‘May I see?’ Alys took the paper he held, and ran a finger down the returns. ‘Where was it all going? This alone would keep the bedehouse in comfort, I should have thought. Whose gift was it?’
‘Now that’s interesting,’ said Gil, scrutinizing the opened packet on the table. ‘It was gifted by the parents of Humphrey Agnew, specifically for his keep.’
‘Surely that isn’t the original?’ asked Alys, looking round his shoulder.
‘No, an extract only.’ He was still studying the abbreviated phrases. ‘The parchment must be filed safe elsewhere. See, here it merely says, ad domusdei S Servi, de Thomasi Agnew et Anna Paterson ux suis, pro bono Umfridi fil eis.’
‘I would have expected better Latin,’ she said critically.
‘Not necessarily.’ He turned the leaf and skimmed over the other side. ‘This lists the boundaries of the land, and the buildings and tenants. It seems to include an entire ferm-toun. Nothing here about the terms of the gift. The parchment will have the detail — what prayers are expected, and how much care Humphrey gets in return for the income.’
‘He must need a deal of care, poor man,’ said Alys. ‘Gil, what is all this about birds?’
‘He seems to see the folk around him as birds,’ Gil agreed. ‘Maister Cubby as a woodpecker, Millar as an owl. And the Deacon was a shrike and then a robin.’
‘Why a robin?’
‘Because he’s dead,’ Gil quoted. ‘Whether he means the one in the bairns’ rhyme — I said the sparrow with my bow and arrow — or the one St Mungo brought back to life, I’ve no notion.’
‘St Mungo’s robin? But the saint will not bring the Deacon back to life.’
‘It seems unlikely.’
‘Naismith was making a good profit from the situation,’ said Maistre Pierre. He had gone on to another sheaf of paper. ‘Now this is a Douglas gift. If the family uses the place as a townhouse, I imagine the Deacon would have less freedom to divert these funds.’
‘And you said the man’s own papers are in his kist,’ Alys prompted.
‘It is locked,’ said her father without looking up. ‘The keys are yonder.’
Following her after a short time, Gil found her on her knees before the painted kist, its lid open. She was going methodically through the packets of paper and parchment from one of the inner compartments, but as he knelt beside her she inspected the last one and gathered them up to put them back in the kist, their dangling seals clicking together.
‘I wondered if the bedehouse papers were here,’ she said, ‘but these are the documents for the man’s own possessions. What about this? Ah!’ She scooped another handful from a different compartment and gave half to Gil. He contrived to touch her fingers as he took them, and she looked round, smiled as their eyes met, looked quickly away. What is the matter, he wondered, trying not to look at the bed beyond her. Mistress Mudie had obviously been up to clean the lodging, for the mattress was stripped, the bare pillows piled at its head and the tapestry counterpane folded neatly at the foot.
‘Here is the Kilsyth gift,’ said Alys. She handed him the crackling document. ‘Is this the complete disposition?’
‘It is,’ he agreed, running his eye down the lines of careful script. ‘Drawn up by Thomas Agnew the younger, it says — ’
‘Is that the same man?’
‘It must be. It doesn’t add much to what we know already,’ he admitted. ‘The property seems to be dedicated to Humphrey’s keep, and to revert to the bedehouse absolutely after his death.’
‘Unwise,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘What if he became worse and had to be sent somewhere he could be shut away? How would he be supported then?’
‘I suppose the parents felt the bedehouse would pay for that out of this gift.’
‘Perhaps the previous Deacon was less acquisitive.’
He nodded, and folded the parchment carefully back into its creases. ‘I’ll ask Millar if I may take all these documents for safe keeping just now. Then we can go through them at more leisure.’
‘A good plan. And what is this?’ Alys lifted a piece of paper from the floor. She turned it over, looking at the writing, and unfolded it. ‘It’s a map, with notes. Did it fall out when I unfolded that disposition? There are names on it — is that Auchenreoch? Queenzie?’
‘It must have,’ said Gil, answering her second question. ‘Those are names from the Kilsyth property.’
‘Someone has planned great things.’ She turned the sheet of paper to read more of the notes. ‘A vast house, by the look of it. How many cartloads of stone? Do you know the writing?’
‘It’s Naismith’s.’ Gil grinned. ‘The bedehouse properties are at the Deacon’s disposition, and he has certainly made the most of the situation, as your father said. Ambitious!’
‘Did you say,’ she recalled thoughtfully, ‘that the man of law suggested he might have been altering the terms of the dispositions?’
‘I did.’ Gil unfolded the parchment again and spread it out on the swept boards between them. ‘I wonder. What do you think? I see nothing irregular here.’
‘No,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s all in the one hand, isn’t it.’
He looked down at the neat paragraphs, and then at her face beside his, leaned forward and kissed her. She moved at the last moment, so that it landed on her cheek rather than her mouth, but she turned her head slightly and returned the salute, a single, clinging kiss. Then, with a little shiver, she drew away and scrambled to her feet.
‘I must go down the hill,’ she said. ‘There are things I must see to.’
‘We’ll show this to Pierre,’ said Gil, ‘and get these papers packed up, and then I’ll come with you. I have to find John Veitch’s lodging and speak to the widow.’
Leaving Maistre Pierre planning to go out and find his men, they set out to walk down the High Street, arm in arm, the dog at their heels. The wind was still chilly, with spatters of rain in it.
‘I hope it will be dry next week,’ said Alys doubtfully, pulling her plaid up with her free hand. ‘The brocades will be spoiled if it’s wet.’
‘We should have made it a double wedding with Kate and Augie Morison, in September, as they suggested. They had a fine day.’
‘I wish we had, now.’ She looked up at him, and quickly away. ‘It would all be …’
‘All be what?’ Gil drew her aside to avoid a ranging pig outside one of the small cottages on the steep slope called the Bell o’ the Brae. ‘All be over by now? Is that how it seems to you, Alys?’ He stopped, turning to look down at her. ‘Something to be got over?’
‘No!’ she protested, going scarlet. ‘Gil, no!’ She glanced about them, moved closer and put her hand on his chest. ‘I want to be married, more than anything, I swear it. We’ll be together, we’ll be partners, man and wife. It’s just …’
‘Just what?’
She looked away, biting her lips.
‘I can’t explain. I don’t know.’
‘Alys.’ He gathered both her hands in his. ‘Something’s troubling you. Tell me.’
‘I can’t explain,’ she repeated, shaking her head. Resolutely she pulled away, took his arm and set off down the street again. ‘Gil, can you tell me anything about this — this bed your mother has sent?’
‘Bed,’ he repeated. ‘Oh, Pierre mentioned it.’
‘Sh-she says it was her marriage bed.’
‘If it’s the one I think,’ he said cautiously, ‘it’s a box bed like the one in Naismith’s lodging, much the same size but with a lot of carving about it. Saints and Green Men and so forth. The hangings were red cloth, if I mind right.’
‘Red,’ she said doubtfully. ‘They are still in the canvas. Lucky we decided on blue for the walls, then. It ought to fit in the chamber if it’s a box bed. I was afraid it might be a tester-bed,’ she admitted, ‘built for a higher room.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘It’s generous of her.’
‘That doesn’t answer me.’ She was silent. ‘Did we have a bed other than this one?’