A Cruel Courtship

2

Hearing of the English force moving north towards the border, Father Andrew crossed himself and prayed for God’s help in finding a way to get word to William Wallace. His disgust with himself for blindly obeying his abbot’s orders in support of Edward Longshanks had led to his defiant act of going to Edinburgh Castle on behalf of his sister Maggie, and thus to his abbot’s condemning him to the post as confessor to the English troops that camped at Soutra on their arrival in Scotland. As a Scotsman hearing the confessions of the enemy he would never be allowed to escape, nor would his own countrymen trust him if he managed to do so. But he kept despair at bay by telling himself God had a purpose in bringing him to this English camp, and he believed it was for this — to pass information about the strength of the companies to Wallace.

It felt as if it had been long ago that Andrew and his servant Matthew had arrived at Soutra, but in fact they’d made the journey but four months earlier. They had approached the gate of the spital to the sound of their horses’ breath, the clop of their hooves on the stony road. The wind had funnelled beneath Andrew’s mantle as if urging him to fly. He remembered the bitter cold.

In the spital’s forecourt the soldiers had hovered close to a crackling fire. Though the high walls created a windbreak, it was still very cold on the height. Several large tents took up most of the courtyard. Andrew was taken aback, wondering how many English resided here that the guest house and infirmary were not enough.

‘I had not expected so great a company,’ he’d said to his servant.

‘Where will we sleep?’ Matthew asked.

‘I’ll propose that we sleep in the canons’ dormitory.’ Andrew was determined to keep the lad with him, for Matthew had volunteered to accompany him into this exile. ‘They would not bed soldiers there.’

The dormitory — Andrew wanted nothing more than to go straight there to lie down, but a servant greeted them with the news that the master of the spital wished to meet with Andrew at once.

‘Go with the groom,’ he told Matthew. ‘See that the horses are well rubbed down and then have him show you to the kitchen.’

The servant led Andrew past the soldiers’ tents, the infirmary, and the kirk, to a half-timbered house of imposing size. A clerk greeted him at the door and led him through a hall in which several men lounged, all with the presence and expensive clothing of nobles, and on into a windowless chamber monopolised by a large table with intricately carved legs. A leather-backed chair stood behind it, a hide-covered bench before it. Three oil lamps illuminated the table, the doorway and the chairs. Andrew settled on the bench. Presently a servant arrived with wine, a bowl of fragrant soup and a chunk of brown bread.

‘Master Thomas invites you to take some nourishment and assures you he will not come so hastily that you need hurry.’

Andrew was not acquainted with Master Thomas. He wondered whether he should be pleased by the courtesy or whether he should prepare himself for a long delay. It irked him that he might have taken some rest in the dormitory after all. But the soup warmed him, the bread filled him, and the wine soothed him.

He would like to know the lie of the land before speaking with Master Thomas. According to Abbot Adam, Master Thomas had been vague about precisely why he required an additional priest, particularly one well versed in diplomacy. It was to be assumed that King Edward trusted Master Thomas or he would have replaced him; therefore he would share Abbot Adam’s rather than Andrew’s political affinity, at least officially. Andrew must trust to his own skill at divining the man’s heart, a difficult task with a stranger. He bowed his head and prayed for God’s guidance.

Approaching voices brought him to his feet. The door opened and a large man in a dark gown quite tight about the middle paused, his head turned away, still summarising orders to a clerk. When he dismissed the clerk, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, bringing short-fingered, dimpled hands to rest on his belly.

‘Father Andrew Kerr, at last.’ The voice was nasal despite a hawk-like nose that should have provided sufficient breath for more resonance. Master Thomas had deep-set eyes, heavy brows, fleshy lips, several chins and ears with oddly elongated lobes. His grey hair was clipped short about his tonsure and oiled.

Andrew thought him an exceedingly ugly man. ‘Benedictie, Master Thomas.’

The master sniffed. ‘We expected you a week ago. I pray it was not misfortune that delayed you.’

‘I am surprised that my coming was so long in the planning as you imply. I learned of it but a few days before departing.’

Thomas’s expression was unreadable as he motioned Andrew to sit. Moving around the table to the chair behind, he walked heavily and with a pronounced limp.

As he took his seat Thomas frowned and shook his head, jiggling his many chins. ‘I find myself in a parlous position, Father Andrew. I have gathered all my wits about me and keep them well honed.’

Andrew thought this an odd beginning.

Thomas blotted his flushed, sweaty face with a cloth. ‘I am not a doubter by nature, so I blunder.’ He leaned forward, elbows on the table, stubby hands folded. ‘War kills courtesy. So I ask you frankly, where is your heart in this matter of the king of Scots?’

Although surprised by the man’s abruptness, Andrew had prepared for this question. ‘My mission is to serve God and to obey my master. Whether I hear the confession of an Englishman or a Scotsman, I keep the sanctity of the confessional.’

‘I inquired about your heart, not your head.’

‘I do not think about it.’

‘You still answer with your head. You are a man, you must feel one way or another.’

‘I mean no disrespect, but you are wrong that a man must take sides in this. My ultimate Master is God, the Pope his mortal representative, and he is neither an Englishman nor a Scotsman.’ Andrew bowed his head, praying that the man would be satisfied.

Thomas sighed and fidgeted with his ring, the blue stone catching the light. He rose with effort and stood for a moment with his back to Andrew. ‘No doubt you wonder why I insist on your answer. The brethren here have begun to bicker among themselves. Some are supporters of John Balliol, others think Robert Bruce would have taken a firmer stand against the English, a few see good coming of King Edward’s interest, some pray only for peace. What were once irritations now grow to arguments, feuds.’

‘Surely not among those who wish for peace?’

Thomas did not answer at once, but tilted his head, as if considering what to say. ‘Is that your wish? For peace?’ he said at last.

Andrew was startled into saying simply, ‘It is.’

Thomas turned to him. ‘Then you are welcome here. I assure you I am most grateful you have arrived. I need another confessor for the English soldiers, and a man who takes no interest in the conflict is the ideal man for that task.’

Or one who supports the English. Andrew wondered what Master Thomas knew about why Abbot Adam had chosen him to come. ‘They have no confessor?’

‘Father Obert is their confessor, but with so many men, and so many fearful of dying without confession, he is exhausted. He is no longer young and needs assistance.’

‘Surely there are others here who might have shared the burden with-’ Andrew stopped.

Thomas was shaking his head. ‘Abbot Adam told me that you were a man whom I might trust not to reveal anything you heard in confession.’

‘No priest may break the seal of confession.’

‘Few are tested as you might be, Father Andrew.’

‘I understand.’

‘It was good of you to agree to come.’

In keeping with his stance of neutrality, Andrew did not contradict Thomas. He had not expected to be able to pretend he had agreed to come; he had expected Abbot Adam to have made him doubly damned by revealing that he knew this was a severe punishment and cursed the abbot for it.

‘You will be my guest in this house,’ Thomas said.

Doubt teased Andrew with this news. He wondered whether this invitation was a gesture of trust, or a way to watch him closely. But he must not appear uneasy. ‘I thank you for that. I’ll of course require my servant to bide here with me.’

Thomas spread his hands. ‘Of course. And now I bid you goodnight. You are weary. A servant will show you the way. Go to your rest and sleep as long as you wish tomorrow.’

Thinking back to that first night Andrew remembered how he had despaired about being able to sleep, and yet had fallen almost at once into a deep, exhausted slumber.

On Andrew’s second day at Soutra he had been summoned to Master Thomas’s chamber to meet Father Obert. He’d expected a doddering, milky-eyed priest. He found a small man sitting at Master Thomas’s table, long-fingered and delicate hands steepled before him. He was bald of pate, although his sharp eyes were crowned by long and wild white eyebrows.

‘Father Obert?’ Andrew said.

The priest inclined his head. ‘Benedictie, Father Andrew. I thought we should talk before we dine with the English captains.’ He lisped, as he was missing a number of teeth. ‘They are uneasy regarding your being their confessor, of course. Anyone might be an enemy, even a priest.’

‘They are wise to be cautious,’ said Andrew. ‘How did you gain their trust?’

‘I was born and raised in York. They take comfort that my family still resides in the country about that fair city.’ He flattened his hands before him, as if getting down to the point. ‘Tell me about yourself. You were born in Perth?’ Obert cocked his head, but his eyes remained on Andrew’s.

‘Melrose. But I was brought up in Perth.’

‘I understand you are the eldest son of a merchant. Why did you take vows?’

‘It is what God wished, Father Obert.’ Andrew fought to keep his gaze steady and his body still despite his impatience with this questioning.

Obert responded with a quizzical lift of the brows.

God’s blood but the man was nosy. ‘I was called.’ Andrew immediately regretted how his words snapped with irritation. More softly he added, ‘I cannot remember when I did not know that God called me to serve Him in the Kirk.’

Obert’s smile seemed guileless. ‘It is good when a priest has a sincere vocation.’ He adjusted his sleeve, a fussy gesture. ‘Abbot Adam sent you here as someone Master Thomas could trust in this circumstance — the English using this as their camp and spital. Do you favour King Edward’s claim over John Balliol’s?’

‘I strive to be indifferent.’

‘You say that as if it is virtuous.’

‘You would counsel me to represent myself as devoted to King Edward?’

‘I would counsel you to tell the truth.’ Obert’s gaze held Andrew with such intensity he felt like wood.

Yet who was Obert to speak to him in such wise? ‘Abbot Adam and Master Thomas have chosen me to assist you. Do you question their choice?’ Andrew spoke quietly.

Obert sat back with a play of horror. ‘I see I have touched a wound. Or at least a tender scar. But I meant my comment as advice.’ He rose, revealing a crooked back, and reached for a stick to assist his walk. ‘It is time for introductions in the hall.’

Andrew reached out to halt the old priest. ‘Why do you distrust me?’

Father Obert did not raise his head at once. He seemed to consider his reply. Then his sharp eyes met Andrew’s. ‘You are Abbot Adam’s secretary, the one he trusted to gather the treasures of this country from the abbeys and kirks. Tell me I am being unjust and I shall believe you.’

Andrew had done so, turning his head when the soldiers accompanying him beat those courageous enough to defy them in the name of their king, John Balliol. His cowardice in that time would haunt him to the grave. The old man had thrust right into Andrew’s deepest wound, baring his terrible shame. He could not trust his voice.

Obert rested both hands on his stick and straightened a little. ‘What is this? Remorse?’ His mouth was pinched, from irritation or pain, Andrew could not guess.

‘Might we talk?’ Andrew managed, though he did not know what he would say.

Obert inclined his head. ‘Later. There will be time to speak of many things.’

‘Now, I pray you,’ Andrew said, inexplicably desperate to explain himself, wanting Father Obert to believe in his decency.

Obert shook his head. ‘Master Thomas awaits us.’

The elderly priest led the way to the master’s hall. Master Thomas and several of the men Andrew had noted in the hall the previous day rose to greet them as they entered the room. They rose not for Andrew, but for Father Obert. All greeted him with respect. Then Master Thomas introduced Andrew.

Sensing this to be a significant gathering, Andrew worked to set aside his irritation with Obert so that he might concentrate on memorising each name. Sir Francis seemed uncomfortable in his finery, as would be St Francis of Assisi. Sir Marmaduke — the name was Irish, servant of Madoc — though the man’s accent was like Father Obert’s, that of Yorkshire. But he also dressed more simply than the others — servant, Marmaduke. And thirdly Sir Simon Montagu — this name was familiar.

‘Perth, did you say?’ Sir Simon studied Andrew closely as if he, in turn, thought he should remember him.

As Andrew’s memory found the connection, he tried to cover any sign of recognition with a simple, ‘A fine trading port, Sir Simon. I’ve always thought it deserved a cathedral — and an archbishop.’

The English made polite but amused noises. Scotsmen were always complaining of their lack of an archbishop.

Andrew tried not to stare at the thick-necked, broadly built man who had been the lover of Ada de la Haye. This was the man whose wealth had bought Margaret’s friend a house in Perth as well as some property in the west. Her family had arranged for her to meet him when he was an influential emissary between King Edward and the much mourned King Alexander of Scotland, whose untimely death without a male heir had led to the present troubles. Andrew did not need memory tricks to remember Sir Simon.

Indeed he knew his instinct had been correct that these were all important men and he doubted he would forget meeting any of them. It made him even more fearful for his life and he cursed Master Thomas for inviting him to sup with them. Fortunately, they did not need him to carry the conversation at the table.

But after dinner the Englishmen gathered round him to ask what he had seen on his journey. A hard rain as they’d departed Holyrood Abbey had forced Andrew to keep his hood up, blocking his peripheral vision, and he’d been so closely watched by his English escort that he’d noticed little once they rode out of the storm. But even with so little to report, by the time Andrew had broken free of them Father Obert had departed.

Again that night he’d surrendered to a deep sleep despite his unease. But in the months following he’d spent the bulk of his nights pacing back and forth in his room until his body insisted on rest.

Father Obert had suggested the pacing as an aid to sleep. ‘I prefer brandywine, but that is in such short supply it is not even given to those lying bleeding in the infirmary — only the landed nobility are its beneficiaries — and Master Thomas, of course.’ As always, his sarcasm was softened by a mischievous grin, but Andrew knew the words trumped the genial mask.

Determined to continue his interview with Obert, convinced that the priest had hinted at a disaffection with the English that might make him an unlooked-for ally, Andrew had hounded him for a few days, shadowing his pale, halting presence, until the elderly priest invited him to dine in his chamber.

‘I see that you’ll accomplish nothing until we clear your mind,’ said Obert after the servant had withdrawn. ‘I begin to imagine that Abbot Adam was glad to be rid of you if this is how you behaved with him.’

‘I avoided him,’ said Andrew. ‘Our parting lacked affection.’

‘That is interesting,’ said Obert as he thrust his knife into a piece of meat. He sat back, chewing it thoughtfully.

Andrew fell to the food. The meat was tough, overcooked, but the stew of vegetables was well seasoned and tasty, and good for softening the brown bread. He’d noticed the absence of oatcakes on the first night — in deference to the English, he supposed.

‘So there is a rift between the abbot and his secretary?’ Obert asked, breaking into Andrew’s reverie.

Andrew grabbed his cup and washed down a mouthful of bread and vegetables.

Obert chuckled. ‘There is no need to hasten through your meal. I’ll not send you off before you are satisfied.’ He was smiling when Andrew met his eyes. ‘Faith, I am most curious to hear what you are so driven to tell me.’ The pale eyebrows joined briefly, then separated as the old priest smoothed his brow and smiled genially.

Now that he held Obert’s attention Andrew found himself choked with doubt. Suddenly it seemed absurd that this venerable priest would wish to hear of his remorse and his resolve to help his people. Indeed, Andrew questioned the wisdom in confiding in Obert, doubting the perception that had drawn him to desire to do so.

Apparently sensing Andrew’s confusion, Obert busied himself with some food and ale.

Andrew was relieved that Abbot Adam apparently had not told Master Thomas of Andrew’s disobedience. It permitted him some dignity and made it possible for him to be accepted as a trustworthy confessor, which might eventually allow him to help his people with information. But that hope would be dashed if he was wrong about trusting Father Obert. Yet as he considered the pale old man Andrew sensed God shining through Obert, and the more he watched him, the more convinced he became.

Obert sat back in his seat, patting his belly, his hunger apparently satisfied. ‘Well? Have you found your voice, Father Andrew?’

He thought he’d found the courage, but now Andrew felt emotion welling up within to challenge his ability to speak intelligibly. ‘You were right about my blind obedience to Abbot Adam in his service to King Edward. What you do not know is how I have since cursed myself-’ As tears rose, Andrew looked away and breathed deeply. Obert did not comment. When Andrew could again breathe evenly, he continued. ‘I have since disobeyed the abbot, defied him in a matter concerning my family, and he no longer trusts me. That is why he sent me here. He knows that a Scotsman who has heard the confessions of English troops will never again be welcome among his people, nor will he be trusted to leave the English camp. This is my penance and my condemnation.’

Obert pursed his mouth and frowned, his gaze fixed on the air beyond Andrew. ‘I wondered about his wisdom in sending someone from Perth. I know there are canons born in my shire and others south of the border residing at Holyrood.’ The old priest sighed, shook his head slowly, and then gestured towards the food. ‘Satisfy yourself, my friend. I am glad to know your heart.’

‘What of you, Father Obert? Forgive my saying this, but I was surprised that the English commanders would bring such a venerable priest on campaign.’

Obert’s face lit up as he laughed in surprise. ‘Oh, bless you, but you are right, no commander would trust I’d survive such a journey. I have served here at Soutra for many years. First the Scots, now the English.’

This made no sense to Andrew. ‘You served my countrymen and yet the English trust and respect you. How can this be?’

Bowing his head, Obert muttered something to himself.

Andrew thought it a prayer. He helped himself to more of the food, some ale, and was beginning to think the old man had no intention of responding when Obert lifted his head.

‘They know that I know I’m too old to do anything rash.’ Obert smiled with his mouth, but not his eyes.

They had bonded that evening, and were now like father and son; Andrew enjoyed working with Obert. He had also been surprised by Master Thomas’s character. Abbot Adam had lately written to warn Thomas of the reason he’d sent Andrew to Soutra, advising him to keep a close watch on him. Andrew had wondered at Thomas’s reading the letter to him, until he heard the anger in the Master’s voice.

‘He insults me with this letter,’ Thomas growled, tossing it away from him. Then he’d looked at Andrew long and hard. ‘So you lied to me about your impartiality, eh?’ He wagged his head, his chins dancing, and then he shrugged. ‘To save your hide. I would have done the same. I have no complaints about you, Father Andrew. I believe you to be an honourable man of God. Abbot Adam is perhaps not the man of God he should be.’

So Andrew grew comfortable at the spital. But he did not forget his conviction that God’s purpose in bringing him to Soutra was so that he might provide information to William Wallace, and to do that he must escape. This it was that kept him pacing at night.

Escape. He had thought himself close to an attempt at escape, hesitating only because a Welsh archer he’d befriended had disappeared the previous week and every room and all the grounds were being searched. This morning Obert said that it was believed the Welshman had escaped out the infirmary drain, or sewer.

‘God help David. Who could survive such a journey through hell?’ Obert had said with an unreadable expression.

Andrew could not spit out the curse that came to his tongue on hearing of David’s escape route. Andrew had not told Father Obert he was plotting to escape and get word to William Wallace of all he’d learned at Soutra. He could not be certain how Obert would react to the plan. But the news was maddening. Andrew had intended to use the infirmary drain, certain that no other human would be so desperate, that only a man who had forfeited his soul would attempt such an escape. Now the drain would be guarded. In the same breath he both cursed David and prayed for his safe journey.