some progress,’ Gil said cautiously. His
uncle indicated the stool opposite. Sitting down, Gil summarized the results of his day. Canon Cunningham listened carefully, tapping on his book with the spectacles,
and asking the occasional question.
‘That’s a by-ordinary lassie of the mason’s,’ he said
when the account was finished.
‘I never met a lass like her,’ Gil confessed.
The Official was silent for a while, still tapping his book.
Finally he said, switching to the Latin he used when considering matters of the law, ‘The man-at-arms. The dead
woman’s plaid and purse. Whatever girl was with the
injured boy.’
‘I agree, sir.’
‘One more thing. Did Maggie not say there was a
child?’
‘Yes indeed there is, I saw it. Born last Michaelmas, it
seems.’
‘And when did Mistress Stewart leave her husband’s
house?’
‘Before St Martin’s of the previous - Ah!’ Gil stared at his
uncle. ‘Within the twelvemonth, indeed. I think Sempill
cannot know of it.’
‘Or he does not know it is his legitimate heir.’
‘I am reluctant to tell him. What he would do to a child
he needs but knows is not his own I dare not think.’
‘Keep your own counsel, Gilbert,’ said his uncle approv-
ingly. ‘Now, what difference will the child make to the
disposal of the land? Can you tell me that, hm?’
Trust the old man to turn it into a tutorial, Gil thought.
Obediently he marshalled the facts in his head and numbered them off as he spoke.
‘Imprimis, property the deceased held in her own right,
as it might be from her father’s will, should go to the child
rather than to her kin, unless she has made a will. And
even then,’ he elaborated in response to his uncle’s eyebrow, ‘if she has left the property out of her kin, perhaps
to the harper, they could challenge it, on their own behalf
or the child’s.’
‘And moveables?’
‘Secundus, the paraphernal matter, that is her own
clothes and jewellery and such items as her spinningwheel - I hardly think she was carrying a spinning-wheel
about Scotland - these are the child’s, unless there is a will,
but anything Sempill can show he gave her in marriagegifts returns to him. And, tertius, joint property held with
her husband also returns to him, to dispose of as he sees
fit. Unless,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘it transpires that he
killed her.’
‘Unless,’ his uncle corrected, ‘it can be proven that he
killed her. In which case it reverts to the original donor,
whether his kin or hers. Very good, Gilbert.’
‘I’ve been well taught,’ Gil pointed out.
Canon Cunningham acknowledged the compliment
with a quick glance, and pursued thoughtfully, ‘And what
uncle is it that might leave John Sempill money, I wonder? Not his father’s half-brother Philip, for sure, anything he
had would go to his own son, and that’s little enough by
what I remember. And the Walkinshaws keep their property to themselves.’ He paused, lost in speculation, then
noticed Gil stifling a yawn, and raised a hand to offer his
customary blessing. ‘Get you to your bed, Gilbert. It’s ower
late.’
Gil’s narrow panelled room, just under the roof, was
stiflingly hot. Whichever prebend of Cadzow had built the
house had not lacked either pretension or money, and even
here in the attics the upper part of the window was glazed.
Gil picked his way across the room in the dim light and
flung open the wooden shutters of the lower half, reasoning that the night air was unlikely to do him any more
harm now than half an hour since. One would not sleep in
it, of course.
Returning to his narrow bed he lit the candle and sat
down, hearing the strapping creak, and lifted his commonplace book down from its place on the shelf, between his
Chaucer and a battered Aristotle. He turned the leaves
slowly. Each poem brought back vividly the circumstances
in which he had copied it. Several pieces by William
Dunbar, an unpleasant
uncle indicated the stool opposite. Sitting down, Gil summarized the results of his day. Canon Cunningham listened carefully, tapping on his book with the spectacles,
and asking the occasional question.
‘That’s a by-ordinary lassie of the mason’s,’ he said
when the account was finished.
‘I never met a lass like her,’ Gil confessed.
The Official was silent for a while, still tapping his book.
Finally he said, switching to the Latin he used when considering matters of the law, ‘The man-at-arms. The dead
woman’s plaid and purse. Whatever girl was with the
injured boy.’
‘I agree, sir.’
‘One more thing. Did Maggie not say there was a
child?’
‘Yes indeed there is, I saw it. Born last Michaelmas, it
seems.’
‘And when did Mistress Stewart leave her husband’s
house?’
‘Before St Martin’s of the previous - Ah!’ Gil stared at his
uncle. ‘Within the twelvemonth, indeed. I think Sempill
cannot know of it.’
‘Or he does not know it is his legitimate heir.’
‘I am reluctant to tell him. What he would do to a child
he needs but knows is not his own I dare not think.’
‘Keep your own counsel, Gilbert,’ said his uncle approv-
ingly. ‘Now, what difference will the child make to the
disposal of the land? Can you tell me that, hm?’
Trust the old man to turn it into a tutorial, Gil thought.
Obediently he marshalled the facts in his head and numbered them off as he spoke.
‘Imprimis, property the deceased held in her own right,
as it might be from her father’s will, should go to the child
rather than to her kin, unless she has made a will. And
even then,’ he elaborated in response to his uncle’s eyebrow, ‘if she has left the property out of her kin, perhaps
to the harper, they could challenge it, on their own behalf
or the child’s.’
‘And moveables?’
‘Secundus, the paraphernal matter, that is her own
clothes and jewellery and such items as her spinningwheel - I hardly think she was carrying a spinning-wheel
about Scotland - these are the child’s, unless there is a will,
but anything Sempill can show he gave her in marriagegifts returns to him. And, tertius, joint property held with
her husband also returns to him, to dispose of as he sees
fit. Unless,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘it transpires that he
killed her.’
‘Unless,’ his uncle corrected, ‘it can be proven that he
killed her. In which case it reverts to the original donor,
whether his kin or hers. Very good, Gilbert.’
‘I’ve been well taught,’ Gil pointed out.
Canon Cunningham acknowledged the compliment
with a quick glance, and pursued thoughtfully, ‘And what
uncle is it that might leave John Sempill money, I wonder? Not his father’s half-brother Philip, for sure, anything he
had would go to his own son, and that’s little enough by
what I remember. And the Walkinshaws keep their property to themselves.’ He paused, lost in speculation, then
noticed Gil stifling a yawn, and raised a hand to offer his
customary blessing. ‘Get you to your bed, Gilbert. It’s ower
late.’
Gil’s narrow panelled room, just under the roof, was
stiflingly hot. Whichever prebend of Cadzow had built the
house had not lacked either pretension or money, and even
here in the attics the upper part of the window was glazed.
Gil picked his way across the room in the dim light and
flung open the wooden shutters of the lower half, reasoning that the night air was unlikely to do him any more
harm now than half an hour since. One would not sleep in
it, of course.
Returning to his narrow bed he lit the candle and sat
down, hearing the strapping creak, and lifted his commonplace book down from its place on the shelf, between his
Chaucer and a battered Aristotle. He turned the leaves
slowly. Each poem brought back vividly the circumstances
in which he had copied it. Several pieces by William
Dunbar, an unpleasant
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