way. If you knew it was there, you’d find it no bother.’
Euan laid a huge, filthy hand on Gil’s arm, peering up at him with those beautiful eyes. The hen tipped her head and eyed him with a very similar expression.
‘Was that all the word you was wanting?’ he asked. ‘For Euan has to sweep the stackyard afore the hairst comes home, you ken.’
‘Aye, you get on wi your work.’ Gil patted the hand and stepped away. ‘That was a good word, Euan. My thanks, and God’s blessing on you.’ He raised his hat again, and watched as the crouched figure made its crabbed way back into the barn, the hen spreading her wings to keep her balance.
‘Daft thing,’ said Ned, leading Gil’s horse forward.
‘Waste o time that was, maister,’ said Tam.
‘On the contrary,’ said Gil. ‘It was well worth it. I’m glad you pointed the place out, Tam.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘Now, have we time to call at the Kirkton afore we get back to Stronvar, do you think, Ned?’
The Kirkton of Balquhidder hardly seemed a larger settlement than the group of buildings which made up Drumyre. Having sent Ned and Tam onwards from Gartnafueran with the weary horses, Gil followed Donal on foot across the flat valley floor, and paused at the end of the resonant wooden bridge to study the clachan. There was the little kirk itself, perched on a natural platform some way back from the river. Perhaps half a dozen houses lay around it, a ring of tall grey stones stood on a grassy slope below, and there was enough farmed land round about to make it clear that more than the old priest’s glebe was being worked, although the harvest was not quite ready. Several small black cows were making their slow way home from the water-meadows, with a herd laddie singing among them. Above the kirk, on the steep, imposing bare rock he had seen from the garden at Stronvar, two goats were perched casually nibbling tussocks of grass.
‘No, no, Sir Duncan is not dwelling in the kirk any longer,’ said Donal when asked. ‘He would be falling off the loft ladder, you understand, the age he is. Sir William got him a fine house built on the glebe land, with a good stout door and a latch, and even a tirling-pin as if you were in Callander.’
‘He’ll be there now, I suppose,’ said Gil, looking about. ‘It’s a wide parish for an old man to take care of. Who has the living? Can Sir William not get a younger man put in?’
‘The way I was hearing it,’ said Donal, ‘Sir William was asking them at Dunblane to name a new priest for the parish, last year it would be, and one of the Canons came himself to see.’ He grinned. ‘It was maybe one of Sir Duncan’s good days. He was having more of those, you will understand, maister, what with young Rob Ruaidh that is keeping him washed and fed now, even if the laddie can’t be making a peat fire stay alight. Whatever, Canon Fresall went home saying it was all as it should be and no need to put the old man out of his living. We were thinking,’ he said with an innocent expression, ‘he’d maybe have to pay a new man more to dwell here, so of course he would be pleased to think all was well.’
‘I’ve no doubt of it.’ Gil paused beside the ring of stones. Several children playing in its heart scattered to peer shyly at the stranger from under a group of hawthorn trees. ‘Which is Sir Duncan’s house?’
Donal pointed to the nearest of the long, low buildings. This one was stouter than some, with good stone gables and a sound layer of bracken thatch held down by a new rope net. Peat smoke filtered up through the mesh; it looked as if Rob Ruaidh was in control of the fire for the moment. Gil picked his way along the path, avoiding more hens and an inquisitive sheep, pausing at the open door to savour the smell of cooking which met him before he reached out to rattle at the tirling-pin Donal had mentioned.
‘Sir Duncan?’ he called. ‘Are you within? May I enter?’
There was a clatter in
Euan laid a huge, filthy hand on Gil’s arm, peering up at him with those beautiful eyes. The hen tipped her head and eyed him with a very similar expression.
‘Was that all the word you was wanting?’ he asked. ‘For Euan has to sweep the stackyard afore the hairst comes home, you ken.’
‘Aye, you get on wi your work.’ Gil patted the hand and stepped away. ‘That was a good word, Euan. My thanks, and God’s blessing on you.’ He raised his hat again, and watched as the crouched figure made its crabbed way back into the barn, the hen spreading her wings to keep her balance.
‘Daft thing,’ said Ned, leading Gil’s horse forward.
‘Waste o time that was, maister,’ said Tam.
‘On the contrary,’ said Gil. ‘It was well worth it. I’m glad you pointed the place out, Tam.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘Now, have we time to call at the Kirkton afore we get back to Stronvar, do you think, Ned?’
The Kirkton of Balquhidder hardly seemed a larger settlement than the group of buildings which made up Drumyre. Having sent Ned and Tam onwards from Gartnafueran with the weary horses, Gil followed Donal on foot across the flat valley floor, and paused at the end of the resonant wooden bridge to study the clachan. There was the little kirk itself, perched on a natural platform some way back from the river. Perhaps half a dozen houses lay around it, a ring of tall grey stones stood on a grassy slope below, and there was enough farmed land round about to make it clear that more than the old priest’s glebe was being worked, although the harvest was not quite ready. Several small black cows were making their slow way home from the water-meadows, with a herd laddie singing among them. Above the kirk, on the steep, imposing bare rock he had seen from the garden at Stronvar, two goats were perched casually nibbling tussocks of grass.
‘No, no, Sir Duncan is not dwelling in the kirk any longer,’ said Donal when asked. ‘He would be falling off the loft ladder, you understand, the age he is. Sir William got him a fine house built on the glebe land, with a good stout door and a latch, and even a tirling-pin as if you were in Callander.’
‘He’ll be there now, I suppose,’ said Gil, looking about. ‘It’s a wide parish for an old man to take care of. Who has the living? Can Sir William not get a younger man put in?’
‘The way I was hearing it,’ said Donal, ‘Sir William was asking them at Dunblane to name a new priest for the parish, last year it would be, and one of the Canons came himself to see.’ He grinned. ‘It was maybe one of Sir Duncan’s good days. He was having more of those, you will understand, maister, what with young Rob Ruaidh that is keeping him washed and fed now, even if the laddie can’t be making a peat fire stay alight. Whatever, Canon Fresall went home saying it was all as it should be and no need to put the old man out of his living. We were thinking,’ he said with an innocent expression, ‘he’d maybe have to pay a new man more to dwell here, so of course he would be pleased to think all was well.’
‘I’ve no doubt of it.’ Gil paused beside the ring of stones. Several children playing in its heart scattered to peer shyly at the stranger from under a group of hawthorn trees. ‘Which is Sir Duncan’s house?’
Donal pointed to the nearest of the long, low buildings. This one was stouter than some, with good stone gables and a sound layer of bracken thatch held down by a new rope net. Peat smoke filtered up through the mesh; it looked as if Rob Ruaidh was in control of the fire for the moment. Gil picked his way along the path, avoiding more hens and an inquisitive sheep, pausing at the open door to savour the smell of cooking which met him before he reached out to rattle at the tirling-pin Donal had mentioned.
‘Sir Duncan?’ he called. ‘Are you within? May I enter?’
There was a clatter in
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