The Stolen Voice (20 page)

‘That will be a speak for the whole of Balquhidder,’ said Gil’s guide chattily. ‘The more so if the Tigh-an-Teine has burned after all, and the
cailleach
dead in the flames, and the changeling stolen away back under the hill in exchange for Davie Drummond. Is it the kirk we’re for just now, so you can be seeing young Davie again, or no?’

‘No, I’ll speak with him later,’ Gil said. He stepped on to the bridge and whistled to the dog. ‘I’m for the priest’s house. I could do with a word with Sir Duncan, if he’s equal to it, and certainly with young Robert.’

‘I was hearing Sir Duncan is good today,’ offered the guide. He was a stocky, fair-haired fellow with a broad, open, guileless face. Murdo had referred to him as Alasdair nan Clach, whatever that might mean. ‘He has good days and bad days, you understand. It’s no more than you’d be expecting, the age he is.’

‘I understand,’ agreed Gil. ‘What age is he?’

Alasdair nan Clach shrugged.

‘Maybe ninety?’ he said. ‘Maybe one hundred? Old as these hills, you would say.’

Discounting this, Gil strode on up the slope from the river, past the watchful haymakers and quietly ripening oats. A bite to eat, a word with Steenie, and the assurance of Lady Stewart and the girl Seonaid that Alys was unhurt and was now asleep had helped a lot, but he was still slightly shaky with relief, and his head was whirling with the information he had gathered this noontime. He would infinitely rather have stayed to talk it through with Alys when she woke, and hear the full tale of her adventures in Glenbuckie, but if his suspicions were correct he had already put off more time than he should before making this visit. He hoped his third quarry might not realize yet that he was pursued.

He passed the circle of tall stones, where Socrates pricked his ears at the children playing among them, and turned along the little path to the priest’s snug stone house, aware of eyes on his back from the other cottages of the Kirkton. Rattling at the tirling-pin, he pushed the door wider without waiting for an answer, saying, ‘Robert? Are you within?’

There was a startled movement, a deep-voiced exclamation. Not Robert Montgomery’s voice, not the priest’s. Socrates pricked his ears again, then rushed forward, his tail wagging wildly. Gil stepped after him under the lintel.

‘Maister Doig,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you here.’

The place was sparsely furnished, and smelled of damp earth and illness. A three-legged stool and a great chair of solid local work stood by the hearth in the centre of the house, where a pot simmered on the peats. There was a bench against the wall by the door; beyond the fire a mealkist stood on top of a bigger, painted kist, and two books and a silver crucifix were propped on a shelf. In the partition between the lodging of human and animal yawned two dark shut-beds, and there Socrates had rolled on to his back, yammering like a pup and waving his paws before a squat bulky shape, no higher than an ell-stick, which stood beside one of them.

‘I’ll no say the same o you, Maister Cunningham,’ returned the deep voice, and the outline changed as if the short figure bent, extending a big hand to rub the dog’s narrow ribcage. ‘What brings you and your dog to the Kirkton? You’re no here to distress the auld yin, I hope?’

‘I’ve no intention of distressing him,’ said Gil. ‘How is he? I’d hoped for a word.’

‘He’s asleep for now. Maybe once he wakes he’ll be up to talking.’ The dark shape moved forward into the light from the door, and became the figure Gil remembered, like someone from his nurse’s tales: short legs, broad shoulders, powerful hairy arms, a big head. Unlike his wife William Doig presented a much sprucer persona than the last time they had met, clad as he was in a red velvet jerkin and blue hose, the sleeves of his good linen shirt rolled back. Socrates scrambled to his feet and followed Doig, head level with his, nosing at the angle of his neck, tail wagging again. There was no doubt he remembered him.

‘You’ve given up the dog breeding?’ Gil asked. Doig shrugged, a seismic movement of the broad shoulders, and flung an arm round the wolfhound’s neck.

‘Herself has care of the dogs for now. She’s a good eye for it. I miss it,’ he admitted.

‘Leaves you free for other business,’ suggested Gil. Doig eyed him resentfully, much as his wife had done in Perth, but said nothing. ‘I’ve a thing or two to ask you as well. Shall we sit out at the door, no to disturb Sir Duncan?’

‘No,’ said Doig bluntly. ‘We’ll sit here. I’m no welcome in the Kirkton, I’ll no remind them I’m here, if it’s all one to you.’ He hoisted himself on to the bench next the wall, glowering through the open door at Alasdair nan Clach who was quite openly making the horns against the evil eye at the sight of him. ‘Ask if you must,’ he said grudgingly, patting Socrates, whose chin was on his knees.

Gil sat down beside him and thought briefly.

‘When were you last in Dunblane?’ he asked. Doig’s head snapped round; whatever questions he had been expecting, it was not this one.

‘Dunblane? Never been near the place,’ he returned, almost automatically.

‘That won’t do,’ said Gil, allowing amusement to show. ‘You were seen at John Rattray’s window.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Where did you take him to?’ Gil countered. ‘I’m guessing it was nowhere in Scotland, or we’d ha heard of him, seeing how word gets about. The Low Countries? France?’

‘I’ve no notion what you’re talking about,’ said Doig steadfastly. The dog looked from one man to the other, and wagged his tail uneasily.

‘Rattray’s servant took you for the Deil himsel, with your wings down your back.’

Doig’s wide mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

‘But you know Canon Drummond,’ Gil stated. ‘Andrew Drummond of Dunblane.’

‘Do I?’ said Doig. ‘No that I can think of.’

‘That’s a pity, for he speaks well of you,’ said Gil mendaciously.

‘Beats me where he gets the knowledge.’

‘And then in Perth,’ Gil went on. The sturdy figure beside him seemed to brace itself. ‘The two brothers from St John’s Kirk.’

‘Oh, them,’ said Doig, and then, ‘What two brothers?’

‘So that’s three tenors, is it?’ Gil said, still deliberately inaccurate. ‘Men their choirs can ill spare, seeing how scarce good tenors are. Who is it that’s collecting singers?’

‘It’s quite a puzzle,’ agreed Doig.

‘And are you shifting words as well as voices? Information about the English treaty, maybe –’ Had Doig’s expression flickered at that? ‘– or letters from the great and good of the Low Countries?’

‘How would the likes of me be acquaint wi sic folk?’ parried Doig.

‘How long have you been here with Robert?’

The small man blinked at the change of direction, but shrugged again and said, ‘Too long for him and me both.’

‘Why not leave, then?’

‘I can lend him a hand about the place.’

‘And Montgomery hasny sent word for you to move on,’ Gil suggested. This got him a sharp look from the dark eyes, but still no answer. ‘Does he know you’re working for someone overseas as well?’

‘Ask all you want,’ said Doig, his deep voice even. ‘I never said I’d gie you answers.’

‘No,’ agreed Gil, ‘but it tells me near as much when you don’t answer.’

There was a short silence while Doig considered this. Then he wriggled off the bench.

‘I’ve more to do than sit here listening to you,’ he said, straightening his jerkin. Gil grinned at him.

‘I’d agree. You’ve been seen about here,’ he said. ‘There’s talk of the
bodach
over at Gartnafueran, and up in Glenbuckie. You fairly get about, Maister Doig.’

‘Where’s Gartnafueran?’ asked Doig. ‘Never been near the place.’

‘So you’ve been in Glenbuckie, then? Did you go there to check on young Davie Drummond? I know you set him down the other side of the pass, to climb over into the top of the glen. I suppose you went up from here to make sure he got safe to Dalriach. You were seen the same day he came home.’

Doig glowered, and crossed the room, watched carefully by the dog, to peer up into the open box-bed. After a moment Gil heard him speaking quietly, in a much gentler tone. Shortly he turned, to say sourly, ‘Sir Duncan’s awake, and glad of a wee bit company. But you’re no to tire him.’

The priest of Balquhidder was very old, and it was clear that Robert was right and he was very near death, lying bonelessly in the shut-bed, the flesh on his face almost transparent. But his eyes were alert in the dim light from the doorway, and his speech was clear, though faint. He gave Gil a blessing, raising his hand briefly from the checked coverlet, and said slowly, ‘William tells me you’ve a question, my son.’

‘I have, sir.’ Gil fetched the stool from the hearth and sat down, to bring his head nearer the old man’s. ‘And forgive me for disturbing you when you’ve better matters to think on.’

‘I’ve done all my thinking,’ said Sir Duncan in his thread of a voice. ‘Ask.’

‘I wondered what you’d recall of the time when young David Drummond vanished away. Do you mind that?’

‘A course I mind that.’ There was humour in the faint voice. ‘I’ve no notion what day this is, but I mind that well. All the women in the glen grat for the boy. Well liked, he was.’

‘I thought you would. He went away up Glenbuckie, didn’t he?’

‘He did. And down the other side of the pass, so Euan nan Tobar said. I spoke with Euan the year after, at the fair here. He told me how he saw the boy borne away.’

‘Did you credit that?’

‘Euan’s a simple soul. He doesny lie. He doesny aye understand what he sees.’

Gil nodded. ‘And can you mind, sir, had there been strangers in the glen afore that happened?’

The fleshless mouth drew into an O of surprise at the question.

‘Strangers, now.’ The old man fell silent, considering this. ‘I don’t recall. I need to consider of that one, my son. We don’t see so many strangers, you’ll ken. Just William here and yourself since Robert came to me. And now Davie,’ the thin voice added. ‘The dear child.’

‘No hurry,’ said Gil, but Sir Duncan looked at him with those bright eyes. Even in this light, it was hard to meet the direct gaze; the old man seemed already to see the world from a different standpoint.

‘Not true, my son,’ he said. ‘You need an answer, and I’ve little time, praise to Mary mild and Angus, before I go to what waits me.’ Gil thought he smiled in the dim light. ‘Away and let me think. I’ll send William to you if I mind anything.’

‘My thanks, Sir Duncan.’ Gil slipped from the stool to kneel before the old priest. The hand rose from the coverlet and dropped back again, and the faint voice said:

‘You’ll see those bairns right, my son?’

‘Bairns?’ Gil looked up, and found that blazing, direct gaze on him. ‘Davie, you mean, sir?’

‘Or whoever he is. And Robert, poor lad.’

Gil nodded. ‘I’ll see them both safe if I can. I swear it.’

Accompanying him to the door, Maister Doig divulged with reluctance that Robert Montgomery was gone over to the kirk again to see about this matter of the claim of sanctuary.

‘He’s been gone a good while,’ he said irritably, having admitted it, and patted Socrates, who was trying to lick his ear. ‘Get away, you daft dog.’

‘You know that’s Davie Drummond in the kirk? You can give him his scrip back now,’ said Gil. Doig stared up at him, face studiously blank. ‘Maister Doig, do you know anything about the accidents up at Dalriach?’

‘Accidents?’ said Doig, his dark eyebrows drawing together. ‘No. I hope none’s been hurt?’ His concern sounded genuine.

‘Wee things to begin wi,’ said Gil. ‘A ladder, a pitchfork, a needle in the wool. Things a
bodach
might do.’

‘Who are they aimed at?’

‘Who knows?’ said Gil. ‘Other than the body that’s causing them. But it turned serious last night. The farmhouse is burned out, and two dead.’

‘Is that –’ said Doig, and broke off. Nobody seems capable of finishing a sentence today, thought Gil in irritation. ‘Who died? No young Davie, I take it, if that’s who’s in the kirk.’

‘No. The old woman, and the changeling boy.’

‘A changeling,’ said Doig flatly. ‘Is this another one? I thought it was Davie was the changeling, or was returned by the Good Neighbours, or something.’

‘Maybe you should talk to Davie about that.’

Doig grunted, and opened the door wider. ‘If you see Robert, tell him he needs to fetch water. The house is about dry.’

Alasdair nan Clach unfolded himself from the opposite bank where he had been squatting and followed Gil towards the little kirk in its round walled kirkyard, saying, ‘That’s an ill sign, a
bodach
like that to be dwelling in Sir Duncan’s own house. It will be carrying him off one night, for certain, and him such a good man.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Gil asked.

The man shrugged. ‘That is its nature. Mary and Michael and Angus protect him, but when the
bodach
is dwelling in his own house they will find it hard.’

Gil decided to ignore this. Reaching the kirk, aware once more of eyes on his back and cautious movement among the houses, he pushed open the door, more gently than he had done earlier, and stepped in, removing his hat and identifying himself aloud.

The two youngsters were seated with their heads together, side by side on the same flat stone before the altar where Davie Drummond had been kneeling earlier. As the light from the door reached them, Robert Montgomery sprang up.

‘What are you after, Cunningham?’ he demanded, standing warily in front of his companion. At Gil’s knee the dog growled faintly, head down, hackles up, his stance remarkably like Robert’s.

‘A word with your friend here,’ Gil said, making his way to the chancel arch. ‘I’m no threat to him,’ he added directly, ‘as I told him this morning.’ He dropped his hat on the earthen floor and sat down on it; after a moment Robert sat down likewise, saying:

‘I’m surprised they’re not down from Glenbuckie already, wi swords drawn and roaring for Davie’s blood. They’re wild folk here, Cunningham. Sir Duncan’s told me some orra tales.’

‘So did my father,’ said Davie, and bit his lip.

Gil opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and changed his mind. He was not quite ready for that one. Instead he put an arm across his dog, who had also sat down and was leaning against him, and said, ‘Sir William bade me tell you he’ll be here to speak wi you the morn’s morn.’