Free The Merchant's Mark by Pat McIntosh Page A

in Glasgow.’
    ‘If I’ve business to do in Lanarkshire I’ll remember that,’ said Sinclair. He hitched at the wide sleeves of his gown, turning back the cuffs so that the yellow silk
lining showed to advantage. ‘So it’s the secular life, is it? And a marriage in mind, so I heard.’
    ‘Contract signed,’ agreed Gil.
    ‘My good wishes on that,’ said the other affably. ‘And how is Glasgow? What’s this we’ve been hearing today? A piece of the old King’s hoard turned up in the
burgh? In a barrel?’
    ‘I suppose the word would spread fast,’ Gil said in some annoyance.
    ‘This is the court,’ said Sinclair. ‘There’s nothing to do but gossip or listen to gossip. I thank God fasting every time I come near the King that I’ve no need to
hold office.’ Gil, who knew the story of the bargain struck by a previous Stewart with a previous Sinclair, merely nodded. ‘I suppose there’s no doubt that it’s the
King’s money?’ Sir Oliver went on, his tone casual. ‘Coin is only coin, after all, it doesn’t have the owner’s badge on it.’
    ‘It isn’t only money,’ said Gil reluctantly. ‘There are jewels as well. Some of those are the owner’s badge, indeed – very obviously out of the royal
treasury.’
    ‘Oh?’ Sinclair’s eyebrows rose. ‘And where did ye find this? Was it really in a barrel? And what’s this about a head? What like was it? Do you ken whose? Is it some
thief or other, or a fighting man?’
    ‘You’re well informed, sir,’ said Gil. And full of questions, he thought. ‘No, I’ve no notion whose. If I knew where the coin had been hid these four years I might
be closer to giving him a name, but it won’t be easy to get an answer to that.’
    ‘I should say not,’ agreed Sinclair. ‘Ask at Robert Lyle, why don’t you. He seems to have information the rest of us lack.’
    ‘Gil,’ said Maister Dunbar at his elbow. ‘My lord will see you now.’
    ‘I’m sure Robert Lyle will want a word,’ reiterated Sinclair. Gil, with some relief, raised his hat and bowed to him before turning to follow the little poet from the
chamber.
    Robert Blacader, well-found, blue-jowled and tonsured, was waiting in a windowless closet between that room and the next, seated on a folding chair, a stand of newly lit candles on the chest
beside him. The light gleamed on the dark brocade of his gown, the silver fittings of belt and purse at his waist. When Gil entered he held out a hand.
    ‘I can spare you a short time, Maister Cunningham,’ he said. Gil knelt to kiss the ring. ‘I hope your uncle is well?’ Gil murmured something. ‘I believe it was you
found this treasure that appeared this morning?’
    ‘I was present when it was found, my lord,’ Gil parried.
    ‘Sir Thomas never sent me more than the bare bones of the tale to it.’
    ‘There’s more to tell now in any case, my lord.’
    The Archbishop gestured, and Gil stood obediently and gave him a succinct account of the finding of the head and the treasure, and then of the inquest and its result. Blacader heard him out in
growing annoyance, and finally shook his head, saying irritably, ‘The Provost has acted as he must, but Christ aid me, I never heard such nonsense. It’s surely been a wilful false
verdict. I’ll send to Sir Thomas the morn, and look into it closer when I reach Glasgow. Has this fellow – what’s his name, Morison? Has he enemies in the burgh?’
    ‘No more than any successful merchant,’ said Gil. ‘He’s harmless enough, I’d have said. A gentle soul.’
    ‘Hmm,’ said the Archbishop. ‘And he has asked you to sort it out, has he?’ Gil nodded. ‘Aye. After you dealt with those other two matters, it would be an obvious
choice,’ continued Blacader thoughtfully. He stared at Gil for a moment, the candlelight flickering on brow and padded cheeks. ‘I think you must. We’ll not waste the
Justiciars’ time with this kind of thing. William,’ he said, and Maister Dunbar