A Cruel Courtship

10

Will and Pete, true to their words, escorted Father Andrew and Matthew back among the small camps, but their progress was slowed by penitents begging for confession. At first Andrew thought that word of the possible truce had not spread through the ranks, but it became clear that few believed peace would come without a battle, and the lower the rank the greater they believed their risk of death. It saddened him to witness the fear and resignation of these men, and he could not refuse them absolution despite being sleep-deprived and very hungry.

By the time the four entered their own camp the air was heavy with early morning dew and a light rain that beaded in Andrew’s curly hair and then coursed down his face in rivulets. He had not slept, but his belly was empty and his mind too full, so he went straight to the cook fire. After oatcakes and a mongrel potage that tasted like heavenly manna as it warmed his empty, anxious stomach, he moved away from the bustle and bowed to his prayers while Matthew dozed beside him. Andrew wondered whether Pete and Will, who had left them at the cook fire, would now disappear.

Ada had Sandy the groom accompany her and Celia to Johanna’s service. She thought she would feel better with a muscular young man along to protect them, though she wondered whether he would feel any obligation to defend a woman for whom he had worked so briefly. She admitted to herself that he was essentially a charm against attack.

A fine rain had arrived with the dawn, and though now it was but a drizzle it had refreshed the air and brought out the scents of earth and stone, which reminded Ada that life went on, nature taking no notice of the affairs of men. She wondered how her garden in Perth fared; the plums and apples had been close to ripening when she’d departed. She hoped the couple she’d left in charge would not let the rats have too much of the fruit.

Few parishioners attended the service — none of Ada’s neighbours. She noticed a young man sitting in the shadow of a pillar as if trying to hide the intensity of his grief and wondered whether he’d been one of Johanna’s lovers.

Once out in the kirk yard Ada felt she’d done her duty and was about to suggest to Celia that they should depart. But she noticed that the bereft young man shifted his gaze to someone behind her and his bearing shifted as if he were trying to make himself so small as to be invisible, letting his shoulders sag and curl inward, his head droop. The hackles rose on Ada’s neck at the sound of her son’s voice.

‘I had expected to see your niece Maggie here, Ma,’ Peter said. ‘She claimed to be the woman’s friend. I should have thought she would attend her burial. Was she too upset after her ordeal last night?’

‘Seeing her friend’s body so violated? You ken full well she was.’

‘Were you also a friend to the woman?’

‘She had a name, Peter. Johanna.’ Ada wondered whether he had always been so irritating. ‘And no, I did not know Johanna; I am here in Maggie’s stead. But I also felt a kinship to her, and I want her murderer found and punished.’

‘A kinship. I see.’ He did not try to mask his amusement.

At the opposite side of the grave the young man had now withdrawn behind some of the mourners yet he kept shifting so that he might keep his eyes on Peter, as if reassuring himself that he was keeping his distance. His damp hair was wavy and long, greasy where it fell over his eyes; he repeatedly pushed it aside. He had dark, heavy-lidded eyes and the cheekbones and chin of a handsome man. Though small he was well-formed. He was not in livery, so she doubted he was a soldier. Yet he knew Peter.

‘Who is that young man across the way?’ she asked Peter.

‘The pretty lad, you mean?’

Ada nodded.

‘Archie, the son of Evota the alewife. Are you in the market for younger flesh?’

Ada jabbed her elbow backwards into her son’s taut gut and found satisfaction in his gasp. ‘Respect your mother, dear,’ she hissed. The mild humour was for her benefit, not his. It was a base sin to hate one’s own child. She prayed God to show her some better part of him, something more than Simon’s feeble explanation that he had perfected his fighting skills because of his innate fear, a product of his parentage. But God had so far left her ignorant of her son’s virtues.

Celia could not help but eavesdrop on mother and son, and was glad she had, for now she knew for certain that the man across the way was Archie. She’d been moved by his expression of abject sorrow in the kirk, breaking down into softly audible sobs as Johanna’s shroud-wrapped body was carried past. Now he was quiet, and definitely distracted by Peter Fitzsimon’s presence, but the depth of his mourning had been unmistakable.

Sandy’s warning came to mind. Archie had a way with women, had his way with women. If he’d been Johanna’s lover, and loved her deeply, Celia imagined that her taking an English soldier for a lover would have deeply wounded Archie, perhaps enough to beat her to death, and now he could not bear the guilt. But she could equally well imagine that he was not guilty, but missed Johanna, knowing that there was now no possibility of ever winning her back.

His reaction to Peter Fitzsimon was not surprising, for the man had certainly been watching Evota’s house. But when Archie had caught sight of him his expression had subtly changed, and she’d read a flash of anger — not merely resentment — before he’d drawn himself in with fear. Perhaps Peter had murdered Johanna, or at least Archie believed he had.

Celia’s observations intrigued Margaret, who’d spent the morning sitting in the solar with some spinning while she tortured herself with a review of her sad marriage, wondering whether she was in some way responsible for Roger’s death.

Earlier she’d sat beneath the eaves of the house facing the backlands watching the light rain, letting the cool air refresh her. But the Allans had begun quarrelling loudly again.

‘The ring had been in your family for generations,’ Lilias cried.

‘You’ll not be alone, wife, I assure you. We’ll both suffer the torments of hell, and the soldier will most likely be there with us. I pray you are satisfied.’

‘We are talking of our son!’ she screeched.

Margaret had withdrawn, not wanting to witness their private agony.

‘Ada has wondered about Archie and Johanna,’ she told Celia. ‘But he needn’t have attended the funeral — why would he if he is guilty?’

Celia sighed as she settled beside Margaret. ‘I wish we’d never come here.’ Her delicate features framed by the dark brows were pinched with worry.

Margaret thought Celia might more honestly extend that wish to never having left the home of Dame Katherine Sinclair.

‘I confess I wonder what good we’ve done here,’ Margaret said. ‘We still don’t know why Archie stopped delivering the messages to James’s men. I failed to prevent either Roger’s or Johanna’s deaths. Simon Montagu knows who I am, knows what Roger was about, knows of my connection to James-’ She caught her breath and could not face Celia’s frightened expression. Bowing her head, Margaret fussed with the spindle and wool though her hands were trembling so much she was creating a tangle.

‘God help us,’ Celia said. ‘What do you think Sir Simon will do?’

Margaret did not want to think about that. ‘I pray the battle begins soon or a truce is struck so that he has more important things to think about.’

‘We are harmless with Master Comyn in the kirk,’ Celia said.

Margaret raised her head. ‘Sir Simon doesn’t know that, does he?’ She tugged at the wool. ‘I would that I could sneak James away.’

Ada knocked on the wall, announcing her presence. ‘May I join you?’

Margaret welcomed her.

Ada waved to someone behind her, and Maus appeared carrying a tray of cups and a wine flagon.

‘I hoard brandywine for days such as this.’ Ada took a seat on the bed near where Margaret and Celia perched on the bench. ‘Leave us, Maus. We will bore you with our dull conversation.’

The maid set down the tray and departed, looking pleased to be excused from the glum company.

For glum was the only word Margaret could think to describe both her companions, Celia with her pinched expression and Ada looking the part of a mourner even to her exhausted posture.

‘Celia has told you about my son’s presence in the kirk yard?’ Ada asked.

Margaret nodded. ‘Why would he attend Johanna’s burial?’

‘To frighten us,’ said Ada. ‘I’ve been thinking that you would be safer in sanctuary with James.’

‘I’ve thought of that,’ Margaret admitted, ‘but I’d rather find a way to release him. I can’t bear just sitting here spinning while my country is being crushed beneath the boots of Longshanks …’ She shook her head as Ada seemed about to respond. ‘I am hardly a threat to Peter while I sit here. Would that I were!’

Celia poured a little brandywine in each cup.

‘People are executed for past deeds as well as present threat,’ Ada said softly, her expression solemn as she worked the tablets. ‘I regret the night I conceived that young man.’

So did Margaret. Ada’s words were disturbing, to say the least. ‘I wonder about the fate of Johanna’s lover,’ she said. ‘From the way Peter and the other soldier spoke of her that night, as she lay there, I believe they know who he was. She does not seem to have been as careful about her liaisons as she should have been, considering her purpose.’

‘Many loved ones will never know the fates of the young men who have come here to fight,’ said Ada. ‘Someone will be broken-hearted when he doesn’t return.’

Celia choked back a sob. Her face was flushed and her eyes red. Margaret reached out to her, but she shook her head. ‘Don’t mind me. I hadn’t thought about all the mothers and wives worrying and praying. And men like your son, Dame Ada, they act like it’s a game. As if after death the victims rise again and come back for another round. But they’re gone for ever.’

Margaret crossed herself. ‘I’m not going to join James in sanctuary. I prefer to remain free to do whatever I might to help our cause.’

‘I pray that my other children are more like you, Maggie, and not at all like Peter. It seems a cruel penance to meet one of my children only to be ashamed of him.’

‘It is the times,’ said Celia.

Ada broke down. ‘He is my son, flesh of my flesh, and for that I do love him. God save me. I love him and hate him both.’

Eventually the three bent silently, nervously, to their spinning and tablet weaving.

In the night, Margaret dreamt that an owl-woman sat beside her bed listening attentively to her narration of all that had happened to her since Roger left their home in Perth a year earlier. Now and then the owl-woman would ask Margaret to explain her feelings, or to expand on a detail, and by this method all became clear to both of them. Margaret embraced the downy yet strong woman and understood that she need never fear again. She clearly saw her purpose and her path.

But when Margaret woke at dawn the clarity was gone. Rising, she dressed in a simple gown, picked up her shoes and slipped down to the hall, where she opened the door to the backlands and breathed in the fresh morning air.

An owl-woman. She tried to recall her features but could remember only white and grey feathers, dark eyes, and how she had completely trusted the woman and through her had known her own strength. What was much more vivid in memory was the setting, a lushly green glen studded with mounds and stone circles, seemingly alive with music and old memories. The owl-woman had not controlled it but had instead been an integral part of it, as was Margaret. It was powerfully seductive, even in the morning light. She wished she might return to it and explore not only the place but the change in herself that it engendered.

She laughed at herself when she realised she was yearning for Kilmartin Glen as her mother had described it, a place she’d never seen. This was madness. To pull herself more firmly into the world she inhabited, Margaret began to walk. She wandered towards the house next door, remembering the argument she’d overheard. A ring, damnation. She had heard such suffering in both their voices.

As she crossed the narrow wynd between the two houses something tickled her awareness. She paused, straining her eyes and ears to catch whatever it had been, and then took a few steps down the wynd. On the ground near the street she thought she saw movement, then nothing. She felt as if something or someone were tricking her into coming closer, but tried not to let her imagination get the best of her. It might be nothing more threatening than a rat, a cat chasing a mouse, or a hardy weed catching a draught. Lifting her skirts she moved down the wynd with caution, for the morning sun had not yet dipped between the houses and it was quite dark. As she drew nearer to where she’d thought she’d detected movement a shape resolved, a body stretched on the ground, a child, she thought by the size.

‘Have mercy.’ The voice was so weak Margaret could just hear it.

Taking no chances, she crouched down more than an arm’s length away and asked, ‘Are you injured?’

‘He beat me and broke my leg.’

Margaret saw that one leg lay at a peculiar angle. She could not make out the lad’s features, for his face was covered with blood.

‘How long have you lain here?’

‘All the night. I pulled myself out of the square.’

‘I’ll fetch someone to carry you into the house.’

As she turned away, he cried out, ‘Don’t leave me!’ There was terror in his voice. ‘I can stand with your help.’

His fear was catching. ‘Surely your attacker won’t return in the short while I’d be away.’

‘I pray you, take my arm and help me rise.’

He did seem small enough for her to support. Margaret moved closer, crouched, and took him by the elbow. He clutched her shoulder with the opposite hand and managed to pull himself upright by sliding along the wall behind him. When he was balanced on his good leg, Margaret realised he was not a lad, but a young man, though of small stature. She guessed who he was.

‘Who attacked you, Archie?’

He almost lost his balance, but caught himself. ‘How do you know me?’

That he had fallen so near her lodging was unsettling. ‘I’ll explain once we’re within,’ she said, wanting to be safely inside as soon as possible.

They both turned at the sound of footsteps coming towards them from the backlands. Margaret frantically considered what to do, whether to cry out or to leave Archie and run for the door. She was about to shout for help when she recognised Sandy the groom.

‘Thank God,’ she breathed. ‘Help me get Archie into the house, Sandy.’

The groom hesitated. ‘I thought I heard something in the night. It woke John, too, but we saw nothing and did not wish to go too far-’

‘What are you doing here now?’ Margaret asked.

‘I thought I heard voices again. This time I was right.’

‘Help me now,’ Margaret said, sharply interrupting him.

With both arms supported, Archie was able to hop the short distance to the street door of Ada’s house. Fortunately John was already in the hall and Archie was inside before the small procession caused a stir in the square. Now Margaret could better see the young man’s condition. On his forehead was a bleeding gash, the eye beneath it swollen shut, and his nose was a pulpy mess. His clothes were bloody and torn as if he’d been in a brawl.

Once they’d seated him by the fire, she asked, ‘Who attacked you?’

‘I attacked him, the devil. I’m the greatest fool.’ He talked with difficulty through swollen lips, but his anger was quite clear.

‘Who, Archie?’

He looked away.

‘Are you in trouble?’

‘Not so long as you tell no one I’m here.’

‘Not even your family?’

‘Especially not them.’

‘I’ll clean him up, Dame Maggie,’ said Sandy. ‘I see to the animals when they’re injured.’

She could see by Sandy’s humbled manner that he wished to make amends for not venturing far enough to find Archie in the night, and grateful for his offer she thanked him, and then said to Archie, ‘We’ll talk when Sandy has seen to your injuries.’

‘How do you know me?’ Archie asked again.

She had no intention of confiding in him in the presence of others. ‘Servants talk, and I listen.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I have no cause to lie to you, Archie. I’ve taken you in, remember?’

Sandy had returned with water and rags. Margaret withdrew to the kitchen, the butler on her heels. John had kept his distance while she was with Archie, but she could see in the way he held himself that he was bursting with questions.

So was she. ‘Sandy told me that both you and he heard something in the night. Did you see anything at all?’

John angrily glanced back towards the hall as if resolving to have a word with the groom, then shook his head as he met Margaret’s eye. ‘No. We hear more of the night out here in the kitchen than you do in the hall. Whatever it was, it woke both of us, and we both looked without. He thought he saw something by the garden shed next to us, but then nothing. Cat after a mouse, rat after some dung, the backlands are not still at night.’

Margaret began to pour herself a mazer of ale, but John jumped to serve her. She was settling down near the fire when Celia entered the kitchen.

‘I saw the injured man in the hall. That is Archie, Mistress,’ Celia said. ‘What has happened?’

John moved closer, and Margaret explained to both of them how she’d found Archie in the wynd. At her request John then related how he and Sandy woke to a sound — John thought it a cry, Sandy a moan — but had seen nothing unusual astir.

‘I don’t yet know who beat him,’ Margaret said. ‘He needed tending before I questioned him. It was plain to me that he was frightened to be left alone again.’

‘May God watch over this household,’ said John as he crossed himself. ‘His clothes are old and filthy. He is no stranger to trouble.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Margaret, ‘but he had been brawling. I’ve no doubt those clothes looked better yesterday.’

In a little while Sandy entered the kitchen with a bowl of bloody rags.

‘Are his injuries serious?’ Margaret asked.

‘We need Dame Bridget, the midwife,’ said Sandy. ‘His leg is swollen and hot and I’m afraid to set the bones — I’ve done only a dog and a goat. Do you want me to fetch her?’

Margaret nodded. ‘Yes, fetch her. What about his head wound?’

‘It bled a lot but he’s not confused. If you want to talk to him, you might do so — he’ll sleep soon, now that he’s warm and safe.’

Archie lay on one of the servants’ pallet beds near the hall fire, staring at the ceiling. As Margaret brought a stool near she saw that his eyes were filled with tears.

‘Are you in much pain?’ she asked, thinking about giving him some of Ada’s brandywine. They had not finished it.

‘No,’ he said, brusquely wiping his eyes on one of his sleeves. ‘The fire is smoking.’

It wasn’t, but Margaret let him have his pride. ‘You say you picked the fight?’

‘I did.’ He glanced at her, then quickly away. ‘With Captain Fitzsimon, the bastard who wouldn’t let me see her that night. He shouldn’t have come to her funeral, the bastard. Murderer.’

Dear God, the small young man before her had picked a fight with Ada’s well-trained son. It was a wonder Archie was alive. ‘You call him a murderer. Do you know that he is?’

‘Ask the soldiers — they’ll tell you.’

‘But do you know of any murder he’s committed in Stirling?’

Archie looked away. ‘Maybe.’

‘Johanna?’ Margaret asked.

‘Who else would have done it, eh? For weeks he watched me and watched me but when it came to-’ Archie’s voice broke. ‘Why her?’ he moaned through the lump in his throat. ‘Why not me, damn him? Damn him to hell.’ He turned away to hide his emotion.

Margaret sat back and gave him time to compose himself as his words sank in. He’d loved Johanna, and believed that Peter had murdered her. It was quite plausible that Peter had if he’d discovered Johanna spying.

‘Do you have any proof of this, Archie?’

‘Just my gut when he’s near. I followed him from the kirk,’ Archie said through clenched teeth, ‘but he went straight to the castle, so I had to wait until he came back out into the town, alone, away from his friends. Then I stepped out and challenged him. Like David taking on Goliath.’ He groaned.

‘What did you mean he wouldn’t let you see her that night? Were you speaking of the night of her death?’

Archie let out a long, sob-like sigh. ‘I went to her house, but he’d blocked the door and wouldn’t let me past. I just wanted to see her. Say goodbye. What right had he?’ He was clenching his fists and his colour was high.

Margaret regretted having started the conversation for his ordeal had weakened him, and yet she needed to know what he knew. ‘This was while she was alive?’

‘After. Fitzsimon is everywhere. I can’t breathe — he’s taking up all the air in the town. He’s no mortal. He’s the devil.’

Archie’s words echoed between them while Margaret collected her thoughts. She knew she could not count on his talking for long. ‘Were you and Johanna lovers?’

He flinched and dropped his gaze. ‘She could have anyone at the castle. Why would she take me?’

He’s no boy, Johanna had said. ‘You loved her, didn’t you?’ Margaret asked, though she was quite sure she already knew the answer.

‘I told you I’m the greatest fool.’

‘Is that why you stopped going to her for the messages?’

‘He was always there, Rob, her English lover.’

‘Did you tell her how you felt?’

He shrugged.

‘Was Peter Fitzsimon also her lover?’

Archie turned away from Margaret. ‘I don’t know.’ He looked so small lying there on the pallet, so young and heartbroken.

‘She wouldn’t have you?’

He caught his breath. ‘She laughed.’

‘So it wasn’t that Peter Fitzsimon’s interest frightened you from helping James Comyn any more, it was your love for Johanna.’

‘Fitzsimon couldn’t catch me at spying. He worried Ma, but I told her I was too good to be caught by an Englishman.’

‘Why did you challenge him last night?’

‘God knows. I wanted to kill someone. He was the best I could do.’

Margaret didn’t think it would serve much purpose to ask why he wanted to kill someone. She already believed that he hadn’t killed Johanna.

‘Was Peter injured last night?’

‘I doubt it.’ He glanced around. ‘Where are my things?’

‘I’ll ask Sandy.’

‘He grabbed my knife. Da gave me that knife.’

‘We’ll find your knife, Archie. Why don’t you want your family to know that you’re here?’

‘It’s best that way,’ he mumbled, his voice beginning to fade.

She had a look around the hall for his clothes, but did not find them. Before heading for the kitchen she checked on him. His eyes were closed and his mouth had gone slack.

In a short while a strongly built woman of indeterminate age strode into the hall with Sandy. Her gown was a simple russet, but very clean, as was her undyed wimple.

‘Dame Maggie, I’ve brought Dame Bridget to see to Archie’s leg,’ said Sandy.

‘God bless you for coming so quickly,’ said Margaret.

The woman nodded as she reached Archie’s side and crouched to examine him. ‘He’s picked on a better fighter than himself this time, I see. I’ll attend him, Dame Maggie. He’s in good hands. I’m familiar with most of the bones in his young body.’

The midwife made Margaret feel for a moment as if everything would be fine. How reassuring she must be to women in labour.

‘I’m glad to see his eyelids fluttering,’ said Bridget. ‘He should be propped up more — we don’t want the blood pooling in his brain.’ She gently ran a hand down his leg, her fingers seeming to float, pausing here and there. Sitting back on her heels, she glanced up at Margaret. ‘I believe it’s a simple break.’

‘Will you need someone to help you straighten the bone?’ Margaret asked.

‘Sandy will do. Come on, lad, a good pull and Archie will be walking out of here soon enough.’ She shook her head at Archie and glanced back at Margaret. ‘Not enough babies since the English marched up the hill. I need the work, and I need some pay.’

‘You’ll be paid,’ said Margaret. ‘Sandy, did you find a knife on him?’

Sandy shook his head.

‘Who is this?’ said Ada as she descended from the solar. Smoothing down her clothes she studied the midwife and patient for a moment. ‘I don’t recognise the injured lad, but you are young Bridget, Dame Alice’s daughter, are you not?’

The midwife’s eyes brightened. Hands on hips she wagged her head. ‘Dame Bridget now, but just Bridget to you, my dear friend.’

The women embraced, and Margaret smiled to see the years fall off Ada as she and the midwife exchanged news for a while. Even the story of Alice’s death the previous summer seemed to cheer Ada.

‘She pushed away the potion saying she was warm, in no pain, and at peace with the Lord, so it was a good time to die. She closed her eyes, and in a little while stopped breathing. I’ve never witnessed a happier death,’ said Bridget with a wistful expression on her pleasant face. ‘I thank God that she died before the English came.’

At last Ada remembered the others in the hall. ‘Who is he?’ she asked Margaret, nodding towards Archie, who had wakened. When Margaret explained, Ada shook her head in wonder that she’d slept through it. ‘And once again Peter is involved.’

‘Archie attacked him,’ Margaret said. She started as Bridget and Sandy snapped the bone into place. Archie was stoically silent, except for his shallow breathing.

‘We aren’t needed here,’ said Ada.

She passed through the hall to the kitchen with Margaret following, hungry at last. After breaking their fast Ada suggested that they take their spinning and weaving up to the solar.

‘And you can tell me all about that little man down below. We seem to have so few peaceful moments like this.’

They settled near the window in Ada’s chamber. Margaret with her spinning and Ada a border she was weaving on tablets. After Margaret related the morning’s events, they worked for a while in silence, interrupted only by Bridget taking her leave, promising to return the following morning to see how Archie fared the night. Ada’s generosity pleased her.

After she departed, Ada sighed. ‘I suppose we should be thankful that my son hasn’t made a habit of paying me visits here, else I would worry about brawling in my hall. What was he thinking, accepting a challenge from that slip of a man? I should think his honour would prevent him from taking such an unfair advantage.’

‘He might have been taken by surprise, Ada. He was attacked, and he defended himself. A small dog can do much damage to one twice his size if he’s fierce and quick.’

Ada looked doubtful, but nodded. ‘You may be right.’

While she worked it was not Johanna’s murder but that of Gordon Cowie over which Margaret kept puzzling. She did not fight this preoccupation for if it was the Sight teasing her she’d not win the fight. Perhaps she was about to put the pieces together. A goldsmith came into contact with the highest and the lowest of the town’s society, she imagined, customers and thieves. What could she make of that, she wondered. The Allans had mentioned a ring in the family. But it was old.

‘How well do you know Isabel?’ she asked Ada after a while.

‘We were children together here,’ said Ada.

That had not occurred to Margaret. She’d thought Ada had been born in Perth. ‘I should have guessed, though I had not realised until I overheard you with Bridget that you’d grown up in Stirling.’

Ada looked around the room, then nodded. ‘This was my parents’ home. I was probably born in this bed — delivered by Dame Alice. What do you want to know about Isabel?’

‘It was actually her late husband I was wondering about. Was Gordon also from Stirling?’

‘Oh yes. His family have been goldsmiths here for several generations.’

A ring in the family for generations. Margaret wondered. ‘What was Gordon like?’

‘Do you mean was he likely to be murdered in his shop in midday?’

‘I do not mean to disrespect the dead.’

‘I know.’ Ada straightened and gazed out the window for a few breaths, the lines in her face starkly visible again. ‘Gordon. In his youth he played the fiddle and was light on his feet. He was also grasping and selfish, and those are the traits he cherished to his death. It was quite like him to trade with the English, to ensure that they would consider him to be on their side. Isabel devoted herself to raising their children and enjoying as much of Gordon’s wealth as she could squeeze from him.’

Margaret remembered Isabel’s elegance at Mass. ‘I would say that she’d been successful.’

‘And yet her mourning is sincere, she is not playacting. She remembers his youth, his music, how they danced-’ Ada’s hands lay idle in her lap, her weaving forgotten, her gaze unfocused. ‘We forgive much in the men we love.’

Margaret left her in peace with her memories until she bent once more to her work.

‘Did Isabel notice whether anything had been stolen when Gordon was attacked?’ Margaret asked.

Ada wagged her head. ‘You are quite focused on Gordon’s murder today. Isabel was not often in the shop. She asked his apprentices and her son whether they were missing anything and they’d noticed nothing out of place.’

‘I find that most strange,’ said Margaret. ‘I should think few would be able to resist taking a small token of gold.’

‘Quite restrained. You’re right.’

‘Don’t you wonder how the murderer knew that Gordon was alone in the shop?’

‘There had been little work of late, so he was often alone.’

‘It sounds as if you’ve asked her quite a few questions.’

Ada glanced up. ‘I suppose I have. I hope I haven’t been too obvious.’

‘Do you know the Allans in the house between theirs and yours?’

Ada frowned down at her work. ‘It is terrible about their son. Ranald and — I don’t recall his wife’s name.’

‘Lilias.’

‘Oh yes. He trades — I believe wine was his chief trade, though with the English interfering I imagine he now trades whatever he can. The house belonged to Dunfermline Abbey. It may still, and they are tenants. I haven’t introduced you to the neighbours because I thought it might be dangerous. On the other side is a saddler who has made a fortune from the castle. I should have thought he was as likely to be resented by the townsfolk as Gordon.’

Later, when Margaret could sit still no longer, she excused herself and went down to the hall. Celia sat quietly watching Archie, who moaned in his sleep.

‘He is feverish,’ she said when Margaret asked about his condition. ‘I have made him something to cool him, but his mouth is so swollen he does not want to drink. So I drip a little into his mouth now and then.’

‘You are very kind to him.’

‘The worst I know of him is that he fought with Peter Fitzsimon,’ said Celia. ‘I cannot fault him for that.’

Margaret yawned.

‘You could do with a rest, Mistress.’

‘Or some air.’

Seeing that Archie was being well looked after, Margaret felt free to do what she pleased, as long as she didn’t wander out into the town. She headed out into the backlands and settled on a seat beneath a pear tree on the edge of the property near the Allans’s house. The sense that she was about to understand something grew stronger and she had an uneasy feeling that the Sight was playing with her. So be it. She welcomed it if it showed her what to do next.

After what seemed a long while a man came out of the next house. She felt a shiver of anticipation, and silently proposed a bargain with the Sight, that she would honour the gift and seek out Great-Aunt Euphemia in Kilmartin Glen so that she might learn to use it for good if it proved now that it could be used for good. She prayed that it was God’s gift and not that of the Devil. She almost laughed at herself for bargaining with a mere string of thoughts, but she reminded herself of its power, how it ruled her mother’s life. Ready now, she turned her attention to the man.

He wore a wide-brimmed hat and carried a bundle of clothing. Because of the hat, she could not tell the colour of his hair, but his shape and posture were those of an older man, perhaps like Roger in his early forties, so she guessed it was Ranald Allan. He picked up a long-handled spade from a small gardening shed — she noted that his right hand was bandaged and he held the spade awkwardly. He continued a few paces past the tidy kitchen garden and there crouched down, setting the bundle to one side, and with his hands cleared an area of weeds and debris. Rising, he stabbed the spade into the dry earth and drove it into the soil with one foot on the blade, then suddenly abandoned the project, walking away, farther into the backlands. Behind him the handle stuck out of the ground like a feeble marker. Margaret noticed his shoulders heaving as he fell to his knees, his head in his hands.

She was uncomfortable about observing his sorrow. But he need only have glanced her way to see her sitting there. She had not hidden from him.

When at last he rose, never glancing in Margaret’s direction, he attacked the digging with a grim determination. His behaviour intrigued her. As the mound of earth grew she wondered how deep a hole he needed. Perhaps she’d been wrong about what he’d carried out with him. Although it looked like a small bundle of clothes, it might actually be something wrapped in a piece of clothing. She watched closely as he jabbed the spade into the pile and then bent to pick up the clothes. When he tossed the bundle into the hole it flowed in; if there was something other than clothing it was small and light. He made short work of filling in the hole, tamped down the earth with his feet, and propped the spade by the shed as he passed it, headed back towards the house.

Just opposite the spot where Margaret sat he paused, took off his hat and rubbed a sleeve over his sweaty grey hair, then fanned his face with the hat as he glanced around, as if considering what to do next. Margaret wished she could sink into the bench. When he noticed her, which had been inevitable, he strode over to her.

Hands on hips, he demanded, ‘What are you gawping at?’ His face flushed crimson.

Margaret reminded herself that it was perfectly reasonable for her to sit beneath a tree on a warm early autumn day behind the house in which she was staying. ‘I came out to enjoy the garden,’ she said. ‘You look hot. Would you care to sit here in the shade with me?’

‘You’re biding here with Ada de la Haye?’

Margaret nodded. ‘I’m her niece, Maggie.’

To her surprise, he sank down beside her, the bench creaking under his weight. ‘Ranald Allan,’ he said. ‘I should not have shouted so.’

‘I understood. I startled you. But there’s no harm done.’

‘You’ve chosen a darksome time to bide in Stirling.’ Pain resonated in his words. Margaret sensed the mourning in his posture and his voice and her heart went out to him.

‘I know, and I regret it. I pray my aunt does not suffer because of my selfishness in wanting to come here.’

‘Your choice? Why did you wish to travel at such a time?’ He spoke with a delicacy, as if he anticipated a sad tale.

‘My husband died recently and I could not bear to be in the house we’d shared. I hoped that if I were away for a little while …’ She let her voice trail off. It was not really a lie. She had wished to escape the house she’d gone to with such hope when first married, and she was a widow. It was not a story she’d planned to tell anyone, but she had a sense that Ranald would respond with his own tale of grief. She was following her impulse, still challenging the Sight to prove itself worthwhile.

‘You are so young to be a widow,’ Ranald said. ‘Did your husband die a soldier?’

She hoped not to shut him up with her nod.

‘It is a terrible time.’ Ranald’s voice broke and he turned away from her.

She waited, feeling horrible for causing him to recall his sorrow.

‘My son was hanged by the English,’ he said, catching his breath at the end as if biting off a sob.

‘God grant him peace,’ Margaret whispered, crossing herself.

‘They made an example of him, hanging him in front of the townspeople. He’d been caught with a cache of weapons in his pack, down in the pows.’

‘How horrible for you to see that.’

‘My wife knew she could not bear to watch, but they forced us out to the market square to stand at the head of the crowd. I’d meant to be there all along; I believed that my son would know I was there, and find some comfort in that.’ Ranald’s voice broke again and he shakily dabbed his forehead with his bandaged hand. ‘My wife has not recovered.’

‘I’m sure he died bravely, and in God’s grace. His brothers and sisters must be proud of him.’

‘He was our only child,’ said Ranald. ‘He was soon to be wed, and Lilias, my wife, looked forward to having a daughter, and grandchildren.’ He opened his hands on his lap, as if letting go a dream. ‘All lost now.’ His palm was wrapped, the bandage bloody. His digging must have opened a wound.

‘I hope his betrothed is a comfort to you in your grief,’ she said.

‘Her? A comfort? Do you know what she-’ He stopped himself. ‘Her parents sent her away. To kin up north.’

With the sharpness of his anger, she realised she’d touched on the source of his deep bitterness.

‘You hadn’t heard about my son’s execution?’ Ranald asked.

‘I think people are too frightened to gossip. Death surrounds us.’ Something in his mood shifted as she spoke. She tried not to think, but to let words come as they would. ‘You must also mourn your neighbour Gordon Cowie.’

‘Gordon?’ Ranald seemed startled, but then hurriedly murmured, ‘God grant him rest.’

‘Were you burying your son’s clothes just now?’ Her heart pounded at the boldness of the question.

‘What? Oh,’ he flushed and nodded. ‘My son’s. Yes.’

‘What of his ring?’ she asked, though she had not meant to.

He turned and grabbed her by the wrist, his face livid. ‘What do you know of that? Who are you? Has she talked to you?’

It felt as if he might break the bones in her wrist, he held her so tightly with the bandaged hand. But Margaret could not stop the flow of words. ‘What happened to your son’s ring?’

‘God, help me. Dear God, help me,’ Ranald moaned, and letting go her wrist he hurried away, disappearing into his house.

Margaret could not breathe for a moment; she thought her pounding heart would break through her ribs. She cursed herself for mentioning the ring. If this was what she must suffer with the Sight she wanted none of it. She fled into the house.

‘What is it, Maggie?’ Ada said, stepping in front of her and grabbing her by the shoulders. ‘You look terrified. Was that Ranald you were talking to? Did he say something to frighten you?’

Finding her voice, Margaret said, ‘We spoke of his son’s hanging.’

‘Poor man,’ Ada murmured. ‘No wonder you are upset.’

Margaret was grateful that Ada queried her no further, but allowed her to escape up to the solar where Celia was soon beside her, helping her remove her wimple and shoes.

‘You are shivering, Mistress,’ Celia murmured as she helped Margaret into bed and pulled the covers up over her.

By the expression on her maid’s face Margaret knew she looked as strange as she felt. Her mind was agitated and she thought that the last thing she wanted was to lie down, and yet her body felt drained of life. How she was going to quiet her mind while lying with the covers pulled up over her head she did not know. Sleep was impossible, yet motion was equally impossible.

Dear God, teach me how to contain these thoughts, this knowing. I can do no good if I go mad.