Free The Fourth Crow by Pat McIntosh Page B

Castle and approached the gate of St Mungo’s kirkyard. Finally he said, counting off the points on his fingers,
    ‘Marriage by consent, whether for love or money. Marriage by capture. Simple compassion.’
    ‘As a hostage,’ Gil supplied. ‘To get control of her land or her money, even without marriage. Any of these.’ He paused on the slope that led down to the Girth Burn, looking about him. Off to their left the building site which was Archbishop Blacader’s addition to his cathedral church showed signs of life, with the clink of metal on stone and the creak of wooden scaffolding; as Gil turned that way Maistre Pierre’s head showed above the wall. Seeing them, the mason waved, and vanished down into the structure.
    Between the Fergus Aisle and the burn which formed the boundary of the kirkyard was a clump of hawthorns, their berries just beginning to show in still-green clusters. Taller trees beyond them threw a thick-leaved shade. Crows swirled about their tops, cawing, and the long blades of bluebells grew thickly in the dappled spaces between the glowing sunlit trunks, the flowers long faded and the green seed-cases ripening on the curved stems. A sudden memory assailed Gil, of hunting among the bluebells for a harp-key while the harper’s mistress, small John’s mother, lay dead in the Fergus Aisle, of finding a wisp of woollen thread from her plaid on one of those same hawthorn bushes.
    ‘So again we search the kirkyard,’ said Maistre Pierre at his elbow.
    ‘Aye. Have Andro’s men been here?’
    ‘No, they have tramped the other bank of the Girth Burn, through the gardens, but did not enter the kirkyard. I suppose they have no jurisdiction on church land.’
    ‘There’s been nothing bigger than a fox through those bluebells,’ said Lowrie.
    ‘Not in the last day and a night,’ agreed Gil. ‘Let’s take a look at the Cross itself.’

Chapter Four
    They approached with care along the path, all three men scrutinising the ground about their feet as they went. The Cross was not a cross, but a tall stone with the shadows of ancient images still visible on all four sides; it could easily date back to Kentigern’s time. If it had ever had arms they were long since broken off, but Gil thought he could make out a cross carved in relief on one uneven surface, with the ring, or nimbus, or symbol of the infinite Godhead, or whatever it was, circling the juncture.
    ‘It takes more than one man,’ observed Maistre Pierre, ‘to tie someone to that, unless the subject is willing.’
    ‘Did you say you saw them bind Mistress Gibb?’ Lowrie asked.
    ‘I did. It took three of them. I was rounding up my men like a sheepdog, you understand, and young Berthold was right at the front of the crowd. I had a good view. Two were servants, I should say, and one man in a gown worth a baron’s ransom who held her in her place while the men bound the ropes about her. And one of the clergy, was it that fellow Craigie? offering up prayers.’
    ‘So was the other woman, the one in the chapel now, still alive when she was put here?’ Lowrie stood still to contemplate the idea. ‘Why would she consent? Or was she already dead, or in a great swoon from the beating, or what? I wouldny think it any easier to bind a dead woman here than a live one.’
    ‘We’re looking for traces of at least two people, then,’ said Gil.
    ‘There were more than two about here last evening,’ declared Maistre Pierre.
    Gil stepped cautiously over to the Cross and stood with his back to it, looking about him.
    ‘Unless they crossed the burn,’ he said slowly, ‘whoever released her came down the slope from the gate, and the ground’s by far too trampled to tell how many they were. I wonder, was she awake, expecting them?’
    ‘Like Maister Craigie,’ said Lowrie. Gil, who had already seen the songman making his way towards them, made no comment, but Maistre Pierre tutted audibly. ‘It makes less and less sense, doesn’t it?’