‘I hold the keys of Death and of Death’s domain — I have the power to make men slaughter one another, for God’s word and for the testimony they shall bear!’
‘Brothers, please, I b-beg of you, calm yoursels!’
‘Humphrey my poppet, let go, come and sit nice and have a wee drink — ’
Agnew was going black in the face and the choking sounds were diminishing; the grip about his throat was amazingly strong. Gil, with hindrance from Mistress Mudie, managed to get hold of one of Humphrey’s little fingers and tugged backwards. The old trick worked. Agnew himself managed to break the grip of his brother’s other hand and fell back into Millar’s arms, drawing a crowing breath. Cubby and Maister Veitch got between Humphrey and his quarry, and Gil and Mistress Mudie drew the struggling bedesman towards the kitchen door, the Apocalypse rising above the general uproar.
‘The beast shall be taken prisoner, and cast into the lake of fire, and all the birds shall gorge themselves on its flesh!’
I hope they like roast meat, thought Gil.
‘- lovely milk for you, wi soothing herbs in it, and a wee bit honey, all for you, my poppet, and I hope the man of law didny hurt you tugging at your fingers, if you’ll just come and have a nice sit-down and drink your milk — ’
‘We will conquer him by the testimony which we will utter — ’
‘St Mungo send he doesny turn into a cheese,’ said Maister Veitch’s dry tones.
Humphrey was steered struggling through the kitchen, where the three servants stood quickly out of the way as if they were used to this happening, and into Mistress Mudie’s chamber. She thrust him down in the chair by her hearth.
‘- there now, my poppet, your milk won’t be a moment, and how can I thank you, maister, it’s a charitable act you’ve just done, best you get away the now, he’ll be right enough once I get his draught down him — ’
‘Are you sure?’ Gil asked, trying to get his breath.
‘The accuser of our brothers shall be overthrown,’ declaimed Humphrey, ‘for Michael and his angels shall wage war upon him, though he be allowed to mouth bombast and blasphemy!’ Then, in Scots, ‘The white eaglet, the goggie, will fling his brother from the nest, and snatch his share of the carrion!’
‘- all’s well, Humphrey, sit nice now, oh, aye, maister, he’s better already and Simmie’s there if I was needing any help, there now, and some honey to go wi the milk — ’
Gil retreated to the hall, where the rest of the embroilment had taken refuge. Agnew was seated in one of the chairs by the hearth, sipping water in small painful swallows, his breath whistling in his throat. The brethren were ranged about him arguing, and Millar stood by making anxious noises and asking questions.
‘But how did it happen?’
‘The nane o us saw it.’
‘Andro, the man must be keepit out o here! Humphrey’s never so bad as when he’s been round him.’
‘He’s never gaed for any o us afore this.’
This was probably no time to question Agnew himself. Extracted from the hall with a request for Naismith’s keys, Millar added little to what Gil had already guessed.
‘Humphrey wasny at Terce, but neither Sissie nor I knew his brother was in the place,’ he said, wringing his hands in distress. ‘He must have come in quietly afore the Office when Humphrey was resting in his own lodging, and stayed talking wi him far longer than I’d ha thought advisable. The first we heard was the shouting, and then Maister Agnew came running in from the garden, and Humphrey after him trying to get him by the throat.’
‘What had he said to provoke him?’
‘He’s aye been able to anger him,’ said Millar, ‘but I think from what Humphrey said, afore he went off into the Apocalypse, as ye heard, and then tried to strike Duncan wi his own staff, that Maister Agnew was wanting him to confess to having slain the Deacon.’
‘That’s what his texts suggested,’ Gil agreed.
Millar nodded, still wringing his hands. ‘Agnew’s took it into his head it was his brother, though I’ve tried to tell him it wasny possible because of the way the locks are, and that, and he must have tried — ’ He turned his head as the argument in the hall grew louder again. ‘Maister Cunningham, I’ll have to leave you till I deal wi this.’
Chapter Eight
Tib was still sitting at the window, the dog at her feet, staring anxiously at the door, when he returned to the upper chamber.
‘What was it?’ she asked.
He sat down, sighing. ‘The mad bedesman tried to kill his brother.’
‘Mad? I didn’t know one of them was mad!’
‘I’ve mentioned it before,’ he said mildly. ‘He’s shut in with Mistress Mudie now. She’ll dose him with something to calm him, and the others are no harm to anyone. Except Maister Veitch,’ he added, ‘who beat me black and blue to get the Latin into me.’
She sat in subdued silence for some time, then said, ‘Gil.’
‘Mm?’ He set down the paper he was studying.
‘This is a deal more work than I imagined you did.’
‘It’s all in the detail.’
‘And in mad people trying to kill each other.’
‘That doesny happen often,’ he said reassuringly.
‘I hope no,’ she said. Then, turning her head, ‘My, is that sunshine?’ She stretched her back. ‘Gil, would it be safe now if I go down into the garden for a wee while? I’ve not seen the sun for days.’
‘Humphrey won’t go for you even if he sets eyes on you. Don’t annoy Mistress Mudie,’ he said. She snorted. ‘And for God’s sake, Tib, if any of the old men speaks to you, be civil.’
‘What d’you take me for?’ She shook out her skirts and pushed her hair back from her brow, arranging the curling locks with a gesture Gil realized he had seen in all his sisters except Dorothea. ‘Can I no question them for you?’ she added with an air of innocence. ‘Old men like me. They try to pinch my chin.’
He grinned, and waved her towards the door.
‘Get away out and walk in the garden,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in a wee while.’
Is it simply because she is my sister, he wondered, as her footsteps receded down the creaking stair, or are our natures incompatible? With Alys beside me I get more done than when I’m alone, but with Tib in the room I can’t concentrate.
Socrates lay down on his feet. He sighed, and bent his head to the documents again. Somewhere in this dusty pile was the reason for Naismith’s death, he was certain.
He had turned over only another two pages when more steps on the stair heralded Maistre Pierre, a neat hank of linen tape in his hand.
‘I have measured the distance between those feet,’ he said without preamble, ‘and sent the men out, since they are doing nothing useful today. Wattie has the joint-ill and cannot hold a mallet, and the journeymen were celebrating something last night and will not be fit to work safely before noon. If Robert Blacader ever wishes to see his aisle finished, he had best pray for a miracle. So they may as well search the Upper Town for our ladder.’
‘Oh, the ladder!’ repeated Gil, in some relief. ‘I was thinking of the wrong kind of feet. That would be valuable, Pierre.’
The mason checked a moment, staring at him, then guffawed.
‘Feet? What kind of feet had you in mind?’ he demanded. Gil shook his head, aware that his colour was rising, hardly recognizing why. ‘No, I only measured the ladder. Feet!’
‘Is my sister in the garden?’
‘Yes, she was out there, talking to those two students. I would say she was well entertained. Certainly she hardly noticed me at the gate.’ Maistre Pierre set a familiar bunch of keys on the table. ‘And it seems the talking woman has finished laying out the corpse. Do you wish to come down and inspect it?’
Gil rose and crossed the room to the window where Tib had been sitting. Out in the garden was a tableau: the three young people stood conversing by the door of the Douglas lodging, Tib with her hands demurely folded at her waist, Michael leaning casually against the house wall, Lowrie tossing up his felt cap and catching it again. Seeing movement at the window he looked up, clapped the hat on his fair head in order to take it off again, and called, ‘Good day, Maister Cunningham. What more have you found?’