Robert Blacader had given up his own lodging to his monarch. Beyond the great hall and the entrance to the Archbishop’s private chapel, the outer and inner chambers of his suite were crowded, like the string of stuffy chambers at Stirling, with weary members of the court playing cards or dice to music from competing lutenists or discussing the best road to Kilmarnock. Mismatched tapestries hung on the walls, and there seemed to be a shortage of seating. Off the inner chamber, with its ostentatious display of plate set out on the cupboard, the page opened a door and ushered Gil through it.
The closet was panelled, painted and ablaze with light. There were several dozen candles burning round the walls, and more in pricket-stands here and there, flickering in the draught from the window which had been opened to let the heat out. Gil, blinking in the brightness, took in rather slowly that the room was also full of richly dressed people, and that only one of them was wearing a hat.
He snatched off his felt bonnet with an apology, and dropped to one knee.
‘Get up, Maister Cunningham,’ said James Stewart from the centre of the group, ‘and come and tell us how you’ve progressed since we saw you last.’
The King was seated near the fireplace, a card-table beside him as before, though this time it bore only a jug and some glasses. Tonight he was wearing tawny woollen and black silk, the huge sleeves of his gown decked with amber-coloured ribbons. Gil, thinking of his sister’s much-worn gown of the same colour, made a note to tell her about the ribbons. On one side of the table Robert Blacader acknowledged Gil’s salute with a wave of his ring; on the other, expansive in gold-coloured satin with wide fur facings, William Knollys smiled affably. Behind the King a cleric was in deep discussion with the Earl of Angus and my lord Hume the Chamberlain; as he turned his head Gil recognized Andrew Forman the apostolic protonotary, whom he knew to be a friend of his uncle’s. Beyond him a familiar profile must be his mother’s cousin, Angus’s brother-in-law Archie Boyd.
‘Come, maister,’ said the King again. ‘Is there a seat for Maister Cunningham? Now tell us, have you put a name to your man in the barrel?’
‘He’s none of mine, sir,’ said Gil hastily. One of the liveried servants brought forward a stool, and he sat down, assembling his thoughts, filtering, sifting. ‘I have his name and I think I know who killed him and where,’ he added. ‘But I’ve not found the rest of him.’
Choosing his words with caution, passing lightly over any mention of the purpose of moving the treasure, he recounted his visit to the cooper’s yard and what he had learned there, the finding of the patch of blood, the empty barrel, the idea that the other barrel had gone on the wrong cart through simple error.
This was not like discussing matters with Alys or his sister. Every step, every word had to be explained, justified, expounded, to one or other of the two plump, blue-jowled faces scrutinizing his account. Blacader’s questions betrayed a deep concern for the truth, but Knollys’s seemed more directed towards dismantling Gil’s theories and suppositions. At times Gil was aware of impatience in James’s movements, but he listened carefully to the questions and to Gil’s answers, nodding now and then. Behind him the Earl of Angus watched intently.
‘But your own suspicions, maister. Surely you suspect more than you’ve learned?’ the King said, when Gil had recounted his conclusions after his interview with the cooper.
‘I do, sir,’ agreed Gil.
‘You’ve little enough proof for some of your tale, it seems to me,’ said Knollys, still wearing his open smile, though the yellow gems in his rings flashed in the light. ‘Most of the carter’s actions can only be guessed at, for one thing.’
‘Quite so, sir,’ said Gil, ‘but someone opened the gates, someone swept up the shavings, and I think the cooper was telling the truth.’ In that, at least, he thought.
‘And this man with the axe,’ said the King reflectively. ‘He fair gets about. Linlithgow, Glasgow, maybe Leith.’
‘He got about,’ Gil agreed, ‘but he’ll go no further. He’s dead, last night, sir.’
‘Dead?’ said the Archbishop. Gil was aware of sharp attention from the group. ‘How did that come about?’
‘Did you question him?’ asked Knollys. ‘Who was he?’
‘We had no chance,’ said Gil. Who had relaxed a little? he wondered. It was hard to keep an eye on everyone present, particularly in the leaping candlelight. ‘We took him prisoner when he attacked our party, but he died before we could question him.’ And I know his name, he thought, but we’ll keep that quiet just now.
‘And you’re saying,’ said James, ‘this is the same man that slew the carter here on Thursday night? The carter’s lassie was before us earlier this night, asking justice for her man. Do we have more than her word to link this axeman to this carter?’ He held out his hands, one for each miscreant, and linked the fingers to illustrate his meaning.
‘My sister saw them talking in a tavern,’ said Gil.
The King’s eyebrows went up, and the Treasurer said, laughing indulgently, ‘Now, maister, surely not! Your sister would never be in the kind of tavern such a man would drink in!’
Gil, preserving his expression, explained the purpose which had taken Alys and Kate to the tavern. James nodded in approval.
‘A clever notion,’ he said. ‘Very clever. That’s a good-thinking lassie you’re betrothed to, Maister Cunningham.’
‘She’s the wisest lassie in Glasgow,’ said Gil, and could not keep the warmth out of his voice.
The King grinned at him, a sudden man-to-man look. ‘You like them clever, do you, maister?’ he said. Before Gil could find an answer to this he went on, ‘Well, we’ve a name for the man in the barrel, but no body, and now we’ve a body for the man with the axe, but no name. This’ll not do, gentlemen. My lord St Johns,’ he said formally to Knollys, ‘I hope you can write the morn’s morn as Sheriff of Linlithgow, and have your depute get a search made up on the hillside for the body that went out those gates.’ Knollys bowed his head, and behind him a servant in the St Johns livery drew a set of tablets from his purse and made a note. The men of Linlithgow will love that, thought Gil, just at harvest-time. ‘And, my lord Treasurer,’ continued the King, ‘I hope you’re searching already for the place where the treasure was hidden. Where there’s some of it, there might be more.’
‘Aye, sir, you can be certain,’ said Knollys, smiling. Blacader watched him across the table, his face inscrutable.
‘And you, Maister Cunningham,’ said James, ‘can find me the name of the man wi the axe and his confederates. But I’d sooner you stayed in one piece yourself, maister, for Scotland can do with clear thinkers.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ said Gil.
‘And now,’ said the King, ‘shall we have the servant lass and the merchant in, and set all these tales thegither?’
‘Is it not ower late for that, sir?’ suggested Blacader.
‘Havers. It canny be past midnight,’ said James. ‘Fetch them in.’
Gil, in a moment’s hesitation, considered announcing that his tale was not finished, dismissed the idea, and found he was aware of someone else hesitating in the same way. He looked from one blue-chinned face to the other on either side of the table. Blacader’s gaze slid sideways from his towards the door, where a servant was just leaving; Knollys said pleasantly, ‘You had a good day for such a long ride, Maister Cunningham. What road did you take to reach Glasgow?’
‘It was,’ Gil agreed, following this lead. ‘Dry, but no too hot. I came direct from Roslin, so I rode through Bathgate and the Monklands, and it was dry all the way.’
‘It’s been a good week for the harvest,’ said James, looking round from a low-voiced conversation with Angus.
By the time Augie Morison and his servant were escorted before their King this topic was being generally explored. It was clear that James had a good understanding of the work of the land and its place at the centre of existence. Gil, who had met scholars older than James who failed to accept this, was favourably impressed.