The Harper's Quine by Pat McIntosh

At least, not about that,’ he added.
    ‘And then you can practise law in the Consistory Court?
Is there no other way you may practise law?’
    ‘Alys, you ask too many questions,’ said the mason.
    ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said immediately. ‘I am
interested.’
    ‘I am not offended; said Gil. ‘Yes, there are other ways,
but I need the benefice. It always comes back to that -
I must have something to live on.’
    ‘Let us have some music,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘to cleanse
the thoughts and revive the spirits.’ He turned a bright eye
on his daughter. ‘Alys, will you play for us, ma mie?’
    ‘Perhaps Maister Cunningham would play?’ said Alys,
turning to a corner of the room. From under a pile of
papers, two more books and a table-carpet of worn silk she
extracted a long narrow box, which she set on the table.
    ‘Monocords!’ said Gil as she opened the lid. ‘I haven’t
seen a set of those since I came home. No, no, I am far too rusty to play, but I will sing later. Play us something
first.’

    She was tapping the keys, listening to the tone of the
small sweet sounds they produced. Her father handed her
a little tuning-key from his desk and she made one or two
adjustments, then settled herself at the keyboard and
began to play the same May ballad that the harper and his
two women had performed at the Cross on May Day. Gil,
watching the movement of her slender hands on the dark
keys, heard the point at which she recollected this; the
music checked for a moment, and she bent her head further, her hair curtaining her face and hiding the delicate,
prominent nose.
    ‘What about something French?’ he suggested as soon as
she finished the verse. ‘Binchois? Dufay?’
    ‘Machaut,’ said Maistre Pierre firmly. Alys nodded, and
took up a song Gil remembered well. He joined in with the
words, and father and daughter followed, high voice and
low voice, carolling unrequited love with abandon.
    ‘That was good,’ said Alys as the song ended. ‘You were
adrift in the second verse, father. The third part makes a
difference.’
    ‘Let us sing it again,’ said the mason.
    They sang it again, and followed it with others: more by
Machaut, an Italian song whose words Gil did not know,
two Flemish ballads.
    ‘And this one,’ said Alys. ‘It’s very new. Have you heard
it, Maister Cunningham? D’amour je suis desheritee …’
    I am dispossessed by love, and do not know who to appeal to.
Alas, I have lost my love, I am alone, he has left me …
    ‘The setting is beautiful,’ said Gil. Alys smiled quickly at
him, and went on singing.
    … to run after an affected woman who slanders me without
ceasing. Alas, I am forgotten, wherefore I am delivered to
death.
    ‘Always death!’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘At least let us be
cheerful about it.’ He raised his wine-cup in one large hand. ‘What do they sing in the ale-houses here? Drink up,
drink up, you’re deid a long time.’

    ‘You’re deid a long time, without ale or wine.’ Gil joined in
the round. Alys picked up the third entrance effortlessly,
and they sang it several times round until the mason
brought it to a close and drained his cup.
    ‘I think we finish there. Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘we must
bury Bess Stewart, poor soul, and find out the girl Davie
was really with. We must search the kirkyard again,
though by now I have little hope of finding the weapon. If
it was there, it has been found by some burgess and taken
home as a trophy. Half the town came to see what was
afoot this afternoon.’
    ‘I will set the maids to ask about the girl,’ Alys said,
closing up the little keyboard. ‘hey can enquire at the
well, and at the market. Some lass in the town must
know.’
    ‘I wish to question that gallowglass further,’ said Gil.
‘The only Ersche speaker I know of is the harper’s sister,
and I hesitate to ask her to interpret -‘
    ‘I should think she would relish the task,’ observed