Free The Merchant's Mark by Pat McIntosh

another passer-by ducked and cursed him. ‘Is that what you’re after? Entry to the
court?’
    ‘Robert Blacader will do well enough,’ said Gil. ‘Can you get me in to him?’
    ‘I’m bound there the now,’ admitted the smaller man. ‘I should be with him, only he sent me out an errand for the King’s grace. Confidential, I need hardly
say.’
    ‘Oh, of course,’ Gil agreed. ‘And you’ve delivered your message? Can you get me to his lordship?’
    ‘I can,’ said Dunbar, turning to walk on up the hill. ‘What’s it worth?’
    ‘I’ll tell you all about it,’ offered Gil, suppressing annoyance. ‘After I’ve spoken to Robert Blacader,’ he added.
    Dunbar considered this, his eyes narrowed, and at length he nodded. ‘See your men and your beasts settled,’ he said, ‘and apply for me at the gatehouse in an hour. I’ll
do what I can for you. Mind, it had better be a good story.’
    ‘Oh, it’s all of that,’ said Gil.
    ‘And I suppose you want a lodging this night as well?’
    ‘I can see to that for myself. How is the court just now?’
    ‘Right now, very unsettled,’ said Dunbar morosely. ‘My lord of Angus arrived before noon for a word with him.’ From the emphasis on the pronoun, Gil interpreted it as
referring to the young King James. ‘We think he’s planning to go into Ayrshire, and we’re not certain how many of us are wanted. How big a house is the place at
Kilmarnock?’
    ‘Angus’s place? Not big enough for the court,’ Gil replied. ‘You’ll have to lie out in the town, as you do here.’
    ‘Hmm.’ Dunbar considered this prospect, and halted again. ‘Even my lord Archbishop?’
    ‘Better ask some of Angus’s people. I’ll leave you here, William. My lodgings are on Back Wynd. In an hour at the gatehouse, then.’
    Following Maister Dunbar along a seemingly endless enfilade of stuffy rooms, through waves of conflicting smells of civet and moth-herbs, musk and lavender and stale furs, Gil
barely had time to pick out the familiar faces. People he had been at school with, at college with, or met briefly in Glasgow were among those sitting or standing about, playing cards or dice or
talking about hunting. One or two showed signs of recognizing him.
    ‘My lord’s playing at the cards with the King,’ said Dunbar, pausing in a doorway. ‘Wait in this chamber, Gil. I’ll see if I can get him out between
games.’
    Gil grimaced. A good game of Tarocco could last the best part of an hour. He nodded, and looked about him as Dunbar’s tonsure disappeared past someone’s green brocade shoulder into
the next room.
    ‘I know you,’ said a voice beside him. ‘You’re a Cunningham, aren’t you?’ He turned, to find a big fair man at his elbow, all cherry-coloured velvet and
yellow silk. Noll Sinclair of Roslin, friend of his parents and of the late King, clapped him on the shoulder and grinned at him. ‘Gled Cunningham’s youngest. Gilbert, is it?’
    ‘Sir Oliver,’ said Gil formally, looking into the handsome face level with his. ‘My God, I haven’t heard my father’s by-name in years.’
    ‘Aye, well.’ Sinclair’s grin vanished briefly. ‘A bad business, that. And your brothers and all. Grievous. How’s your mother? How does she manage?’
    ‘My mother’s well, thank you, sir. She has her dower-lands near Lanark, and wins a living.’
    ‘Oh, aye.’ The grin reappeared. ‘She stayed with us at Roslin a time or two, and some of your sisters with her. I mind her then instructing me on horse-breeding. So she’s
running horses on her dower-lands, is she?’
    ‘It’s good enough grazing out by Carluke,’ said Gil, nodding. ‘And it’s high enough to breed hardy beasts. She knows what she’s doing.’
    ‘I’ve no doubt of that where Gelis Muirhead’s concerned. And what are you doing, yourself? Will you be for the Church or the Law?’
    ‘The Law,’ said Gil firmly. ‘I’ll take my notary’s oath next month, and hang up my sign