the shadows inside, and something hissed on the fire.
‘Christ and his saints preserve us!’ said a voice. A young voice, a lowland voice. A hostile voice. ‘What in the Deil’s name are you doing here, Cunningham?’
‘Christ aid!’ said Gil, equally startled. ‘Who – Robert Montgomery?’
‘The same.’ Another clatter as something was set down, movement in the shadows, and a tall young man came to the doorway, chin up, staring intently down his nose at Gil. Dark hair sprang thickly from a wide forehead, a square jaw jutted. Robert Montgomery, nephew of that turbulent baron Hugh, Lord Montgomery who was at odds with all Cunninghams.
‘Of course,’ said Gil after a moment’s genealogical reckoning, ‘your uncle’s lady is a Campbell. She must be first cousin to Lady Stewart, that’s the connection. But why here –?’
‘Is it any of your business?’ demanded the young man.
‘I suppose it isny,’ agreed Gil. ‘Good day to you, Robert. Is Sir Duncan in his house? Can I get a word wi him?’
‘No,’ said Robert baldly. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘He’s sleeping the now. He’s no had a good day, I’ll not disturb him.’ Not for you, suggested his tone.
‘I’m after a bit of local history,’ Gil said. ‘Would you say he could manage that some time? How bad is he?’
‘Mortal,’ said Robert. He looked over his shoulder again, and stepped out into the sunshine. ‘He’s got a week or so, maybe, but he’s on his way out. He’s all too like my grandsire in his last days.’ He considered briefly. ‘You’d get more sense out of him on a morning. If you can get him on to a subject he likes, he’s clear enough yet, and the history of the parish would do that.’
‘Is he not even managing the Office?’ said Gil, dismayed.
‘No,’ said Robert again. He had a way of saying the word which conveyed volumes, something which Gil recalled from his first encounter with the young man, more than a year since in very difficult circumstances. ‘Martainn Clerk and I can deal wi the Office,’ he expanded, ‘seeing I’m in Minor Orders, but there’s no been a Mass said in St Angus’ Kirk for weeks.’ His face softened. ‘He lies in his bed reciting Matins and Lauds over and over again, jumbling all the words and losing the place, certain he’s offering up what’s right.’
‘It is an offering, then,’ Gil observed. Robert looked at him sharply, and then away again. ‘And you have charge of him and his house, do you?’
‘I do.’ And do you want to make anything of it? said the tone of voice.
‘Not easy. Cooking and keeping him clean, as well as taking care of the Office – it’s a lot to do on your own.’
‘That was the point,’ said Robert, with a sour laugh ‘Anyway, it’s not as if there was anything else to do out here.’
Gil carefully refrained from looking around at the hills full of game, the river leaping with fish, the meadows full of wildfowl. A young man reared like this one must be tempted almost hourly to go out with bow or spear or line, to fetch home meat for the pot or for salting down for winter. Fighting the temptation would almost be worse than the menial tasks heaped on him by his servitude to the dying man.
‘I suppose you’re here,’ said Robert abruptly, ‘about this tale of the fellow come back from Elfhame?’
‘I am,’ agreed Gil, raising one eyebrow. ‘What tellt you that?’
‘Aye, well. It’s the only thing in the parish for the last hundred years that might attract Blacader’s quaestor.’
‘How much have you heard about it?’ Gil asked. ‘You scrieved the letter to Andrew Drummond at Dunblane, they tell me.’
‘I did. Two letters, in fact. The old woman asked me to write, told me exactly what she wanted said, made her mark at the foot o the paper.’ He shrugged. ‘If she’s had an answer, I’ve heard nothing. I’ve no been asked to scrieve a reply, any road.’
‘The second letter you wrote,’ said Gil
‘Christ and his saints preserve us!’ said a voice. A young voice, a lowland voice. A hostile voice. ‘What in the Deil’s name are you doing here, Cunningham?’
‘Christ aid!’ said Gil, equally startled. ‘Who – Robert Montgomery?’
‘The same.’ Another clatter as something was set down, movement in the shadows, and a tall young man came to the doorway, chin up, staring intently down his nose at Gil. Dark hair sprang thickly from a wide forehead, a square jaw jutted. Robert Montgomery, nephew of that turbulent baron Hugh, Lord Montgomery who was at odds with all Cunninghams.
‘Of course,’ said Gil after a moment’s genealogical reckoning, ‘your uncle’s lady is a Campbell. She must be first cousin to Lady Stewart, that’s the connection. But why here –?’
‘Is it any of your business?’ demanded the young man.
‘I suppose it isny,’ agreed Gil. ‘Good day to you, Robert. Is Sir Duncan in his house? Can I get a word wi him?’
‘No,’ said Robert baldly. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘He’s sleeping the now. He’s no had a good day, I’ll not disturb him.’ Not for you, suggested his tone.
‘I’m after a bit of local history,’ Gil said. ‘Would you say he could manage that some time? How bad is he?’
‘Mortal,’ said Robert. He looked over his shoulder again, and stepped out into the sunshine. ‘He’s got a week or so, maybe, but he’s on his way out. He’s all too like my grandsire in his last days.’ He considered briefly. ‘You’d get more sense out of him on a morning. If you can get him on to a subject he likes, he’s clear enough yet, and the history of the parish would do that.’
‘Is he not even managing the Office?’ said Gil, dismayed.
‘No,’ said Robert again. He had a way of saying the word which conveyed volumes, something which Gil recalled from his first encounter with the young man, more than a year since in very difficult circumstances. ‘Martainn Clerk and I can deal wi the Office,’ he expanded, ‘seeing I’m in Minor Orders, but there’s no been a Mass said in St Angus’ Kirk for weeks.’ His face softened. ‘He lies in his bed reciting Matins and Lauds over and over again, jumbling all the words and losing the place, certain he’s offering up what’s right.’
‘It is an offering, then,’ Gil observed. Robert looked at him sharply, and then away again. ‘And you have charge of him and his house, do you?’
‘I do.’ And do you want to make anything of it? said the tone of voice.
‘Not easy. Cooking and keeping him clean, as well as taking care of the Office – it’s a lot to do on your own.’
‘That was the point,’ said Robert, with a sour laugh ‘Anyway, it’s not as if there was anything else to do out here.’
Gil carefully refrained from looking around at the hills full of game, the river leaping with fish, the meadows full of wildfowl. A young man reared like this one must be tempted almost hourly to go out with bow or spear or line, to fetch home meat for the pot or for salting down for winter. Fighting the temptation would almost be worse than the menial tasks heaped on him by his servitude to the dying man.
‘I suppose you’re here,’ said Robert abruptly, ‘about this tale of the fellow come back from Elfhame?’
‘I am,’ agreed Gil, raising one eyebrow. ‘What tellt you that?’
‘Aye, well. It’s the only thing in the parish for the last hundred years that might attract Blacader’s quaestor.’
‘How much have you heard about it?’ Gil asked. ‘You scrieved the letter to Andrew Drummond at Dunblane, they tell me.’
‘I did. Two letters, in fact. The old woman asked me to write, told me exactly what she wanted said, made her mark at the foot o the paper.’ He shrugged. ‘If she’s had an answer, I’ve heard nothing. I’ve no been asked to scrieve a reply, any road.’
‘The second letter you wrote,’ said Gil
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