‘No, no, maister could never take it,’ he said kindly, ‘no wi a great horsie to drag along the path. The horsie would fall down and be hurtit,’ he explained.
‘He’s right at that,’ commented Ned. ‘It’s a track for a man afoot, no for a powny. But it’s no so difficult to make out, and it’s an easy enough walk down to Dalriach from the crown o the way. If you knew it was there, you’d find it no bother.’
Euan laid a huge, filthy hand on Gil’s arm, peering up at him with those beautiful eyes. The hen tipped her head and eyed him with a very similar expression.
‘Was that all the word you was wanting?’ he asked. ‘For Euan has to sweep the stackyard afore the hairst comes home, you ken.’
‘Aye, you get on wi your work.’ Gil patted the hand and stepped away. ‘That was a good word, Euan. My thanks, and God’s blessing on you.’ He raised his hat again, and watched as the crouched figure made its crabbed way back into the barn, the hen spreading her wings to keep her balance.
‘Daft thing,’ said Ned, leading Gil’s horse forward.
‘Waste o time that was, maister,’ said Tam.
‘On the contrary,’ said Gil. ‘It was well worth it. I’m glad you pointed the place out, Tam.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘Now, have we time to call at the Kirkton afore we get back to Stronvar, do you think, Ned?’
The Kirkton of Balquhidder hardly seemed a larger settlement than the group of buildings which made up Drumyre. Having sent Ned and Tam onwards from Gartnafueran with the weary horses, Gil followed Donal on foot across the flat valley floor, and paused at the end of the resonant wooden bridge to study the clachan. There was the little kirk itself, perched on a natural platform some way back from the river. Perhaps half a dozen houses lay around it, a ring of tall grey stones stood on a grassy slope below, and there was enough farmed land round about to make it clear that more than the old priest’s glebe was being worked, although the harvest was not quite ready. Several small black cows were making their slow way home from the water-meadows, with a herd laddie singing among them. Above the kirk, on the steep, imposing bare rock he had seen from the garden at Stronvar, two goats were perched casually nibbling tussocks of grass.
‘No, no, Sir Duncan is not dwelling in the kirk any longer,’ said Donal when asked. ‘He would be falling off the loft ladder, you understand, the age he is. Sir William got him a fine house built on the glebe land, with a good stout door and a latch, and even a tirling-pin as if you were in Callander.’
‘He’ll be there now, I suppose,’ said Gil, looking about. ‘It’s a wide parish for an old man to take care of. Who has the living? Can Sir William not get a younger man put in?’
‘The way I was hearing it,’ said Donal, ‘Sir William was asking them at Dunblane to name a new priest for the parish, last year it would be, and one of the Canons came himself to see.’ He grinned. ‘It was maybe one of Sir Duncan’s good days. He was having more of those, you will understand, maister, what with young Rob Ruaidh that is keeping him washed and fed now, even if the laddie can’t be making a peat fire stay alight. Whatever, Canon Fresall went home saying it was all as it should be and no need to put the old man out of his living. We were thinking,’ he said with an innocent expression, ‘he’d maybe have to pay a new man more to dwell here, so of course he would be pleased to think all was well.’
‘I’ve no doubt of it.’ Gil paused beside the ring of stones. Several children playing in its heart scattered to peer shyly at the stranger from under a group of hawthorn trees. ‘Which is Sir Duncan’s house?’
Donal pointed to the nearest of the long, low buildings. This one was stouter than some, with good stone gables and a sound layer of bracken thatch held down by a new rope net. Peat smoke filtered up through the mesh; it looked as if Rob Ruaidh was in control of the fire for the moment. Gil picked his way along the path, avoiding more hens and an inquisitive sheep, pausing at the open door to savour the smell of cooking which met him before he reached out to rattle at the tirling-pin Donal had mentioned.
‘Sir Duncan?’ he called. ‘Are you within? May I enter?’
There was a clatter in the shadows inside, and something hissed on the fire.
‘Christ and his saints preserve us!’ said a voice. A young voice, a lowland voice. A hostile voice. ‘What in the Deil’s name are you doing here, Cunningham?’
‘Christ aid!’ said Gil, equally startled. ‘Who — Robert Montgomery?’
‘The same.’ Another clatter as something was set down, movement in the shadows, and a tall young man came to the doorway, chin up, staring intently down his nose at Gil. Dark hair sprang thickly from a wide forehead, a square jaw jutted. Robert Montgomery, nephew of that turbulent baron Hugh, Lord Montgomery who was at odds with all Cunninghams.
‘Of course,’ said Gil after a moment’s genealogical reckoning, ‘your uncle’s lady is a Campbell. She must be first cousin to Lady Stewart, that’s the connection. But why here — ?’
‘Is it any of your business?’ demanded the young man.
‘I suppose it isny,’ agreed Gil. ‘Good day to you, Robert. Is Sir Duncan in his house? Can I get a word wi him?’
‘No,’ said Robert baldly. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘He’s sleeping the now. He’s no had a good day, I’ll not disturb him.’ Not for you, suggested his tone.
‘I’m after a bit of local history,’ Gil said. ‘Would you say he could manage that some time? How bad is he?’
‘Mortal,’ said Robert. He looked over his shoulder again, and stepped out into the sunshine. ‘He’s got a week or so, maybe, but he’s on his way out. He’s all too like my grandsire in his last days.’ He considered briefly. ‘You’d get more sense out of him on a morning. If you can get him on to a subject he likes, he’s clear enough yet, and the history of the parish would do that.’
‘Is he not even managing the Office?’ said Gil, dismayed.
‘No,’ said Robert again. He had a way of saying the word which conveyed volumes, something which Gil recalled from his first encounter with the young man, more than a year since in very difficult circumstances. ‘Martainn Clerk and I can deal wi the Office,’ he expanded, ‘seeing I’m in Minor Orders, but there’s no been a Mass said in St Angus’ Kirk for weeks.’ His face softened. ‘He lies in his bed reciting Matins and Lauds over and over again, jumbling all the words and losing the place, certain he’s offering up what’s right.’
‘It is an offering, then,’ Gil observed. Robert looked at him sharply, and then away again. ‘And you have charge of him and his house, do you?’
‘I do.’ And do you want to make anything of it? said the tone of voice.
‘Not easy. Cooking and keeping him clean, as well as taking care of the Office — it’s a lot to do on your own.’
‘That was the point,’ said Robert, with a sour laugh ‘Anyway, it’s not as if there was anything else to do out here.’
Gil carefully refrained from looking around at the hills full of game, the river leaping with fish, the meadows full of wildfowl. A young man reared like this one must be tempted almost hourly to go out with bow or spear or line, to fetch home meat for the pot or for salting down for winter. Fighting the temptation would almost be worse than the menial tasks heaped on him by his servitude to the dying man.
‘I suppose you’re here,’ said Robert abruptly, ‘about this tale of the fellow come back from Elfhame?’
‘I am,’ agreed Gil, raising one eyebrow. ‘What tellt you that?’
‘Aye, well. It’s the only thing in the parish for the last hundred years that might attract Blacader’s quaestor.’
‘How much have you heard about it?’ Gil asked. ‘You scrieved the letter to Andrew Drummond at Dunblane, they tell me.’
‘I did. Two letters, in fact. The old woman asked me to write, told me exactly what she wanted said, made her mark at the foot o the paper.’ He shrugged. ‘If she’s had an answer, I’ve heard nothing. I’ve no been asked to scrieve a reply, any road.’
‘The second letter you wrote,’ said Gil slowly. ‘It promised a valuable gift to the Cathedral if they take the boy back at the sang-schule.’ Robert nodded curtly. ‘Tell me, do you think she had talked it over wi her family?’