St Mungo's Robin by Pat McIntosh Page A

the three Cistercians on the doorstep. ‘Let us in out the rain, and then I’ll wish you happy.’
    ‘Dorothea!’ he said in delight.
    By the time Sister Dorothea and her retinue of plump lay sister and small elderly confessor-cum-secretary had been drawn in, welcomed, and dried off, Maggie had appeared with
more spiced ale and a large jug of wine, followed by Tib bearing a platter of new girdlecakes.
    ‘And I sent Tam to tell them at the court you’d be held up, maister,’ Maggie added to the Official, and set down the tray to seize hold of Dorothea. ‘Oh, my, Lady Dawtie,
you’re looking well. You’ve no changed a bit. Cellarer, is it, now, and keeping the accounts? You that used to hide from your lady mother when it was time to learn your
numbers?’
    ‘Sub-Cellarer,’ Dorothea corrected her, emerging from the embrace with aplomb.
    ‘We’ll pray for your promotion,’ said Maggie, and pushed her down on to a stool. ‘Sit there, Lady Dawtie, my dearie, and hae a glass of wine. It’s the good
stuff.’
    ‘I’d rather a wee cake,’ said Dorothea. ‘Herbert, Agnes, I commend Maggie’s girdle-cakes. That’s what I’ve come to Glasgow for, Maggie, no my
brother’s marriage.’
    Tib, the apron discarded, helped to serve out the wine and cakes very properly, eyeing Dorothea under her lashes. Gil watched this with some amusement but could not blame her; he hardly
recognized their sister himself. Had Dorothea really been this confident, this calm, at sixteen? It seemed unlikely, despite Maggie’s assertion. He remembered a thin, hungry girl, impatient
of the distractions of the world, always at her prayers. As he should have been himself at the time, given the plans their parents had nurtured for him, but at fourteen there were more exciting
things to be doing.
    ‘And I hear from Mother,’ said Dorothea, passing her confessor the platter of cakes, ‘that you’ve a benefice and a title now, Gil. Is that your doing, sir?’
    ‘No, it’s all your brother’s own doing,’ said Canon Cunningham. ‘I reminded Robert Blacader of his existence, and so I believe did your mother, a number of
times,’ he added remotely, ‘but it was Gil’s own work made Robert that pleased wi him.’
    ‘You put him to the blush,’ said Maistre Pierre.
    ‘But what work is that? Not this business of hunting down murderers, surely. Does Blacader think that worth a benefice?’
    ‘He seems to,’ said Gil.
    ‘Oh, is that why they wanted you at St Serf’s the day?’ said Tib in tones of innocence. ‘I thought it was just because you were at the college with that man
Kennedy.’
    ‘St Serf’s?’ said Dorothea. ‘Is that the bedehouse? Is something wrong there?’
    ‘Robert Naismith the Deacon was found stabbed this morning,’ said Gil baldly. She bowed her head and crossed herself, her lips moving.
    ‘And has anyone tellt the lassie Veitch yet, that’s what I’d like to know,’ said Maggie from her position by the small cupboard. ‘You mind Marion Veitch,
don’t you no, Lady Dawtie?’
    ‘Marion? What’s she – oh!’ said Dorothea. Her face, narrowly visible within the folds of white coif and black veil, took on an expression of dismay. ‘Oh, poor
Marion. Where’s she staying? I must visit her.’
    ‘Veitch?’ said Tib. ‘You mean Marion that used to live at Kittymuir? I suppose that’s why her brother was in Glasgow, if she lives here too. What’s she to do with
St Serf’s?’
    ‘Her brother?’ said Gil. She threw him a look. ‘Which brother? When did you meet him?’
    ‘It was John, the one that went to sea, but I never met him,’ she said lightly. ‘Just I saw him in the street. Yesterday.’
    ‘Sissie Mudie mentioned him today,’ Gil recalled. ‘I wonder what he’s doing in Glasgow.’
    ‘Visiting his sister,’ suggested Canon Cunningham. ‘Visiting their uncle. Did the uncle not teach you at the grammar school in Hamilton, Gilbert?’
    ‘Frankie Veitch!’ said Gil.