A Cruel Courtship

9

Perhaps it was the quiet in the kirk, or perhaps it was the ordinary motions of preparing a bed, but Celia could sense for the first time in a long while the presence of God. She felt confident that if she prayed with all her heart He would hear, which she’d doubted since leaving her comfortable life in Katherine Sinclair’s home in Dunfermline with Margaret. She’d been unable to reconcile the cruelty and suffering she witnessed in Edinburgh, Perth, and Stirling with the welcoming Lord she’d always imagined. But at this moment she felt invited to pray. Kneeling, she bowed her head and told God all that was in her heart: her fears, her angers, her wishes for those she loved, her wishes for herself. A surprise awaited her. She had not been aware that her wish for herself had changed since the last time she’d opened her heart to Him. No longer did she yearn to be a lady’s maid and travel to castles and manor houses; now her heart’s desire was to find a kind man and to bear his children, to create a home filled with love — a tidy home over which she ruled with joy and peace of mind. She felt God smile on her and almost wept for the hope it gave her.

‘At last they join us,’ Father Piers mumbled behind her.

Celia raised her head and in an instant her happy mood dulled as she saw the tension in her mistress’s face and the set of James Comyn’s jaw.

Margaret joined her on the wide prie-dieu before the altar and bowed her head.

‘Have you had darksome news, Mistress?’ Celia whispered.

Margaret took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I am widowed.’ Her voice caught on the sorrow-laden word.

Celia’s first thought was of Roger’s mother Katherine Sinclair, anxiously waiting in Dunfermline for news of her son. Tears filled her eyes as Celia remembered the love between mother and son. She also recalled Margaret’s shy, happy face on her wedding day. Roger Sinclair had proved a disappointing husband, but even so Celia knew that his death would weigh heavily on her mistress’s heart. As she put a comforting arm round Margaret she felt how tense she was, how shallowly she breathed.

‘I am so sorry,’ Celia whispered. ‘How can I help?’

Margaret covered Celia’s hand with hers, pressing it in thanks, but she said nothing, jumping when Father Piers spoke to James in a loud whisper.

‘In the kirk yard? Deus juva me. That is too close.’

Celia glanced round as the priest crossed himself. His arched eyebrows almost disappeared in creases his frown made in his forehead as he regarded James.

‘They found Roger below the large rock in the kirk yard,’ Margaret said softly, for Celia’s ears only. ‘He’d fallen. His neck was broken.’

‘Holy Mother of God,’ Celia whispered, trying not to imagine the scene and realising with a shiver that another of Margaret’s visions had come to pass.

‘How do you know the English had not found him there and set a watch to see who would claim him?’ Father Piers asked James.

‘Roger had been dead for at least several days when James’s men found him,’ Margaret said to Celia.

‘Don’t think I haven’t wondered that,’ said James. He was so tired his voice was failing.

‘Where is he now?’ Celia asked, glancing out into the nave.

‘James’s men are taking him to Cambuskenneth Abbey.’ Margaret’s tone was flat.

‘God watch over them,’ Celia said.

Margaret pressed her fingertips to her temples.

Selfishly, Celia wished to leave before so much was said in here that its peace would be lost to her for good. She still had a warm memory of God’s welcoming ear. ‘You need rest, Mistress. There is no need for you to stay here.’

Margaret rose, but instead of the door she turned to the bench against the wall where Father Piers and James were sitting. ‘Will Johanna be buried tomorrow?’ she asked.

Piers seemed to remember himself and relaxed his forehead. ‘Johanna? Yes, God willing and the English permitting, we shall honour her tomorrow,’ he said. Pressing palms to knees he rose, wincing as he straightened. ‘I grow older by leaps and bounds of late. May your husband’s soul rest in peace, Dame Maggie. I grieve for you in your sorrow.’ He blessed her.

Bowing her head, Margaret crossed herself. ‘I shall attend Johanna’s funeral Mass.’

‘I do not think that wise,’ James said gently.

Hearing the affection and concern in his voice, Celia considered the possibility that he truly loved her mistress. She wondered how that might colour his judgment — and Margaret’s, for that matter, for to be loved by a man must surely be as heady as brandywine.

‘Are you worried about Peter Fitzsimon?’ Margaret asked, still speaking in a voice so devoid of emotion that Celia thought she might be feeling faint.

She was about to coax her mistress into departing when she remembered who Peter Fitzsimon was. ‘What does Dame Ada’s son have to do with all this?’

‘He was my captor,’ said James.

Celia glanced at Father Piers. He, too, was listening with growing concern.

‘He is also the captain who had me identify Johanna,’ said Margaret.

‘He cannot be.’ Celia realised her words came out like a whine. She realised that all had grown quiet and all three were staring at her. ‘Forgive me.’

‘Tell me about Peter Fitzsimon,’ James said. ‘Tell me where you’ve seen him, what you’ve observed about him.’

Knowing that this would dispel any lingering calm, Celia hesitated, but of course she must share with them all that had occurred. She gathered her thoughts and related her encounters with the man as completely as possible.

James’s expression was grave as he thanked her.

‘I pray that Roger is safely buried in Cambuskenneth by now,’ Margaret said with a catch in her voice.

Father Piers said nothing.

‘We should go home, Mistress,’ said Celia. ‘Can someone escort us?’ she asked the priest.

He nodded. ‘Come. We will fetch my clerk.’

James reached out to Margaret, but she did not go to him.

‘Sleep if you can,’ she said.

In a few strides he reached Margaret and embraced her. ‘I am sorrier than I can say that I involved you in this. I failed you, I failed my king.’

Celia averted her eyes, but she couldn’t help but hear his words.

‘It has been my choice, and I have no regrets. You have not failed your king. We shall find a way to disappoint Peter Fitzsimon.’

‘Have you already forgotten what I told you? Stay hidden. It’s too dangerous.’

Father Piers stepped back into the chapel. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Yes,’ said Margaret. ‘Do not worry about me.’ She moved away from James. ‘Come, Celia.’

Celia was startled by James’s shattered expression. She almost wished her mistress were in love with him.

A soft rain fell outside their bower, lulling Ada and Simon to sleep for a while after their lovemaking. When Ada woke, Simon was no longer beside her and had apparently taken the lamp away with him. The twilight in the chamber felt ominous and disorienting, for Ada could not tell whether it was evening or morning. Lying quietly, she heard Simon’s voice outside the door, and another voice that she guessed to be Peter’s. That did nothing to calm her. As she sat up her pounding head informed her that it was evening, for she’d not yet slept off the wine.

Knowing from experience that a mouthful of wine would ease the headache, Ada wrapped a blanket round her and searched for the flask of wine they’d brought with them. Simon had moved it to another table and taken one of the mazers, but there was enough wine left in the flask for her purpose. She’d drunk little wine and almost no ale since the English had taken Perth, finding the lengths one needed to go to for such luxuries too much bother. Relative abstinence meant the wine affected her more quickly, and she should have known better than to drink so much this evening. She knew why she had — the murder of the soldier’s mistress, James’s capture and the uncertainty about how much Simon and Peter knew of her activities as well as Maggie’s had frightened her; but dulling her fear with drink was irresponsible in the circumstances.

She dressed, braiding and winding her hair about her head as best she could with her shaking hands and in the half light that provided only a ghostly shade in the silvered glass. The voices rose and fell, and now she detected more then two; perhaps she should not join Simon. He seemed determined not to introduce her to others at the castle, which she imagined meant he was unsure how they would react to his dallying with a Scotswoman. But it grew darker by the moment and she felt as if she would suffocate in the room despite the small window. The scent of their lovemaking sickened her now. It was unfortunate that she’d awakened and found herself alone, for without the need to play-act for Simon she had too much time to judge herself for playing the whore. There was no longer any love between them; their mating was lust, nothing else. God forgive me. Yet she could not stop now without risking everything.

It had grown quiet in the next room. Ada put her ear to the flimsy door in case it masked sound more than she imagined, but all was quiet. Just as she began to move away, she caught the sound of footsteps. Pressing back to the door she recognised the sound of someone pacing in a rhythm that echoed the rain, and she knew it to be Simon. She’d forgotten how he fell into a rhythm with the sounds around him. She’d often teased him about it.

She was relieved to have some activity to dispel her self-loathing. Easing open the door, she watched him for a moment. He held his hands behind his back and thrust forward his pudgy middle as if proud of it, which might be true if he enjoyed playing the wise older man to the soldiers. The light was behind him so she could not make out his expression, but by the downward angle of his head she doubted he was smiling.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the door and called softly to him.

‘How kind of you to let me sleep, my dear Simon.’

He started, and then averted his face for a few breaths as if framing the expression and words to use with her. He then came forward with an odd smile. ‘Are you rested?’ It was an uncharacteristic response, which did not bode well.

‘In truth I have a headache. Too much wine. I am old enough to know better.’

‘A little more will mend that,’ he said.

‘I’d as lief go home to rest, Simon. I’m sorry if I’m disappointing you, but I would be so grateful if you fetched a servant to escort me.’

‘Not yet, Ada,’ he said with nary a scrap of sympathy in either his tone or expression. Taking her firmly by the arm he led her to the table, assisted her in taking a seat, and then busied himself lighting more lamps until the room was quite cheerful.

Ada’s heart was racing. His mood was all wrong.

At last Simon sat down across from her and poured wine for both of them, handing her a mazer with a smile that looked false to her. ‘I have good news, Ada. There may be no battle for the Forth Bridge.’

Using both hands, Ada had taken a sip of the wine. She took time to set the mazer down before replying. ‘But that is good news, Simon.’ She used her smooth, calmly happy voice. ‘Have Wallace and Murray retreated?’

He grunted. ‘I should not trust it if they did. No, we are at last dealing with those who might be considered to have a right to their interest in this matter — James Stewart and Earl Malcolm of Lennox. They have asked Surrey to give them some time to bring Wallace and Murray round to peace.’

‘And he has agreed?’

‘Of course. Robert Bruce was defeated but a few weeks past, his daughter demanded as hostage — they do not wish to risk so much. He says it was clear to him that Stewart and Lennox are now determined to rid the country of the rebels, which might require them to take arms against their own countrymen.’ Simon sat back in his chair. ‘So much the better for us, eh? Now aren’t you glad you stayed to hear this?’

The wine had soured in Ada’s throat and her stomach burned. Such a promising beginning, now to be aborted. Her countrymen did not know how to unite against their common foe — their pride tripped them every time they began to succeed.

‘Ada?’ Simon had leaned forward to look into her eyes. ‘What is this frown on your face? You are not disappointed?’

She was frightened that she’d forgotten herself and allowed her feelings to show at the worst possible time. ‘I am worried, that is all. So much depends on their ability to unite my countrymen in peace.’

‘It is only now that you begin to worry?’

‘Peace seemed impossible before. What you’ve told me gives me hope.’ She shook her head, feeling the wine, the fear, the lovemaking pulling her down into such a weariness she could not clearly form her explanation. ‘I am so tired, Simon. I would leave now, if it please you.’

‘It doesn’t please me, Ada. I have more to tell you.’

His tone chilled her with the sudden memory of when she’d encountered this mood in him before — when he presented to her the evidence he’d gathered about her and Godric. He’d played with her that night, given her just enough information to make her fearful, then changed the subject, letting her stew in the juices of her fear, and then returned with more information, attacking and falling back until she’d shouted for him to tell her all, unable to bear the tension, needing to know the worst of it.

‘We spoke of the Comyn earlier, Peter’s escaped quarry,’ Simon began. ‘He was betrayed by a Welsh archer, a cunning archer, it turns out. I’m uncertain whether to reward him or kill him when he’s completed his mission. Traitors don’t make trustworthy allies.’

‘Simon, why are you telling me this?’ She was nauseated by the wine and his mention of James — still assuming that it was he.

‘On orders from his English commander the Welshman pretended to escape from the spital on Soutra Hill, taking a route that sickened him, and then headed for Perth to beg admission to the army of William Wallace — from James Comyn of Edinburgh, who was known by his commanders to be in Perth, near one of Wallace’s camps. Are you following me, my love?’

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for this sinner, Ada prayed silently. It was James. And now they’d connected him to Perth, and of course Maggie — this must be the Welshman who had brought her news of Andrew.

‘Ada?’

Simon’s eyes taunted her and in that moment she knew that he now understood her treachery; she hated him as she’d done on that other night long ago. Hated and feared him. She knew that in this he would not be ruled by his heart — if he had one. She realised now how like his father Peter was.

‘The archer was sick yet managed to journey from Soutra to Perth?’ she asked in what she hoped was a steady, slightly bored tone.

‘You have been listening,’ Simon said. ‘Yes. He managed to make the journey in good time, which is perhaps what made the Comyn wary of his sincerity, for Peter says the Welshman — David, by name — talks too much. A smart man, this James Comyn, for David had of course been advised of a safe route and had a mount for some of the time while his fever weakened him. The Comyn found a woman to nurse him in a small house quite isolated. More a prison than a house.’

‘How did his escape bring on a fever?’

When Simon described the man’s escape route, Ada made quite a fuss, hoping to annoy him enough that he would end the discussion for the night. But she was disappointed.

‘You grow tiresome, Ada.’

Simon was studying her closely. With all the lamps lit she could find no shadow and felt frighteningly vulnerable.

‘Do you know James Comyn of Edinburgh, lately in Perth?’

‘The Comyns are a large family, Simon. It’s likely I’ve met him on some occasion. I doubt that I can be of help to you, but what does he look like?’ She forced herself to breathe quietly, not gulp air.

Simon shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea — haven’t seen him yet as he’s in sanctuary.’

‘Of course. I am very tired, Simon.’

‘There seem to be many spies in Stirling at the moment — I should not be surprised, but I thought we’d secured it better than this. We’ve even found a dead one in the kirk yard.’ He sighed as if impatient. ‘We’ve allowed his friends to take him away to bury him. Comyn’s friends, actually, which is odd for the man was known to be working for Robert Bruce. Isn’t that odd, Ada?’

God grant him peace, Ada silently prayed. ‘The families are not on friendly terms, it is true.’ Robert Bruce’s man, James taking an interest in his burial — she prayed it was not Roger Sinclair. She must get to Maggie.

Simon suddenly pushed back his chair and rose. ‘You’ll stay here tonight.’

‘But Simon, your men …’

He stood behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t care if they see you leaving my lodging.’ He reached beneath her veil with the other hand and pulled her hair loose. ‘It might be the last night we have together.’

She rose and found herself wrapped in his arms, pinned to him so tightly it was difficult to breathe. It was not inconceivable that he might kill her; she had loved his dangerous nature and she did not think he’d mellowed with age. But the thought of dying at his hands infuriated her and she pushed against him with all her strength.

He released her with a laugh. ‘Forgive me, my delicate Ada.’

‘Why might it be our last night together, Simon? Have you found someone who pleases you more? A younger woman, perhaps?’

‘Would you still care? I am glad.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘But no, you have my heart while I am here in Stirling. But should peace be declared I’ll no longer have cause to be here in the north and I’d not hesitate to depart. I weary of the company of soldiers.’

Had she still loved him his indifference would have broken her heart; now it just frightened her. ‘Do you weary of our son?’

‘I despair of his manners. He needs a wife, a woman who will teach him the gentle arts. What think you of a Comyn or a Bruce if we make peace with these people? He is half Scot.’

Ada wanted to scream at the suddenly inane conversation. ‘It is late, Simon. Let’s to bed.’

For Celia it seemed like old times, her mistress crying herself to sleep over Roger Sinclair. Only now there was no longer any hope of reconciliation.

She’d asked Margaret how they might get word to Dame Katherine.

‘We must deliver this terrible news ourselves, Celia, when the fighting is over. If the fighting is ever over. We will reach her somehow. I cannot let her hear it from a stranger.’

It comforted Celia to think of such a journey. ‘Would you leave me with her?’

Margaret had not replied at once. ‘It will be your choice.’

That had given Celia something to ponder.

After a frighteningly brutal lovemaking Ada lay awake, aching and fearing what Simon would do with her and Maggie now that he held her in such low regard. How far they had come. She wondered whether it would have been different had they been wed. But of course, she would yet live in England and be respected as the mother of his legitimate children. Peter would look forward to being a wealthy landowner, perhaps a knight.

As she began to drowse she imagined Simon ordering Johanna’s lover to murder her in such a way that no one would guess a soldier had done it. And then what? Had Simon had the lover executed?

She wondered what method of murder Simon would choose for her — strangling, poisoning, beating to make it look as if someone was murdering the English soldiers’ whores, a knife to the heart and neck to mimic Gordon Cowie’s murder. She was oddly calm as she considered the various methods, and then fell to wondering who might have murdered Gordon.

Once among his fellow commanders Sir Francis seemed to forget about Andrew and Matthew. They were left to their own devices and wandered a bit away from their company without causing any stir. Andrew kept his direction towards the river. The pows, this marshy land cut through with many rivers and burns on the south bank of the Forth, was not easily navigated. Andrew had reluctantly hunted here with Abbot Adam on occasion, a preferred companion because of his experience with water meadows along the Tay. Matthew, too, had walked this area. They moved cautiously but steadily northeast, in the general direction of Cambuskenneth Abbey, which was on the far bank of the Forth. When at last Andrew paused, Matthew pointed to an empty area in the shelter of a rocky outcrop and suggested he lay out their plaids there. Andrew absentmindedly agreed.

He was thinking about summer in his childhood, how he’d learned to swim in the Tay so that he could assist with small repairs on the outer hulls of his father’s ships. It was an uncommon skill and the mates had found him useful. He’d enjoyed listening to their tales of far-off places.

‘Can you swim?’ he asked Matthew, almost hoping he could not, for Andrew had just made a pact with himself that if his servant could swim he’d take it as a sign that God approved of his plan.

‘What?’ said Matthew. ‘Swim? Were we going to need to swim out that drain at the spital?’

‘I don’t believe so,’ said Andrew. But it might have been necessary, and he’d never thought to ask Matthew then. ‘Can you?’

‘Why?’ When Andrew didn’t answer, Matthew said, ‘I can. I suppose I still can.’

God willed it, then. Andrew moved close to where the young man was working on a small fire. ‘Would you rather stay here or try to swim across the Forth to Cambuskenneth Abbey?’

Matthew paused, but didn’t raise his head. ‘Escape?’

‘At night. You would be risking your life.’

‘Where you go, I go, Father.’

‘You might be safer here.’

Matthew shook his head, still not looking up. The fire liquefied the shadows so that the young man’s flesh looked by turns haggard and mysterious. Andrew had one qualm — Matthew was clean, pleasant-looking, young, which appealed to some of the soldiers. The lad might feel he had no choice but to follow Andrew. He owed it to Matthew to give him a true choice.

‘Perhaps I’m being a fool. The abbey might be full of English soldiers by now, and here we are safe. In truth, it isn’t fair to leave the soldiers without a confessor.’

‘They would think nothing of leaving you behind to die if they might save themselves, Father. You ken that as well as I do. We owe them nothing.’

He spoke with more passion than Andrew had ever witnessed in him. Looking round he saw that they were as yet isolated from the others, too far from the nearest campfires to be noticed once theirs died down later on.

‘Keep the fire small and let it die out,’ he whispered.

Matthew nodded.

Late in the evening, as Andrew prayed by the dying fire, he glimpsed two of Sir Francis’s men at the nearest campfire and tried to withdraw completely from the light without so much movement that he’d attract their attention. But it was too late, one of the men at the fire gestured in their direction, and the searchers approached.

‘Damn,’ Andrew muttered. ‘Matthew, pretend to be asleep.’

Matthew snored softly.

‘Who goes there?’ Andrew demanded in a hushed tone, as if not wishing to wake Matthew.

‘Father Andrew, forgive me for waking you.’

One of the men stepped into the meagre light and Andrew recognised him as Will, an unexpectedly pious man considering his large repertoire of profane expressions in French and English. He was one of the felons in the company.

‘I was not asleep, Will. Did you want me to hear your confessions?’

He now recognised Will’s companion, a scrappy young man, Pete, who was missing an ear and a finger though he swore he’d never committed a crime.

‘Bless you, Father,’ said Will. ‘I feared you’d been relieved of your duty to such as us, gone to the knights and such. They’re sinners, too, some worse than me, but I’m the one who will be dangled first as bait, eh? And Pete, here.’

Sir Francis did plan to place the felons in the most vulnerable positions. Andrew wondered whether he had already announced his plan or whether Will was prescient. Perhaps it did not take much intelligence to guess that would be a commander’s strategy.

‘I’ll move away so I can’t hear,’ said Pete, dipping into the shadows.

Andrew made the sign of the cross over Will and bowed his head to listen. As the man laid bare his soul, Andrew could not help thinking of the others in the company who might be comforted by his presence. He was forgetting his vows. He must minister to them, safeguard their souls. If the day was won and the company safe, God would surely allow Andrew another chance to escape. He pronounced Will’s penance and called softly to Pete.

When he had given Pete his penance, Andrew asked the two if they would escort him and Matthew back to the camp. ‘I sought some peace in which to think. But I see now I was selfish.’

The men glanced at one another questioningly, and Andrew realised they’d meant to desert. He waited, wondering what they would do.

‘Aye, we owe it to you to see you back safely,’ said Pete with forced cheer.

Andrew gently shook Matthew awake — it seemed he had actually fallen asleep — and explained his change in plan. Without a word the young man rose and draped his plaid round him. Andrew did likewise. They collected their small hoard of food and their lantern and followed Pete and Will into the darkness, heading away from the river.

‘Forgive me, Matthew, but I could not desert them.’

‘There is nothing to forgive, Father.’

‘We will escape when the time is right.’

‘I am bound to you, Father. It does not matter where we go.’

Never before had Andrew felt so keenly what a burden he had accepted in taking his vows. Escape had been within his reach. And now he carried the added burden of Matthew’s devotion. He prayed for the strength to live up to all that was expected of him.

Towards dawn Margaret fell into a light sleep, but wakened at the first birdsong and knew her rest was over for the night. She lay there trying to be quiet so that Celia would not hear her through the flimsy divider and come to fuss over her. She found her thoughts turning to Gordon Cowie’s murder. She was grateful for the preoccupation for it was better than dwelling on Roger’s suffering or her own danger, but she also found it frustrating, as if she had some knowledge that might reveal the murderer but could not recall it. She had seen the goldsmith in the castle yard, but she had seen other townsfolk as well. Evota and her family apparently frequented the castle precinct, and she’d heard of no organised resistance to the soldiers in the town, though there had been the poisoning. Celia had reported a rumour that Isabel had murdered her husband, but it did not seem founded on any evidence, merely the fact that Isabel was well-liked and her late husband had been generally resented for his fustian speech and superior manner.

Stabbed in the heart and the neck meant to Margaret that the murderer wanted to ensure the man died, and quickly. She wondered whether a pair of murderers were responsible, each wanting to strike the death blow. Might it be possible that both Johanna and Gordon had been murdered by the same person, or persons, or at the bidding of the same person or group, the purpose being to punish those who seemed too friendly with the occupiers? She had a feeling there was a connection between Gordon’s murder and Huchon Allan’s execution. Perhaps Huchon’s fellows believed Gordon had betrayed his neighbour. She remembered the suffering in his parents’ voices in the night.

Slowly she turned onto her left side to quiet a throbbing behind one of her shoulder blades. Once settled again she put her mind to alternative motives. Johanna might simply have been silenced by the English. Gordon might have cheated someone — his death need not necessarily be related to the occupation. But Johanna’s brutal beating — what motivation could there be that had nothing to do with the struggle against Longshanks? She was a beautiful woman and promiscuous. No doubt she’d broken a few hearts. Margaret considered the possibility that a jealous former lover had waited until her English protector was away and then avenged his pride. A man’s pride was so different from a woman’s. Only recently had she begun to understand Roger’s anger about her behaviour, how he’d felt it reflected on him because he considered her his property, his responsibility. If his wife misbehaved, he was at fault. Just as God banished Adam as well as Eve when she managed to tempt Adam with the forbidden fruit. She had certainly heard of men beating their wives for less than she had done. Thinking it through, she could believe that one of Johanna’s former lovers had murdered her.

Lovers — she’d never made love with anyone but Roger. Often of late she’d wondered about James, what he would be like. She sensed there was some part of him that he shared with no one, or at least not her.

A sound down below startled her for it came from the street side rather than the rear of the house where the servants slept. She recognised the creak of the street door, its muffled groan as it swung back into its jamb, and then the thud of the bolt in its socket. Light footsteps crossed to the steps leading up to the solar, and now the steps creaked. She prayed it was Ada returned at last, but in case it was not she drew out the knife she kept beneath her pillow and sat up, ready to defend herself.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ she breathed as Ada’s head appeared.

Ada started when she grew aware of Margaret sitting up.

‘Oh, Maggie, it has been a most horrible night,’ she said as she sank down on to the bed.

‘For all of us, Ada,’ Margaret said.

As Ada unfastened her shoes, Margaret lit a cruisie from the embers of the small brazier in the room.

‘So you know about James and Johanna,’ Margaret said.

The light did not compliment Ada. For once she looked her age, haggard and puffy-eyed.

‘You are in danger, my friend,’ Ada said.

‘I know.’

‘I feel unclean,’ Ada said, her voice trembling. She tugged at her veil and wimple with such impatience that she tore the silk. ‘Damned silk.’ Leaning over to toss the head dress on a chest, she suddenly slumped, and face in hands began to weep.

Margaret knelt to her and drew her head to her shoulder, smoothing out Ada’s long white hair. Her own heart was pounding, wondering whether Ada knew of an immediate danger and what her friend had suffered.

After she had been quiet for a while, Ada raised her head ‘It is all my fault. I should not have insisted you play my niece, for it has brought you to his attention. He would not have given you a second thought otherwise.’

Margaret sat back on her heels. ‘Do you mean Peter?’

‘Peter?’ Ada shivered and held out her hands to the warm brazier. ‘No, Simon. But I forgot — you met Peter tonight.’

‘He told you?’

Ada seemed to take on the weight of the world in her nod. ‘He said he asked you to look at the murdered woman and tell him if it was Johanna. Was he unkind?’

‘It was not a gentle moment, though he played the role of a considerate man.’

‘I can imagine,’ Ada said in a bitter tone.

‘He is a busy man, your son Peter. He has spent much time at Evota’s house, he seized James, he showed up at Johanna’s soon after she was found murdered; why, Celia says he was here in the hall the day we arrived. Wherever we turn, Peter Fitzsimon is there. I am almost certain that it was he who silenced Archie.’ And perhaps Johanna, Margaret thought, but did not say it.

Ada crossed herself. ‘He and Simon are so much alike. I had not seen it until tonight.’ She rose and began to fuss with her sleeves.

While Margaret untied them for her, Ada said, ‘So you have solved your mystery.’

How pointless it seemed to Margaret now. ‘With James in Holy Rude, Archie’s situation is no longer of any consequence to me — unless it was he who murdered Johanna.’

Ada shrugged. ‘At least James is safe for now.’

‘Are you so certain the English will honour the sanctuary?’

‘I often wonder at the niceties of war,’ Ada said. ‘But in this case yes, they have no cause to risk excommunication because Simon is satisfied that James can do no harm while hiding in the kirk. I should think that the keeper of the castle feels the same.’

‘I am glad of it,’ said Margaret, though she felt little relief. ‘Ada, before we talk of anything else you must know — Roger is dead.’

Ada caught her breath and bowed her head for a moment, then met Margaret’s eyes. ‘How do you know this?’ she asked, but she was not surprised.

‘You already knew.’

‘I guessed. Simon spoke of a dead spy in the kirk yard. He knows that James’s men took him away for burial, which he thought strange since the dead man was believed to be a spy for Robert Bruce. A Comyn caring for a Bruce’s soul is unexpected. It’s plain to me that they had left him there as bait.’

Margaret could not speak for her anger.

Ada let her be for a while, then said, ‘Would you tell me about it, Maggie?’

Margaret swallowed bile and nodded, though she waited a while before trying her voice. ‘James’s men found Roger in the backlands of the kirk. He’d fallen from a height and broken his neck. He’d been dead for several days when they found him hidden in the underbrush.’ She’d begun to shake and hugged herself tightly. ‘I hate the thought of him lying there, exposed- How could the English be so unchristian as to leave him there unburied?’

‘As in Berwick,’ Ada whispered.

Margaret moved closer to the brazier, hoping the heat would dispel the trembling. ‘I am a widow before I ever felt truly a wife.’

‘Maggie, oh my dear child, I am so sorry. Here I sat weeping like a baby in a fit and you had such a heavy heart.’

‘I’d already spent my tears.’

Ada reached for one of Margaret’s hands and held it, palm up, tracing the lines. ‘There are some who believe our lives are written in these lines. I’ve never wanted to hear what they would say about mine. But how could anyone have guessed what has happened? If they had, we would have fled. Our country would be empty.’

Ada had never sounded so despondent.

‘What will happen to us?’ Margaret asked, expecting no reply.

Ada shook her head. ‘There is more you must know. David, the Welshman who came to you with news of Andrew, is here in Stirling. If he sees you and tells Simon who you are there will no longer be any doubt. I don’t know what Simon will do.’

‘We are found out, and all we can hope is that the battle comes soon.’

Ada lay back on the bed. Margaret lay down beside her.

‘I hate him now,’ said Ada.

She did not need to explain whom she meant.

‘I just pray you have a chance to marry again and have children,’ said Ada. ‘The child Christiana saw in your arms.’

‘Do you still believe her vision will come to pass?’

‘I cling to it for hope, Maggie. Don’t you?’

‘But who is the husband? Not Roger — it’s too late for that.’

‘I wonder whether Christiana knew it was not Roger and spared you the knowledge of his death.’

Margaret considered the possibility, fighting a sudden drowsiness. ‘I doubt it.’ The Sight was deceptive, cunning in its opacity. She could believe that her mother truly had no idea who the man was. ‘I intend to find out who murdered Johanna,’ she said, preferring to think of a practical matter. ‘And Gordon Cowie. He has been on my mind, too. Perhaps I am tricking myself into believing there is a future, that I have time to accomplish something, to solve a murder. He was Huchon Allan’s neighbour. Might their deaths be connected?’

Ada made worried sounds. ‘You must not leave the house for a day or two, Maggie. I beg you.’

‘James gave me the same advice. Will you go to Johanna’s funeral?’

‘I will. For you. And for myself.’

Margaret wondered at Ada’s last words, but she was too close to sleep to make the effort to speak.