Alys.
He smiled at that. ‘You may be right. And I must speak
further with Ealasaidh herself and with the harper.’
‘Meanwhile,’ said Maistre Pierre, ‘the day is over.
Maister Cunningham, we go to hear Compline at
Greyfriars. Will you come with us?’
The Franciscans’ church was full of a low muttering, as
the people of the High Street said evening prayers before
one saint’s altar or another. One of the friars was completing a Mass; Alys slipped away to leave money for candles
to St Clare, and returned to stand quietly between Gil and.
her father as the brothers processed in through the nave
and into the choir.
Gil, used to St Mungo’s, found the small scale of the
Office very moving. Kentigern’s foundation was a cathedral church, able to furnish a good choir and handsome
vestments for the Opus Dei, the work of God which was praising Him seven times daily. The Franciscans were a
small community, though someone had built them a large
church, and the half-dozen voices chanting the psalms in
unison beyond the brightly painted screen seemed much
closer to his own prayers than the more elaborate settings
favoured by Maister Paniter. I will lay me down in peace and
take my rest; for it is thou, Lord, only that makest me dwell in
safety.
Beside him Alys drew a sharp breath. He looked down
at her. Light glinted on the delicate high bridge of her nose.
Her eyes were shut and her lips moved rapidly as the
friars worked their way through the second of the Compline psalms. For when thou art angry all our days are
gone…So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our
hearts with wisdom. Tears leaked from Alys’s closed eyelids,
catching the candlelight, and Gil thought with a shiver of
Bess Stewart lying in the mortuary chapel by the gatehouse, still in the clothes in which she had died, with
candles at her head and feet.
For as soon as the wind goeth over it, it is gone, and the place
thereof shall know it no more.
The Office ended, the congregation drifted out into the
rain. Alys had composed herself, but was still subdued. Gil
found it very unsatisfactory to say a formal goodnight at
the end of the wynd and watch her go home beside her
father, followed down the darkening street by two of the
men and several maids. He stood until the household was
out of sight and then turned for home.
It had been a most extraordinary day. Almost nothing
was as it had been when he got up this morning. He was
free of his books, at least for a little while, until he had
solved the challenge, the puzzle, with which he was faced.
He had a new friend in the mason, whose company would
be worth seeking out. His mind swooped away from the
suspicion that the mason’s company was the more attractive because it promised the company of Alys as well.
Yesterday, the prospect of winning a few groats from the
songmen had been something to look forward to.
Past the firmly shut door of the University, beyond the
stone houses of the wealthier merchants, at the point called
the Bell o’ the Brae where the High Street steepened
sharply into a slope too great for a horse-drawn vehicle,
the Watch was attempting to clear an ale-house. Gil, his
thoughts interrupted by the shouting, crossed the muddy
street to go by on the other side. Several customers were
already sitting in the gutter abusing the officers of the law.
As Gil passed, two more hurtled out to sprawl in the mud,
and within the lighted doorway women’s voices were
raised in fierce complaint. One was probably the ale-wife,
husky and stentorian, but among the others Gil caught a
familiar note.
He paused to listen, then strode on hurriedly. He did not
feel equal to dealing with Ealasaidh Mclan, fighting drunk
and expelled from a tavern.
His uncle was reading by the fire in the hall when he
came in, his wire spectacles falling down his nose.
‘Ah, Gilbert,’ he said, setting down his book. ‘What
news?’
‘We have made
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