The King's Corrodian (36 page)

‘The thing is, though, now when you think about it,’ said Mureson, ‘the signs were there, but it never occurs to you to – to think sic things o someone you see every day and night.’

‘It creeps up on you,’ offered Simpson. ‘He’d got worse lately, since Andrew was confined, more o his stuff about the body and the limbs and that, and he,’ he swallowed, ‘he tellt us lately how he put his dog away, cut its throat after it let a rat past it. I’m right glad to see your dog safe, maister. He’s a bonnie wolfhound.’

‘He’s safe and well, as you can see,’ Gil assured them.

Munt put a hand out for Socrates to sniff, and Simpson nodded at the cat, which was sitting upright gazing into the fire.

‘And Our Lady be praised,’ he said, ‘Brother Augustine’s cat never put a foot wrong these last months. We’d ha been eating plain boiled stockfish and dry oatcakes for weeks if anything happened to DominiCattus.’

‘It’s no catching, is it?’ Munt wondered. ‘Madness, I mean. Just he seemed right ordinary, right up to the time Faither Prior announced what had happened, who’d killed Andrew and Brother Thomas, and that Brother Sandy was back in the library and no to blame for any o’t.’

‘Don’t be daft, Sandy,’ said Simpson, and caught himself up. ‘I mean, try to use your intelligence,’ he said in Latin, in Father Henry’s very diction, and the other two grinned again. Gil recognised the light-headed effect of great shock and release.

‘How is Father Henry?’ he asked, to change the subject. ‘Have you been able to see him?’

‘No yet,’ said Mureson, ‘but he’s sent out word to thank us for our prayers, and that he’ll be glad to see us when he’s permitted.’

‘And were we studying the work he gave us last,’ said Munt. ‘You can tell he’s no much harmed.’

‘I still canny believe it,’ said Simpson. ‘That Adam could— och, well. Our Lady have him in her care, bring him to knowledge o his sins.’

‘Amen,’ they all said.

Then Mureson looked at Gil, hesitated, and went on, ‘We brought you something, maister. Sandy, do you have it?’

‘Oh!’ Munt began searching his person. ‘Aye, here it is.’ He drew a squarish linen-wrapped object from his sleeve. ‘Here it is,’ he said again, and held it out. ‘It’s from us all. We was all three working on it.’

Puzzled, surprised and moved, Gil lifted the package and unwrapped the linen, and stared, transfixed, at what lay within it.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said after a moment, still staring. ‘How can I— It’s beautiful.’

‘We did it off one o Andrew’s drawings,’ said Simpson. ‘Sandy and me both worked on the carving, and Sandy, the other Sandy,’ he nodded at Mureson, ‘limned it. We’d been working at it since Andrew … I mean, we meant it for when he cam out o confinement, only he … only, anyway. Anyway, we’d like you to have it,’ he finished in a rush.

Gil looked up, from one to another of the intent, embarrassed, concerned young faces, and back at the little image.

‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘It’s a gift to remember you all by. I’ll hang it by my desk, where I can see it all the time.’

On a panel of wood about the size of his hand was carved, in low relief, an image of the Virgin and Child with St John. It had been painted, with a light delicate touch, and seemed almost to glow in the dwindling daylight; the blue of the Virgin’s cloak and the flesh tones of the children were particularly radiant.

It must be some purely fortuitous accident of the brush or the light that gave the Virgin a shadowy scar across one eye.