Free The Harper's Quine by Pat McIntosh Page A

here.
    ‘Cost you?’ he asked, when he was sure of his voice.
    ‘Aye. Well. My uncle. He’s made it clear I have to settle
down, not only wedded but with an heir, if I’m to get his
estate. So she lost the brat, and ran off before I could get
another, and if the old ruddoch dies at the wrong moment
the whole lot goes to Holy Church and I’ll not get my
hands on it, may they both rot in Hell for it.’
    ‘It might have been a lassie,’ Philip Sempill pointed out.
His cousin snarled at him.
    ‘Did your wife have friends?’ Gil asked.
    ‘Other than the harpers, you mean?’ said Euphemia.
Sempill swivelled to look at her. ‘I’m sorry, John, but it was
notorious. Every musician that came to Rothesay was in
her chamber.’ She giggled, and the dimple flashed at Gil.
‘They say she had a key for every harp west of Dumbarton, and her own ideas about speed of performance.’
    Sempill glared at her, and her brother said, ‘Now,
Euphemia,’ and raised an admonishing finger in a gesture
which Gil found suddenly familiar.
    ‘So it might have been a jealous lover,’ she finished triumphantly. Sempill made a move towards her, but she
lifted her chin and smiled at him, showing little white
teeth, and he stopped.

    ‘What -‘ said Campbell of Glenstriven rather loudly.
‘What did you mean, Maister Cunningham, about the
couple in the bushes? Was it just the state of sin they were
in, or had you a purpose asking about them?’
    ‘I did,’ said Gil. ‘We’ve found the laddie, but he’s no
help. We need to find his sweetheart.’
    ‘Can he not tell you who she is?’
    ‘He can tell us nothing. He was struck on the head there
in the kirkyard and now lies near to death. There may have
been two ill-doers abroad in St Mungo’s yard last night.’
    Lady Euphemia, suddenly as white as her linen headdress, stared at Gil for a moment. Then her eyes rolled up
in her head and she slipped sideways into the arms of her
companion. Sempill, with a muffled curse, sprang forward
to land on his knees beside her, patting frantically at her
cheek and hands.
    ‘Euphemia! Mally, a cordial! Wine - anything!’
    ‘It’s just a wee turn,’ said the companion, putting a
cushion under the sufferer’s head. ‘She’ll be right in a
minute.’
    Sempill, still rubbing at the limp little hand in his grasp,
turned to glare at Gil over his shoulder.
    ‘I warned you not to upset Euphemia; he said forcefully.
James, get him out of here!’
    Campbell of Glenstriven got to his feet, and indicated
the door with a polite gesture. Gil, aware of unasked
questions, considered brazening it out, but something
about James Campbell’s bearing changed his mind. He
rose, said an unheeded goodbye and went down the wheel
stair. As Campbell emerged into the hall after him he
turned to say, ‘You were in Italy after St Andrews?’
    ‘Bologna,’ agreed the other. ‘I was back there just last
autumn, indeed. And you? Glasgow and …?’
    ‘Paris,’ Gil supplied. ‘But of course the subtle doctor is a Bolognese.’ He raised the admonishing finger in imitation,
and they both grinned.

    ‘Was it that gave me away, or was it a good guess?’
Campbell asked, moving towards the door.
    ‘hat and other things. There were Italian students.
Dress, deportment, your dagger. Is it Italian? The pommel
looks familiar.’
    James Campbell drew the blade and laid it across his
palm.
    ‘From Ferrara. I brought several home this time. I like
the wee fine blade they make. It has a spring to it we can’t
achieve here. Least of all in Glasgow,’ he added.
    ‘Was that all you brought?’
    ‘Five miles or so of lace. Two-three lutes and a lutenist to
play on them. Oh, did you mean a sword? No, those were
beyond my means. The daggers were dear enough.’ Campbell opened the front door, and the mastiff raised her head
and growled threateningly. ‘Good day to you, brother.’
    Maistre Pierre drank some wine and chewed