The Harper's Quine (20 page)

‘Very true.’ Gil straightened up.

Maistre Pierre remained a moment longer looking down
at the swirling water of the river. ‘You know, God is
endlessly good. Look how he has arranged that the tide
reaches to the bridge and no further.’

The Brigend was a sizeable community of mingled
wattle-and-daub cottages and tall imposing houses, inhabited by those for whom it was not necessary to be indwellers in the burgh, whether because they were too poor
to become burgesses or because they were wealthy enough
to ignore the by-laws. Maggie Bell’s ale-house was perhaps
a hundred yards beyond the ancient stone-built leper hospital, and was easy enough to find, with its ale-stake thrust
into the thatch over the door. Someone had gone to the
trouble of painting the likeness of St Mungo’s bell on a
piece of wood to hang from the stake. Gil paused below
the image and looked along the empty street to where a
dog was attempting to round up a handful of hens.

‘It is said to be healthier living here,’ he remarked to the
mason, ‘out of the smells of the burgh.’

‘I do not see how that can be true,’ objected Maistre
Pierre. ‘There is St Ninian’s, after all.’

He ducked to go into the house, and Gil followed
him.

A tavern was a tavern, whether on the banks of the Seine
or the Clyde. Inside this one there was firelight, and the
smell of many people, fried food and spilled ale. Several girls were hurrying about with armfuls of wooden beakers, jugs, plates of food. The long tables were crowded,
people stood in groups near the door and the tiny windows, and from the great barrel of ale in the corner Maggie
Bell herself kept an eye on the proceedings and removed
the money from her girls as they collected it. She was
nearly as tall as Gil, broad-shouldered and grey-haired,
and put him strongly in mind of Ealasaidh.

‘We can learn nothing here, surely!’ the mason bawled,
his mouth inches from Gil’s ear.

‘It will clear in a while,’ Gil answered. ‘Many of these
have yet to go home for supper.’

A girl appeared in front of them smiling hopefully. She
wore a greasy canvas apron, but she herself seemed fairly
clean.

‘What’s your will, maisters?’

‘Two mugs of ale,’ said Gil, trying not to look down her
bodice. She held out her hand for the money, contriving to
brush his hip with hers, and slipped away through the
crowd. When she returned, Gil said to her, ‘Does Annie
Thomson work here, lass?’

‘Why? Will I no do?’

‘I am suited, thanks. I want a word with Annie.’ Gil
produced another coin. ‘Can you point her out to me?’

‘She’s out the back the now. Here she comes.’ She jerked
her head at a girl just pushing in from the kitchen. Gil,
peering in the dim light, thought he recognized the build
and movements.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and dropped the coin into the
cavity being thrust at him. He got a gap-toothed grin, and
the girl slipped away again.

‘Is that the girl you saw with Davie?’ asked the
mason.

‘I think it is.’ Gil was watching, trying not to stare. The
big-framed girl with the black brows distributed the food
she had brought in, a plate of fried meat here, bannocks
and cheese there. The bell of St Ninian’s began to ring, and several groups of customers downed their drinks and
left.

‘Are these all going to hear Compline?’ said Maistre
Pierre incredulously.

‘Probably not,’ said Gil, claiming two stools at the corner
of a table. ‘But master or dame will bar the door when the
Office is done, and there you are in the street shouting to
be let in.’ He frowned, as the girl who had served them
paused by Annie Thomson and spoke in her ear, jerking
her head towards their side of the room. Annie answered,
without looking round, and went out to the kitchen again.
Something about the set of her back made Gil uneasy.

Under the other window, a large group began singing.
Gil could make out neither words nor tune above the
hubbub, but Mistress Bell straightened up, glared at the
singers, and rapped on the ale barrel with an old shoe
which lay conveniently to her hand. This had no effect, so
she tried again, shouting,-‘No- singing!’

The noise receded, leaving the singing isolated like rubbish cast up by the tide. One or two of the singers, realizing what was happening, fell silent, but the rest roared on,
oblivious to tugged sleeves and nudged ribs. Mistress Bell,
leaving her post at the barrel, stalked across the room in a
widening hush, and bellowed, ‘No singing in my house!’

The singing broke off in a ragged diminuendo.

‘Och, Maggie, it’s just -‘ began one of the minstrels.
Mistress Bell tucked the shoe behind her busk, removed
his beaker and gave it to his neighbour, then lifted him by
one arm and the seat of his hose, and carried him without
another word to the door. Someone standing by it hastily
opened it for her and she stepped out, dropped her burden
in the gutter, dusted her hands together and marched back
into the house.

‘And the rest of ye,’ she said, withdrawing the shoe in a
threatening manner.

Under her eye the rest of the group finished their
drinks and left quietly, while the other customers pretended not to watch. Finally, satisfied, Mistress Bell went back to the tap of the great barrel, making shooing motions
at the huddle of grinning serving-lasses in the kitchen
doorway.

‘Monday!’ she shouted after the last miscreant. He
nodded, and slunk out. She nodded at another table. ‘And
you, Billy Spreull. Ye’ve had enough the night. Finish that
and get away to your bed.’

‘Ah, Maggie,’ said the man next to the red-faced customer she had addressed.

‘Will I cross this floor?’ she offered, elbows akimbo.

‘No, no,’ said Billy Spreull hastily. ‘We’re jush - just
going, Maggie.’

‘Mon Dieu!’ said the mason devoutly, as the noise
returned and Billy and his friend left.

‘The singers are barred until Monday,’ Gil interpreted.
‘Habbie Sims told me about this place. It’s the only alehouse the Watch never has to clear.’

‘Surely the Watch has no jurisdiction outside the
burgh?’

‘They come over occasionally. Probably to drink at
Maggie’s.’ Gil peered into his beaker. ‘Maistre Pierre, look
into that corner, and tell me what you see.’

The mason turned to cast a casual glance beyond where
the singers had been.

‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Two of those we discussed earlier.
So Maister Campbell was not meeting them. I wonder
what he was doing?’

‘Further,’ said Gil, his back to the Sempills, ‘I no longer
see Annie Thomson. She has not returned to watch the
house being cleared, like the other girls. Do you need
another drink?’

‘My turn.’ The mason crooked a finger at the girl who
had brought their ale. ‘Two more mugs of that very good
ale, hen, and where is Annie? Has she left? We wanted to
ask her a question.’

‘She’s likely out the back again, her belly’s bothering
her,’ said the girl, lifting their empty beakers. ‘It’s funny - there’s another two fellows asking for Annie over there,
and I never noticed her spitting pearls.’

Another group of customers left. By the time the girl
returned with their drinks, the room was half empty.

‘Could you find Annie?’ Gil said. ‘It’s important.’

‘That’s what the other body said,’ she retorted, tossing
her head at him. ‘What’s Annie been up to?’

‘Nothing you wouldn’t do, I’m certain,’ said Gil. He
produced another coin, and made it slide in and out
between his fingers. The girl watched it, fascinated. ‘Find
Annie for us?’ he coaxed.

‘Joan!’ shouted her employer across the room.

‘I’ll try,’ she said grudgingly, and hurried off.

‘Where did you learn that trick with the coin?’ the
mason asked.

‘Paris.’

‘I must remember not to play cards with you.’

Gil grinned. I don’t cheat at Tarocco. No need.’

Joan came back into the room, a loaded tray of food in
her hands. She distributed this to a group at the long table
beyond where the Sempills were sitting, to the accompaniment of complaints that it was cold, and began collecting
empty beakers. Pausing by Gil’s elbow she announced,
‘Annie’s no there. She was to bring that tray in, and she’s
just no there.’

‘Not in the privy?’ Gil prompted, dismayed.

‘Can- ye no understand? I’m saying she’s no there.’

Gil dropped the coin after its fellow.

‘Thank you for looking,’ he said. ‘Where might she have
gone?’

‘Joan!’ shouted Mistress Bell again.

‘The deil knows,’ said Joan, and whisked off. Gil turned
to look at Maistre Pierre.

‘Another broken scent,’ he said, and felt something
nudge at his memory.

‘Perhaps that formidable woman at the tap could tell us
more,’ suggested the mason. His eyes flicked beyond Gil, and he sat back a little, so that Gil had a moment’s warning before John Sempill of Muirend said at his shoulder,

‘And what brings you out this side of the Clyde, Gil
Cunningham?’

‘I was born this side,’ Gil pointed out unwisely.

‘Aye, but ye don’t hold the Plotcock and Thinacre now.
How’s your mother?’

‘She’s well, John. Regrets her sister Margaret yet,’ said
Gil, giving as good as he got. ‘Do you know Maister Peter
Mason?’

Sempill nodded at the mason, hooked a stool out with
his foot and hunkered down, hitching up the hem of his
short black gown to avoid sitting on it. Firelight glinted on
the jet beads on his doublet.

‘You were at Bess’s funeral. Sit down, Philip, in God’s
name, don’t stand over me like that.’ His cousin sat obediently beside him, staring heavy-eyed at the wall behind
Gil’s head. Sempill looked at him and shrugged. ‘Gil,
I want a word with you.’

‘You’re getting one.’

‘It’s about …’ Sempill hesitated, turning his beaker
round, apparently counting the staves of which it was
constructed. ‘It’s about Bess,’ he said at length.

‘I’m listening.’

Sempill turned the beaker round again.

‘I know fine,’ he said, picking at the withy hoop that
held the staves together, ‘that Bess had a bairn and that it
was none of mine.’ Philip turned and looked at him, then
faced the wall again. Ignoring him, Sempill continued,
‘I can count as well as the next man, and I’d been at the
Rothesay house once in the three months before she left it.
At the quarter-day,’ he added. ‘There was rents to collect.
But is that right, that in law I could claim the bairn as
mine, because it was born within twelve months of her
leaving my house?’

‘You were not separated?’ Gil asked. ‘She had not
applied for a divorce?’

‘She wouldn’t have dared,’ said Sempill rather grimly. His cousin turned to look at him again. Recollecting himself, he said more circumspectly, ‘Not that I know of.’

‘Then I think that is probably the case,’ Gil said.

‘I need an heir,’ Sempill said, ‘and I need it now. My
uncle is making a will.’

‘What uncle would that be?’ Gil asked curiously.

‘Old John Murray, canon at Dunblane. He’s done well
for himself, and I’m his nearest male kin, since his sister
was my grandam but no Philip’s. If it’s any business of
yours. His mind’s going as well this time,’ he said
viciously, ‘and if I can show him an heir he’ll leave me the
lot. Failing that it goes to Holy Kirk.’

‘You are asking Maister Cunningham to bilk Holy Kirk
of your uncle’s estate?’ said the mason. Sempill snarled at
him.

‘He’s asking for advice,’ Philip Sempill said, and leaned
forward, putting his leather-clad elbows on the table. ‘It
could benefit Bess Stewart’s bairn.’

‘I’m asking for more than that. Will you take a proposition to the harper for me? If he will let me recognize the
brat as my heir, I’ll see him right after I get the money.’

‘By him, do you mean the harper?’ said Gil. ‘Or the
baby?’

‘So it is a boy!’ said Sempill triumphantly, and Gil
suppressed a wave of annoyance. ‘I mean the harper,
gomerel.’

‘There’s Euphemia,’ said his cousin.

Sempill glared at him. ‘I need a bairn now. This one’s
here, it’s a boy, it’s legally mine. Even if I was to marry
Euphemia -‘

‘If Euphemia Campbell were to give you a legitimate
heir,’ said Gil carefully, ‘it would have to be born at least
nine months from now. Furthermore, because she has been
your mistress in open notoriety, I am not certain you are
able to marry Lady Euphemia in any case, though you
would be best to take advice on that.’

The two men stared at him, open-mouthed, for a
moment.

‘So I need to recognize the harper’s brat,’ said Sempill,
recovering quickly. ‘Will you put it to him? I suppose
there’ll be a fee to yourself and all.’

‘For a fee,’ said Gil, ‘I will.’

‘Thank you.’ Sempill slammed his beaker down on the
table and rose. ‘Come on, Philip. That lass is not here, and
it’s a long way up the brae.’

‘Tom-catting in the Gorbals now?’ said Gil innocently.

‘Just as much as yourself, Gil,’ said Sempill.

Gil caught at his arm, and felt the man tense angrily.
‘Now I want a word with you, John.’

‘What, then?’ Sempill stared down at him.

‘What did you come down the market for this morning?’

‘If it’s any of your business, to get another couple of
hides off Sandy the tanner in the Waulkergait, who’s sitting over yonder just now with two of his cronies, and to
get a word with them at Greyfriars about the burial.
Why?’

‘And to run up a bill for black velvet with Clem
Walkinshaw,’ said Philip.

‘Aye. You’d think when we’re cousins he could let me
have it at cost, but not him.’

‘And when did you go back up the brae?’

‘Oh, well before Sext. Right, Philip?’

Philip Sempill nodded. they were- just beginning Sext at
St Nicholas, at the Wyndhead, when we passed.’

‘Who else of the household was down at the market?’

‘How the devil would I know? Neil and Euan both,
likely, but who knows what Marriott Kennedy chose to
send down the brae?’