A Cruel Courtship

4

Time and again James was reminded of Margaret’s youth. Just now she had sounded strong, and yet as she’d risen she’d almost swooned. She claimed her leg had cramped, but he guessed she was frightened. It was her youthful innocence that he hoped would protect her, but it was a gamble and he was very worried that he’d made the wrong decision to put her in such danger. Her friend Hal would never have wittingly put her in such peril. He loved her too. His disappointment when Roger had returned for Margaret was what had convinced James that the young man needed to leave Edinburgh and apply himself to winning this battle for his country’s independence from England. James understood such disappointment — he’d experienced it when the woman he loved had married his cousin. He’d thought he’d never love again. Margaret had changed all that. He reminded himself that he was not sure he knew Margaret’s heart. She might in time decide to stay in her marriage to Roger; it was the comfortable thing to do.

With a hand beneath Margaret’s elbow, James escorted her and Ada out to the garden and then watched as they parted from him and crossed to the outside stairway. Both were tall, one with red hair, one with white that had in her youth likely been honey gold for her brows were still a dark honey, and both had strong jaws and prominent cheekbones. It was plausible they were kin. He counted on that.

The friendships of women were strange to James, the need they had to know the whole histories of one another, not satisfied with the kinds of things men wished to know of other men — how they fit within the present and in relation to their goals. Margaret had been taken aback and, he thought, quite disturbed to learn of Peter Fitzsimon. Certainly James would have preferred to have known of the man’s existence when making the arrangement for Stirling, because he affected the plans. But it seemed to him that Margaret’s unease only partly stemmed from that — she seemed equally disturbed to learn that there was someone so dear to Ada about whom she had never spoken to her. James wished he knew whether that was significant; he was not entirely reassured by his conversation with Ada.

‘So you’re off to Stirling, eh?’ said Malcolm Kerr. He stood only a step behind James, hands clasped behind his back, watching the landing though his daughter was now out of view.

Under his breath James cursed whoever had told Malcolm where he was headed. But the damage was done. He nodded. ‘We must ride on today.’ He expected an argument about Margaret’s part in his plans. But he was surprised.

‘I’m proud of my daughter, her courage,’ Malcolm said. ‘I’d not have thought of her as part of all this, but she has chosen, and though I could not bear to lose her, I’ve no means to keep her safe, not here.’

‘In these times no one is safe,’ James agreed. Malcolm was less like his brother Murdoch, James’s business partner in Edinburgh, than he had realised. Curious about him, he asked, ‘Will you join me and my men in some refreshment?’ He would find out just what the man knew.

But Malcolm shook his head. ‘I was on my way to my wife’s chamber. If my daughter leaves without stopping there, will you tell her I’m proud of her?’

‘I will. And I’ll tell you this, I’ll do everything in my power to protect her.’

Malcolm gave a little laugh. ‘A Comyn’s no more able to do so than I am. Save your boasts for the ladies.’

Malcolm bowed and walked on, leaving James irritated. Perhaps he was just like Murdoch. Margaret’s parents seemed liabilities James could not afford, not if he was to help his kinsman regain the throne of Scotland. He had not intended to be more than Margaret’s compatriot. He had not been looking for love. But his panic when finding only the drunk servant in Margaret’s house had revealed his heart to him. She was admirably courageous for such a young, inexperienced woman and intriguingly complex. But such a father — and a mother so fey. He would be glad to leave them behind.

After Margaret had given Celia instructions to prepare for departure and answered her questions as briefly as possible, she looked for Ada. Maus was anxiously packing and did not know where her mistress had gone. From the gallery Margaret soon caught sight of her sitting quietly on the garden bench that James had chosen earlier, her eyes cast down. As Margaret hurried down the stairs Ada lifted a tear-streaked face.

‘I am so glad you’ve come to me.’ Ada dabbed at her eyes with a square of linen.

‘I thought you might like a companion,’ Margaret said. ‘You seemed quite shaken by the news.’

‘I was.’ Ada straightened and took a few deep breaths. ‘It is a heartless practice, though common enough among the noble families.’

This was an Ada that Margaret did not know — sorrowful, wounded. ‘I thought you were content with your life,’ she said.

Lifting her chin, Ada seemed to study the branch above, but she clutched the cloth in her hand and breathed shallowly as if holding back more tears. ‘I was far too young to understand the finality of my choice, how unlikely it was that I would one day be settled with my own family round me. Nor had I understood that I would not be choosing my liaisons. In faith, I was fortunate in Simon. By the time he bedded me I knew enough to be ready to do anything he asked if he would only keep me by him, for he was loving and thoughtful in bed.’

‘I had not known you had a son.’

‘Two sons and three daughters.’ Ada nodded at Margaret’s expression of surprise. ‘And how could you know?’ In her voice Margaret heard a weary resignation. ‘I’ve regretted having to give them up to the Montagu family to wed well. I am not complaining about Simon — he has been generous.’ She gave a silken shrug. ‘Though it would have inconvenienced him little to have been kinder about our children. I thought surely he would relent and let me see them from time to time. But eventually I understood that he would not bend. I returned to Perth, wealthy and alone.’ She gave a bitter little laugh. ‘My kin did not know what to do about me. They told the impressionable young ones that I was a childless widow.’

‘Is Simon the father of all your children?’

‘The four living, yes. My third daughter was not so fortunate.’ Ada bowed her head for a moment, then rose with a sigh. ‘I must see to Maus,’ she said with unconvincing energy. ‘She can be quite contrary when she does not like her orders.’ Ada looked older than usual, tired, defeated.

‘I’ll take my leave of Ma,’ said Margaret. She waited a few moments, allowing Ada her solitude, then made her own way up to the gallery and on towards her mother’s chamber, preparing herself for a difficult time. It would be easier simply to depart without a farewell, but she felt it important to take leave of her mother.

From the partially opened door Margaret heard her father bragging about her commitment to King John. She cursed under her breath as he noticed her and waved her into the room, where she was relieved to see that he had been talking to Marion, not her mother. She prayed her mother had not yet heard of her departure — she would prefer to tell her herself.

‘Maggie, lass, your mother is praying with the holy sister,’ said Malcolm. ‘I’ve been telling Marion about your mission.’

‘Da, you must talk of this no more. You’ll do naught but harm if you go on so about what should be a secret.’

‘I’m not simple, lass,’ he snapped.

No, she thought, just a braggart.

‘Young Margaret? Is that you?’ Bethag stepped out from behind the screen. She smiled when she saw she’d guessed correctly. ‘Come, your mother is anxious to speak with you.’

Margaret was glad to escape her father. But it was not truly an escape.

Her mother sat up. Marion had taken more pains dressing Christiana, for a wimple now covered her hair and tucks in the sides of her gown tidied its drape. Yet she looked no less haunted. Her gaunt, ageing face was pinched and puckered by the wimple; her eyes sleepy and focused on air. This was Margaret’s mother, and soon herself?

‘Is it true, Maggie, did you have a vision?’

Margaret glanced at Dame Bethag with an anger that caused the nun to step back and bow her head.

‘I swore I’d say nothing to the sisters, but you need your mother’s advice,’ the nun said in a timid voice.

‘Have you the Sight, Maggie?’ For a moment, Christiana met Margaret’s gaze and held it.

God help me, but I cannot bear to talk of it again. ‘No, and we’ll speak of it no more. I came to bid you farewell for a while. My escort to Stirling has arrived and would be away as soon as we are ready.’

Her mother was plainly not listening, her eyes focused beyond Margaret. ‘It was Roger you saw, dead at the foot of the cliff, was it not?’ she asked. ‘You must have been frightened. Poor Maggie.’ It was sweetly said, but spoken to the air.

‘Ma, did you hear me? I am leaving for Stirling.’

‘God go with you, Maggie.’

As Margaret bent to kiss her, Christiana suddenly grasped her chin and looked her in the eyes. ‘See to your own safety, Maggie, you cannot save him.’

‘Roger?’

Christiana let go of Margaret and lifted her cheek for a kiss, her eyes closed. ‘He was never right for you.’

‘Ma, did you have a vision about Roger?’

Christiana sighed. ‘I expect a kiss and receive a shower of questions. Such a contrary daughter.’

‘Tell me about it, I pray you. What did you see? What do you mean that I cannot save him? From what?’

‘You put words in my mouth, Maggie. I’ve said no such thing.’

‘Ma!’ Margaret cried in frustration, ‘you are toying with me.’

Christiana closed her eyes and pressed her cheeks with the backs of her hands. ‘How can you speak so to me when I’m burning with fever?’

Margaret pecked her mother’s cheek, which was hot, and wished her good health, then departed, grateful to breathe the fresh air without.

Now and then Master Thomas invited Fathers Andrew and Obert to dine with him, and this evening was one of those occasions. But it was quickly obvious to Andrew that this evening was unusual, for instead of settings for a half dozen or more the trestle table held only three. Andrew did not like it.

The master of the spital was already seated at the table, relaxing in his leather-backed chair with a mazer — filled with wine, Andrew guessed, for he’d never seen the man drink ale. With his oiled hair, his many chins, the high-backed chair and elegant gown, Thomas was the picture of prosperity, which seemed at odds with the war parties assembling daily in his domain. Andrew had noted the master’s talent for knowing all that went on around him and yet remaining unmoved by it. In such times it seemed a handy talent.

As had become their habit, Andrew and Obert entered slowly together, the elderly priest using Andrew’s arm for balance on one side, his cane on the other. Obert was able to straighten his back more with Andrew’s support, which eased the strain of walking.

‘Benedicite, my brothers,’ Thomas cried in his nasal voice.

He always spoke over-loud in the presence of Obert, apparently believing the old priest hard of hearing. I have never missed a word that he’s said, more’s the pity, but my response must have been lacking in something several times, which he believes can only be explained by my being deaf, Obert had told Andrew.

‘You two seem comfortable in your partnership,’ Thomas noted.

‘You need not shout at us,’ Obert muttered as he lowered himself on to a chair across from Thomas. ‘It turns pleasantries into threats.’ He motioned to the servant to pour him some wine, ignoring Thomas’s reaction.

But Andrew could not ignore Thomas’s angry flush and the narrowing of his eyes. Andrew wished Father Obert would not bait Master Thomas as he did, particularly when he had been looking so smug as they arrived, like a cat who knows that his prey has no escape. Andrew asked the servant for half wine, half water. He wanted his head clear.

‘With Sir Simon’s departure I became lax in entertaining,’ said Thomas as a small salmon was placed before them. ‘Sir Marmaduke spends all his time with his war council and I’ve been free to work well into the evenings. But one must balance all things. So I look forward to a good meal and pleasant conversation.’ He looked at his guests as if expecting some response, but an uncomfortable silence ensued.

‘And what of Sir Francis?’ asked Andrew, embarrassed by how tight-throated he sounded. ‘I had not heard that he had departed.’

Master Thomas had begun to spear himself some fish, but he paused and raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you tracking the English commanders?’

God’s blood he was difficult this evening. ‘No,’ said Andrew, ‘You implied-’

‘Father Andrew dislikes silences, so he was politely filling in conversation,’ said Father Obert with affectionate amusement. ‘His earnest courtesy can be painful, and often misunderstood.’ He wrapped his long, slender fingers round his mazer and smiled over the top at Thomas.

‘Do you think so?’ asked Thomas, settling back with some food. ‘I have heard only praise for Father Andrew.’

‘But Thomas, you know that I have little tolerance for courtesy.’

The two men laughed. Andrew was uncertain whether Obert truly did amuse Thomas with his acid tongue, or whether Thomas pretended for the sake of his pride. Andrew liked Obert, and respected Thomas for his steadfast rule of the spital in difficult circumstances. But he trusted no one here except his servant Matthew. He was certain that everyone in the spital was working for one side or the other, or if not, they would freely betray anyone necessary in order to protect themselves. He gazed round the room, remembering other evenings with English commanders. More candles and lamps had been lit on those occasions, and often a canon had played a gittern in the corner.

‘You miss the music, Andrew?’ Thomas inquired.

‘I was remembering it,’ said Andrew, vowing to keep his eyes on the table before him for the remainder of the evening, for the master’s scrutiny made him feel frighteningly exposed, as if his intention to escape was written in the movement of his eyes.

‘They say that David, the Welsh archer who escaped, was an accomplished musician and had a remarkable voice,’ said Thomas. ‘I regret not having known that while he was here. They say the Welsh have the most beautiful voices.’

‘I have heard that said of Italians, but not the Welsh,’ Obert countered.

‘What say you, Andrew?’ Thomas asked.

Andrew prayed that the dimness of the lamplight hid the sweat on his upper lip and forehead, of which he was damnably aware. ‘The French have a delicacy of phrasing that is often praised,’ he said.

‘Do you not wonder what poor David suffers?’ said Obert. ‘The guards sent in after him are yet in the infirmary. What did he achieve?’

‘I should think it would be a great challenge to escape from such a well-guarded place,’ said Andrew. ‘But so far from his own people, where would he go? How would he eat?’ He hoped his voice sounded as normal to them as it did to him.

Thomas was nodding. ‘I, too, wondered that.’

‘Perhaps he did not escape,’ said Obert.

‘What?’ said Thomas, but then he seemed to see that it was possible and began to smile. ‘He is in hiding. Who would notice a little food missing from the kitchen, eh? Yes. It is quite possible.’

Obert, bent over his trencher, glanced at Andrew and shook his head slightly. Andrew took it as a warning not to voice his theory, that David was a spy who merely left, that the story of the drains was to discourage anyone seeking to escape. Andrew still found it difficult to believe the English captains would have sacrificed two of their men to make the story seem real.

As the meal continued, the conversation quieted into domestic issues and innocent gossip. But towards the end of the evening Master Thomas began a unsavoury game of pitting one of them against the other. ‘How do you feel, having such a popular assistant, Father Obert?’, ‘You must find it difficult to obey a man not because he is a better priest but merely because he is older, Father Andrew.’ And he watched them squirm.

No, he watched Andrew squirm. Obert seemed mildly amused.

Later, in Obert’s chamber, Andrew asked if they might talk before he went to his own bed.

‘Help me with these first,’ said the elderly priest as he eased himself down on his simple bed and proffered his booted feet. ‘In my youth I imagined an old age in a warmer clime where I might wear sandals. Instead I end my service in the windiest spital on earth.’ Obert pressed his stomach. ‘Oof. I already feel the food burning holes in my flesh. I’ll not be lying down for a while. To invite us to dine with him and then create such a strained mood is too cruel. I shan’t forgive him for this night.’

‘You do inspire him to prick at you.’

‘I have cause. Working well into the evening — that man’s never worked a whole day, much less into the evening. But do not fret, I have made my honesty into a game that he believes he is enjoying with me.’ Obert chuckled, but suddenly bent forward, his hand to his stomach, his face contorted in pain. ‘Deus juva me,’ he groaned. ‘Fetch me the little bottle on the shelf over there.’ He nodded towards the foot of his bed.

Andrew fetched it and pulled out the stopper before handing it to the elderly priest, who drank down its contents and then sat back against the wall with a sigh.

‘It will soon work, else I’ll take a powder of crowfoot and die laughing.’ Obert chuckled weakly. ‘Does that not sound pleasant, to die laughing?’

‘Were I assured of dying so I should not fear it,’ said Andrew, easing down on to a stool near the bed. Obert had closed his eyes. ‘What did you take?’

‘Oh dear, I forgot — the crowfoot works only on an empty belly, and mine is far from empty,’ said Obert, tears of laughter streaming down his eyes.

Andrew did not know whether his companion was laughing or crying, or indeed whether or not he had lost his wits. ‘Father Obert?’

‘I took rue,’ the old priest whispered. ‘It often works miracles.’

‘Are you in much pain?’

Obert eased upright and opened his eyes. They were still quite filled with tears, but he was now smiling. ‘Old age is so filled with pain, how might I measure this one alone?’ He used his sleeve to blot his tears. ‘Oh my, forgive me, I’ve frightened you. And why not?’ He let out a sound between a groan and a sigh and then took a deep breath. ‘Better. So. I shall live another night.’

‘Can I fetch you anything else?’ Living another night did not seem compensation enough for what Obert had seemed to suffer.

But the old priest shook his head. ‘I need to be quiet, breathe deeply, from the bottom to the top of my lungs, and it will all calm.’ He demonstrated, coughing a little, but after a few rounds the coughing ceased and his expression was much less strained.

‘I must remember that,’ said Andrew. He thought he should leave the old man to his rest. ‘Sleep well,’ he said, rising.

‘But you wished to talk, eh? You held your own part well this evening. I do not believe Thomas could see how his talk disturbed you.’

That was not reassuring. ‘You could.’

Obert, still leaning back against the wall with his eyes half closed, smiled a little. ‘I know you far better than he does. Now. What is on your mind?’

‘Thomas was looking for something, wasn’t he?’

Tilting his head from side to side as if it was not such a terrible thing, Obert said, ‘He expects us to spy on one another.’

‘But we are priests.’

‘We are human, Andrew, just men beneath these gowns, and Thomas never forgets that. I advise you to pay more heed to that. Have I not told you that I betrayed someone to save myself?’

‘You’ve told me little. Even what you just said is more than you’ve revealed before.’

‘Let that satisfy you for tonight. My belly has suffered enough.’ He closed his eyes.

‘But-’

‘Leave me now, I pray you,’ said Obert.

Andrew withdrew, wide awake and frightened that if something should happen to Obert he would be responsible for the souls of all in this godforsaken place.

The assemblage of belongings Margaret and her friend presented was far smaller than James had expected. Margaret had more than did Ada, who he had expected would travel with household items as well as clothing.

‘Is this all you have brought?’ he asked her. ‘Are you so confident that your kinsmen’s house in Stirling will be in readiness for you? The English have taken over many dwellings.’

‘The tenants are skilled in gaining grace with whoever holds power,’ Ada said. ‘But I also sent my butler and cook on to prepare the house. So I carried only what was necessary for this journey and brought only my lady’s maid and the two menservants with me.’

James silently cursed himself for not having anticipated that Ada would send servants ahead. Now Simon Montagu might be forewarned and expecting a de la Haye. But it did not change anything, merely hastened the meeting, for Montagu would have soon discovered Ada’s presence anyway, gossip typically being rife in a town under siege; unfortunately the gossip did not pass so easily out of the town to the countryside, and hence his need for Margaret. He noticed that she, however, looked distraught.

‘From this moment on I must think of myself as Ada’s niece,’ she said quietly to him. ‘For-’

Ada interrupted.

‘I heard you curse beneath your breath, James, but what would you have had me do? I could not expect the tenants to rejoice if they were suddenly consigned to the hut in the backlands.’ Her voice was tensely defensive. ‘Nor could I be certain they would have cleaned and laundered everything before they withdrew from the house.’ She was quite flushed with self-righteousness.

‘It is as it is,’ James said. ‘Come. We must make some distance before we rest tonight.’

Celia remembered an earlier journey made mostly by night, when Roger Sinclair brought Margaret from Edinburgh to Perth. She felt safer in the present company; James Comyn was not new to stealth and he seemed to have armed men at his beck and call. He was also more open about his purpose than Roger Sinclair had been.

But she was not confident about her mistress’s mission in Stirling, especially now that Dame Ada’s former English lover was there. Margaret had been frank with Celia, as always, about the added danger, and although she understood that both her mistress and James Comyn considered it the best they could do when time was so short, Celia was worried about going on with the original plan. But not even fear would make her desert her mistress.

The land began to rise and the night grew chillier. Celia was grateful for the warmth of the horse beneath her, and for the wimple that just hours earlier she’d resented because of the damp warmth near the river. When not far along the road they turned off into a copse of trees she eagerly watched for light from a hut or a barn. One of the men opened the shutter on a lantern and she saw that they’d come to an earthen mound in a small clearing. She hoped it was a natural hillock and not a burial mound.

As she did not see or hear a stream or see any shelter Celia felt anxious, worried that the men had sensed someone following them and intended to make a stand here, which seemed quite ill-advised near a burial mound. Strange things happened around them, especially at night, and the battle might be fraught with surprises. She hoped she was wrong. Perhaps they were awaiting additional horses here, for with the men walking and leading the horses with the women astride they moved slowly. The man leading hers came around to assist her in dismounting.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ James was saying to Margaret, ‘we will rest here for the remainder of the night and my men and I will change into our disguises. We want to escort you near enough to Stirling that we can be fairly certain you’ll safely reach Dame Ada’s house, so we must look like farmers.’

‘We’ll sleep in the open?’ Margaret asked.

‘No, in the barn.’

Celia had just heard a strange sound, the groan of something large being shifted, and turning to look back watched what she’d thought a section of the mound swing wide. It was a large door camouflaged with sod, part of an earthen barn, and within was a two-wheeled cart such as farmers brought to market.

Lanterns were lit within and soon Margaret and Celia were lying side by side on hay, beneath a blanket and hide.

‘I thought this was a burial mound,’ Celia whispered.

Margaret shivered. ‘So did I. I pray that keeps us safe from attack.’

Celia pulled out her paternoster beads and prayed until she realised she’d fallen asleep and had been dreaming about doors in trees and riverbanks, then turned on her side and slipped back into sleep.

She woke confused by the smell of animals and the murmur of men’s voices, but when she remembered the barn and the night journey she settled into her nest and fell into a deep sleep once more. When next she woke the barn door stood slightly ajar and a misty dawn freshened the air. Margaret was already sitting up with a small wooden cup in her hands. When she noticed Celia watching her, she proffered the cup.

‘Cider — it is strong, so just sip it.’ Her hands trembled.

Celia tasted the cider and sighed with pleasure. ‘I like travelling with James Comyn.’

Margaret laughed, but it sounded sadly forced.

‘Did you sleep?’ Celia asked.

Margaret nodded. ‘Not peacefully.’

‘You need this more than I do, then,’ said Celia, handing back the cup. ‘I’ll fix your wimple when you are finished.’

‘See to your own needs first,’ said Margaret. ‘There are oatcakes and perhaps more cider near the door.’

As Celia moved out of their little corner she saw that the men now wore undyed tunics and leggings well patched and stained from work in the fields. They were quite believable, and disturbingly quiet and grim-faced. Maus was busy fixing Dame Ada’s hair in the opposite corner. Celia wished them good morning and then hurried out to relieve herself, trying not to look at the man who escorted her and stood at a discreet but careful distance with an arrow at the ready.

Back in the barn she took several oatcakes and another small cup of cider to her corner. Margaret had already folded the blanket and put the hide atop it. The oatcake took the edge off Celia’s anxiety, and she tried to engage her mistress in talk, but Margaret seemed distracted.

‘What troubles you?’ Celia asked.

‘I’m worried about Roger. Ma felt he was still much too weak to leave the nunnery.’

Celia was relieved that it had to do with Roger and not with this journey. She murmured some inane comfort while combing Margaret’s lovely russet hair and then covering it with the wimple and veil.

At last ready, they joined Ada and her servants near the door.

James approached with an odd gait. ‘We’ll escort your company to Stirling, Dame Ada,’ he said in a voice quite unlike his usual one, and no wonder with the odd twist to his back and neck which made him look frail. ‘But it will cost ye.’

‘I had no doubt of that,’ said Ada. Then she laughed and clapped her hands.

Margaret shook her head but Celia saw the admiration in her expression.

‘Why are the men so grim?’ Celia asked.

‘Because the English army is not far behind us,’ said Ned, one of Ada’s servants, his eyes jumpy with fear.

*

Andrew had retired to his room after hearing confessions for several hours — a troop of soldiers was preparing to march on and the fear in their voices had been terrible to hear. Abbot Adam would have urged Andrew to lecture the men on the terrible sin of despair, but he could not find it in his heart to do that. To be absolved of their sins was small enough comfort when facing the fear of losing courage, suffering mutilation, dying without the last rites, far from home, for a cause they’d never understood.

He fell on to his bed and tried to free his mind from the morning’s work, but he felt as if his ribs were bound by steel too tightly to allow him to breathe. He felt guilty about the soldiers’ fears, as if he should be able to reassure them as a mother her children. As if it had been he who had ordered them to invade his country, or perhaps as if he’d taunted them to come and attempt to conquer his people, or as if he’d trained his own people to be far stronger than the English had expected. He amused himself with these variations on his sense of guilt, and gradually his ribs began to expand with his breath.

He ignored a knock on the door. But whoever it was knocked a second time and then entered the room. Andrew recognised Father Obert’s shuffling gait, and as the elderly priest had never before intruded, that he was doing so now meant something serious was on his mind.

Andrew sat up.

Father Obert leaned on his cane, his back so crooked that his hips seemed those of an animal that walks on all four legs. ‘We are summoned to Master Thomas’s chamber,’ said Obert in a slightly breathless voice.

Andrew’s heart sank. ‘I have heard confession all morning and I am weary.’

Obert grimaced sympathetically. ‘I know, my friend, but I also know the matter about which Thomas would confer with us and I urge you to put on a pleasant face and come along.’ Without waiting for Andrew’s reply, Obert turned to withdraw.

‘Tell me — what is this about?’

Obert shook his head. ‘You will hear soon enough.’

Taking pity on the old priest, Andrew hurried to join him, offering his arm for support to ease Obert’s twisted spine. Of course he hoped the priest would trade information for relief. ‘It is always of benefit to know something of the reason for a summons.’

‘I know nothing for certain,’ said Obert.

‘You are a stubborn man.’

‘I think of it as cautious rather than stubborn.’ Obert grinned with mischief.

Andrew found himself incapable of being angry with Obert when he exhibited this lightness of spirit. How the old priest found it possible to smile and tease when trapped in a twisted, pain-wracked body filled Andrew with wonder and he believed it must be a sign of God’s grace. It inspired Andrew to seek an uncharacteristic lightness, which felt oddly calming.

‘Cautious,’ Andrew repeated. ‘It does sound less irritating.’

But the flicker of amusement faded quickly as their slow progress through the hall to Thomas’s door brought back Andrew’s grim exhaustion.

‘I feel your weariness,’ Obert commented when they paused at the door. ‘Laymen are doubtless unaware how they weigh us down with their sins and fears. I’ve heard them complain that we do little to earn the relative comfort in which we bide. It is not so.’ He lifted his hand to knock, but the door swung open, the servant bowing them in.

Master Thomas stood with another visitor, Sir Francis, whose men were to depart on the morrow for the north, taking the land route across Stirling Bridge. As Andrew stepped into the room he had noticed a fleeting, angry expression on Thomas’s face, and a frustrated look on Sir Francis’s, but they then stepped away from each other as if they’d been interrupted in a private conversation. As he helped Father Obert settle down on a chair it seemed to Andrew that Thomas and Francis regarded him with unease. The room was stuffy. The day was warm and the wind that had seemed never to abate had done so just when it would be appreciated. Sir Francis wore a simple dark tunic and surcoat and fine leather girdle and boots, the picture of simple elegance next to the unlovely Thomas, whose green tunic hung limply on his heavy frame damp with sweat.

After all had exchanged greetings, Sir Francis chose the seat nearest Andrew and nodded to him.

‘I am aware that you have heard the confessions of my men all morning, Father Andrew,’ he said, ‘and I am grateful that even so you have agreed to meet with us.’

If he’d meant to disarm Andrew with his considerate words he’d succeeded. Father Obert nodded as if approving the sentiment.

‘He is a hard worker and I have much appreciated his assistance these past months,’ said Obert.

Sir Francis did not look pleased by the comment.

‘Have you changed your mind, Father Obert?’ Master Thomas asked.

‘Has he changed his mind about what?’ Andrew asked, feeling as if he were being deliberately kept in the dark.

‘I told him nothing,’ said Obert.

Sir Francis glanced at him in puzzlement. ‘Forgive me,’ he said to Andrew. ‘I’d expected you would have heard about it from Father Obert. I have a problem that must be resolved before we ride in the morning. The chaplain who arrived at long last to travel with my men and Sir Marmaduke’s has broken his leg — it is very badly broken. He cannot sit a horse. I cannot in good conscience continue without a man of the Church. You’ve listened to my men, Father Andrew, you know how frightened they are, hearing awful tales of the Wallace and the bloodthirsty highlanders-’

Andrew smiled without being aware of it, but Francis paused.

‘What is amusing?’

‘Forgive my discourtesy. The men from the highlands have no cause to join with the Wallace for they are not under siege — nor can I imagine them fighting under a lowlander. Your words painted an unlikely picture, that is all. I am tired, as you so kindly noted.’ Andrew felt like a babbling fool.

‘Sir Francis is not a Scotsman, Father Andrew,’ said Master Thomas. ‘He knows not the-’

Sir Francis held up a hand to stop the conversation. ‘I thank you for pointing out my error, and see yet another good coming out of Father Guthlac’s accident — if you agree to accompany me and my men in the morning, Father Andrew.’

Andrew glanced at Obert, who was gazing at the floor, then at Master Thomas, who looked uncomfortable. Sir Francis had an encouraging expression on his face, as if hoping that by his demeanour he might persuade Andrew to risk his life on the march. But of course Andrew could hardly contain his excitement, could not believe his good fortune, feared that at any moment Master Thomas would cry out that Andrew could not be trusted outside the close confines of Soutra where his Abbot had placed him. For outside the spital he might escape. With Matthew.

‘My servant Matthew would accompany me?’

Sir Francis nodded. ‘Tell me your requirements and they shall be met if it is in my power. And if Father Obert is still willing to accept Father Guthlac as his assistant.’

Father Obert shifted slightly in his chair, his face unreadable to Andrew. ‘As I said earlier, I’ll feel the lack of Andrew, for he has been of great help to me. But your men deserve a chaplain, and I am far too old to undertake such a duty. There is no question, Father Andrew is the one to help you.’

‘I am in favour but for one significant fact about Father Andrew,’ said Master Thomas, ‘that he is a Scot.’ He frowned down at Andrew.

Andrew held his breath, expecting Thomas to reveal that he’d been banished to Soutra.

Sir Francis was balanced on the edge of his seat, ready to argue. ‘Many of the men fighting for King Edward are Scots. Father Andrew is caring for the souls of the English forces — therefore he is a wise Scot who sees that strong rule is only possible under King Edward.’

As Thomas remained silent, Andrew forced himself to say calmly, ‘You will find many wise men among us, and I am grateful for the chance to prove as much to you.’ He glanced up at Master Thomas and could clearly see by his expression that he was not happy with the arrangement.

‘I should feel better had I the time to send a messenger to Abbot Adam to request your release,’ said Thomas.

‘But we cannot delay,’ said Francis.

Thomas shrugged. ‘It is in God’s hands. So be it.’ He rose. ‘I’ll leave you to your planning. God go with you, Father Andrew, and thank you for all you have done here.’ He bowed formally.

Andrew felt it a pointedly final farewell, as if Thomas was certain they would never meet again.

Father Obert said, ‘Such a farewell, Master Thomas. I look forward to Father Andrew’s return when Sir Francis marches south.’

‘If God so chooses,’ said Master Thomas.

‘I have been pleased to carry on my work at Soutra,’ said Andrew. ‘I’ll keep all of you in my prayers.’

‘God bless you, Thomas,’ said Sir Francis. ‘I’ll not forget this favour.’ When Thomas was gone, Sir Francis turned to Andrew, who was weak with relief. ‘I do not pretend to know your heart in this matter of the Scots throne,’ he said, ‘but I have seen you with my men and know you for a holy man. I am much comforted, as will they be, that you have agreed to ride with us.’

Andrew silently applauded Francis on his courteous manipulation of his heart. He had just made it more difficult for Andrew to simply walk away.

‘You spoke of a manservant,’ Francis said. ‘He shall accompany you. Now we must discuss what else you will need.’

Father Obert sat back with a small smile on his wizened face.