A Cruel Courtship

12

‘Have you heard the soldiers’ shouts from below, down by the river?’ Ellen asked.

Margaret nodded. ‘We can only pray that God is with us.’

The young woman sat with her hands clutching the bench on either side of her. Margaret felt Ellen’s anguish and wished she could just run away. How was it that after all the pent-up tension of the past week — months for the people in this town — everything was bursting apart now? All those troops massing below them. The town floated on a sea of armed men that would soon turn to blood; they would all drown in the hatred. God must have a reason for this, but Margaret could not fathom it.

She was trying to catch her breath and calm herself. She wanted a cup of wine but did not trust her legs to carry her across the room, so she judged it best to just get this over with. ‘What is on your mind, Ellen?’

‘What I have to say, Dame Maggie-’ Ellen paused. ‘I’m telling you because he wants you to know that he didn’t kill your husband.’

‘Who?’

‘Aylmer.’

Margaret was taken aback. ‘How do you know my husband’s comrade? Have you seen Aylmer since he escaped from the castle?’

‘He came to see me last night. I wish I didn’t know him.’ Ellen’s voice caught and she bowed her head for a moment. ‘I was with Aylmer that night. Your husband was on the great rock behind the kirk and they were to take turns watching the castle. It’s dark up on the rock and the torches up at the castle make the movement up there like a play. I was with Aylmer down below the rock, in its shadow.’ She paused, biting her lip.

‘Go on, go on.’ Margaret’s heart was racing.

‘He went after Fitzsimon last night because of what happened.’

‘Aylmer did?’

Ellen nodded.

Aylmer had struck the second, mortal blow? ‘What did happen the night my husband died?’

‘Peter knew I’d been with Aylmer before, and he made me lead him to where your husband and Aylmer were watching that night — or he’d take Archie — he knew Archie was carrying messages. After Aylmer fell asleep, I was sneaking away when your husband cried out. I wish I hadn’t moved.’ She took a breath. ‘He tumbled off the rock and landed right next to me. He’d come down with the most awful speed and his head — oh, Dame Maggie, I heard it hit the rock.’ Ellen moaned.

Margaret stifled a sob, remembering the vision.

‘When I looked up, I saw Peter standing at the edge of the rock, looking down on your husband. Aylmer grabbed me and I thought he was going to kill me, but Peter came running down with his men and I ran away. I ran and ran.’

‘Peter Fitzsimon killed my husband?’ Margaret asked, trying to grasp what Ellen was telling her. ‘Peter pushed Roger off the rock?’

‘Yes, I’m sure of it. He likes to tell me that I am responsible for your husband’s death because your husband saw me running away and then lost his balance, but I saw Peter up there. He gave me this ring for my reward.’ Ellen snapped the thong from her neck and pressed the ring into Margaret’s hand. ‘I don’t want this. It’s blood pay. I never thought- I’m so sorry.’ She began to sob. ‘I never meant any harm. I helped my family, sleeping with men. Peter would have taken my brother from us.’

Margaret stared at the floor, the ring heavy in her hand. ‘How did Peter get this ring?’ She repeated the question several times before Ellen calmed enough to respond.

‘He said he bought it fair, from the goldsmith. It’s Peter’s.’

‘It wasn’t,’ Margaret said. But she’d forgotten that Ellen did not know Peter was dead. ‘I’m confused, don’t mind what I say,’ she muttered, pressing the ring back into Ellen’s hand.

‘Keep it!’ the young woman wept.

Margaret did not want it, but she agreed. ‘I shall keep it for you until-’ Until what? She found it difficult to think clearly. ‘Until I find the owner. Bless you for telling me how my husband died, Ellen. I am grateful, and I know that you are not to blame.’

The young woman looked over at her mother. ‘There is more I would tell you, but not now. Archie might hear.’ She rose. ‘We should go now. Ma wants to bring him home tomorrow.’

Considering the corpse in the shed, Margaret thought it a good idea to send the young man home to heal. ‘We’ll talk of that tomorrow,’ she said.

Evota and Ellen had not long been gone when Ada returned, and Margaret faced the moment she’d been dreading since seeing Peter in the shed.

The marketplace was very quiet but for a few small clusters of folk as Ada hurried back to her home. The few there were talking softly among themselves, wondering how the Scots could gather enough men to stand against all the troops they could see camping down below.

‘Torches and fires as far as the eye can see,’ one man said.

Ada had enjoyed the evening with Isabel. Her old friend was already coming to terms with being a widow, planning to join her daughter who was away in the north if that became possible, determined to go on with her life. Without revealing that Peter was here in Stirling, Ada had talked about having at last met one of her adult children only to find him an unpleasant young man, someone of whom she was not very proud — although he was quite handsome and skilled in the arts of war. Isabel had listened with sympathy and confided some of her own disappointments. All in all it had cheered Ada and she felt much better about her life.

But the moment she entered her house she knew something was wrong. Maus sat by the fire with Archie, but the moment she noticed her mistress in the room she put her hand to her mouth and hurried out to the kitchen.

It was nothing unusual for Maus to abandon her post. Ada had considered replacing her many times — she was the youngest daughter of a couple whom Ada had taken under her wing many years ago, the husband a man who seemed unable to thrive in any occupation and the wife a longsuffering saint who would have done better for her family by losing her temper now and then. Maus seemed to have inherited the most useless traits from each parent. Muttering a curse, Ada headed for the kitchen after checking that Archie was resting peacefully.

Margaret and Celia sat near the fire talking quietly with John, Sandy, Alec, and cook. Ned was scrubbing something in a tub, Maus whispering some direction. The water seemed pink in the firelight. As they individually became aware of Ada’s presence, not one smiled or greeted her, but rather whispered her name. Dame Ada. The Mistress. Ada.

‘What has happened here? Why are you all so upset to see me?’ she demanded with a frisson of fear that perhaps she would regret asking.

Only Margaret rose and moved towards her. All the others seemed frozen where they were.

‘This is a pretty greeting,’ Ada said. As Margaret put an arm around her Ada noticed that her friend was so pale her freckles were visible in the firelight. ‘What has frightened you, Maggie?’

‘Come into the hall.’

Margaret urged her forward, but Ada walked over to the tub. ‘Those are the sleeves of the dress you wore today.’ She glanced back at Margaret’s gown. She wore her better one, for no apparent reason — except that the sleeves to the grey one were bloody. ‘What happened? Are you wearing bandages beneath your sleeves?’

‘Come into the hall with me,’ said Margaret. Her mouth was grimly fixed and her eyes anxious, but she did not appear to be in pain.

‘It’s someone else’s blood. Archie’s?’

Margaret pulled her out of the kitchen with more strength than Ada could resist.

After the kitchen the evening air felt cool and clean. ‘The air is so soft out here — let’s go into the backland,’ Ada suggested.

Margaret stopped and faced Ada, a hand on either shoulder.

Suddenly, Ada was frightened. ‘What is it, Maggie?’

‘Peter has been killed, Ada.’

Her first reaction — God forgive her — was relief, but that was short-lived. ‘My son? How?’

Margaret took a breath, and Ada knew that this was the part that her friend most dreaded telling her.

‘He was stabbed. First, I think, by Archie. Then he-’ Margaret pressed her forehead to Ada’s for a moment, then looked up again. ‘Sandy and I have tried to put it all together. We think that Archie managed to stab Peter in his left side and he sought shelter in the garden shed. He pulled some old bags around him for warmth.’ Her voice was gruff and it was plain she was holding back tears.

‘Dear God,’ Ada moaned. ‘He would be grievously wounded to do that.’

Margaret nodded. ‘I know. As much as I feared him, I think of his pain-’ She shook her head. ‘Someone else came upon him and stabbed him in the heart — through one of the bags — that’s how we know it was later.’ Margaret began to sob. ‘I don’t know where to begin, Ada. I don’t know where to begin.’

‘Begin what? No, shush now. He was heading down a road that could lead only to his death, Maggie. Archie should be grateful his wasn’t the fatal wound.’ I’m rambling on, thought Ada, trying to fill in the silence. The one child I knew is dead. He suffered. So near here. So recently. She stepped away from Margaret and began to heave. She felt Margaret behind her, steadying her, holding her forehead. When her stomach was empty, her knees threatened to buckle beneath her.

‘Come,’ Margaret said, supporting Ada as she straightened. ‘Brandywine and bed, that is what you need. Plans can wait until morning.’

In the early morning, as Ada dully stared out the solar window trying not to think about how little love she’d felt for her now dead son, she noticed Simon departing the castle on horseback, leading a group of foot soldiers. God be praised, she murmured when he continued on Castle Wynd to St John Street. He would feel far less ambivalent about their son’s murder than she did. Now she mourned Peter, now that he was dead she considered his courage and wished she had offered him affection. Surely she might have found a way to his heart. If she’d only tried.

She wanted to strangle the young man who slept so peacefully down in the hall. Had he not injured Peter, her son would not have sought shelter in such an exposed place. Aylmer she’d hated from the moment she met him in Perth. Shortly after he’d arrived with Roger Sinclair, Margaret had found documents on him that revealed he was not quite who he claimed to be. He was Robert Bruce’s kinsman, and was making certain that Roger fulfilled his mission and proved his loyalty to the Bruce; if Roger had failed, Aylmer was to kill him. It was not just Ada’s loyalty to Margaret and therefore her husband that had tainted her impression of Aylmer — he had seemed an arrogant man of no courtesy.

Margaret had explained Peter’s part in Roger’s death, so Ada understood why Aylmer might have gone after Peter. Yet hadn’t Christ told mankind to turn the other cheek? And how could the man who had carried an order to deal with Roger as needed consider it his right to avenge the man’s death?

Margaret knocked on the flimsy dividing wall of the solar. She’d slept with Celia and Maus to give Ada some privacy in her grief. ‘Did you sleep at all?’ Margaret asked.

Ada shook her head. ‘Come, sit with me a while.’ She patted the bench beside her. Margaret looked refreshed; so much better than she had the previous night. ‘You slept.’

Winding her red-gold, wavy fall of hair round one hand, Margaret fastened it with two polished wood sticks as she took the seat. She was a beautiful woman, Ada thought.

‘John has gone to Father Piers,’ she told Margaret. ‘I hope he will agree to bury Peter in the kirk yard.’

‘Will you tell Simon?’

‘He’s just headed down the hill, leading foot soldiers.’

Margaret closed her eyes and bowed her head. ‘We have a respite. Thank God. But Ada, you cannot attend your son’s funeral.’

Ada nodded. ‘But he’ll have a proper burial. And later …’ Whether she would tell Simon was something she was not yet ready to consider. One thing at a time. They must make safe the house by ridding it of her son’s corpse. ‘I wonder what Simon’s departure means,’ she said, ‘whether he’s to negotiate a truce or lead those men into battle.’ She pressed her hands to her face. ‘This town reeks of blood.’

They sat silently for a time.

‘I’d thought to join you at Isabel’s last evening. How did you find her?’ Margaret asked.

‘Glad to be alive,’ said Ada. ‘She hopes to join her daughter in the north if the truce comes to pass. She sent her there when-’ she remembered that Margaret would be most interested in a piece of information that had surprised her. ‘Maggie, her daughter was betrothed to Huchon Allan. When he was to be hanged, Gordon and Isabel sent her to kin in the north. Poor Isabel — she has suffered so much of late.’

Margaret suddenly brought her face so close that Ada could see shots of gold in the irises.

‘Her daughter and Huchon Allan?’ Margaret said, her voice high with excitement. She sat back so suddenly the bench rocked. ‘If it was his ring, then Peter — I must go out.’ She was off the bench before Ada could ask where she was going. ‘Celia, dress me. Hurry!’ Margaret called.

Margaret struggled not to jump to conclusions, though she kept thinking of her bargain with the Sight, that if it proved helpful she would go to her great-aunt in Kilmartin to learn more — she wondered whether the Sight was making sure she would. She wanted to ask Isabel about the whereabouts of Huchon’s ring when Gordon was killed, but first she needed to make sure that it was his ring that Peter had given Ellen, which meant she must show it to Lilias and Ranald Allan. It was not an encounter she looked forward to.

As Celia dressed Margaret, she listened quietly. When she was finished, she touched the ring in Margaret’s hand. ‘So this was Peter Fitzsimon’s ring? He gave it to Ellen?’

Margaret belatedly realised that she hadn’t explained any of this to Celia — she hadn’t expected her to be involved.

‘You know enough now. Don’t worry whether you understand it. All you need to do is be sure to not contradict me.’

Celia’s dark brows were knit in concern. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To the Allans’s house.’

‘Next door? You hardly need a companion to walk across the wynd.’

One could count on Celia to get right to the telling detail, thought Margaret. ‘I don’t want to go alone.’

‘Oh.’ Celia pressed her lips together and was quiet a moment.

‘Maggie, come quickly,’ Ada called from below, ‘James is here!’

Margaret’s and Celia’s eyes met.

‘He’s escaped?’ Celia whispered.

‘God help him,’ Margaret said. ‘We’ll go to the Allans soon.’

Celia crossed herself. ‘May God watch over him. Perhaps he will be able to join the others.’

As Margaret hurried down to the hall she felt a knot forming inside. She’d not thought about James fighting in the battle with the others.

He stood by the back doorway, dressed for travel, listening to Ada’s recounting of the conversations in the market square the previous night.

‘I’ve not had the courage to look down at the camps,’ she said, ‘but I can imagine. How can we possibly prevail against them?’

‘We cannot fail, else things will be far worse than they are now. We must carry the day.’ He glanced up, and seeing that Margaret had come, bowed to Ada. ‘The guards are gone,’ he said, taking a step towards Margaret.

‘Sir Simon Montagu left early this morning, leading some foot soldiers,’ said Margaret, guiding him to the far end of the hall, away from Archie.

James looked tired. ‘What of Peter? Is he still lurking about?’

Margaret’s stomach clenched, instantly back in the shed with Peter’s blood on her. She drew James down on to a bench beside her, taking his hands. ‘No, Jamie. Peter is dead.’ She told him how they’d found him, and explained how the fatal stabbing had occurred after he’d taken refuge in the shed, and that Ellen had said Aylmer had gone looking for Peter.

‘Aylmer. God’s blood. How did he find him there?’ James glanced towards the fire circle.

‘I don’t know. Archie admitted that the knife was his. Peter had grabbed it by the blade and Archie had not the strength to retrieve it.’ She remembered Peter’s cut-up hand and shivered at the thought of the pain he must have experienced.

James pulled her close. ‘I am so sorry you’ve seen the bodies of people you knew so viciously injured, Maggie.’

She clung to him, trying not to see the blood, the battered flesh, the gaping wounds, but her mind was full of Johanna’s and Peter’s suffering — and Roger’s, though she had witnessed it through the Sight, not her fleshly eyes. She could not help but think that souls so violently wrenched from the body were never entirely freed.

‘Maggie, Maggie,’ James whispered, ‘you are so young to be seeing all of this. I wish I could protect you.’

She turned her face towards his, and their kiss was long and sweet. This was a cruel courtship indeed.

When they moved apart, Margaret asked, ‘What will you do now that you are free?’ She did not for a moment expect him to stay here with her, knowing that his first loyalty was to John Balliol, his kinsman, and she respected him for that.

‘Free? I hardly feel that. I must return to my men below. This battle will decide whether we go on to fight another day, Maggie. I cannot bide here while they fight for my kinsman.’

‘I did not expect you to.’

‘I wonder whether Aylmer has run off to Robert Bruce? We could use all the men we can find.’

Margaret shrugged. ‘Will you try to reach Wallace and Murray on Abbey Craig?’

‘Yes, God help me.’

‘May God watch over you, Jamie,’ she whispered.

He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips and held her tight for a moment. ‘I’ll come back to the house if I can’t get through. And in time I will return for you, Maggie, no matter what happens.’ She knew by the fullness of his voice that he meant it, and that he regretted that he could not simply stay with her. ‘It is possible that the English will use the townspeople of Stirling as hostages, Maggie. If you begin to see patrols on the streets, seek sanctuary in the kirk. Promise me you will.’

‘I promise. May God watch over you, Jamie. I’ll be here, praying for you.’

‘May God keep and protect you.’ He kissed her forehead again, and then her hands. ‘I wish I’d never brought you here.’

‘I regret nothing, Jamie, except that we’ve had so little time together.’ She knew so little about him, and he her.

‘I’ll leave you now.’

They rose. Margaret kissed his cheek and then crossed to the solar steps, feeling his eyes on her.

‘Maggie!’ he cried as she climbed.

Already feeling the heat of her emotion in her cheeks, she knelt down by the bed and prayed for strength. This was not a day on which she could give over to weeping for James.

A hint of autumn was in the air in the mornings, chilling toes and stiffening joints, and making everyone in the camps eager for something to happen so that they might turn towardss home. This enforced rest was no rest at all, but rather fuel for anxiety, fear, anger, resentment — Andrew feared that the pressure would make someone snap.

‘What sins have they still to confess?’ Matthew asked Andrew after yet another impromptu confession had taken him away from his prayers.

‘They begin over again, fearful lest they have forgotten a detail, as if God doesn’t already know all, as if He forgives only what has been thoroughly described.’ Andrew leaned back against a sun-warmed stone. ‘My neck hurts from bowing my head to listen so that they cannot see how I fight to keep my eyes open.’ He stretched out his legs and pressed his palms to his thighs, stretching into his lower back. ‘They need activities to occupy them. This waiting gives them time to worry. For some of them it is the first chance they’ve had to review their lives since leaving home. Some have killed their fellow men for the first time. Some ache for home. They tell me they don’t feel like themselves. They are frightened that God has misplaced them.’ Andrew understood, but all he could do was listen and assign penances. ‘I have no wisdom to offer them.’

‘They are fortunate to have a chaplain to care as you do, Father,’ said Matthew. He nodded towards a page picking his way through the camp. ‘I think Sir Francis wants to consult with you again.’

Ever since Andrew had returned to the camp Sir Francis had kept him near. At first Andrew thought he suspected that he’d almost lost his chaplain, but gradually it became clear that he wanted a companion, someone with whom he could mull over what was happening — or not happening. Andrew had little to add, but it seemed his listening was sufficient for Sir Francis.

‘I hope and fear that it is news of Stewart and Lennox; today is the day they were to return.’

‘What will Sir Francis do with us if there is to be peace?’ Matthew asked. ‘The men would no longer be desperate for a chaplain.’

Andrew also wondered what they might intend for him. Send him back to Holyrood? To Soutra? He belonged nowhere at the moment. Abbot Adam wanted him safely trapped in Soutra, but if the English were victorious the spital would no longer be so dangerous for him. He glanced at Matthew and saw by his earnest gaze that he awaited a response.

‘May God watch over us, Matthew. I fear peace almost as much as an English victory. I pray you never have cause to regret your loyalty to me.’

Matthew crossed himself, then forced a smile. ‘If God suddenly allowed me to understand the written word I might desert you for a monastery, but save that I am content serving you.’

The page escorted Andrew through the clutches of men idly passing the time — some played dice, many obsessively polished their weapons, some dozed, others talked in small groups. Many glanced up and greeted Andrew. As they passed the small tent in which Sir Francis slept and took his meals a man hurried towards them.

‘Father Andrew, I would talk to you.’

‘He is wanted by Sir Francis,’ said the page.

‘I doubt I’ll be long,’ said Andrew. ‘Come to me later.’

The man bobbed his head and turned away.

‘They give you no peace, Father. How can you bear it?’ asked the page.

‘It is my calling,’ said Andrew.

A half dozen men stood beside a young willow, its branches arched but still too buoyant to reach down to the water though one root seemed to wave freely in the stream, its land side crowded by a mature birch. Something about the juxtaposition of the men and the struggling willow calmed Andrew with a thought of how men follow the same paths as nature. His countrymen’s struggle was young and uncoordinated as yet, but the blood and the effort were strengthening it day by day.

Sir Francis broke from the others to greet Andrew and draw him back to the group.

‘This is Father Andrew, my chaplain and counsellor,’ he said.

Most of the men were familiar, peers of Sir Francis or experienced soldiers he respected. Their expressions were universally grim.

‘We could use a blessing, Father,’ said Holm, a huge man whose left cheek carried an old puckered scar that pulled down the outer corner of the eye and his mouth. ‘A truce is not to be.’

‘Truce,’ spat Sir Marmaduke. ‘They never intended it, riding in here empty-handed after all this time.’

‘They did promise to return tomorrow with forty barded horses,’ Sir Francis reminded him.

‘I don’t believe it. Not after one of Lennox’s men killed one of ours,’ said Holm.

Andrew could not keep up with them, though he caught the fact that someone had finally snapped. ‘Would one of you help me understand what you’re so angry about?’

‘Treachery,’ said Sir Marmaduke. ‘Stewart and Lennox still claim to support us. They told Surrey today that although they’ve been unable to convince Murray and Wallace to throw down their arms they would return tomorrow with forty barded horses. Caparisoned horses, but no men to ride them.’ He cursed. ‘And then, as they departed, Lennox’s men found some of ours foraging, began to argue, and killed one of our men. That is not the behaviour of an ally.’

‘What does Surrey say?’ Andrew asked.

‘He is trying to calm everyone, assure us that it is worth waiting to see whether they return with the horses tomorrow,’ said Sir Francis.

‘And if they don’t?’ Andrew asked, though he could see the answer in the faces around him. Tired and angry men have little patience.

‘If the horses are not brought tomorrow, tomorrow we cross the Forth,’ said Sir Francis, ‘and slaughter the lot of them. They can’t possibly stand against our numbers.’

‘We should strike before then,’ said Sir Marmaduke, ‘while we have the advantage.’

‘What do you fear, my Lord?’ asked Holm. ‘That Robert Bruce is going to escape our watch in Ayr and appear leading his dead men?’

Sir Francis laughed nervously. Sir Marmaduke cursed again. Andrew crossed himself.

John returned with word that all the English still in town were lying low in the castle, so Father Piers had agreed to bury Peter the following day — if Dame Ada was certain that she did not wish to give Sir Simon the opportunity to pay his respects to their son.

Ada felt a twinge of guilt, but she would jeopardise lives by revealing to Simon how Peter had died — and where. It would not surprise her if he were to accuse her of the fatal strike. She wished Margaret and Celia were there to help, but she and Maus were quite capable of preparing her son’s body for burial.

The men had fashioned a table from planks and benches in the corner of the kitchen and laid Peter there. Maus had gathered as many lamps as she could fill to light him, as well as rags and several bowls of water with which to bathe him. Ada hesitated in the kitchen doorway, reluctant to see her son. Noticing that Maus had wrapped cloths around her gown and sleeves to protect them from the blood, Ada realised that she was not dressed appropriately and turned round to change into a simpler gown.

‘I’m not thinking clearly this morning,’ she muttered as Maus hurried to her.

‘I’ll help you, Mistress,’ said Maus, and she impulsively hugged Ada. Her kind gesture brought on tears, but Ada reassured her maid that she was grateful for the affection.

‘I don’t know that I can do this,’ she whispered, fearing that for once her courage was failing her.

‘Come, I’ll find something old for you to wear, and then you can decide,’ said Maus, the adult for now.

Ada put herself into her maid’s hands, allowing her to fuss and console, and gradually she convinced herself that she would always regret having walked away from this final opportunity to see to her son’s needs. Though he was dead, his spirit perhaps already departed, she told herself that in some way this moment might still have meaning for both of them.

This time when she entered the kitchen she went straight over to where Peter lay on the table. It was terrible to see her handsome son bloody and torn, and at first she could only stand over him and weep. But in a little while she took a rag, wet it, and began to clean his face. Softly she spoke to him, telling him the story of his beginning, what she could remember about carrying him, birthing him, her dreams for him, her heartbreak when she had to let him go. Her hands were bloodied as she cut the bags and then his clothes from his cold body, but it was her son’s blood, her blood, and she thanked God she had been given this chance to ease her son to rest.

*

The Allans’s hall was sparsely furnished, but tidy and made pleasant by a beautiful tapestry depicting scenes from the life of the Blessed Mother. Lilias Allan noticed Margaret’s interest and explained, ‘That is not ours. It belongs to the Abbot of Dunfermline — we are his tenants. My husband does much trading with the abbey.’ She kept glancing at Celia, as if wondering why Margaret had felt the need to be accompanied by her maidservant. ‘I am sorry that I did not welcome you when you first came to Stirling, but I am sure you know about my son.’ She averted her eyes on the last words.

It brought to mind Margaret’s embarrassment whenever her mother had made a scene in the town. ‘You are in mourning, I know, and I apologise for disturbing your peace.’

Lilias invited them to sit by the door to a small garden that Margaret had not seen from the backland because it was surrounded by a low fence. Herbs and berry bushes attracted small birds to the wide, shallow bowl of water atop a stone in the centre.

‘This is a beautiful spot,’ said Margaret.

Lilias smiled, her long, thin face almost pretty for a moment. She was cadaverously thin, as if she had been fasting for a long, long while.

‘I have something to show you, Dame Lilias.’ Margaret drew out the ring.

‘Holy Mother Mary!’ Lilias gasped, staring at it. ‘Where did you get this? I never thought to see it again.’

‘Is this your son’s ring?’ Margaret wanted to be certain that she understood.

Lilias timidly reached out to it, stopping before she touched it, and met Margaret’s eyes. ‘How did you get this?’ Her lips trembled.

‘From Peter Fitzsimon, a soldier at the castle.’

‘A soldier. An Englishman. That would be the man I saw wearing it the day they hanged my son. He watched coldly. I flew at him when I saw he wore Huchon’s ring.’ Lilias pulled her hand back and stood up so quickly she stumbled against a small table. Margaret caught her and held the woman as she began to sob.

‘What is going on in here?’ Ranald Allan’s voice thundered even before Margaret saw him.

Lilias pushed away from Margaret, wiping her eyes and shaking her head at her husband. ‘Go away, Ranald, go away.’

‘I will not. What has this woman done to upset you?’ he demanded, staring at Margaret.

‘Tell him nothing,’ Lilias whispered.

But of course her husband heard her.

Margaret closed her hand over the ring. Celia looked to her for direction, uncertain how to handle this explosive scene. Ranald’s face was contorted with anger and fear — Margaret could not tell which was strongest. Lilias was terrified and heartbroken.

Standing behind Celia, Margaret said, ‘We meant only good, but I can see this is not the time, it is too soon. Come, Celia.’

The maid slipped towards the door and Margaret followed.

‘No!’ Lilias cried, slapping Ranald hard across the face.

He clutched his nose and stumbled backward.

‘You will not silence these women. I won’t live like this.’

Celia had grabbed Margaret’s hand. ‘What shall we do?’ she whispered.

Margaret was watching the couple. ‘Stay a moment,’ she told her frightened companion. She, too had been frightened, but Ranald’s fierce attack had been halted by the woman he was trying to protect, and Margaret sensed that he was no longer dangerous to them.

Lilias took Ranald by the arm and drew him away, speaking to him in a quiet voice. She seemed suddenly calm, and Margaret believed that in her refusal to let her husband command the moment Lilias had found her strength.

‘He’ll be all right now,’ Margaret told Celia. ‘We’ll stay.’

Ranald left the room, and when Lilias was sure of that she invited Margaret and Celia to sit again.

‘My husband does not have a violent nature. It is the times — they make beasts of us all, defending our cubs, our homes.’

‘There was no harm done,’ said Margaret.

‘He thinks to protect us, but he has imprisoned us,’ said Lilias. ‘Father Piers was not nearly so harsh with Ranald as he is with himself.’

‘What has Ranald done?’ Margaret asked.

Lilias looked from one to the other. ‘Don’t you know? Didn’t Dame Isabel send you to hear it?’

‘Do you think Father Piers told us something?’

‘How else did you know that was my son’s ring?’ Lilias asked. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Dame Lilias, my mother is a seer, she has the Sight. Of late, I have seen things, too.’ Celia made a small sound and Margaret felt her maid’s eyes on her. ‘I was drawn to you and your husband, I believe to bring some comfort to you.’ Margaret opened her hand, letting the ring on her palm speak for itself.

Lilias stared down at it.

‘Take it,’ said Margaret. ‘It is yours by right.’

‘Even though Ranald — God still would comfort us?’ Lilias shook her head, her eyes a little wild.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Margaret said softly, ‘and I’ll tell Dame Isabel.’

Lilias still did not reach out for the ring, but she kept her gaze on it as she sat in silence. Margaret almost wept with disappointment, having been certain she was following the Sight, and that this was why she had been touched by it.

‘Huchon gave it to Agnes Cowie when he left home,’ Lilias finally began in a strained, hoarse voice, ‘for her to keep until he returned. And when he was captured, and to be hanged, Isabel and Gordon sent her north. I thought she’d taken the ring, but when-’ she looked away, catching her breath.

Margaret was afraid to breathe.

‘No parent should ever witness such a deed.’ Lilias’s face was so pale as she spoke her veins might be traced beneath her skin. ‘They ordered us to watch, along with what townsfolk they could find. I think many hid.’ She nodded to herself, her long, thin face drawn with pain. ‘The soldier in charge spoke to us. I can’t remember what he said, I was watching my son. But I noticed his hand, the ring on it. I reached for it, and Ranald held me back.’ She hugged herself. ‘An anger grew in me, from a seed it grew and I watered it, I nurtured it, until one day I could contain it no longer; it had grown so wide and tall and it would root me to the ground and destroy me. I went to Gordon and accused him of selling the ring to the Englishman, of benefiting from our grief, and he admitted it. He defended himself, the greedy snake, he said his daughter had suffered, too, and it had cost them to send her north. Cost them! I flew at him, grabbed at his hateful eyes and he slapped me so hard I fell.’ Lilias rose and turned away from them, towards the garden. ‘I didn’t know Ranald had followed me. When he saw me hurt he attacked Gordon. He spent all his grief and anger on Gordon.’ Her voice shook. ‘He has confessed to Father Piers, and he is truly remorseful.’ She looked back at Margaret and said with a defiance that chilled, ‘I am not. I regret nothing but that Ranald drew the knife instead of me.’

‘May Gordon Cowie rest in peace,’ Margaret whispered, crossing herself.

Celia did so, too. As she glanced at Margaret it was clear that she was overwhelmed by what she’d heard. ‘What now?’ she mouthed the question.

Margaret shook her head.

Suddenly Lilias sank down on to her chair and put her head in her hands. ‘Why has God done this? Why did He return the ring?’ Her voice was muffled, but Margaret could tell that she was weeping.

Margaret rose and searched the hall for something strong to drink, finding a little stale ale in a mug on a small table. Sitting down beside Lilias, she gently took her hands and placed the mug in it. The woman’s face was shattered with grief. She gulped the drink, then glanced up almost shyly at Margaret.

‘Perhaps God meant to melt the ice that held your heart imprisoned, Dame Lilias.’ Margaret said as she rose, placing the ring on Lilias’s lap. ‘Be at peace.’

Crossing the hall, Margaret called to Ranald to comfort his wife and departed with Celia, hurrying before the trembling overcame her and made it impossible to walk. She fled into Ada’s house, somehow managing the steps, and collapsed on the bed.