Free The Harper's Quine by Pat McIntosh Page B

thoughtfully
on a lozenge of quince leather. Further down his table two
maids were whispering together and the men were eating
oatcakes and cheese and arguing about football, ignoring
the French talk at the head of the long board.
    ‘Why did she swoon, do you suppose?’ he asked.
    Gil shrugged. ‘Alarm at hearing there were two dangerous persons in the churchyard? Her gown laced too tight?
I don’t know.’
    ‘These little fragile women are often very strong,’
remarked Alys, pouring more wine for Gil. ‘Was it a real
swoon?’
    ‘Real or pretended, you mean?’ Gil considered. ‘Real,
I should say. Her mouth fell open.’
    ‘Ah.’ Alys nodded, as at a bright student, and her elusive smile flickered.
    ‘And what of the boys who found the harp key? Or the unknown sweetheart?’ said her father fretfully. ‘She must
hold the key to the mystery.’

    ‘Luke tells me,’ said Alys, glancing along the table, ‘that
she is called Bridie Miller and she is kitchenmaid to Agnes
Hamilton two doors from here. I thought to go after dinner
and ask to speak with her.’
    Gil opened his mouth to object, and closed it again,
hardly able to work out why he should have anything to
say in the matter.
    ‘Very good,’ said her father, pushing his chair back. ‘That
was an excellent meal, ma mie. Maister Cunningham, what
do you do now?’
    ‘I accompany the demoiselle; said Gil. Alys, supervising
the clearing of an empty kale-pot and the remains of a
very handsome pie, turned her head sharply. ‘Mistress
Hamilton’s son Andrew found the harp key,’ he elaborated, ‘with William Anderson, the saddler’s youngest.’
    ‘Better still,’ said the mason. ‘Take your cloak, Alys, the
weather spoils. Wattie, Thomas, Luke! To work! We seek
still this weapon.’
    ‘In a moment; said Alys. ‘I must see that Catherine and
Annis are fed and set someone to watch Davie. Kittock, do
you carry this out, and I will bring the wine.’
    The household began to bustle about. Gil, retreating to
the windowseat, found not one but two books half hidden
under a bag of sewing. When Alys reappeared, in plaid
and dogs like any girl of the burgh, he was engrossed.
    Maister Cunningham?’ she said. He looked up, tilting
the page towards her.
    ‘I like this,’ he said. ‘Cease from an inordinate desire of
knowledge, for therein is much perplexity and delusion. I’ve
often felt like that when confronted with another pile of
papers.’
    There are many things,’ she agreed, ‘which when known
profit the soul little or nothing.’
    ‘ou read Latin?’ he said, startled.
    ‘It is my copy. I have to confess -‘ The apologetic smile flickered. ‘I take refuge in Chaucer when it becomes too
serious for me.’

    ‘What, this one? The story-tellers on pilgrimage?’
    She nodded. ‘I am cast out with Patient Grissel at the
moment.’
    ‘I never had any patience with Patient Grissel or her
marquis.’ Gil laid the Imitation of Christ on the sill and
followed her to the door. ‘Any man that treated one of my
sisters so would have got his head in his hands to play
with as soon as we heard of it.’
    ‘Her lord cannot have loved her, for sure, though he
claimed to.’ She clopped down the fore-stair into the courtyard. And he took all the power and left her none.’
    ‘Power?’ said Gil. This girl, he recognized again, was
exceptional.
    ‘If the wife has responsibilities,’ Alys said seriously,
‘duties, about the house, she must have power to order
matters as she wishes. Grissel must do all, but has no
power of her own. It is as if she is her marquis’s hand or
foot and must do only as he directs.’
    ‘You think that is wrong? Holy Kirk teaches us -‘
    ‘I know the husband is the head of the wife, it’s in St
Paul’s letters somewhere,’ Alys said, pausing beside a tub
of flowers in the middle of the yard. She had taken the
ribbon out of her hair and it hung loose down her back.
She pulled