‘Will I follow him?’ said Donal, as the sound of the hooves changed to a rumble on the planks.
‘We’ll see where he’s come from,’ Gil corrected, and followed Ned up the slope. ‘Was it the kirk or the priest’s house?’
Robert overtook them running, making for the priest’s house. It stood silent, though the old man must be within and smoke rose through its thatch as everywhere else. But ahead of them in the kirkyard several men stood round the door of the little church, hay-forks in hand, staring anxiously at the door itself which was moving, slow as a clock hand; Gil was just dismounting when it thumped shut. Throwing his reins to Tam, he drew his whinger, and went quickly up the path with the two Stronvar men at his back. There was an exchange in Ersche, with gestures which seemed to confirm that someone had run into the little building.
‘Davie Drummond, it is,’ confirmed Donal. ‘They are telling he came up from the bridge at the gallop, just before the Canon’s men came into the glen, and left the pony here in the kirkyard. They were trying to catch it, though maybe not very hard,’ he admitted, ‘and now it’s away. I think none of them is liking to go into the kirk.’
Gil nodded, glanced at Ned to see that he was ready, and in one swift movement kicked the door open and slipped in and to one side, ready for any attack from behind the heavy planks. Both Stronvar men followed him, equally wary.
There was a horrified gasp from the shadowed chancel, and a voice said, ‘No! I claim sanctuary! I’ll not — I won’t — ’
‘Who is it claims sanctuary?’ Gil demanded, peering into the dimness. The church was small and bare, its chancel even smaller, and the narrow windows admitted very little light. He could just see a low insubstantial form near the altar.
‘It’s Davie Drummond, right enough,’ said Donal.
‘I’d never ha thought,’ said Ned, sheathing his blade, ‘a Drummond would take refuge in a kirk, after Monzievaird.’
‘Maybe he would not be hearing of Monzievaird,’ suggested Donal. Gil stepped forward, and there was another shuddering gasp from within the chancel. As his eyes adjusted, he made out a huddled figure clinging to one leg of the altar table, a shock of light Drummond hair surrounding a pale face in which huge dark eyes stared at him.
‘I’m unarmed,’ said the panicky voice. ‘I claim sanctuary.’
‘I’ll not hurt you,’ said Gil, putting up his own blade, ‘but it’s not for me to grant sanctuary or deny it. Why are you here? Has something happened at — at Dalriach?’ he asked urgently. ‘Is my wife safe?’
‘Mistress Alys? Last I saw she was well.’
The church seemed to whirl round him, and darken briefly, though that might have been because Andrew Drummond stepped in at the door.
‘What’s happening?’ he demanded in his harsh voice. ‘Who is it claims sanctuary?’ he went on, striding forward to stand beside Gil at the chancel arch. ‘Who is it, Cunningham? Why should he want sanctuary?’
‘It’s your brother David,’ said Gil, and saw the man jerk backwards as if the words had run him through. ‘As to why, I’ve no notion yet. Maybe you should ask him.’
‘Andrew?’ said the kneeling figure. ‘Is that you? My, but you’re like my father.’
There was a tense pause, in which Gil was aware of the two Stronvar men watching with interest. Then Andrew Drummond seemed to relax, and stepped forward into the small chancel.
‘You’re no David,’ he said. ‘You’re mighty like him, and the voice is good, but you’re no David.’
The pale figure by the altar sat back on its heels, looking up at Andrew’s face.
‘Patrick thinks I am.’
‘Patrick was aye a fool. What’s brought you here — here to the kirk, at this time? Why would you need sanctuary, if you’re who you claim to be?’
‘Ca — Caterin,’ said Davie, his voice breaking on the name.
‘What about her?’ said Andrew swiftly.
‘She — she — she accused — ’ Davie whispered, and gulped as if suppressing tears. ‘Andrew,’ he said more clearly, ‘I have to tell you. The cailleach is dead.’
Andrew crossed himself, muttered something, and said, ‘When?’
An interesting response, thought Gil.
‘Last night. This morning.’ Davie swallowed again. ‘Just about dawn, it was. I was — I was singing for her, the soul-song, and then we all sang her home, everyone that was in the yard.’
There was a pause. Then Andrew said, as if the words were dragged from him, ‘Whoever you are, I am glad you were doing that.’
‘So am I,’ said Davie. ‘Though I would rather not have had the need.’
‘But what came to her?’ Andrew shook his head in bafflement. ‘In the yard, you said? What was she doing in the yard? And Caterin, what was she — do you say she accused you of the cailleach’s death?’
‘Not that.’ Davie scrambled closer to the leg of the altar. ‘No, it — it — the Tigh-an-Teine is burned — ’
‘Burned?’ said Gil sharply. They both jumped, as if they had forgotten he was there. ‘Is anyone else hurt? You said my wife was safe!’
‘Aye, she’s safe,’ began Davie.
‘What’s your wife to do with it?’ demanded Andrew. ‘What came to my mother? Did she burn wi the house? But she was unharmed when she came — ’ He checked, and Davie said:
‘No, no, we got her out, Murdo Dubh and I got her out. I think it was the fright. Her heart, maybe.’
‘Aye, I’ve wondered about that. And she was full old. But my good-sister Caterin,’ persisted Andrew. ‘What has she to do with it? What has she accused you of? They’re saying out-by you came down here at the gallop on a Stronvar pony. Is that why, then?’
‘Yes,’ said Davie uncertainly. ‘Yes, she was accusing me of setting the fire, and — and causing the cailleach’s death. And I never would.’
Gil moved forward. ‘David, give us the short tale, will you, from the start, and then I think we must leave you to whoever is in charge of this kirk for now, to make the decision about your sanctuary. Canon Drummond needs to ride up Glenbuckie, and I’d as soon go wi him and find out what’s ado.’
‘But who’s in charge?’ said Drummond, staring round as if a rural dean might emerge from the damp stonework. ‘If old Sir Duncan is finally on his road out, is it that impertinent clerk that’s minding the place?’
‘Sorry to say it,’ said Robert Montgomery, stepping past the two Stronvar men where they still stood gaping under the chancel arch, ‘but you’re right at that.’ He peered at the pale figure of Davie Drummond still clinging to the leg of the altar table. ‘It is you, then? Sir Duncan said it would be, and bid me promise you shelter here, at least till Sir William gets his nose into the business. What are you feart for, any road?’ he went on, over Davie’s grateful exclamation. ‘What are you accused of?’
‘Arson and death,’ said Gil. ‘Mistress Drummond is dead.’
‘Two deaths,’ said Davie. ‘There is two are dead, up at Dalriach.’
‘Canon Drummond, I must speak wi you,’ said Gil.
‘Must you?’ returned Andrew Drummond.
They were working their way up the steep side of the glen towards the hanging mouth of Glenbuckie, in the midst of a party of men from Stronvar led by Sir William himself, who was now deep in consultation with his steward about what aid they were able to offer Dalriach. Encountering them at the fork in the road, the Bailie of Balquhidder had demanded what they knew about the riderless pony, extracted the kernel from the explanations which reached his ears, and offered Gil one of the beasts with him. Its rider, Gil’s weary men, Drummond’s retinue, had all been despatched to Stronvar, and Sir William had observed:
‘Well, if it’s no your bonnie lass or Murdo’s boy lying wi a broken limb, the saints be praised, it’s still a trouble, and I’ve no doubt they’ll welcome a bit help at Dalriach. Let me ha the tale again, maisters, and get it clear in my mind.’
He listened acutely while Gil recounted the news Davie Drummond had stammered in the dim chancel, and frowned and shook his head at the news of Mistress Drummond’s death.