The Merchant's Mark Page 4

  Sir Thomas Stewart of Minto, the Archbishop’s civil depute in Glasgow, Bailie of the Regality and Provost of the burgh, small, neat and balding in good murrey velvet furred with marten, stood on the fore-stair of his lodging in the castle, surveyed the gathering in the outer yard and scowled.

  ‘Serjeant, ye’ve rounded up the scaff and raff of the town again,’ he said. ‘I’ll likely need my own men to keep the peace before this is over. Walter,’ he said to his clerk, ‘gang to Andro and bid him bring five-six of the men, just to keep an eye on things.’

  ‘It’s none of my doing if the better sort never answers the bellman,’ said the serjeant in righteous indignation as the clerk slipped away, his pen-case and inkhorn rattling at his waist. ‘I’ve a burgh to watch and ward, sir, I’ve no time to go calling on each man by name for a case like this.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ said Sir Thomas irritably. ‘Silence them, then, man.’ He glanced at Gil and his companions, standing nearest him. ‘These gentlemen at least have better matters to attend to than all this giff-gaff. We’ll get done wi and get about our day.’

  He glowered at the source of the loudest conversation and comment, the group around the head, which was exhibited on a trestle in the centre of the yard and guarded by the same reluctant constable and a colleague. The barrel stood on the ground beside the trestle, and had come in for some attention itself; one tavern-keeper from the Gallowgait had already offered to purchase it from Maister Morison when all was done. Gil recognized Morison’s carter, the stocky, sandy-haired Billy, in the thick of the group, his blue bonnet wagging as he talked to those interested. What was he telling them? wondered Gil.

  The serjeant, shouldering the burgh mace, stepped up on to the mounting block and shouted for silence, his voice carrying without effort across the yard. The clerk returned, half a dozen armed men tramped after him, and the proceedings began. Gil, used to the Scottish legal process, was not surprised by the length of time it took to select fifteen respectable men to form an assize, but as the sixth name was agreed upon, he could feel Maistre Pierre becoming restive at his side.

  ‘Is it always like this?’ the mason asked as someone objected to the proposed seventh juror on the grounds of infamy, since his wife was well known to serve ale in short measure.

  ‘We’re getting on well,’ said Morison at Gil’s other side. ‘Gil, tell me more of last night. What did they do for your sister, over yonder? Was there a Mass?’

  Gil nodded, and glanced at the towers of St Mungo’s where they loomed above the castle wall.

  ‘My uncle said Mass for her,’ he said, ‘before the shrine.’

  The saint’s shrine stood in the centre of the lower church, a dim, pillared place like the undercroft of a tower-house. Last night, entering the Laigh Kirk by its south door, he had paused to look out over St Mungo’s kirkyard in the evening light. Near at hand the ground was shadowed by the building site where the Archbishop’s plans to add to his cathedral were going ahead in fits and starts as the funding permitted. The clumps of trees cast long fingers beyond that, and the gable-ends of the tall stone manses at the edge of the kirkyard glowed bright where the light caught them. Eastwards the sky was darkening as he watched.

  ‘Gil?’ said his sister behind him. ‘You going to sleep there?’

  He stepped aside quickly. ‘Forgive me, Kate. I’m keeping you standing.’

  ‘I can stand forever,’ she said. ‘It’s getting up or down that’s the difficult part. Come on, they won’t wait all night for us.’

  She turned on her crutches with clumsy expertise, and thumped towards the few steps down from the doorway. Gil followed watchfully as she worked her way down into the shadows. He knew better than to offer help.

  Under the vaulting immediately opposite the doorway, within the wooden screens which defined the Lady chapel, candlelight flickered on the carved latticework. The Virgin herself, small and ancient with a blackened foot, presided from her pillar, her babe perched on her arm. Kate paused, leaning on her crutches, looked towards the figure briefly, crossed herself, and swung to her left, towards the ornate structure of St Mungo’s tomb.

  The altar to the west of the tomb was lit and furnished, and before it their uncle knelt in his Mass vestments, while the remainder of the little group waited in silence. Gil caught Alys’s eye over his sister’s shoulder, and smiled quickly at her. Maistre Pierre had his head bent over his beads; the two servants of the Official’s household who had known Kate since childhood were present, Maggie sitting on the base of a pillar with a lantern at her feet, Matt standing beside her, and beyond them towered Babb. She was gazing at the brightly painted end of the tomb, her lips moving silently. Kate on her crutches thumped past the draped side of the altar, David Cunningham rose from his knees, Gil moved hastily into place and lifted the smoking censer, and the Mass began.

  It was an experience he knew he would find it hard to forget. As the familiar, comforting phrases rolled into the vaulted roof, the light from the windows faded, and the candlelight flickered on his sister’s face. Taut, intense, she stared at their uncle’s back, apparently unaware that she was chewing the end of a lock of her long mouse-coloured hair. The invocation to St Kentigern, Mungo the dearly beloved founder, usually saved for his feast days, rose in the candlelight, and shadows jumped on the pillars and vaulting, on the arcading and miniature crocketed spires of the tomb on its four steps, until Gil began to think they were not in a church but in a forest.

  Thump and shuffle as Kate moved forward and stood before her uncle to receive the Host, tears leaking from her closed eyes, sweat darkening the patches in the armpits of her woollen gown. Final encomium on Kentigern, praising his steadfastness in the faith and his generosity to his followers.

  ‘Ite, missa est.’

  There was a long silence, in which Babb sniffled and Maggie fidgeted but Kate stared unmoving at the candles. Finally Canon Cunningham rose from his knees, crossed himself, and turned to look at them all.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Attend your mistress, then, Babb. We’ll wait you here.’

  Babb moved forward, Maggie lifted the lantern and got stiffly to her feet. Kate wiped her eyes on her sleeve, looked from one to the other, then scowled over her shoulder and jerked her head at Alys. All four women moved off towards the chapter-house. Gil put the lid on the censer and exchanged a long look with Maistre Pierre.

  ‘We must hope,’ said his father-in-law in French, ‘and pray. We can do nothing else for the poor girl. And now you stand guard for her?’

  ‘I do.’ Gil smiled wryly. ‘When we were young, she liked to swim in the great pool in the burn near to where we were brought up. I used to stand guard, so nobody would catch sight of her in her shift. I’ll spend this night on my knees, but it’s the same thing.’

  ‘Likely St Mungo himself knew the Linn pool,’ said David Cunningham in Scots. ‘He was a great man for visiting his flock, we hear. I don’t doubt he knew Cadzow parish well. No harm in reminding him of the place in your petitions, Gilbert.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Gil turned as the door of the chapterhouse opened. Candlelight showed beyond the screens of the Lady chapel, and they could hear footsteps and the thump and scrape of Kate’s crutches. The little procession approached between the pillars, Kate at its head now barefoot, stripped to her shift. Behind her Babb carried a bundled plaid, Alys and Maggie a candle each. Kate worked her way down the three steps to the level of the altar, and came forward to stand before her uncle again.

  ‘Uncle David,’ she said, meeting his eye, ‘whatever comes of this, I’m grateful.’

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, and reached for the little flask of oil. ‘You’re a good lassie, Kate.’

  Now, in the crowded castle yard, Maistre Pierre said, ‘She feels the saint has mocked her.’

  ‘Maister,’ said Andy behind them.

  ‘Indeed she must, poor lady!’ said Morison. ‘What a painful thing.’

  Sir Thomas turned and scowled at them.


  ‘Maister,’ said Andy again. ‘Have ye looked at the assizers?’

  ‘Painful indeed,’ agreed Maistre Pierre.

  ‘For that’s Willie Anderson the cordiner from the Gallowgait, and John Robertson, and John Douglas, and Archie Hamilton the litster,’ Andy recounted, ‘and there’s Mattha Hog. And if ye’re thinking, maister, the same as I am, ye’re thinking they’re all friends of Serjeant Anderson’s.’

  ‘Maybe she asked too much,’ said Morison.

  Gil was silent.

  The waking in the dawn was inexpressibly painful to think about. Kate had sprung up out of her dream, out of the bundle of blankets, to stand upright in her shift with her face exalted in a beam of sunlight from the east window. Scrambling to his feet from knees stiffened by a night’s prayer, he had not been in time to catch her when she trod forward and fell her length, barely saving herself from rolling down the steps away from the elaborate painted tomb. Heart hammering, he had helped her to sit up, and she had elbowed him aside to snatch back the hem of her shift and stare at her shrivelled foot, pale and unchanged in the growing light from the nearer windows. He thought he had never seen such an expression of disbelief. He had spoken her name, but she ignored him, still staring, for a long moment, then threw back her head and howled like a gored hound. Babb had come running, and snatched her up in brawny arms, and she had clung to her and burst into a great storm of weeping.

  ‘None of us realized, I suppose, how certain she was that St Mungo would help,’ said Maistre Pierre. Sir Thomas turned and glared at them again. ‘Ah, we are near the number we require.’

  ‘And that’s Jemmy Walker,’ said Andy in ominous tones as the final assizer was named.

  ‘What, Billy’s cousin?’ said his master. The members of the assize made their way to the area roped off for them at the side of the courtyard, where Sir Thomas’s clerk approached them, wielding a copy of the Gospels in a much-rubbed leather binding.

  ‘Oh, ye’re listening, are ye? Look at that fifteen men, maister, and tell me how many of them’s a friend to you?’

  ‘Wheesht, Andy. They’re fencing the court now.’

  After the long process of swearing-in, Sir Thomas addressed the assize, explaining clearly that they were there to establish who the dead man was, how he had died, and who was responsible for his death; but that if they were unable to say any of these things for certain, ‘which seems the maist likely circumstance, neighbours,’ he added, they were to admit it clearly rather than bring an accusation which could not be proved. Gil, watching, saw the sidelong glances some of the men exchanged, and was suddenly uneasy.

  As he had proposed an hour earlier when they delivered the treasure to him, Sir Thomas began by drawing from Maister Morison an account of the opening of the barrel.

  ‘It was well sealed before you broached it?’ he prompted.

  ‘Oh, aye,’ agreed Morison. ‘Sound and tight.’

  ‘And you expected to find books in it,’ the Provost went on, with faint incredulity. ‘What books in particular?’

  ‘Just what Andrew Halyburton was able to send,’ said Morison, his eyes brightening. ‘We were in hopes that he’d get books neither one of us owned yet.’

  ‘Aye, well, it’s an odd way of doing business,’ Sir Thomas commented. ‘And that’s the barrel yonder, is it? Has it your mark on it, maister?’

  ‘It has,’ agreed Morison. ‘And two shipmarks forbye, and some other folk’s merchant marks.’

  ‘But never Thomas Tod’s shipmark,’ said a voice loudly from the crowd. Sir Thomas stared round, frowning.

  ‘Who said that?’ he demanded. There was a disturbance, and the sandy-haired Billy made his way to the front.

  ‘Me,’ he said. ‘Billy Walker, that’s journeyman carter to Maister Morison. See that puncheon,’ he went on, without waiting for encouragement. ‘It’s not got Thomas Tod’s shipmark, for all my maister says it’s the one that cam out of Tod’s ship. I just thocht it was strange, that.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Sir Thomas said to Maister Morison, who nodded.

  ‘Both right,’ he said. ‘I saw it lifted from Tod’s ship myself, and so did Billy here, the only puncheon in the shipment, but it’s not got his mark on it. We thocht it was strange and all.’

  ‘Did you ask Tod why it was in his ship, if it never had his shipmark?’

  ‘No, for we only saw it was lacking his shipmark when we had it here in Glasgow and set up ready for broaching,’ said Morison reasonably.

  ‘The carter has changed his tune from this morning,’ said Maistre Pierre in puzzled tones. Gil nodded absently, staring over the heads of the onlookers. At the back of the crowd was a man as tall as himself, in a black cloak and felt hat. He was watching Billy intently, his flat, big-featured face expressionless. Then, as if aware of Gil’s scrutiny, he looked round, and suddenly smiled, a sneering expression that made his tuft of a beard twitch, and ducked away among the crowd. He had a long-hafted weapon in a vast leather sheath on his shoulder.

  ‘Who was that?’ Gil said. ‘I’ve not seen him in Glasgow before.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Maistre Pierre.

  ‘Hush,’ said Morison.

  Sir Thomas, frowning again, persevered with the account of the summoning of the serjeant, and finally obtained corroboration from Morison’s companions by the simple method of saying rapidly, ‘And you gentlemen agree with that? And you, Andy Paterson? Good. Now, has any of you ever seen this man before?’

  ‘Never,’ said Morison confidently.

  ‘Nor I.’ Maistre Pierre nodded agreement. Gil opened his mouth to speak, but Sir Thomas had already turned to the assizers. They agreed, with much mumbling and shuffling, that they thought the man was a stranger.

  ‘I seen him afore,’ said Billy Walker from the front of the crowd. Morison turned his head to stare at him, open-mouthed, and Gil was aware of some muttering among the assizers where they stood penned at Sir Thomas’s right hand.

  ‘Where have ye seen him, man?’ demanded Sir Thomas. ‘Who is he, then?’

  ‘I’ve no notion who he is,’ said Billy hastily. ‘Just I’ve seen him somewhere.’

  ‘That’s no help,’ said Sir Thomas crisply. ‘Now, I’ve looked at the head myself, and so has Maister Mason here. He looks to us like a fighting man, and it seems possible he was heidit after he was dead, no killed by being heidit, but there’s no more to be told beyond that. Does anyone present have anything more to tell the quest?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Billy. ‘Just this, sir. If they’ve no seen him afore, how come my maister and Andy and those got Jamesie Aitken and me out of the way while they broached the puncheon, and what was it they were agreed no to tell the serjeant?’

  ‘What are you saying?’ demanded Sir Thomas. The courtyard was suddenly full of noise. Over it the serjeant shouted for silence, with little success.

  ‘I’m saying they were for leaving Serjeant Anderson out of it,’ repeated Billy in righteous tones, ‘for I heard one of them say it.’

  Gil, with a sinking feeling, stepped forward and caught the Provost’s eye, and when Sir Thomas leaned towards him he said quietly, ‘I mind saying that, sir. It was in connection with the other matter, the one we discussed the now, that’s to go to the King.’

  Sir Thomas nodded, and gestured again at Serjeant Anderson, who renewed his stentorian calls for silence. When he was eventually successful, the Provost said resonantly, ‘That was a matter which came straight to me, and very properly too. What about this, of getting you and the man Aitken out of the way?’

  ‘It must ha been when they found the heid,’ said Billy obligingly. Morison looked at Gil in dismay, and one or two of the assize nudged each other and pointed at this. ‘Me and Jamesie was kept working in the barn, and first they never said a word to us about what was in the puncheon, just bade Jamesie go for Serjeant Anderson instead of setting up a hue and cry of murder, and then after the serjeant took the heid away Andy Paterson sent us down the back to wash carts. But I’d to go back
up into the yard for cloths and a bucket,’ he explained virtuously, ‘since Andy never furnished us ony, as Jamesie’ll bear me out, and I heard them saying this about keeping the serjeant out of it.’

  ‘Ah, mon Dieu,’ muttered the mason. Andy drew a long breath through his teeth.

  ‘Keeping the serjeant out of it’s no matter,’ declared Sir Thomas, ‘for I ken what that was for and it’s none of his mind. It’s already gone to the Archbishop. And Maister Morison got the serjeant to see to the head afore the other matter came to light, as you’ve just told us, Billy Walker. But why did you no set up a hue and cry, maister? The law’s quite clear on that.’

  ‘I was just horror-struck,’ Morison protested. ‘We all were. And my bairns were about the yard, I didny want them to see – that.’ He nodded at the trestle with its burden.

  ‘I never saw the bairns about the yard,’ asserted Billy. Several of the assizers looked at one another and nodded significantly at this. The man Andy had identified as Billy’s cousin was speaking in confidential tones to his neighbour.

  ‘This man is destroying his own employment,’ said Maistre Pierre in Gil’s ear. ‘What is he about?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ said Gil. ‘But I don’t like the look of the assize.’

  ‘Serjeant,’ said Sir Thomas irritably, ‘can you add any sense to this?’

  ‘All I can say is, I never saw any bairns either,’ said Serjeant Anderson portentously. ‘What’s more, sir, when I asked the gentlemen to touch the corp they all did it very willingly except –’ he paused dramatically – ‘for Maister Morison.’

  ‘And did the corp bleed?’ asked an assizer from behind the rope.

  ‘How could it bleed?’ asked Sir Thomas irritably. ‘He’s been heidit. He’s no blood left.’

  ‘No, it never bled,’ admitted the serjeant regretfully.

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ declared the Provost. ‘Has the assizers any questions they want answered? Or anything more to tell the inquest?’

  ‘Aye. I’d like to know how long Maister Morison had the puncheon in his keeping,’ said a grey-haired man in a tavern-keeper’s apron.