This got him a close look, and a dubious, ‘Aye, m’hm. You’ll need to speak to him, right enough, though I’ve no notion what good it might do.’ The steward, a lean-faced individual with straggling grey hair, looked down at the towel and bread-knife he carried, and absently wiped the knife with the towel. ‘He’s had his troubles to bear, Maister Cunningham, and he’s badly afflicted by them.’ ‘Troubles,’ repeated Gil, lifting an eyebrow. ‘His, er – his, er – a woman dear to him,’ said the steward euphemistically, ‘dwelling outside the town, dee’d a month since, and the bairn wi her. It seemed as if he’d ha been right enough, what wi his faith in God and His saints, and the comfort o his brothers in the Chapter, but then he’d the letter telling o his brother David’s return, and then ten days syne another, and since that time he’s fell straight into a great melancholy. His folk say he neither moves nor speaks the most o the time.’ ‘Why should that have sent him melancholy?’ Gil asked in surprise.
