‘Where’s Maidie?’ he demanded, staring round. ‘Where’s — where’s ma axe?’
‘Never mind zat. You vok!’ said Johan, prodding the man with the point of his long sword.
‘Aye, think yoursels clever,’ said the man, and spat at the sergeant. ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you afore long, so you will.’ He leered at Gil. ‘And how’s Blacader’s new man? And yir bonny sister, how’s she walking now?’
Gil stared at him open-mouthed, silenced by the flare of rage that rose in his throat at the words. The man was bound, one could not -
‘Vot you say?’ demanded Johan, prodding again.
‘What do you know about my sister?’ said Gil, finding his voice.
‘Go to Glasgow and find out,’ said the axeman savagely. ‘Aye, that’s got you worried, hasn’t it no? As for that clever wee lassie you’re ettling to marry — ’
‘Yes?’ said Maistre Pierre, turning away from the dead thief. ‘What of my daughter?’
‘Away and find out,’ repeated the axeman, and spat again. Johan’s sword arm jerked. ‘Christ’s bollocks, man, leave me alane wi that wee dirk o yours.’
‘You vok,’ repeated Johan, nodding along the track towards Roslin.
‘What’s he mean about the mistress?’ asked Luke anxiously.
‘And Lady Kate,’ said Tam.
Gil moved forward. ‘Tell us,’ he said. ‘What do you mean? What are you saying?’
‘Aye, ye’d like to hear it,’ said the axeman.
‘We will hear it,’ said Maistre Pierre. He exchanged a glance with Johan, who nodded, and untied the end of the rope about the prisoner’s neck from his saddle. ‘Any man can be made to talk, given time.’
The axeman gave him a wolfish leer.
‘Your lassies didny find that,’ he said. ‘They done their best, I’ll say they did,’ he licked his lips suggestively, ‘but they never got a word of what they wanted to know.’
Someone was shouting in Gil’s ear. His hands were about something, the dog barked once, and again. Socrates never barks, he thought. As his vision cleared, he found himself staring into the empurpled face of the prisoner while Maistre Pierre’s big hands tried vainly to slacken his grip on the man’s throat. Socrates leapt around them, desperate to defend his master, unwilling to attack a friend, and compromising by pawing at their arms and baying, huge deep sounds like a great bell.
‘Let go, Gilbert,’ repeated the mason. ‘We may kill him after he has told us — ’
Gil loosened his hands and stepped back, shaking, unable to answer. Johan eyed him respectfully, and the axeman sucked in a long breath, glaring with furious popping eyes, and also took a step backwards to the limit of the rope. Socrates, silent, pawed eagerly at his master.
‘Now tok!’ commanded Johan.
The man threw him a surly look and shook his head. ‘Canny talk — like this,’ he gasped hoarsely.
‘Let us get down to Roslin,’ said Maistre Pierre in disgust. ‘Someone there will assist us, surely. Sinclair himself may be in the place by now.’
They mounted up; Johan prodded the prisoner before him, the rope about his neck tied once more to the saddlebow, and they went on, silent at first, round the final angle of the Pentlands and down toward the distant wooded valley of the North Esk.
Gil, leading his own horse and Luke’s, was grappling with a turmoil of emotions such as he had not felt since boyhood. There was grief at Rob’s death, mingled with a furious anger with himself and with whoever was behind the repeated attacks on their group, as the cause of his death, and — yes, he admitted, with whichever horse had kicked in the head of the man carrying the crossbow. Revenge for his servant would have been good.
And what had the axeman meant by his unpleasant remarks about the girls in Glasgow? Had they somehow become involved in this? He was aware of painful anxiety for Kate, his favourite among his three younger sisters, and burning through everything a fierce apprehension for Alys. Curiously, he was unconcerned about the insinuation the man had made, though it had triggered his attack on him. It was so far from what he knew of either Alys or his sister that he simply did not believe it.
As for his own behaviour — exploring his heart, he had to admit that he felt neither remorse nor embarrassment about his attempt to strangle a bound man. He knew both would be appropriate, but he could only find a sort of amazement at himself for giving way to his rage and a faint regret that Maistre Pierre had stopped him. It would be much more sensible to question the man and then hang him for theft, but it would be by far less satisfactory.
‘Do we cross that river?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
‘No,’ said Johan. Gil looked about him, and discovered they were well down off the hillside and nearing the Esk. ‘Roslin that vay.’
‘And the castle is beyond the town, in the gorge,’ Gil supplied.
Maistre Pierre glanced at him, and nodded. ‘You are with us again, are you?’ he said. ‘You have been cheerful company these three miles. Tell me, is this where there is the wonderful church of St Matthew building? I have the right place?’
‘Yes,’ said Gil, ‘though I believe building stopped east of the crossing when the old lord died. They’re putting the roof on what’s there, my uncle said.’
‘Ah. The builder is dead, is he? I have heard much of it. I shall try to visit.’
The inn was large, prosperous, and conveniently placed for Maistre Pierre’s purpose, right beside the scaffolding-shrouded mass of the church. A board with a painting of a man holding a book swung from its ale-stake: the St Matthew Inn. The evangelist had a squint. Inside, the taproom was crowded, but the service was quick. Spooning down fish stew while the dog dealt with yesterday’s ham bones under the bench, Gil realized that it was nearly Compline and they had not eaten since Bathgate.
‘Ve stop here?’ asked Johan, wiping his spoon on his sleeve.
‘I think we must,’ said Gil. ‘One night at least. We need to find one man in the place, possibly two, maybe more.’ Maistre Pierre frowned at this, obviously reckoning in his head. ‘I wish Sinclair had been at home.’
‘Perhaps he will return this evening,’ suggested the mason.
Sir Oliver’s sub-steward, a plump and self-consequential individual, had received them with ale and small cakes and a worried frown which grew deeper when he set eyes on their prisoner. No, no, he told them anxiously, Sir Oliver was from home, he could not say when he was expected. If they had really seen him in Linlithgow that morning, perhaps he had gone by the Edinburgh house. Yes, he could house the prisoner, there was a cell empty. At this the prisoner cursed hoarsely, but was silenced by Johan’s still-vigilant blade. No, he couldny question the prisoner till Sir Oliver came home. They would have to make depositions on oath about the charges, he would have to fetch the notary -
‘I can set it down,’ said Gil.
That had taken an hour. A point-blank enquiry for Barty Fletcher or Nicol Riddoch had been met with another worried frown: were these names the steward should know? Did Maister Cunningham want to stop in Roslin, if he was to meet someone? Maister Preston could give them a token would warrant them a room and a welcome at the St Matthew.
This had proved to be true. Moreover, Rob’s body had been laid, curled as he had stiffened over the saddle, on a board in a space just off the scullery, sworn to be rat-free and patrolled by the St Matthew’s terrier. In the morning he could be washed, shrouded, and buried in the kirkyard of the little parish church on the other side of the town. The terrier herself, after making sure that Socrates knew who was in charge here, had bustled off on her rounds.
‘Are we to ask after that musician here and all?’ Luke asked his master.
‘I’ve asked,’ said Gil. ‘I asked the fellow at the tap.’
This time the question had met with understanding; the tapster knew Barty Fletcher. He just couldny say if he was in the town the now.
‘Bide you there wi your jug of our good ale, maister, and I’ll ask about for ye,’ the man offered, wiping the inside of another jug with his apron. ‘My brother’s marriet on Alice Fletcher, he can likely find out.’