‘It does not seem enough,’ agreed Maistre Pierre, shifting on the bench beside Gil. The cushion slid with him, jolting Gil sideways.
‘Aye, but nobody else kent what it was neither,’ said Nicol. ‘Except maybe Nelkin.’
‘And you fetched it from one of Sinclair’s other properties by Stirling,’ Gil said.
The boy nodded. ‘Garden-Sinclair,’ he agreed. ‘It was well hid. The man that holds the place never kenned it was there neither, so Nelkin tellt me.’
‘But how did you carry it?’ demanded Robison.
‘In two bags on the old horse’s packsaddle, under that load o withies,’ said the boy. Robison sat back in his great chair, frowning.
‘And when you got to your father’s yard,’ said Gil, ‘thinking you were home and safe, you were attacked. Did you expect the gate to be open?’
‘No,’ admitted Nicol. ‘I was to sclim ower and unbar it,’ he grinned wryly. ‘I’ve done it a few times. But here it was open, standing just on the jar. So we pushed it open, and there was naught stirring, so in we went, thinking nothing of it, and we’d no more than got the first o the saddlebags off and put it in a barrel as Nelkin said he’d arranged wi his lordship, when these three men came at us, all quiet in a rush.’ He shivered. ‘I seen the axe, and the swords, and then Nelkin shouted to me to run, and I grabbed the reins and louped on the old horse wiout thinking, all on top o the withies, and ran for it, and I — and I — ’ He swallowed. ‘Did you say he was heidit, maister?’
Gil nodded, and the boy crossed himself.
‘I feared it,’ he whispered. ‘When he never followed me here, I feared it. I should never ha left him.’
‘Just as well you did, laddie,’ said Robison. ‘You’d ha gone the same way, unarmed against a chiel wi a great axe.’
‘Aye, but …’ said the boy, and shook his head. ‘He was our good friend, and Jess’s kin. I should never ha left him.’
‘If he ordered you to run,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘and you obeyed, you did right.’
‘And then you came here?’ said Gil.
‘Turned up at first light,’ supplied Robison, ‘chapping the shutters there and gied us the fright o our lives. The auld horse just about foundered, half the withies snapped and hanging off the pack, and him half-dead wi fright. And nae wonder. What Nelkin was about, taking a laddie wi him on a duty like that — ’
‘It was for the horse,’ said Nicol. ‘He wanted me to lead the horse. Old Pyot’ll do anything for me, so he will.’
‘Well,’ said Gil. ‘And you say you never kent what you were carrying?’
‘Well,’ said the boy, and looked at Robison.
‘No, he never,’ said the householder. ‘And no more do I.’
‘No till you looked once he got it here,’ suggested Gil.
‘I wouldny do such a thing!’
Socrates raised his head to look at the man, and Gil said deliberately, ‘Then you’re more of a fool than I took you for.’
Maistre Pierre’s eyebrows went up, and Robison bridled.
‘Well, maybe I took a wee look,’ he conceded.
‘And?’
‘More coin. All coin, it was, by the feel of it, in three great purses, all sealed,’ said Robison regretfully. ‘Two wi the Spitallers’ seal and one wi the old King’s.’
‘Ah!’ said Gil. He heard an echo at his side, and the bench-cushion shifted again. Not looking at his friend, he went on, ‘So where is it now?’
‘Now that I canny tell you, sir.’
‘Do you mean you don’t know?’ Gil asked. ‘Who took it? Why was it not put safe?’
‘I mean I canny tell you,’ repeated Robison.
‘You may tell me,’ said Maistre Pierre, and his big hands stirred on his knee. ‘As a fellow craftsman.’ That’s the second time today he has used that expression, Gil thought. What does he mean? ‘Are you working on the church, Maister Robison? I’ve heard there are two great pillars at its heart. A pity the builder is dead, for the complete building would have astonished the world.’
Robison stared at him, his scarred fingers also moving. The dog had sat up, and was looking intently at the shuttered window. Gil stroked his head.
‘Aye,’ said Robison. ‘I’m working on the roof, wi square and level and plumb, but I still canny tell you, sir, for I’m no the master in charge.’
‘Uncle,’ said the boy quietly. Robison turned to look at him. ‘Would his lordship — ?’
‘He’s from home,’ said Gil.
‘He cam back an hour since,’ said Robison. ‘I saw him ride in off the Edinburgh road.’
‘He’s here,’ said Balthasar of Liège, stepping in at the door, Oliver Sinclair behind him.
‘Oh, indeed there’s more of it,’ said Sinclair. Seated in Robison’s great chair, large, fair and handsome in a big-sleeved gown of blue wool, he dominated the room. ‘I have the half-load the laddie here brought on Monday night, which I take to be the other half of the shipment that turned up in Glasgow in your barrel. It’s safe enough here. If you want it, you’ll have to convince me you’ve a right to it, Gil Cunningham.’
‘I’ve no right to any of it, sir,’ said Gil politely. ‘But we’ve a sergeant of the Hospitallers with us, looking for their portion, and I feel the treasury would like to see the late King’s hoard again.’
‘I’ve no doubt they would,’ said Sinclair, with irony. ‘And so would this fellow you brought in as prisoner. Who the deil is he? D’you think he’s a treasury man?’
‘Not a treasury man, no,’ said Gil. Sinclair’s eyebrows went up at the emphasis. ‘Have you asked him yourself?’
‘I have not. He’s got away. That fool Preston never chained him, and he struck down the guard and ran.’ Gil and Maistre Pierre looked at one another in dismay. ‘But Will Knollys can whistle for the treasury portion. It’s safer in my care.’ He grinned at Gil. ‘And I’ll deny saying that, on oath.’
‘And there are our books,’ added Gil.
Sinclair’s expression changed, and the sapphires on his hat caught the light as he pushed it forward. ‘Oh, aye, those books. Quite a surprise, that was, when we unstitched the canvas just now and found Knowe well to Dye in black velvet, rather than a wee box of coin. D’ye ken what else is in the batch?’
‘I’ve got Halyburton’s docket,’ said Gil. ‘Have you unpacked any more?’
‘Not yet. If there’s anything good, I might make you an offer.’
‘Fair enough, but I want the Morte Darthur.’
Maistre Pierre stirred on the bench beside Gil. ‘This treasure. Some of it was, I take it,’ he said, picking his words with care, ‘a loan from the Hospitallers to the late King?’ An interesting assumption, thought Gil. ‘I think they want it back.’
‘Seems likely,’ agreed Sinclair.
‘I also think,’ continued the mason, ‘if it is hid in the obvious place, that we need to get it out before work begins in the morning.’
Sinclair gave him a sharp look, then nodded. ‘Also likely. I’d need proof the Order’s looking for it, of course.’
‘I think Johan can give you that,’ interposed Gil.
Sinclair looked round the room, and rose to his feet.
‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘We’ll go and find this Johan, will we? Where is he, in the Skelly Matt?’
The sky was still greenish to the west, but overhead it was dark, and the moon had not yet risen. The torches made little difference, and the shadows of the pinescented timber stacks around the church jumped distractingly.
‘We do better without,’ said Johan, tramping his out underfoot. ‘Now where?’
‘The roof,’ said Sinclair.
The Hospitaller looked upwards, into the web of poles. ‘You mean we go up the scaffolding?’
‘There’s a ladder in the lodge,’ said Robison, ‘and another within the kirk.’
Behind him the musician eyed the towering bulk of the building in its cloak of timbers, and turned away.
‘Which part of the roof?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘Above the vault?’
‘No,’ said Sinclair. He grinned, in the leaping light of the torch in Robison’s grasp. ‘I’ll tell you no more. It’s well protected. If you’re the craftsman I think you are, you’ll find it, and if you can find it, you can take the St Johns share. But mind, the rest’s to stay where it is, till it suits me to gie it ower.’