‘Do you think she went willingly?’ Lowrie asked after a moment.
‘A lot turns on that,’ agreed Gil. ‘And on precisely why she was released.’
Lowrie was silent while they skirted the high sandstone walls of the Castle and approached the gate of St Mungo’s kirkyard. Finally he said, counting off the points on his fingers,
‘Marriage by consent, whether for love or money. Marriage by capture. Simple compassion.’
‘As a hostage,’ Gil supplied. ‘To get control of her land or her money, even without marriage. Any of these.’ He paused on the slope that led down to the Girth Burn, looking about him. Off to their left the building site which was Archbishop Blacader’s addition to his cathedral church showed signs of life, with the clink of metal on stone and the creak of wooden scaffolding; as Gil turned that way Maistre Pierre’s head showed above the wall. Seeing them, the mason waved, and vanished down into the structure.
Between the Fergus Aisle and the burn which formed the boundary of the kirkyard was a clump of hawthorns, their berries just beginning to show in still-green clusters. Taller trees beyond them threw a thick-leaved shade. Crows swirled about their tops, cawing, and the long blades of bluebells grew thickly in the dappled spaces between the glowing sunlit trunks, the flowers long faded and the green seed-cases ripening on the curved stems. A sudden memory assailed Gil, of hunting among the bluebells for a harp-key while the harper’s mistress, small John’s mother, lay dead in the Fergus Aisle, of finding a wisp of woollen thread from her plaid on one of those same hawthorn bushes.
‘So again we search the kirkyard,’ said Maistre Pierre at his elbow.
‘Aye. Have Andro’s men been here?’
‘No, they have tramped the other bank of the Girth Burn, through the gardens, but did not enter the kirkyard. I suppose they have no jurisdiction on church land.’
‘There’s been nothing bigger than a fox through those bluebells,’ said Lowrie.
‘Not in the last day and a night,’ agreed Gil. ‘Let’s take a look at the Cross itself.’
Chapter Four
They approached with care along the path, all three men scrutinising the ground about their feet as they went. The Cross was not a cross, but a tall stone with the shadows of ancient images still visible on all four sides; it could easily date back to Kentigern’s time. If it had ever had arms they were long since broken off, but Gil thought he could make out a cross carved in relief on one uneven surface, with the ring, or nimbus, or symbol of the infinite Godhead, or whatever it was, circling the juncture.
‘It takes more than one man,’ observed Maistre Pierre, ‘to tie someone to that, unless the subject is willing.’
‘Did you say you saw them bind Mistress Gibb?’ Lowrie asked.
‘I did. It took three of them. I was rounding up my men like a sheepdog, you understand, and young Berthold was right at the front of the crowd. I had a good view. Two were servants, I should say, and one man in a gown worth a baron’s ransom who held her in her place while the men bound the ropes about her. And one of the clergy, was it that fellow Craigie? offering up prayers.’
‘So was the other woman, the one in the chapel now, still alive when she was put here?’ Lowrie stood still to contemplate the idea. ‘Why would she consent? Or was she already dead, or in a great swoon from the beating, or what? I wouldny think it any easier to bind a dead woman here than a live one.’
‘We’re looking for traces of at least two people, then,’ said Gil.
‘There were more than two about here last evening,’ declared Maistre Pierre.
Gil stepped cautiously over to the Cross and stood with his back to it, looking about him.
‘Unless they crossed the burn,’ he said slowly, ‘whoever released her came down the slope from the gate, and the ground’s by far too trampled to tell how many they were. I wonder, was she awake, expecting them?’
‘Like Maister Craigie,’ said Lowrie. Gil, who had already seen the songman making his way towards them, made no comment, but Maistre Pierre tutted audibly. ‘It makes less and less sense, doesn’t it?’ Lowrie went on.
‘It never has made sense,’ grumbled the mason. ‘Everything we have learned so far has made the matter more confusing.’
‘Well, well, Gilbert,’ said Craigie in Latin, coming close enough to speak. ‘And what have you learned so far? A sad matter, a sad matter, and not good for St Mungo’s.’
‘The Sub-Dean is very displeased,’ agreed Gil, accurate but uninformative.
‘Very sad,’ repeated Craigie. ‘I little thought, when I offered prayers for Mistress Gibb’s healing, that this would be the consequence of her petition to our saint.’
‘It was you offered prayers?’
‘It was. Her family wished it, and I was free. And now this has happened.’
Gil considered him. He was a handsome, stocky man with a wide grin, dressed with less flamboyance than Maister Sim in a fashionably cut long gown of dark green cloth faced with black velvet. His belt was shod with silver, the brim of his round felt hat was pinned up with a bright enamel brooch, and altogether he was the image of a prosperous, modest cleric. Now, becoming slightly uncomfortable under Gil’s gaze, he said, switching to Scots,
‘Is that right, what the bellman’s crying? Does it mean someone throttled a complete stranger? Surely not! I canny believe it!’
‘She is certainly a stranger so far,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘We have not yet a name for her.’
‘But what was she doing here? Where is Mistress Gibb?’
‘If I knew that I’d be rattling at her door,’ Gil observed. ‘What did you see when they called you down here this morning, William?’
‘What did I see? Well, her men were here at her side, and there the woman was bound to the Cross. You saw her yoursel, Gil. How did the men no recognise her? That’s gey strange!’
‘You saw her too,’ Gil pointed out. ‘You must mind how badly she was beaten. Her men saw what they expected to, I suppose. Nobody else was about?’
‘No at that moment, though a good few gathered once they saw us.’
‘Which of the men came up to St Mungo’s? How did he get in? What did he say?’
‘Oh.’ Craigie paused to consider. ‘Well, we were all in the vestry robing up for Prime, and this fellow came in from the nave wi one of the vergers on his heels, likely he’d got in at the west door, crying that his mistress was dead. I’ve no idea which of them it was, likely the one that spoke to you when you got here. And seeing there was only us songmen and Canon Muir in the place, Adam Goudie told off Habbie and me to go and deal wi the matter. We could see at once there was naught to be done, she was cold and stiff, so I began an act of Conditional Absolution and Habbie went to fetch you.’
‘Who found the cord about her neck?’
‘Oh, that would be Habbie. He was for trying to revive her, patting her face and the like, and here were the ends hanging.’ He crossed himself. ‘A bad business, a very bad business. And no good for St Mungo’s,’ he repeated.
Gil dug in his purse for the coiled cord. Shaking it loose he said,
‘This is what was about her neck. Have you seen the like before? Have you any idea where it might have come from?’
‘What, an ell and a half of stout cord?’ said Craigie. ‘Just about anywhere, I’d have thought. Try the candlemakers, they use string and cord, all sorts.’
Gil nodded, and wound the cord about his fingers again, turning back to the Cross. Its massive sandstone pillar gave nothing away, and the trampled grass around it showed no useful signs, as Lowrie had commented earlier. There was a long silence, into which Maister Craigie finally said,
‘Well, I’ll let you get on. But tell me if you learn aught, Gil, so I can put it in my prayers.’
‘Do that, William,’ agreed Gil. He turned to raise his hat politely, but Craigie was already on his way up the slope towards St Mungo’s. Maistre Pierre, staring at the man’s green cloth back, remarked in French,