‘And the match point!’ called the scorekeeper, with what sounded to Gil like relief. ‘The King’s grace takes the match.’
There was another patter of applause. Gil lowered his racket and found himself grinning at his opponent, the involuntary response to a rewarding game.
‘St James’s staff and shells!’ said the King. He met Gil’s grin with one of his own, and threw his racket to yet another servant. ‘What a chase, that last set. Maister Cunningham, we’ll ha another game the next time I come through Glasgow, or my name’s no James Stewart.’ He offered Gil his hand, and used the clasp to draw him under the net to his side. ‘I thought you looked like a good player, man. Come and wash.’
He led him towards the service gallery, where Angus and the Boyds still watched. The blue-liveried servants came forward with wet towels, a folding table, goblets, a tray of biscuits, and retired again. James handed Gil a towel, mopped happily at his neck and chest, then said, with another grin, ‘Dicht my back for me, Maister Cunningham, and then I’ll do yours.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Gil inadequately, trying to conceal amazement. James turned, peering into the shade of the gallery. His back was lean, well muscled, decorated here and there with spots. The chain belt showed at his waist above the top of his hose. Gil wadded his own towel and wiped hesitantly at the royal hide.
‘Harder, man,’ commanded the King. ‘You’ll never shift the salt playing pat-a-cake like that. Aye, that’s better. Now, while we’re not to be interrupted,’ he said, staring direct at the three men in the gallery, ‘tell me what you didn’t tell me yestreen.’
Gil froze for a moment, then continued rubbing at the King’s shoulders.
‘How much of it, sir? There’s a fair bit.’
‘Let’s have the kernel of it. Some of my late father’s hoard,’ he crossed himself, and his other hand strayed involuntarily to the iron chain at his waist, ‘was being moved about the country, and it seemed to me someone was trying to thieve it on its way. Am I right?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Gil again. ‘There was also some part of what may have been a loan from the Knights of St John. It was still in the sacks, with the seals on. I would say his late grace never saw it.’
‘And if my father never kent it was there,’ said James, leaning back against Gil’s ministrations, ‘and it could be stolen away, whoever got it could write it down sheer profit.’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Who?’
‘I would say you’ve guessed, sir.’
‘Aye, but guesses are no proof. Have you proof, maister? Let’s hear it.’
‘I have,’ said Gil. He gave as compressed a summary as he might of the successive attempts to intercept the search for the identity of the dead man and the remainder of his load. The King listened intently; halfway through, without interrupting, he turned, gestured to Gil to turn his back, and twisting his own towel into a rope began rubbing Gil down as if he were a horse. The three watchers in the gallery never stirred.
‘And these two you took last night,’ said the King when Gil finished his tale, ‘that the Watch have put in the Tolbooth for you, are the same as attacked you along with the axeman on the Pentlands, and have been seen with him in Glasgow.’ Gil nodded. ‘Body of Christ, the road from here to Edinburgh must be smoking by now. Even at this time of year with the long days, it’s a hard ride across Scotland. And how much have they admitted, maister?’
‘Unless the Watch got anything from them,’ said Gil, ‘not even their names, though I know what those are, and the injured man at least is linked to — ’
‘Ah!’ said the King, and paused. ‘I suppose he could still deny it.’
‘No matter, sir,’ said Angus from the shadows. ‘If we tell him they’re taken — ’
‘Aye, and ask for his seals. We’ll have both off him, my lord Angus, before we leave Glasgow. The Treasurer’s seal and the Comptroller’s both.’
‘And gladly, sir,’ said Angus emphatically. ‘Bring them to you, will I?’
‘Aye, for we’ll need to discuss who gets them next. But first,’ said James, as a thought struck him, ‘I want enough coin off him for two-three days. Including,’ he slapped Gil on the shoulder quite as if he were a horse, ‘there you are, maister, you’re done, including two, no, three purses for this morning. You know the sort of thing, my lord.’
Chapter Fourteen
‘This curst litter is full of boulders,’ complained Maistre Pierre.
‘We’re nearly at Glasgow now,’ said Gil, hiding a grin. ‘You’ll be home in an hour or two, and then you can lie in your own bed.’
He looked over his shoulder at the small cavalcade of their baggage and the escort Sinclair had provided. It had taken them two days to travel from Roslin, and Maistre Pierre had grumbled most of the way, about the horse he was expected to ride, about the litter which he did not need, about not having found a barber in Roslin, or about any other subject which came to mind. Clearly, the ten or twelve days he had spent being nursed by Mistress Robison had done little for his temper.
‘Why should I wish to lie in any bed?’
‘I’ve sent Luke on ahead,’ Gil said, ignoring this, ‘to warn the two households. I thought my uncle and Kate should know we’re near home, as well as Alys.’
‘And what if they don’t wish to know?’
‘And I need to get a word with Augie,’ Gil added. ‘He was wanting to speak to me the day I left, but Robert Blacader was back in Glasgow and sent for me, and there was no time.’
‘Tell me again what his lordship said.’
‘I’m attached to his retinue,’ said Gil. ‘It’s a formal appointment, with the title of Quaestor, and a benefice attached.’ He grinned. ‘Somewhere in Argyll. Not one of the fat ones, of course, no manse in the Chanonry or seat in Chapter, but still it’s a benefice, with enough to pay a vicar and still have a bit income.’
‘And the duties of this appointment?’
‘I’ve to do more or less what we’ve been doing. Look into any case of secret murder within the diocese, or maybe the entire Archdiocese, I wasn’t quite sure which he meant. Go where his lordship sends me, I suppose. Report to him, find justice for the dead.’
‘A wide remit,’ said Maistre Pierre doubtfully. ‘And when you are not so employed?’
Gil shrugged, and steered his horse round a pothole in the road. ‘I’ll have to wait and see if Blacader wants me at his side or not. If not, then I can live in Glasgow and set up as a notary, fetch in a little more money.’
‘So we may set a date for your marriage.’
‘Yes,’ said Gil with satisfaction. I long for the wedding, he thought. The lute tune sprang into his head, and with it the image of the three lutenists in Stirling bent together over their instruments, passing not that melody but its companion from one to another, runs and trills and doubling passages thickening the texture, while McIan sat in his great chair clasping his harp and listening intently. All will be well, he had said, and it was.
‘Does Alys know?’
‘I took the time to go by the house and tell her before I left Glasgow. When I came away she was considering the dry stores. She seemed to feel there were not enough almonds in Glasgow for her purpose.’
‘More than likely. I suppose she will want a second fine gown to be married in,’ said her father, with spurious resignation. ‘Black brocade is likely too sombre.’
They went on in silence for a while, past Garrowhill and Springboig. Maistre Pierre lay back among the cushions which supported him, staring at the swaying roof of the litter. The escort started an argument about a battle a few of them had been in, which someone tried to settle by singing a ballad in High Dutch. Gil thought of Rob, and then of Johan.