‘Kale,’ said Alys wryly. It was one thing she had not yet become used to in her years in Scotland, the relentless serving of the dark green, nourishing stewed leaves, so ubiquitous that kale simply meant food on many tables. Davie Drummond gave a small spurt of laughter.
‘They’ve no great love for it either, mistress.’
‘A good life, then,’ she prompted, aware of that liking again. He nodded. ‘Were you not sorry to leave it?’
‘I wanted to know how they did here,’ he said earnestly. ‘I wanted word of — of my brothers, and the old woman. And of the man of the house too, but it was too late for that.’ He crossed himself and muttered another phrase Alys did not catch, though it did not sound like Ersche.
‘Davie,’ said Murdo Dubh, handing his companion across the turf dyke, and contriving to bend his head in a brief bow to Alys as well. Socrates, recognizing an acquaintance, beat his tail in the dust a couple of times. ‘I saw Mòr nic Laran call you down from your rig. You’ll not reach the end of it before Jamie finishes his, I would say.’
‘Good day to you, Murdo,’ responded Davie Drummond. ‘Ciamar a tha sibh?’
‘The better for seeing you hale,’ said Murdo Dubh enigmatically. ‘Ailidh nic Seumas was wishing a word with the guest.’
The oldest granddaughter was clearly a Drummond too, though her hair was a darker shade, nearer to gold, and clung to her brow under her straw hat in sweaty curls rather than a flyaway frizz; her high forehead and blue eyes made her kinship to Davie very clear. The sleeves of her checked kirtle and her shift were rolled well up past her elbows, displaying sturdy forearms scratched by her work among the harvest. Her skirt, like the girl Agnes’s, was barely knee length. She bobbed a curtsy in answer to Alys’s greeting, and smiled shyly, but whispered something in Ersche to Davie.
‘Mistress Mason is speaking Gaelic,’ said Murdo hastily.
‘Only a very little,’ said Alys equally quickly, as Ailidh Drummond blushed crimson.
‘I have not told her yet,’ said Davie. The girl glanced at him, her colour still high.
‘If you will not say it, then I will,’ she urged in a half-voice. ‘Go on, Davie. It must be said.’
‘What must be said?’ Alys asked. ‘What do you wish me to hear?’
‘I was telling them some of it last night,’ said Murdo.
‘Go on, Davie,’ said Ailidh again. He was silent for a moment. Then he turned to face Alys, meeting her eye.
‘Mistress Mason,’ he said, his accent suddenly more Scots than Ersche, ‘I ken fine, for the word came up the glen yestreen, that you and your man are here from the Archbishop to speir at whether I’m who I say.’ She stared at him, open-mouthed, aware of her face burning like Ailidh’s. ‘But it seems to me there is a more important thing to be speiring at. Since ever I cam hame, someone is trying to kill me, and whoever it is they’ve been near killing the old woman more than once. I’m feart they’ll get her.’
Chapter Three
‘It’s a by-ordinar thing indeed,’ said Maister James Belchis, shuffling papers on his desk. ‘I never encountered sic a tale, never in all my time in the Law.’
‘Nor I,’ agreed Gil. ‘Nor anyone else that’s heard it.’
The road to Dunblane, back through Strathyre, was the same as the one they had taken into Balquhidder, and led past a long and winding loch and through a narrow pass which Sir William’s men had taken with their hands on their sword-hilts. Nevertheless, with only three men and no baggage-animals, Gil had made better speed than yesterday, reaching the little town a couple of hours after noon. Enquiry in the cathedral precinct had led him to the chambers of Maister Belchis, who as well as practising as a notary held the office of sub-Dean.
‘What’s more, I’ll be glad, we’ll all be glad, if you can get at the truth of the matter,’ went on Maister Belchis. He was a small man with a strong Perthshire accent, clad in an old-fashioned belted gown of black worsted, his tonsure hidden by a frivolous red felt hat. He put another sheaf of papers on top of the stack he had made, and left the desk. ‘You’ll take a drop of refreshment, Maister Cunningham? It’s a long ride from Balquhidder.’
‘How did the word reach Chapter?’ Gil asked, as his colleague poured the wine the servant had fetched in earlier.
‘Well.’ Maister Belchis passed Gil a beaker, offered him the platter of small cakes, and sat down again with a handful of the sweetmeats for himself. ‘The first we heard of it was a message to Canon Andrew Drummond, about four week since.’
‘That’s the brother?’
‘It is. A letter to Andrew from his mother. Andrew being,’ a pause while Maister Belchis sought for a word, ‘a wee thing taigled at the time, paid no mind to it, but another letter came maybe the fortnight after it, and that he had to bring to Chapter.’
‘Have you read either letter?’ Gil asked. And what might taigled refer to in this context? What distractions was a Canon of the Cathedral liable to encounter?
‘Only the second one.’ Gil waited, and the other man ate two little cakes one after the other while he thought. ‘I suppose Andrew might tell you himself, if you talk wi him, and you need to hear the content to make sense o it all. Aye. It was writ by the parish priest’s servant, who writes a good clear hand, on behalf of Andrew Drummond’s mother. In it she declares in so many words that Andrew’s brother David has returned from Elfhame and that she wishes him to have his place in the choir again, since he still has a boy’s voice, and to attend the sang-schule. And,’ continued Maister Belchis, raising one eyebrow at Gil, ‘to this end, she promises that if Chapter accepts the laddie back, she’ll grant land with an income of twelve merks per annum, to be succentor’s mensal.’
‘A handsome bribe,’ said Gil. ‘Twelve merks a year to provide food to one man’s table is worth having. Does she have the means to do that?’
‘Oh, never a bribe, maister,’ said Belchis with irony. ‘A gift, surely. And Dougie Cossar would be glad of it, his table being ill-furnished the now. As to the means, I’d say — ’ he paused, and then continued with careful discretion, ‘I had the impression Andrew thinks she can do it.’
‘The diocese is still short of money, then?’ said Gil. ‘I’d heard Bishop Chisholm had improved matters a bit.’
‘Oh, aye, he’s improved things, but we’re still a bit tight.’ Belchis sipped his wine. Gil did likewise, appreciating the light sharp flavour.
‘And how did Chapter react to this letter?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Chapter couldny agree,’ said the other man. He laughed, without humour. ‘It’s been tabled for three, no, four meetings now, and every time we end up arguing about whether it’s possible the laddie really has come back from Elfhame, or whether he still has a voice fit for the sang-schule after thirty year, or whether he was stolen or ran away, and in the second case whether we’d be within rights no to accept him back. We’ve said all that’s to be said on it, more than once, and we’re no nearer a decision.’
Gil nodded in sympathy, and looked at the tablets on his knee. It would probably be tactless to make a note of this right now.
‘Where would the original records be, from when the boy first vanished?’ he asked.
‘Likely wi the other sang-schule records. There’s one or two of the Canons mind the matter well enough, we’ve never needed to look it up for the meetings.’
‘It’s the Abbot of Inchaffray is your Precentor, am I right? He’ll not be in residence. So I suppose I should talk to the succentor about that.’
‘Dougie Cossar.’ Belchis glanced at the sun pouring in the window beside him. ‘He keeps the sang-schule in his own manse, but the boys have a holiday the now. I couldny just say where he’d be, for he might ha one choir or another to rehearse, but you could start at the manse.’