The Harper's Quine (9 page)

‘Euphemia! Mally, a cordial! Wine - anything!’

‘It’s just a wee turn,’ said the companion, putting a
cushion under the sufferer’s head. ‘She’ll be right in a
minute.’

Sempill, still rubbing at the limp little hand in his grasp,
turned to glare at Gil over his shoulder.

‘I warned you not to upset Euphemia; he said forcefully.
James, get him out of here!’

Campbell of Glenstriven got to his feet, and indicated
the door with a polite gesture. Gil, aware of unasked
questions, considered brazening it out, but something
about James Campbell’s bearing changed his mind. He
rose, said an unheeded goodbye and went down the wheel
stair. As Campbell emerged into the hall after him he
turned to say, ‘You were in Italy after St Andrews?’

‘Bologna,’ agreed the other. ‘I was back there just last
autumn, indeed. And you? Glasgow and …?’

‘Paris,’ Gil supplied. ‘But of course the subtle doctor is a Bolognese.’ He raised the admonishing finger in imitation,
and they both grinned.

‘Was it that gave me away, or was it a good guess?’
Campbell asked, moving towards the door.

‘hat and other things. There were Italian students.
Dress, deportment, your dagger. Is it Italian? The pommel
looks familiar.’

James Campbell drew the blade and laid it across his
palm.

‘From Ferrara. I brought several home this time. I like
the wee fine blade they make. It has a spring to it we can’t
achieve here. Least of all in Glasgow,’ he added.

‘Was that all you brought?’

‘Five miles or so of lace. Two-three lutes and a lutenist to
play on them. Oh, did you mean a sword? No, those were
beyond my means. The daggers were dear enough.’ Campbell opened the front door, and the mastiff raised her head
and growled threateningly. ‘Good day to you, brother.’

Maistre Pierre drank some wine and chewed thoughtfully
on a lozenge of quince leather. Further down his table two
maids were whispering together and the men were eating
oatcakes and cheese and arguing about football, ignoring
the French talk at the head of the long board.

‘Why did she swoon, do you suppose?’ he asked.

Gil shrugged. ‘Alarm at hearing there were two dangerous persons in the churchyard? Her gown laced too tight?
I don’t know.’

‘These little fragile women are often very strong,’
remarked Alys, pouring more wine for Gil. ‘Was it a real
swoon?’

‘Real or pretended, you mean?’ Gil considered. ‘Real,
I should say. Her mouth fell open.’

‘Ah.’ Alys nodded, as at a bright student, and her elusive smile flickered.

‘And what of the boys who found the harp key? Or the unknown sweetheart?’ said her father fretfully. ‘She must
hold the key to the mystery.’

‘Luke tells me,’ said Alys, glancing along the table, ‘that
she is called Bridie Miller and she is kitchenmaid to Agnes
Hamilton two doors from here. I thought to go after dinner
and ask to speak with her.’

Gil opened his mouth to object, and closed it again,
hardly able to work out why he should have anything to
say in the matter.

‘Very good,’ said her father, pushing his chair back. ‘That
was an excellent meal, ma mie. Maister Cunningham, what
do you do now?’

‘I accompany the demoiselle; said Gil. Alys, supervising
the clearing of an empty kale-pot and the remains of a
very handsome pie, turned her head sharply. ‘Mistress
Hamilton’s son Andrew found the harp key,’ he elaborated, ‘with William Anderson, the saddler’s youngest.’

‘Better still,’ said the mason. ‘Take your cloak, Alys, the
weather spoils. Wattie, Thomas, Luke! To work! We seek
still this weapon.’

‘In a moment; said Alys. ‘I must see that Catherine and
Annis are fed and set someone to watch Davie. Kittock, do
you carry this out, and I will bring the wine.’

The household began to bustle about. Gil, retreating to
the windowseat, found not one but two books half hidden
under a bag of sewing. When Alys reappeared, in plaid
and dogs like any girl of the burgh, he was engrossed.

Maister Cunningham?’ she said. He looked up, tilting
the page towards her.

‘I like this,’ he said. ‘Cease from an inordinate desire of
knowledge, for therein is much perplexity and delusion. I’ve
often felt like that when confronted with another pile of
papers.’

There are many things,’ she agreed, ‘which when known
profit the soul little or nothing.’

‘ou read Latin?’ he said, startled.

‘It is my copy. I have to confess -‘ The apologetic smile flickered. ‘I take refuge in Chaucer when it becomes too
serious for me.’

‘What, this one? The story-tellers on pilgrimage?’

She nodded. ‘I am cast out with Patient Grissel at the
moment.’

‘I never had any patience with Patient Grissel or her
marquis.’ Gil laid the Imitation of Christ on the sill and
followed her to the door. ‘Any man that treated one of my
sisters so would have got his head in his hands to play
with as soon as we heard of it.’

‘Her lord cannot have loved her, for sure, though he
claimed to.’ She clopped down the fore-stair into the courtyard. And he took all the power and left her none.’

‘Power?’ said Gil. This girl, he recognized again, was
exceptional.

‘If the wife has responsibilities,’ Alys said seriously,
‘duties, about the house, she must have power to order
matters as she wishes. Grissel must do all, but has no
power of her own. It is as if she is her marquis’s hand or
foot and must do only as he directs.’

‘You think that is wrong? Holy Kirk teaches us -‘

‘I know the husband is the head of the wife, it’s in St
Paul’s letters somewhere,’ Alys said, pausing beside a tub
of flowers in the middle of the yard. She had taken the
ribbon out of her hair and it hung loose down her back.
She pulled at a soft fair lock. ‘But what sort of head cuts off
its own right hand to test it?’

‘I had not thought of it that way, I admit,’ Gil said. ‘To
my mind, she would have had good grounds for a lawful
separation a mensa et thoro, though I suppose the Clerke of
Oxenfoord would not have given us the tale of Patient
Grissel Divorced.’ Alys giggled. ‘We see a lot of marriages,’
he said. ‘The ones I admire most are those where the wife
is allowed to think for herself and decisions are made by
both spouses together. Myself, I think …’ He paused,
groping for words to fit his idea. ‘Women have immortal
souls and were given the ability to seek their own salva tion. How can they do that if someone else takes responsibility for their every deed and thought?’

Alys considered this, twirling the lock of hair round one
finger.

‘St Paul thought we were capable of more than that. The
unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife,’ she quoted, in
the Latin. ‘Although,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘St Paul
contradicts himself more than once. Is that what you think
learning is for? To seek salvation?’

‘That was not what I said, but it’s surely one of its
purposes. You think so too, do you not? You use yours to
read Thomas A Kempis and the New Testament.’

She nodded, pushing the lock of hair back over her
shoulder, and hitched her plaid up.

‘When free of my duties about the house. Shall we go?
Do you know Agnes Hamilton? Or her husband?’

‘I was at the College with her brother Hugh,’ he said,
accepting the change of subject. ‘She was new married,
and generous with the bannocks and cheese when we had
a free hour or two.’

Agnes Hamilton, it was well seen, was still generous
with the bannocks and cheese. She met them in her doorway, vast and flustered, with exclamations of distress.

‘And the dinner late, and Andrew in such a mood, and
not a hand’s turn done in the kitchen since the news came,
they’re all so caught up with Bridie’s troubles - my dear,
it’s a pleasure to see you any time, you know that, but
maybe not the now. And is that you, Gil Cunningham?’
she said, peering up at him under the folds of her linen
kerchief. ‘I’d not have known you, you’ve changed that
much -‘

Distantly behind her there was a great outbreak of wailing. Mistress Hamilton cast a glance over her broad
shoulder.

‘Listen to that!’ she said unnecessarily. ‘The girl will
choke herself weeping! And I can do nothing with the rest
of them. They’ve let the fire go out.’

‘Is it Bridie Miller?’ asked Alys briskly. ‘May I try? We
need a word with her about Davie.’

‘He’s not - the boy’s not …?’

‘He’s not dead,’ Gil said, ‘but he’s still in a great
swound. If Bridie knows anything it would be a help.’

‘Well …’ said Mistress Hamilton doubtfully. She led
them along the screened passage, past the door to the hall
where several men sat about listening glumly to the noise,
and out to the yard at the back. The kitchen, built of
wattle-and-daub, was set a few feet away from the house,
and from its door and windows came the sound of many
weeping women. Gil found his feet rooted to the spot.

‘Do - do you need me?’ he asked, despising himself.

Alys glanced up at him, and said with some sympathy,
‘You will be no help. Go and find the boy. Agnes, I will
need the key to your spice-chest.’

She took the bunch of keys Mistress Hamilton unhooked
from her girdle, hitched up her plaid and plunged forward
into the noise. Agnes Hamilton watched her go, hand over
her mouth, then turned helplessly to Gil.

‘I forget at times she’s just sixteen,’ she confessed. ‘Do
you know she reads three languages?’

‘Three?’ said Gil, and realized this must be so.

‘I had a book once, but Andrew sold it. Gil, it’s grand to
see you, but I can offer you nothing but cowslip wine and
suckets -‘

‘I’ve had my dinner,’ he assured her. ‘I need a word with
Andrew, and then I’ll go, and come back another time.’

Her face changed.

‘He’s not very pleased at his dinner being late,’ she said.
‘I don’t think he’d talk to you.’

‘That’s a pity,’ said Gil. ‘Patrick Paniter bade me tell
him -‘

‘Oh!’ said Mistress Hamilton in some relief. ‘You mean
wee Andrew! Come in here out of all this noise and I’ll find
him. Drew! Doodie! Oh, that laddie, where has he got to
now?’

She disappeared, leaving Gil standing in the hall with the hungry men eyeing him sideways. After a moment she
returned, towing a grubby boy by one ear, exclaiming over
the torn hose, of which a good length was visible below his
blue scholar’s gown.

‘And you be civil, mind,’ she prompted. ‘Maister
Cunningham’s here from St Mungo’s, with a message from
Maister Paniter.’

‘Not quite that important,’ said Gil hastily, seeing all
chance of getting an answer from the boy slipping away.
‘May I get a word with you, Andrew?’

Andrew stared at him apprehensively. Nudged by his
mother he achieved a clumsy bow and muttered something. Gil stepped back out into the yard, where the wailing from the kitchen was not much reduced, and beckoned
the boy after him.

‘Two boys found something this morning,’ he said.
‘Maister Paniter was angry, and took it off them, and
I found it again.’ Well, by proxy, said his conscience.
‘I need to ask a couple of questions about it.’

Andrew, fiddling with his belt, said indistinctly that he
kenned nuffin.

‘Now, that’s a pity; said Gil, ‘for the boy who told me
what I need to know might get a penny.’

Andrew brightened noticeably. Gil fished the harp key
out of the breast of his jerkin and held it up.

‘Was that what you found?’ he asked. ‘I know it was a
harp key - is this the right one?’

Andrew nodded eagerly.

‘It’s got the same flowers on,’ he volunteered. ‘e saw it
shining in the grass when we came to Prime.’

‘What, just like this? It wasn’t in a purse or anything?’

‘No, maister,’ said Andrew, a touch regretfully. ‘There
was never a purse. It was just lying in the grass.’

‘Where?’ Gil asked. ‘as it among the trees?’ I should be
dismissed the court, he thought, for prompting the witness, but Andrew shook his head.

‘We’d no have seen it among the trees,’ he pointed out
kindly. ‘It was on the grass near the door.’

‘Which door?’

‘The door we go in by,’ said Andrew. ‘The south door by
St Catherine.’

Gil stood looking down at him, thinking this over. The
boy, misreading his silence, said after a moment, ‘It’s true,
maister. You can ask Will. Can I get it back, maister?’

‘I’ve no doubt it’s true,’ Gil said. ‘I need to keep it, but
here’s your penny, Andrew. Those were good answers.’
Andrew seized the coin, but any thanks he might have

returned were drowned in an extraordinary commotion
from the kitchen. The multiple sounds of grief suddenly
stopped, to be replaced abruptly by a succession of squeals
which escalated into a violent outburst of sneezing. The
door flew open, and first one, then another girl staggered
out, sneezing and sneezing, until the yard was full of
spluttering, wheezing, exploding women.

Behind the last one came Alys, her plaid drawn over her
face, dusting the other hand off on her blue skirts. Letting
the plaid fall, she looked at Agnes Hamilton, who was
peering round Gil’s shoulder with her mouth open, and
said, ‘Well, that was a waste of time.’

‘What -‘said Agnes helplessly. ‘What happened? What’s
wrong?’

‘They quarrelled on Good Friday,’ Alys elaborated. ‘She
hasn’t seen him for ten days. I can’t tell if she was weeping
for Davie, or for danger avoided, or lost opportunity, and
nor can she, but she can’t help us. Agnes, I’ve a cold pie in
the larder. If we send someone up for it, you and the men
can eat.’

‘And the girls?’ said Gil, indicating the suffering
household.

‘Oh, that.’ Alys flapped her skirts again, face turned
away. ‘I’ve seen that happen in a nunnery. Everyone weeping and nobody able to stop. It’s all right, it isn’t the
pestilence. Here are your keys, Agnes. I’m afraid I’ve used
up your year’s supply of pepper.’