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Authors: Pat McIntosh
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gap-toothed Walter seemed subdued.
The Dean stepped on to the dais and nodded significantly to John Shaw the Steward, who took up position in front of him and thumped his great staff three times on the floor to attract attention.
‘Silence for the Dean,’ he commanded unnecessarily, bowed and stepped aside. The Dean’s blue gaze swept the hall. Gil moved back against the wall and watched the faces. Old Tommy Forsyth, anxious beneath his felt cap. David Gray still in his dazed state, with a faint dawning of – was it relief? Archie Crawford, the Faculty’s blue-jowled man of law, frowning critically. The harper and his sister, intent and concerned, the harper’s strange mood dissipated as his sister had predicted now that the body had been found.
‘Horribile dictu,’ began the Dean, and Gil, despite himself, felt a twinge of amusement. The phrase was used as an example in grammar schools all over the educated world, and he had never thought to hear it spoken in earnest. But what the Dean was recounting in his measured Latin was indeed horrible to relate.
In the buzz of shocked conversation which greeted the announcement, Maister Forsyth rose from his seat and bowed formally.
‘Dean,’ he said. ‘This is a dreadful thing which has happened.’ Many people nodded agreement. ‘Nevertheless, it is a deed committed by human hand. It is incumbent upon us to find the perpetrator and render justice to our dead fellow. The Faculty must act, and soon, to name one or more people to be responsible for this solemn duty.’
Maister Crawford rose in his turn, to stand small and neat staring across the width of the dais at the Dean.
‘Is it not rather,’ he began, ‘the duty of the Faculty to report this deplorable deed to the Chancellor, Robert our Archbishop? This having been done, he may consider the facts and name some one of our number to be quaestor.’
‘He’s feart the Faculty would pick him,’ said Patrick Coventry in Scots at Gil’s side.
‘You can tell,’ agreed Gil, grinning.
Maister Doby was explaining that the Chancellor was in Stirling with the King when he was interrupted.
‘Magistri, scholastici.’ McIan had risen to his feet. ‘I ask leave to speak. There is one here,’ he continued without waiting for permission, his Highland accent very strong, ‘has won justice already for the woman dear to me, murdered in secret in St Mungo’s yard.’ The outflung hand indicated Gil’s direction. He heard me answer Patrick Coventry just now, thought Gil. ‘He is careful and discreet and a member of your community. I commend him to you.’
‘There was some debate,’ said Gil to Maister Peter Mason. ‘But eventually it was agreed. Then I asked permission to send for you, and my clothes.’
He bundled cope and cassock together, put them down on the bench of Maister Kennedy’s reading-desk, and began to lace himself into his doublet.
‘I appreciate your wish for my support,’ said his prospective father-in-law. ‘I think,’ he added. He inspected the bench, appeared to decide it would take his weight, and sat down cautiously, his short black beard jutting against the light from the open window. ‘The more so, indeed, as the baby has refused the infallible remedy and is still crying. Alys was a good child,’ he added reflectively. ‘I had forgotten how fatiguing a crying baby is to listen to. What must we do, then? What have you set in motion?’
‘I have someone making a list of all those who were present at the feast,’ said Gil, ‘and what each of them claims he did after the end of the play. That is urgent, I thought. We can hardly imprison the entire Faculty of Arts until we find justice for William.’
‘You are certain it was someone at the feast?’
‘No,’ Gil admitted. ‘There are the members of other faculties, there are the students who couldn’t afford the necessary contribution for the feast, there are the college servants. The Blackfriars have access to the
The Dean stepped on to the dais and nodded significantly to John Shaw the Steward, who took up position in front of him and thumped his great staff three times on the floor to attract attention.
‘Silence for the Dean,’ he commanded unnecessarily, bowed and stepped aside. The Dean’s blue gaze swept the hall. Gil moved back against the wall and watched the faces. Old Tommy Forsyth, anxious beneath his felt cap. David Gray still in his dazed state, with a faint dawning of – was it relief? Archie Crawford, the Faculty’s blue-jowled man of law, frowning critically. The harper and his sister, intent and concerned, the harper’s strange mood dissipated as his sister had predicted now that the body had been found.
‘Horribile dictu,’ began the Dean, and Gil, despite himself, felt a twinge of amusement. The phrase was used as an example in grammar schools all over the educated world, and he had never thought to hear it spoken in earnest. But what the Dean was recounting in his measured Latin was indeed horrible to relate.
In the buzz of shocked conversation which greeted the announcement, Maister Forsyth rose from his seat and bowed formally.
‘Dean,’ he said. ‘This is a dreadful thing which has happened.’ Many people nodded agreement. ‘Nevertheless, it is a deed committed by human hand. It is incumbent upon us to find the perpetrator and render justice to our dead fellow. The Faculty must act, and soon, to name one or more people to be responsible for this solemn duty.’
Maister Crawford rose in his turn, to stand small and neat staring across the width of the dais at the Dean.
‘Is it not rather,’ he began, ‘the duty of the Faculty to report this deplorable deed to the Chancellor, Robert our Archbishop? This having been done, he may consider the facts and name some one of our number to be quaestor.’
‘He’s feart the Faculty would pick him,’ said Patrick Coventry in Scots at Gil’s side.
‘You can tell,’ agreed Gil, grinning.
Maister Doby was explaining that the Chancellor was in Stirling with the King when he was interrupted.
‘Magistri, scholastici.’ McIan had risen to his feet. ‘I ask leave to speak. There is one here,’ he continued without waiting for permission, his Highland accent very strong, ‘has won justice already for the woman dear to me, murdered in secret in St Mungo’s yard.’ The outflung hand indicated Gil’s direction. He heard me answer Patrick Coventry just now, thought Gil. ‘He is careful and discreet and a member of your community. I commend him to you.’
‘There was some debate,’ said Gil to Maister Peter Mason. ‘But eventually it was agreed. Then I asked permission to send for you, and my clothes.’
He bundled cope and cassock together, put them down on the bench of Maister Kennedy’s reading-desk, and began to lace himself into his doublet.
‘I appreciate your wish for my support,’ said his prospective father-in-law. ‘I think,’ he added. He inspected the bench, appeared to decide it would take his weight, and sat down cautiously, his short black beard jutting against the light from the open window. ‘The more so, indeed, as the baby has refused the infallible remedy and is still crying. Alys was a good child,’ he added reflectively. ‘I had forgotten how fatiguing a crying baby is to listen to. What must we do, then? What have you set in motion?’
‘I have someone making a list of all those who were present at the feast,’ said Gil, ‘and what each of them claims he did after the end of the play. That is urgent, I thought. We can hardly imprison the entire Faculty of Arts until we find justice for William.’
‘You are certain it was someone at the feast?’
‘No,’ Gil admitted. ‘There are the members of other faculties, there are the students who couldn’t afford the necessary contribution for the feast, there are the college servants. The Blackfriars have access to the
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