William, Maister Kennedy?’ said someone. ‘Is he hurt?’
‘Why was he in the coalhouse?’ asked someone else.
‘It is William,’ said Nick. ‘Yes, he is hurt. He is hurt bad.’
‘Will he die, maister?’ asked one of the two Ross boys, seated wide-eyed by his brother on the bottom step.
‘He is dead,’ said Nick.
‘Ninian!’ said Lowrie the tenor. ‘Catch him, Michael!’
Nick was already there as the stocky boy’s knees buckled. With Gil’s assistance he got the dead weight over to the stair and folded it up on to the bottom step beside the younger Ross, who scrambled out of the way, looking alarmed.
‘Loose his collar,’ recommended someone.
‘A key down his back.’
‘That’s for nosebleeds. Cold water on his neck.’
‘Be the first time in months,’ someone else muttered.
Maister Kennedy, ably thrusting Ninian’s head down, said, ‘I heard that, Walter. Maister Cunningham, can you go up and speak to the Dean and Principal? Michael, give a hand here. Lowrie, you know the prayers we should be saying for William. Will you begin, please?’
When Gil came down the stairs again, with the Dean and the Principal following him, the students were not visible, but the door to the Bachelors’ Schule was ajar, and a low hum of prayers floated out. Gil, reflecting on his uncle’s dictum that teachers are born, not made, led the way to the inner courtyard. Behind him, Maister Doby was still exclaiming distressfully.
‘I cannot believe it to be murder. Are you not mistaken, Gilbert, and it is merely some accident? And why should the boy be here, in the coalhouse? Oh, it is all deplorable.’
‘John,’ said the Dean in Scots, peering into the shadows at the body. ‘Haud yer wheesht.’ He stepped cautiously closer, holding his fine silk gown away from the gritty floor. ‘Aye, poor laddie. John, this is certainly murder.’
‘No a mischance?’
‘It canny be any kind of mischance,’ said Gil, understanding the anxious tone. ‘See, the buckle of the belt lies at the back of his neck. Somebody else did that to him, and did it deliberately.’
‘Aye. I see.’ Maister Doby bent his head, briefly.
Behind him in the vaulted passage, Patrick Coventry said suddenly, ‘Should we close the yett? Whoever did this may still be in the college.’
‘I asked the Steward to order it closed,’ Gil said. ‘But there is the Blackfriars gate, and the Arthurlie yett. The college is hardly secure.’
‘Well,’ said the Dean. He emerged from the coalhouse, and turned the key in the lock. ‘That puts paid to the Montgomery gift, I fear, John.’
‘I doubt you’re right, Patrick.’
‘We must inform the Faculty,’ continued the Dean, setting off across the courtyard with his black silk sleeves streaming behind him, ‘and our colleagues in Law and Theology. We must also inform the Chancellor.’
‘What, now?’ said Maister Doby, hurrying after him. The Dean glanced at him and paused thoughtfully.
‘You mean, I take it,’ he said, ‘that we should hesitate to disturb the Archbishop more often than strictly necessary.’
‘Aye. Forbye I think he’s at Stirling the now, with the King,’ added the Principal. ‘The messenger might as well wait till we’ve something better to send.’
‘Aye,’ said Dean Elphinstone in his turn. He looked at the key in his hand. ‘Whose is this?’
‘It is mine,’ said Maister Coventry.
In the Fore Hall, most of the Masters who had been present at the feast still sat talking. The harper was playing quietly, cups of spiced wine were still circulating, but the sweetmeats appeared to be finished. As the Dean appeared, conversation faltered, and those who followed him walked into a spreading silence. Behind Gil, Maister Kennedy and the cast of the play entered and clustered in a knot by the door. The young man Ninian looked ill but seemed in control of himself, his friends on either side of him. Another boy had certainly been weeping; even the
‘Why was he in the coalhouse?’ asked someone else.
‘It is William,’ said Nick. ‘Yes, he is hurt. He is hurt bad.’
‘Will he die, maister?’ asked one of the two Ross boys, seated wide-eyed by his brother on the bottom step.
‘He is dead,’ said Nick.
‘Ninian!’ said Lowrie the tenor. ‘Catch him, Michael!’
Nick was already there as the stocky boy’s knees buckled. With Gil’s assistance he got the dead weight over to the stair and folded it up on to the bottom step beside the younger Ross, who scrambled out of the way, looking alarmed.
‘Loose his collar,’ recommended someone.
‘A key down his back.’
‘That’s for nosebleeds. Cold water on his neck.’
‘Be the first time in months,’ someone else muttered.
Maister Kennedy, ably thrusting Ninian’s head down, said, ‘I heard that, Walter. Maister Cunningham, can you go up and speak to the Dean and Principal? Michael, give a hand here. Lowrie, you know the prayers we should be saying for William. Will you begin, please?’
When Gil came down the stairs again, with the Dean and the Principal following him, the students were not visible, but the door to the Bachelors’ Schule was ajar, and a low hum of prayers floated out. Gil, reflecting on his uncle’s dictum that teachers are born, not made, led the way to the inner courtyard. Behind him, Maister Doby was still exclaiming distressfully.
‘I cannot believe it to be murder. Are you not mistaken, Gilbert, and it is merely some accident? And why should the boy be here, in the coalhouse? Oh, it is all deplorable.’
‘John,’ said the Dean in Scots, peering into the shadows at the body. ‘Haud yer wheesht.’ He stepped cautiously closer, holding his fine silk gown away from the gritty floor. ‘Aye, poor laddie. John, this is certainly murder.’
‘No a mischance?’
‘It canny be any kind of mischance,’ said Gil, understanding the anxious tone. ‘See, the buckle of the belt lies at the back of his neck. Somebody else did that to him, and did it deliberately.’
‘Aye. I see.’ Maister Doby bent his head, briefly.
Behind him in the vaulted passage, Patrick Coventry said suddenly, ‘Should we close the yett? Whoever did this may still be in the college.’
‘I asked the Steward to order it closed,’ Gil said. ‘But there is the Blackfriars gate, and the Arthurlie yett. The college is hardly secure.’
‘Well,’ said the Dean. He emerged from the coalhouse, and turned the key in the lock. ‘That puts paid to the Montgomery gift, I fear, John.’
‘I doubt you’re right, Patrick.’
‘We must inform the Faculty,’ continued the Dean, setting off across the courtyard with his black silk sleeves streaming behind him, ‘and our colleagues in Law and Theology. We must also inform the Chancellor.’
‘What, now?’ said Maister Doby, hurrying after him. The Dean glanced at him and paused thoughtfully.
‘You mean, I take it,’ he said, ‘that we should hesitate to disturb the Archbishop more often than strictly necessary.’
‘Aye. Forbye I think he’s at Stirling the now, with the King,’ added the Principal. ‘The messenger might as well wait till we’ve something better to send.’
‘Aye,’ said Dean Elphinstone in his turn. He looked at the key in his hand. ‘Whose is this?’
‘It is mine,’ said Maister Coventry.
In the Fore Hall, most of the Masters who had been present at the feast still sat talking. The harper was playing quietly, cups of spiced wine were still circulating, but the sweetmeats appeared to be finished. As the Dean appeared, conversation faltered, and those who followed him walked into a spreading silence. Behind Gil, Maister Kennedy and the cast of the play entered and clustered in a knot by the door. The young man Ninian looked ill but seemed in control of himself, his friends on either side of him. Another boy had certainly been weeping; even the
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