A Cruel Courtship

8

Frightened by the events of the evening, which had strengthened his terror of being found out by the English, Father Piers began to fuss to avoid facing his demons. He considered the room, trying to determine how he might best receive Margaret, how best to tell her of James’s misadventure and his sad news, as well as the summons that had come for a priest to administer the last rites to Johanna. He’d sent his elderly assistant, Father John, for Piers was needed here, to stand his ground against soldiers demanding James. He’d had a terrible feeling that Gordon Cowie’s murder had set off a wave of fighting to mirror that going on down below, and now he feared he’d been right. God have mercy on all their souls, he prayed, crossing himself.

He wondered how he, called to a contemplative life, had become so involved in treachery. It was frightening to be in the middle of all of it. He was within his rights to grant James sanctuary, but he was uneasy about how the English would judge his doing so. He had assured the captain who’d pursued James that despite his wish to cooperate with the castle it was his duty to respect the sanctity of sanctuary.

‘Do you know who he is?’ the captain had demanded.

‘It matters not a whit who he is,’ said Piers, ‘he has claimed sanctuary and it is his right.’ He would lie outright if necessary — he had before, despite his fear of becoming mired in a quicksand of lies. The captain had hesitated, as if about to tell him of James’s connection with King John Balliol, but then decided against it.

‘I’ll return in the morning,’ he’d said, and departed.

Just as worrisome was Margaret’s being abroad in the town, and without an escort, not even her maid. He did not know what she could be thinking, to take no precautions after the death of the goldsmith. Most felt that Gordon had been murdered because of his support of the English. For all others knew Margaret, too, was on the side of the invaders — they didn’t know of her work for King John.

‘Dame Maggie is here,’ the clerk said.

Praised be God.

The first thing Piers noticed was that despite the summery night Margaret had a plaid wrapped around her. He also noted that her hem was filthy. As she stepped into the room she stumbled despite having her hand resting on the arm of her small maid.

‘Dame Margaret?’ Piers looked closely at her.

She raised her eyes to his, fixing on him with exaggerated attention though it made her blink. Her face was flushed and slack.

God help us, she’s been drinking.

He pulled the chair slightly out of the light — her eyes must be sensitive to it — and appreciated Celia’s coaxing her to take the seat so proffered.

Margaret did not move at once. ‘I was too late,’ she said.

The clerk caught Piers’s eye — Water? Wine? Neither?

But Celia asked for some watered wine for her mistress.

‘Forgive me, but Dame Maggie appears to have already drunk overmuch,’ said Piers.

‘And so would you had you been asked to look closely at a woman beaten beyond-’

‘You were there?’ Piers said, horrified.

‘Celia, quiet.’ Margaret kept her hand raised just a little too long, then dropped it as she gingerly sat down. ‘Yes, I’ve had a mazer full of Evota’s fine ale.’ She said nothing more for a moment, but emotion welled in her eyes. ‘Her face did not take the brunt of the blows — it was the back of her head. But her jaw — the teeth-’ Margaret had reached out, sculpting the air with her hand as if drawing the horror.

Thank the Lord she could not actually make him see what she’d seen, thought Piers, for in her dazed eyes he saw enough. ‘Who made you look, Dame Maggie?’

‘He had to know whether it was Johanna,’ Margaret said.

‘Christ have mercy,’ said the clerk.

‘What were you doing there?’ Piers asked.

‘I’d gone to see her,’ Margaret said. ‘But too late.’ Her voice broke, yet she sat rigidly staring towards him.

‘You describe such terrible injuries,’ said Piers. ‘You arrived after she’d been attacked?’

Margaret nodded. ‘May the Blessed Mother hold her to her breast and comfort her,’ she whispered as she took the cup from the clerk’s hands, her own hands trembling so that she needed both to bring the cup to her lips.

Piers left her in peace for a moment, but he was bursting with questions and finally asked, ‘Who did it?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘I know not, but the people think she was murdered for her English lover, as Gordon Cowie had been murdered for doing so much business with the castle.’

‘We must tell James of this. He awaits you in the kirk. Who was it who had you look upon her?’ Piers asked once more.

Margaret took a breath, visibly shivering as she exhaled. ‘An English soldier, very tall, slender, sharp-featured. He spoke like a noble.’ She pulled the plaid higher round her neck.

‘Why were you there this evening?’

She lifted her eyes to his and seemed about to speak, but pressed her lips together and dropped her gaze again. It was a few seconds before she said, ‘I heard shouts in St Mary’s Wynd and was curious. It was my undoing.’

‘Was she touched?’ Piers asked. ‘Or robbed?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘Neither.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘Let us go to James.’ She looked pale and terribly fragile.

‘Do you think you should, Mistress?’ asked the maid, rising to support her.

She’d been so still that Piers had forgotten her presence. He had a sense that there was much the two were not telling him. God help him if he’d been mistaken in trusting them.

‘I wish to talk to James, to tell him what I saw,’ said Margaret.

She was steadier on her feet now, but Piers was having second thoughts about her seeing James tonight.

‘There is no need for you to tell him, I shall,’ Piers offered. ‘You have witnessed such violence. You should rest. Come to him in the morning.’

Margaret kept walking towards the door. ‘I’ll not sleep tonight, so I’d as lief have someone to talk to,’ she said.

She was a very stubborn woman.

‘It is out of my hands,’ Piers murmured as he crossed himself. ‘Stay a moment. There’s bound to be someone watching. We’ll carry bedding to him.’

When all three were so burdened, they moved out into the kirk yard. Torchlight illuminated a guard at the side door of the kirk, and another apparently stood by the nave door, where his torch danced wildly in the breeze.

‘God have mercy.’ Piers said it as if a curse. He had not thought that they would set up sentinels so soon. Thank God he’d prepared.

Margaret covered her head with her plaid.

‘I’ll not tell them who you are,’ Piers promised. ‘They ken they haven’t the right to deny the faithful access to the kirk.’ Perhaps it was best that Margaret go to James now, in the dark, before the gossips fed on the night’s deeds.

The market square had been almost deserted when Ada stepped out of her house with her escort to the castle.

‘How it has changed in a day,’ she said.

‘All are fearful since the stabbing of the goldsmith,’ said the young man. ‘There will be little law in the town when most of the soldiers have gone down to the camps.’

Ada prayed that those loyal to King John would not take it as an opportunity to punish those who had courted the English. She hesitated, wondering whether she should warn John to be extra vigilant. But he was, as a rule.

In the castle bailey she sensed that here, too, was a heightened tension, and looking around she noticed only martial activity, no townsfolk doing business, no idle hands. The men were cleaning and sharpening weapons, training, packing, dismantling tents, talking in hushed tones. The eyes that followed her passage were already haunted. Just yesterday Gordon Cowie had been here, doing business. She picked out the spot where he’d sat. Not since she had defied Simon and then almost died birthing Godric’s child had she felt so close to death, for she understood there was little, perhaps nothing to prevent anyone from murdering anyone when the captains and commanders were fixed on the enemy across the river. Who would punish a murderer? What difference was it to them whether someone was murdered, killed in battle, or merely in the wrong place at the wrong time? She hurried after the escort, uneasy about being so exposed in the castle yard.

Simon, too, was different this evening, repeating himself and sometimes forgetting his train of thought. She tried to bring him back to subjects that bonded them because she felt so vulnerable tonight.

‘Where was I?’ he’d just muttered for at least the eighth time when the servant announced Peter. They were at table, talking about the children, making plans for Ada to travel south to see them, although she doubted it would happen and knew full well that she would not be welcomed by any of them. Still, she yearned to know her children. Except for Peter — she was not eager to renew acquaintance with him. He’d shown up in her dreams last night as a chilly-eyed executioner.

And here he was now, standing over them, a sheen of sweat bringing a welcome imperfection to his handsome face. Perhaps that was part of what disturbed her — such a beautiful man should be angelic, all things good.

‘What’s amiss?’ Simon asked, rising slightly as he gestured to his son — their son — to join them at the table.

Peter took a seat and helped himself to some wine, adding almost as much again of water. Apparently he meant to keep his wits about him this evening.

‘The Welshman led us right to our quarry,’ Peter said to Simon. ‘But the prisoner escaped us and has claimed sanctuary in Holy Rude Church.’

‘What? How could he escape?’ His face reddening, Simon inexplicably looked at Ada as if she might answer that.

But of course she had no idea of whom they spoke. She returned to her study of Peter, watching his jaw muscles flex. He held himself so tightly it was plain to her how humiliated he was to have lost a captive, and thus that he was human after all, which was good in a sense. Beneath this motherly observation she realised with great unease that Simon had looked at her as if he thought she knew something of the prisoner’s escape. But she’d known all along that they would find her presence at this time suspicious.

‘The men are too excitable tonight,’ said Peter. ‘They jump at the slightest movement or sound. My prisoner must have noticed and watched for his chance. When the men were distracted by a pair of brawling drunkards he rushed straight to the church and claimed sanctuary before we could recapture him.’

‘The priest will not hand him over?’ asked Simon.

Peter shook his head. ‘Father Piers insists that he must honour sanctuary.’ Now he took a drink, avoiding his father’s eyes.

‘The Comyn is in sanctuary.’ Simon wearily pressed his brow. ‘What a sad end to a good day’s work.’

Ada’s stomach fluttered to hear the name. The Comyn was almost certainly James, for he’d complained that few of his kinsmen were yet rising for either side. James a prisoner. God help them if it was so. She tried to recall whether anything she’d done since she’d arrived in Stirling had connected her with him. But of course there had always been the risk that spies had seen them riding here together.

‘And there is more,’ said Peter. ‘A woman of the town has been brutally beaten.’

‘Dead?’ Simon asked.

Peter nodded, more at ease with this news, Ada noticed with disgust. ‘Johanna of St Mary’s Wynd — the one who bedded with a dozen soldiers or more before choosing someone unhappy with his lot.’

‘She wanted a man willing to talk?’ asked Simon.

Peter nodded.

‘She was spying for Wallace and Murray?’

‘I believe so.’

‘And you’ve spied on her.’

‘I have a certain skill,’ said Peter.

Ada fought to hide her fear that they spoke of the woman who had been sending messages to James. ‘No matter what she had done, to be beaten to death is a horrible end,’ she said, looking first to Peter, then to Simon. ‘It is not an honourable means of execution.’

‘I agree,’ said Peter, ‘although “beaten to death” makes it sound as if she were repeatedly hit. I believe she was hit but twice, once in the back of the head, once on one jaw.’ He delivered this assessment in a cool voice, his expression one of mild impatience.

‘That is still horrible,’ said Ada, crossing herself and saying a prayer for her son’s soul as well as for the victim’s.

‘But I doubt it was an execution.’ Peter tore off the corner of his father’s trencher and chewed on the bread as if he’d completed what he’d had to say.

‘By saying you doubt it was an execution you imply you have an idea what the motive was,’ said Simon, adjusting his heft on the bench so that he might observe his son.

Peter, poking at a slice of cold meat with his dagger, shook his head. ‘No. But execution would imply a soldier’s deed, and soldiers carry weapons, they don’t pick up logs to beat a woman and risk her surviving such an uncertain attack.’ He took a bite of the meat, only now meeting his father’s eyes. ‘There had been two, perhaps three blows.’

Simon grunted. ‘The wisdom of Solomon, presented with a bold confidence.’ He shook his head at Ada’s expression of dismay. ‘He has none of your fine feelings, eh?’

‘How could I?’ asked Peter, the meat on the knife poised before his mouth. ‘She did not raise me.’

‘That was not my choice, if you care to know,’ said Ada.

Peter was too busy eating to bother to answer with more than a shrug. Ada had never imagined a warm reception from her children, but Peter’s discourtesy was uncalled for. The more she saw of him the less she thought of the family who had fostered him. He would have grown up with far better character if she’d brought him up.

‘How did your commander receive the news that Comyn escaped?’ Simon asked.

Peter had finished eating and was wiping down his knife. ‘How do you think?’ He rose, sheathing his knife. ‘I must decide who takes the next watch at the kirk.’ He came to stand behind Ada, lightly resting his hands on her shoulders, then bending to say, as if conspiratorially, ‘Cousin Maggie was a good friend to Johanna. On your recommendation, Ma?’

She must have guessed correctly that the woman had been James’s connection. Ada did not dare breathe, though she longed to slap Peter for his insolence.

‘How do you know that?’ Simon angrily demanded.

‘She was at the woman’s house.’ Peter straightened. ‘I had her look closely to make certain that the woman was Johanna.’

‘How cruel,’ Ada cried. She had not expected Maggie to be so incautious. She might have been killed.

‘I had need,’ said Peter. ‘It was my opportunity to discover whether Maggie knew Johanna or was merely over curious. And then one of my men escorted her home.’

With his every act Ada disliked him more.

Simon looked at Ada. ‘Had your niece any cause to murder Johanna?’

Ada stood up abruptly. ‘My niece is not a murderer, Simon. How dare you-’

‘I did not mean to suggest that,’ Peter cut in. ‘She arrived after I’d set a guard on the house. Ill fortune on her part to choose tonight to seek out her friend.’

‘Yes,’ said Ada, uncertain whether her outrage had compromised anything. She thought not. It was natural for her to react so. She allowed herself to breathe, though she remained standing.

Moving to the head of the table Peter bowed to both. ‘I must leave you now. Forgive me for casting a pall on your merrymaking.’ The ghost of a smile played around his mouth. ‘You should advise the lovely Maggie to choose her friends with more care, Ma.’

Ada controlled herself and merely wished him a good evening. Once he was out of sight she and Simon silently stared at one another for a long while, her standing, him sitting, like a pair of cats challenging one another to be the first to look away.

She was thinking a great deal, and had no doubt that Simon was, too. It worried her that she did not know what he was thinking. Both he and Peter acted as if they trusted her less than on the previous evening, despite her having had no opportunity since arriving in Stirling to do anything behind their backs. Yet why then were they confiding in her?

And now Maggie had been to Johanna’s house. Ill fortune indeed to have gone there, especially on the night of James Comyn’s capture. Ada wondered whether his capture and Johanna’s death were connected. She felt sick at heart for Maggie, that she’d been forced to look at the body.

‘Our son is a cold, unfeeling creature,’ she said, easing back down.

‘As a small boy he suffered night terrors,’ said Simon. ‘His foster parents were at a loss what to do.’

She thought his mind was wandering again.

‘But on his own Peter decided that he wished to train in the arts of war,’ continued Simon, proving her wrong, ‘a rigorous, unrelenting training through which he honed his skills until he felt-’

‘Invincible,’ Ada said, finishing for him.

‘I was going to say “confident”.’

‘Safe,’ Ada added. ‘He no longer had cause to fear anything.’

‘Anyone,’ Simon corrected. ‘He’s helpless against a storm at sea, as are we all. But you make a good point.’

‘If the dead woman was a spy, God must have been watching over Maggie that she did not come to harm,’ said Ada.

‘Hm.’ Simon rose to pour them both more wine. ‘Most unwelcome news. I had looked forward to another happy evening in your company.’ He gazed down at her with a half smile, his eyes affectionate.

‘It is still early, my Lord,’ she said, taking his hand and kissing his palm. How dry and rough it was.

He lifted the hand to her face, tracing her features. ‘I sorely need distraction this night, Ada. I want you to stay.’

She would much prefer to go home and see how Maggie fared, but she did not dare disappoint Simon when the evening had put her friends’ mission in jeopardy. So be it. She prided herself on being a consummate player. He would have no cause to suspect her of wishing to be elsewhere this night.

As she began to flirt with Simon, Ada experienced a familiar sense of having left her body and taken up a position across the room from which she might clearly observe their play. It often happened when she was purposefully manipulating her companion. She believed God caused this, to frighten her from her duplicity, and she blasphemously ignored Him, thinking that in time He would see it was for the best. Although, since He was omniscient and all powerful, all was in the moment to Him and He knew the outcome before she came up with the plan. Perhaps this was how He tested the strength of her convictions.

After a while she allowed her smile to fade into a fretful expression and averted her eyes as she leaned forward to take up the goblet of wine.

‘What is it?’ Simon asked. ‘Have I offended you in some way?’

She could see by the movement of his eyes that he was reviewing his recent comments. ‘No, not you, Simon.’

‘Then what?’ He caught her hand, cradling it in his, and gently uncurled her fingers to kiss the centre of her palm, as she had his.

A delicious warmth spread upward. He took hold of her arm and pulled her towards him. She did not resist, but came to rest in his lap, vulnerable and willing. He kissed her ears, her neck, the rise of her breasts. One hand slipped up her skirts.

‘What is bothering you, my love?’ he whispered into her hair.

She groaned. ‘You, my love,’ she chuckled. ‘Our dour son would be horrified.’ She shivered as his fingers found her wetness. ‘Oh sweet Simon,’ she moaned, holding tight round his shoulders as he rose and carried her to the bed. God help her but she found this such sweet, fulfilling work. She enjoyed how he slowly undressed her, his eyes sleepy with desire, his member rising beneath his shift.

‘How are you still so slender, so beautiful, mother of my children?’ he wondered.

Passion played with his vision, she thought, but she enjoyed the deliciously wicked excitement of being stripped naked. One was never too old for that.

She must guard her tongue, though; Peter’s news had been fraught with traps for her.

Their lovemaking was not so wild as in their youth, but hot enough that their bodies were slippery and must be covered from the draughts as they lay together smiling.

‘Have you forgotten your worries now, my Ada?’

She heard the grin in his words and hated to disappoint him, but timing was all.

‘Oh, sweet, why have you reminded me?’ She sighed and snuggled closer to him.

He propped himself up on one elbow, idly caressing one of her breasts. ‘Tell me. Do you want for anything?’

‘I hesitate to mention it here, in our bower-’ She turned on her side, ran a hand from his temple to his jaw, then down his neck, and under the covers down the centre of his chest, to his stomach, his flaccid member, which felt as if it trembled at her touch.

‘Ada,’ Simon caught her hand, laughed. ‘We’ll solve nothing with such idle hands.’

She felt mischievous and gave the throaty chuckle he loved. ‘You are right. The sooner I make my moan, the sooner I might devour you again.’

‘Wanton woman.’ He pressed her hand, released it, and pushed himself upright, leaning back against the pillows.

Ada sat up as well, pulling the blanket up to her neck for warmth. ‘Will you do anything to bring this Johanna’s murderer to justice?’

Simon pulled up the covers a little, too, she thought to hide the scars she’d just noticed on one shoulder. ‘It was a terrible act, to be sure, but Peter may be right, a soldier has weapons.’ He shook his head.

‘Would he carry them to see his mistress?’

‘In this town? I should hope he would.’

‘So nothing is to be done? Have you not taken over the governing of this town? Is it not your responsibility to see that the people are safe?’

He shifted and she saw that she had broken the spell. ‘Why trouble yourself about it?’ he asked.

‘It sounds as if Johanna and I had much in common, being the mistresses of soldiers. I would hope that my murder would be avenged.’

His eyes softened a little. ‘Do not speak such things, Ada. She was quite another matter.’

‘Her murderer must be brought to justice. Will you question her lover?’

‘I might suggest it. Particularly if Peter is right that he’s a traitor.’

She risked pushing a little further. ‘Might I talk to him? He might talk more readily to a woman.’

Simon made an impatient sound deep in his throat. ‘Things are tense in the garrison. The man may already be in the valley. In faith, we have no time for such things.’

‘I do, Simon. A war is no excuse for slack justice. Do you want a dishonourable soldier fighting under you?’

‘You choose a poor argument. Edward has granted us an army of felons and miscreants. The English soldiers blame the Welsh for their own misdeeds, the Welsh desert ingloriously. It is a shambles. Only our number overwhelms Murray and Wallace.’

‘And some honourable and excellent commanders,’ she whispered.

He grunted, then surprised her with a bemused smile. ‘You have a knight’s courage. I’ll consider your request that we look into it.’

‘Thank you, Simon.’

‘I promise only to consider it.’

It was enough for now. Ada was tired, and she sensed Simon’s weariness. But she must keep up the lovemaking a little longer so that he did not suspect how important Johanna was to her.

Shivering in the breeze despite her plaid, Margaret was sorry the strong ale no longer dulled her senses. The guard’s torch snapped and sputtered loudly in the quiet night.

‘Let us pass,’ demanded Father Piers in a strong voice.

‘Who are these women?’

‘Maidservants come to fix a place for the man to sleep,’ said Piers, holding up the blankets he carried.

Margaret appreciated the priest’s sensible approach.

Apparently the guard believed Piers, although he made a few snide comments about fussing over a man as good as dead.

Ignoring him, Piers fitted the key into the kirk door and stood aside to let Margaret and Celia hurry within.

The cavernous nave engulfed Margaret, the darkness huge beyond the meagre light from a small lamp beside the door. When Father Piers closed the door and locked it, the sound echoed and expanded through the vastness. Margaret felt dizzy, as if her spirit were spreading wide and high to fill the inhuman space. She moved into the light for reassurance.

‘Maggie, is it you?’ James’s voice came from behind her.

She turned around slowly, not trusting her balance. James caught her up in his arms, kissing her with a passion that she did not return at once, unable to push away the memory of Johanna’s battered head so quickly. But the warmth of his embrace and the tenderness of his kisses drew her back to the present, to the world of the living, and in a few moments she responded with passion equal to his.

Father Piers’s voice reminded them that their companions could see all despite the darkness of the nave, and they stepped back from one another, reluctantly withdrawing their hands.

‘I had not realised how it was between you,’ said the priest.

‘I do not think we did either,’ said James, sounding a little breathless.

Margaret marvelled at how easily James could play to the situation, pretending that he had not professed his love for her just a few days earlier. She had not known how she would feel when she saw him again, but his presence had made the nave a far less frightening expanse despite his need to seek sanctuary there. Tenderly grateful, she wanted to see to the scratches on his face and the wound that was staining his tunic at the shoulder, as if by tending his wounds she might save both of them from danger.

‘We have much to talk about,’ said Father Piers. ‘Let us withdraw to the chapel we are preparing for you, James.’

The priest motioned to Celia and Margaret to follow him, but James caught Margaret’s arm.

‘What I must tell you will be easier without the others,’ he said, and in his voice she heard weariness and pain.

Although the shadows obscured his expression, Margaret could feel his eyes fixed on hers. She glanced back at their companions.

Piers bowed his head slightly. ‘As you will,’ he said, and picked up the bedding that Margaret had set aside. ‘Come, Celia. We will await them in the chapel.’

As they withdrew, the echo of their footsteps reminded Margaret of the vast stone structure around her and once again she felt like a mote in the draughts of the dark nave, at the mercy of an inhuman force. She stepped closer to James.

‘I feel too small in this great nave.’ She forced a little laugh that eerily echoed.

‘It was not built for our ease,’ said James, ‘but to put us in awe of the Almighty. I’m sorry to keep you here. We will join the others as soon as I’ve told you-’

‘I have troubling news for you as well,’ she whispered.

‘Troubling? I said nothing of that.’ James took her hands. ‘Do you feel what I am feeling? Are we already so bound?’

Margaret realised that in his hesitation she’d known what he was about to tell her. Both of her frightening visions had now been realised, with her powerless to have prevented them. The Sight was a thing of madness, a curse.

‘Something has happened to Roger,’ she said.

He pulled her closer, stooping to look into her eyes. ‘How do you know?’

Surely it was a sign of madness to have forgotten to wait for him to tell her. Think, she screamed in her head as he stood waiting for her explanation. If she revealed her madness he would want to know more, he would expect her to see into the future, and she could not do it. She had no control over this affliction. Think. She’d already been worried about Roger before the vision. Because of Christiana. ‘My mother was worried about him, and it seemed one with her concern about my coming to Stirling. What is it, Jamie, what are you thinking?’

He relaxed his grip on her hands a little. ‘I feared that Dame Christiana has passed you the Sight. I don’t know how I would feel about that regarding our mission.’

Margaret did not dare respond for that’s why she’d said nothing of it.

‘He is dead, Maggie. Roger is dead.’

The power of the words startled Margaret. She had relived Roger’s fall in the visions and dreams many times, and yet she had not been ready for the finality of James’s words. Dead. No more. There would never be a reconciliation. She would never know the truth of Roger’s feelings for her. Feeling light-headed, she leaned against James not because she thought his embrace would ease her pain but because she feared falling in this place, disappearing through the stones to the ancient power that lay beneath.

James put his arms around her and held her close.

‘How did he die?’ she whispered.

‘He’d fallen from an outcrop behind this kirk. His head hit another great stone.’

‘In the kirk yard,’ she said. ‘So close.’ She should have searched out there.

‘One of my men found him. The brush and the rocks shielded him from sight.’

Her vision had been accurate — and utterly useless.

‘God grant him peace,’ she prayed. ‘Did you see him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think he suffered?’

‘His neck was broken, Maggie. I don’t think he would have lingered.’

He held her tight and she turned her head to one side to take a few deep breaths, hoping to ease the lump in her throat. Roger would have counted his death by a fall ignoble. He had once predicted that he would die defending the goods on one of his ships. He would have preferred that.

‘I think he’d been robbed, for there was nothing of value on him,’ said James, ‘not even his personal knife.’

Margaret straightened a little, needing more air. ‘Do you think he was pushed?’

‘That I cannot guess, Maggie. He might have given chase if he’d discovered he’d been robbed.’ James tucked a stray lock into her wimple. ‘I saw no knife wounds, nor did I see any marks on his neck, so he wasn’t strangled before falling.’

Margaret stepped back and turned away, into the lamplight beside them. ‘You so closely examined him?’ She did not like the idea, his being examined by — what was James to her? Not yet a lover, so he was not a rival, though regarding Balliol and the Bruce he and Roger had been in separate camps.

‘I wanted to give you as full an account as I might, for I knew we could not wait to bury him. I thought it a miracle he’d fallen where he was not noticed by the English — he’d been dead at least several days.’

She might have found him herself. Yet what would that have changed but that the English might then be certain of their connection. ‘Did you find his companion Aylmer, the Bruce’s watchdog?’ Margaret distrusted the man, a distrust validated by a letter she’d found in his belongings when he’d stayed in their home in Perth. He and Roger had been on a mission to coax her father into supporting Robert Bruce, and Aylmer had carried orders from the Bruce to kill Roger or her father if either proved false in any way.

‘No. We found only Roger.’

She cursed Aylmer for not helping Roger — he might even have pushed him. The lump in her throat seemed to have travelled to her stomach and now burned like a coal, yet her hands were aching with cold. ‘Where did you bury him?’

‘My men took him to Cambuskenneth Abbey.’ James moved behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

‘With all those camping down below? How could your men carry a body across the river without being caught?’

‘We respect each others’ dead.’

‘They did not respect the dead in Berwick.’

‘It is always possible that my men did not make it, but it would not be for want of trying. I have done all I could to honour him, Maggie.’

She moved back into James’s arms and let the tears come, a brief outpouring that eased the fire in her stomach. But in its place an iciness spread from her hands up her arms and encased her heart. She’d been cursed with the Sight and no man might undo that.

Celia had been surprised to find a straw pallet already tucked into a corner behind the chapel’s altar, and some dishes sitting on a small table.

‘What is to prevent the English from taking Master James when the kirk is open during the day?’ she asked.

‘Fear of eternal damnation,’ said Father Piers.

Celia did not have his faith that such fear would protect James.

‘But I’ll not risk it,’ said Piers. ‘I’ll lock the gate to this chapel. The chaplain has long been gone and it is now merely the burial place of the ancestors of a family gone from Stirling for many a year.’

It was no place she would care to sleep, but Celia knelt to arrange the bedding. Father Piers crouched down to assist her, his second act this evening that proved wrong her early impression of him as self-centred — the first had been when he upheld James Comyn’s request for sanctuary.

She was glad to have a chore because the depth of feeling evident between her mistress and James Comyn in those first moments in the nave had shaken Celia. She felt as if she’d missed a crucial development in the motivation behind their coming to Stirling. Her confidence had already been shaken by Johanna’s murder and James’s capture. She felt as if the English soldier knew everything that they’d done since they arrived; she would not be at all surprised to hear that he was the one who had captured James.

‘What did the captain look like? The one who came for Master Comyn?’

The priest’s description fitted her English soldier. When she told Father Piers, he looked frightened. ‘It had not occurred to me that he was the one of which you and Johanna had spoken.’ He knelt at the small altar to pray.

‘You said you had sad news for me,’ James reminded Margaret.

She’d withdrawn from his embrace and held her hands over the lamp, trying to thaw them, but as soon as she took them from the heat they were cold as the stones beneath her feet. And now she must tell James of her other vision become reality.

‘When did your men find Roger’s body?’ she asked instead. An uncomfortable sensation had begun, as if she wanted to run from James, as if he were dangerous to her.

‘Yesterday.’

James stepped closer; Margaret moved to the far side of the lamp, as if meaning to share it with him.

‘Do you think your finding him had anything to do with your being found by the English today?’

‘It might, though I think it more likely it had to do with the Welsh archer. Do you remember him? The one who brought news of Andrew?’

‘The one you didn’t trust.’

James nodded. ‘He showed up at our camp with a tale of escape from his guard because he had gone through hell to be part of the battle that is about to take place for the River Forth. My men believed him — before I arrived he’d insinuated himself into their ranks. This morning he disappeared.’ He pressed his palms to his face for a moment and looked so dejected that Margaret felt cruel for avoiding his touch.

‘You were right to distrust him,’ she said. ‘I doubted him a little, too.’

‘I wish we’d been wrong.’

‘How did you know to distrust him?’ As he began to reiterate his reasoning Margaret interrupted him. ‘I remember your reasoning, but how did it feel? Did you sense it the moment you met him?’

‘Are you asking me now whether I have the Sight?’

‘No, no, I’m wondering how to know whom I can trust in such times.’

James gave a little laugh. ‘Would that we could know. Why do you think both Roger and I wanted to talk to your mother? We wanted to learn more about her prediction that you’d watch the true King of Scotland ride into Edinburgh. We wanted to learn what she knows with her gift of kenning.’

Both had been disappointed, for Christiana swore she’d seen only Margaret’s features in the vision. She’d refused to see Roger at first, which was why her befriending him when he returned to the nunnery wounded had surprised Margaret. But it might have meant little — he might have spent time with her hoping to learn more about the prediction. It had been Margaret’s lifelong experience that few people wanted anything to do with her mother except to learn something through her Second Sight, and they often blamed her if they were unhappy with what she had to tell them. Never did they ask about her as they would a woman without that gift. Margaret did not want that to be her own fate.

James reached out for Margaret’s right hand. ‘Maggie, what is this bad news?’

She almost recoiled from his touch. Perhaps because he had touched Roger after death. It was a moment before she could draw herself from that thought.

‘Johanna was murdered this evening.’

‘Our spy?’

Margaret nodded.

‘God’s blood, how?’

‘She was hit in the back of the head with a thick branch, at least once, and once in the jaw. She was lying on the floor of her home when I arrived.’

James caught Margaret’s arm. ‘You went to her home? Why? You were to communicate through Father Piers and Archie.’

‘Father Piers introduced us. And I’ve yet to meet Archie,’ said Margaret. ‘He’s a slippery young man. He’s told Father Piers he cannot help us any more.’ She did not want to tell James about her fear for Johanna; he’d want to know who was next. ‘I was in the backlands and heard a scream. It was foolish, I know, but I ran to see who it was. Her neighbours told me. There was an English soldier in the house.’ She was talking too fast, hoping he would not stop her for details. ‘And then his captain came and asked me to look on her, tell him if it was Johanna. He told me that he’d lost a prisoner, that the man had claimed sanctuary here.’

‘Do you know his name?’

‘No.’

‘Pale hair and dark brows?’

‘Taller than you, lean and well-spoken?’ Margaret finished for James as he nodded. ‘Your captor?’

‘Aye, Maggie, and his name is Peter Fitzsimon — Ada’s son by Simon Montagu.’

She began to shake her head in disbelief, but in her mind’s eye she now saw how much he favoured his mother. Even so, she asked, ‘Are you certain?’

‘I am.’

‘God help us.’ She wondered whether the night was yet finished with them, twisting all their fates about. ‘If the archer has met with Peter, he might have mentioned me.’

‘I don’t believe he’s met with Simon yet. We can only pray that the archer does not see you.’

‘I still might be Ada’s niece.’ But that did not matter, she realised that. ‘They’ll act on suspicions, whether or not they are certain. Ada and all in her home are threatened by the archer’s knowledge.’

‘I should have killed him,’ said James. ‘I felt in my gut that I should.’

‘What if I claimed sanctuary with you?’

‘You would condemn Ada.’

‘What can we do?’

‘For now, withdraw into Ada’s home. Call no attention to yourself.’