Cuthbert
ran aground,’ agreed the boatman. ‘Sand halfway to shore fro that. But it’s mud a’most all else. Swallow you to the knees, it will, and hold you till you drown on the next tide.’

Alys drew a horrified breath and tightened her grip of his free hand. Gil registered the risks they had taken, then put the information resolutely aside as the little boat bumped against
Sankt Nikolaas
’s round flank, and concentrated instead on helping his wife on to the rope ladder, holding it taut and steady for her to climb. She reached the top, and he heard her speak gratefully to someone helping her over the side; as he began to ascend he heard feet rush on the deck, a flurry of movement, a cry from Alys and another from Luke.

‘Mistress! What –?’

‘Nicol!’ That was Syme. Gil scrambled up as fast as he might, the ladder swinging across the planks, and reached the top as Nicol Renfrew giggled and said:

‘Now, ye’ll all just stand back, away from me and where I can see you. And if that’s you, Gil Cunningham, you’ll come no nearer than the rail, or your wee wife finds out how sharp my dagger is.’

The grey light on one side, the lantern-light on the other, showed him a chilling scene. Gerrit, his mate, his mariners stood by the far rail; Syme and the custumars had apparently just emerged from the cabin, and Grace stood in the midst of the waist. All were staring at a point by the mainmast, where Nicol Renfrew held Alys in a close embrace, her black linen hood crooked, the dawn striking pale on the blade of his dagger against her throat.

‘Nicol!’ said Grace. ‘What good does this do? We’re on board now, we sail in an hour or two, why are you –’

‘He’s here to stop us,’ Nicol said. ‘He’s here to take one of us for poisoning Frankie. Is that no right, Maister Cunningham?’

‘Poison?’ repeated the custumar. ‘Is there poison in your baggage, maister? Is that what you’re exporting?’

‘No, my loon, he canny do that,’ said Grace, ‘for Frankie took a heart attack, that’s certain.’

‘Is it?’ said Nicol mockingly. ‘And who caused that?’

‘Not me, Nicol,’ she said, a desperate note in her voice, ‘and not you, surely?’

‘What passes here?’ demanded Gerrit. ‘Klaas,
was maks u
?’

Alys stared at Gil in the growing light, and swallowed hard.

‘Your father had drops for his heart already,’ she said carefully to Nicol without turning her head. ‘You knew he had them.’

Gil unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth and said, in a voice he scarcely recognized, ‘Nicol, did you poison your father?’

‘I never gave him anything he’d not prescribed himself,’ Nicol said.