A Cruel Courtship

5

Standing at the foot of the road leading up the gently sloping, wooded side of the crag that was crowned by Stirling Castle, Margaret watched as James and his men departed, the old cart squeaking and thudding, one of the men singing a bawdy song. As soon as the party had come down out of the hills towards Stirling Bridge and Margaret had caught sight of the cliffs below Stirling she had been haunted by the dream of Roger’s fall. It possessed her so completely that she rode as if in another world.

But now she was fully here, standing on the road, midges swirling about her, the air close, the sun too warm, and there had been no sign of Roger as they rode — she had thought she was about to encounter what she’d seen only in her dreams and visions.

In her trance state she’d allowed her horse to wander to a burn to drink. She had not regained consciousness until James, with Celia assisting, had lifted her from the saddle and, holding her, splashed water on her face.

‘What is it, Maggie?’ James had asked, his face close to hers, his expression troubled and even frightened.

Realising that she had no recollection of being brought down from the saddle and no idea where she was, Margaret experienced a fear icier than the burn waters. She shook her head, not knowing how to explain. Nothing like this had ever happened to her.

‘Did you fall asleep?’ he asked. ‘Are you unwell?’

‘I did not sleep well last night — faith, what sleep I had was troubled with dreams.’ She sat up to dry her face on a cloth Celia proffered her. Glancing around Margaret saw that all in the company were trying to look elsewhere and give her privacy. What must they think of her? ‘James, what if I fail you?’

He shook his head. ‘You won’t. Is that what kept you awake last night?’

‘Yes. How do you know that I’ll succeed? I don’t know that.’

‘You are strong, Maggie. And Father Piers will guide you.’

She was terribly aware of the castle crowning the rock above them. ‘Someone will note that I’m asking questions.’

‘You won’t be the only one.’

‘I’m frightened.’

He squeezed her hand. ‘Of course you are. I’d worry were you not.’ He helped her rise.

‘You are not making sense, James. You are not listening to me.’

‘I am, believe me. It is the nature of danger to make us fearful.’

‘What if no one believes I am Ada’s niece?’

‘Why would they even question it?’

Ada had joined them. ‘We look enough alike, Maggie. Simon did not ken all my family, so why would he know of you? We shall be under his protection.’

Perhaps Margaret was making too much of daydreaming on a long ride in the late summer heat. Looking around at the dusty company she noticed how wilted they all looked. ‘Of course. The heat and my lack of sleep have confused me. I feel foolish. Forgive me, I pray you. I’ll not forget myself again.’

Ada nodded, satisfied, and withdrew to where the rest had settled behind a screen of brush.

‘Remember, Maggie, when you’ve completed your mission, or if you have need to flee Stirling, make your way to Elcho as quickly as you can, and I’ll find you there.’ James kissed her on the forehead. ‘I love you, Maggie. I would have you near me always. I lay awake nights cursing Roger Sinclair.’

Margaret could not think how to respond. He’d never spoken of love to her before. ‘Love?’ she whispered, searching his eyes, wanting to know whether this was an act meant to bolster her courage or ensure her commitment. His gaze did not waver. ‘This is not the time, Jamie.’

He stroked her cheek. ‘I agree. Escorting you to spy on the English is a cruel sort of courting. But the heart does not choose the time, and I wanted you to know my heart in the event …’

She knew the end of that thought. ‘I am honoured by your love, Jamie.’ She kissed his cheek.

‘And you? Do you think you might love me?’

‘When I said it was not the time, I meant for me, Jamie. I’m so filled with remorse over Roger and I feel so guilty about my feelings for you — I can’t tell whether or not it’s love, but it’s sinful, of that I can assure you.’ She brushed his lips with hers.

He held her there when she began to move away, and what had been the ghost of a kiss became a long, passionate one that left Margaret breathless and wanting desperately to lie with him, feel his nakedness, his desire.

‘What have I done, Maggie?’ James whispered. ‘I must leave you now and I’ve made it all the more difficult.’

‘We both have.’

But was it love? Margaret turned away and hid her confusion by calling for Celia to assist her with her wimple. God forgive her, she was still a married woman and her feelings for James were doubly sinful. Perhaps that was why she was obsessed with Roger’s danger — to appease her conscience. Yet there was a part of her that had felt unmoved by the kiss. Her conscience held her back — that was possible.

Now, as she stood on the Stirling road, she watched James and his men fade from sight and prayed he’d been right to trust that she would be successful in re-establishing communication from the castle. She wanted to live up to his expectations of her. She desperately wanted to see him again.

‘Come, Maggie. I am weary and ready for an ale and my bed.’ Ada, already mounted with Maus behind her, spoke as if this were the last leg of an ordinary journey. She seemed unconcerned as strangers moved past, casting them curious looks. Alec and Ned, the menservants, impatiently held the reins.

Margaret mounted, then reached down to assist Celia.

‘You look no happier than I feel,’ Celia said once she had settled.

‘Is it so plain?’

‘To me, Mistress, and to your aunt, I should think.’

They had practised referring to Ada as Margaret’s aunt for days now, and it was beginning to sound convincing. But in her heart Margaret feared she would slip in front of someone. She must bury that fear — James had said that the trick was to convince herself that she was not playing but living the new role.

She wished James were with them, but though he’d passed as a farmer with the soldiers they’d met on the road he reiterated that he would not risk entering the town in daylight, for there were too many in Stirling who knew him. A disguise would be seen through in time, particularly by someone expecting him to appear. If you see me there, it will be at night and will signal danger.

Up through the woods they slowly rode, branching off from the high road to follow another that ran lower along a burn.

‘The other way leads to the castle,’ Ada explained. ‘My family’s town house is on the market square, across the burn on lower ground.’

‘At the market,’ Celia said. ‘It must be grand.’

‘Not grand,’ Ada said, ‘but pleasant.’

As the number of people sharing the road increased, the women dismounted, Maus and Celia leading the animals while Alec and Ned walked ahead and behind. Ada commented on the number of armed men, and the condition of many of the houses at the edge of town, still in the wooded areas. It was plain that trees had recently been cut for bonfires, the remains of which scarred the landscape, and many of the houses, too, were charred. It took Margaret back to her arrival in Edinburgh in the spring, the houses along the Grassmarket scarred by fire and wreckage everywhere. Here the damage was not so extensive, but nonetheless it served as a reminder of the violence of the occupation. The dishevelled but strutting trio who approached them now were another, more visceral reminder — foot soldiers on their own far from home and looking for trouble.

‘Fine mounts,’ one of them said, his accent that of Flanders. ‘You won’t be needing them in the town.’

‘Whence came you here with them?’ asked another.

‘From my home in Perth,’ said Ada.

Alec and Ned had drawn in towards Ada; as the first speaker reached for one of the horses Ned lunged for him, then drew back his arm with a shout of pain, holding his bleeding hand to his chest.

‘You’ve wounded my servant,’ Ada said with a sharpness that Margaret admired though she wondered at its wisdom.

She thought it best to keep moving. As she walked on, Margaret prayed that all the men wanted was the horses. She was frightened, and her fear intensified when the third soldier joined her, too close for comfort, matching her stride and staring so boldly that her face burned and she felt sick to her stomach. A greasy cap did little to hide the hideous scar where his right ear had been, and his clothes smelled of urine.

‘Dame Maggie!’ Celia called out from behind.

Sweet heaven, Ada had been stopped by the others, and Maus was back there wrapping Ned’s bleeding hand. Margaret was now several houses beyond.

‘Maggie,’ the soldier said with a chuckle. ‘A pretty name for a pretty lady.’ He dared to touch her shoulder. She reached out to push him away and he caught her hand, squeezing it so tightly that Margaret feared he’d break her bones.

Another soldier suddenly grabbed the man’s wrist, and Margaret, her hand released, backed away.

‘King Edward expects you to respect the women of Scotland,’ her rescuer said to her attacker.

‘Bastard,’ Margaret hissed as she withdrew, pushing back through the onlookers to join Ada and the others.

‘We should have come on foot,’ she said to Ada as she rubbed her hand. When she received no answer, she realised that her friend was staring back down the road. Several liveried men now surrounded the other two who had accosted them.

‘They wear Simon’s livery,’ said Ada. ‘Perhaps he is in charge of the peace here.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears; she must have been as frightened as Margaret had been.

‘God bless him,’ Margaret said, meaning it with all her heart. Perhaps Simon Montagu would be their salvation after all, though she was not so certain when his men encircled her little party.

‘We are to escort you to the castle,’ said Margaret’s rescuer. ‘It is customary for my lord to speak with newcomers.’

‘Might we first retire to my home to tidy ourselves?’ Ada asked.

‘No, Mistress. My orders are clear.’

‘So be it,’ Ada murmured.

The men led them up Broad Street, the way suddenly much less crowded.

James had warned them that they were likely to be questioned upon entering Stirling, but Margaret had put it from her mind. The steep climb was exhausting after so little sleep and her trance journey, not to mention the fright the disgusting soldier had given her. She wanted only to rest. As they crossed over a sluggish burn and turned into the market square she sighed over the distance yet to go — all uphill.

‘There is our house,’ Ada said.

Margaret saw Ada’s butler John standing in the doorway looking worried. Ada nodded to him.

‘I wonder whether he was escorted to the castle when he arrived,’ said Margaret.

‘You ken his ways, Maggie. John’s countenance is ever solemn, even when he’s laughing. Do not assume that his grim face means danger. It’s more likely a sour stomach.’

Ada’s chuckle teased a smile from Margaret.

‘The market square isn’t much changed since last I was here,’ said Ada, ‘but I can tell even from down here that the castle walls have been patched and fortified.’

With Ada’s commentary distracting Margaret it was not so long after all before they entered the outer bailey of the castle. It was crowded with small, flimsy buildings and tents, wagons, carts, and men everywhere. Margaret wondered at the numbers.

They were led to a wattle and daub building. Within, a well-dressed, grey-haired man stood talking with a few soldiers. He waved them on when he saw Margaret’s party in the doorway.

‘I understand that these women arrived on fine horses,’ the man said.

Margaret’s saviour gave a curt bow. ‘They did, Sir Simon.’

So this was Ada’s long-ago lover. He had an air of command, and the soldiers deferred to him. Margaret tried to imagine him twenty years younger. He had expressive eyes and a jaw line that would have been strong in youth. At present he looked bored.

‘What is your business in Stirling?’ Sir Simon demanded of them. His expression changed as Ada stepped forward to respond. ‘It cannot be,’ he said. ‘Ada de la Haye?’

Ada gave a graceful bow. ‘Yes, Sir Simon. I have brought my niece to stay in my family’s town house on the market square.’ She met his eyes. ‘I hope that you remember me?’

‘Dame Ada,’ he bowed slightly, ‘I remember you well, and with affection. This is your niece?’ He met Margaret’s open stare with a quick smile.

‘This is my niece Maggie,’ said Ada.

‘Dame Maggie,’ said Sir Simon with a polite bob of his head. ‘What brings you to Stirling?’

‘I am recently widowed, Sir, and would escape the memories that fill my home in Perth.’

He turned back to Ada. ‘I can see that you are weary from your journey. You will dine with me here tomorrow, both of you. Until then.’ He bowed and dismissed them.

Heaven, thought Celia, could be no more welcoming than the two-storey house on the market square, its paint fresh and the butler John standing solidly beside the doorway to receive them. Wealth was more than pretty clothes, solid furnishings and good food; it was security. She had seen the relief on Dame Ada’s face and known that they had been rescued by the liveried soldiers who surrounded the frightening men who’d threatened her mistress, despite their having to report at the castle. Celia had gladly handed Sir Simon’s men the reins. She’d had enough of animals for one day, human and otherwise.

The fragrance of fresh herbs in the rushes strewn on the floor took Celia back to her days with Margaret’s goodmother, Roger’s mother. The house in Dunfermline had not been grand, but it had always been clean, with fresh, fragrant rushes in summer. Neither in Edinburgh nor in Perth had they been able to completely replace the old straw or rushes on the floors because the English commandeered it for their animals. Here was another sign that Dame Ada’s kin were important to the powers in this town. Celia hated the English, but at the moment she was glad that they were unaware where her loyalties lay. She prayed that tomorrow her mistress and Dame Ada handled Sir Simon well. She was sorry Margaret would not be spared the occasion. Her odd behaviour on the journey made Celia wonder whether she was in any condition to carry out this mission. Had Margaret merely been dozing she would have responded to Celia’s attempts to rouse her, but nothing had reached her until with James’s help they’d lifted her from the horse and splashed her with the cold burn water. Celia knew the owl’s visitation haunted her mistress, followed so closely by the daydream in the kirk.

With the menservants seeing to their packs Celia had an opportunity to pause and admire the hall. High windows faced the street and the backlands, the shutters opened to catch the upland breeze. The ceiling was high and whitewashed, with painted flowers on the border between ceiling and walls. A table was laid with cheese and bread and large flagons of ale that made her aware of her thirst.

Gradually she also grew aware of a man standing in the shadows watching Margaret and Ada as they discussed the sleeping arrangements. The intensity of his expression and posture alarmed her. He wore almost the same livery as did the men who had led them here. She wondered what right a soldier had to stare so at her mistress and the mistress of this house. Edging closer to Margaret, she caught her eye and nodded in his direction.

Margaret glanced in the direction while Celia poured her a cup of ale.

‘What was I to note?’ Margaret asked, taking the cup with a sigh of pleasure.

The man was gone.

‘I did not like the look of one of the men, but he has gone.’

Her mistress sipped the thick ale and nodded. ‘Rest easy. Dame Ada seems welcome here, and we with her. Have a cup of ale.’

‘I’ll do so if you’ll step out into the backlands with me for a breath of air,’ said Celia.

They settled on a bench under the eaves of the main house, facing the kitchen. Wattle panels made a mud-free path between the rear door of the hall and the kitchen doorway.

‘What happened down there, at the burn, Mistress?’

Margaret closed her eyes and bowed her head for a moment. Celia waited.

‘I started to tell you at Elcho, but Ada interrupted us. The dreams about Roger’s death, the vision at Elcho, they are part of something that has been changing in me, my friend.’

‘It is the Sight, isn’t it?’

Margaret nodded, turning to look Celia in the eyes. ‘I am not mad like my ma, and I won’t be. I’ll learn how to live with this … gift.’

Celia saw how difficult it was for Margaret to speak of this. ‘You had a vision on the horse?’

‘My dreams of Roger came flooding back and filled my head so that I was not aware of where I was,’ said Margaret.

‘That sounds frightening.’

‘It was. But I won’t fail James, nor you, nor Ada.’

‘Is there anything I can do to help you?’

‘Listen and watch so that I have two sets of eyes and ears,’ said Margaret.

Celia nodded. ‘Does Dame Ada know?’

‘I’ve told no one else, and that is as it must stay for now.’

Celia was honoured to be her mistress’s sole confidante. ‘I’ll not fail you, Mistress.’

Margaret pressed Celia’s hand.

Andrew’s dreams were of his family, and when he woke he fell to worrying about Margaret and Fergus. He had heard nothing of his brother in a long while, and when last he’d seen Margaret she was so unhappy in her marriage. Dawn had not yet coloured the small window in Andrew’s bedchamber when Obert knocked at the door. Perhaps he’d guessed that Andrew would sleep little, but Matthew still slept soundly at the foot of his pallet, and after his bout of illness he needed rest before the journey ahead. Barefoot, Andrew went to the door and slipped out. In the dimness of the corridor Father Obert waited, bent over his stick with the stiffness that afflicted him in the morning. Without a word, he led Andrew to his own chamber and shut the door. A small lamp smoked by the bed.

‘The wick needs trimming,’ said Andrew, wanting to break the silence with something ordinary.

Father Obert grunted as he eased himself down on to a stool. ‘Time enough for that when you are on your way. I pray you, sit so that I need not crane my neck to see you.’ He patted his pallet.

Andrew settled down on it cross-legged, covering his cold feet with the edge of a blanket. He would be uncomfortable enough in the saddle today after months of enforced inactivity. ‘I shall miss you, Father Obert.’

‘You’ll have little time to notice.’

‘Do you regret putting me forward for this journey?’

‘Do you ask whether I regret I’m not the one about to travel?’ Obert chuckled at Andrew’s nod. ‘No, my friend, I am too old to ride all day, even in summer. My legs are so weak it would be necessary to strap me onto the poor beast, and the cramps I would suffer would have me howling in anguish.’ He paused, but as Andrew was about to respond that he, too, foresaw discomfort at first, Obert continued. ‘And the captains are pleased with your reputation.’

Surprised by the unexpected comment, Andrew did not respond at once, uncertain what the old priest meant, but when he understood he blushed and bowed his head. ‘You mean my work for Abbot Adam.’

‘Yes, of course. I advise you to accept this twist of fortune with a prayer of gratitude, Father Andrew. Is it not pleasing to be able to benefit from it? I know you’re ashamed of what you did, yet it is allowing you to escape this sentence that your abbot inflicted upon you.’

‘Gratitude,’ Andrew whispered.

Father Obert nodded, his eyes half-closed. ‘I have watched you, I believe you have been aware of that, and I’ve concluded that you are about God’s work.’

‘You arranged this as my escape?’

Obert responded with a wag of his head that Andrew interpreted as maybe, maybe not, which of course meant yes. He wanted to fall on his knees and thank the old priest.

‘Was the priest truly injured?’

Obert threw up his hands. ‘Heaven kens I am not that devious, Andrew. Father Guthlac had been injured and he feared he would end up a cripple if forced to ride on, so I suggested a solution, that is all.’ His expression was one of fondness.

Andrew was still very moved. ‘What convinced you that I am doing God’s work?’

‘The infirmary drain, and your concern for your servant Matthew. Though now that we have seen the cost of crawling through the detritus in that great sewer I imagine you thank God you were so considerate of the lad.’

Andrew would never had guessed that the elderly priest could possibly have noticed all that he had. He despaired of having any talent for cunning deception.

‘I pray that you follow your conscience in what you do with this opportunity,’ Obert continued. ‘I believe that God will guide you.’ The old man’s beetled brows drew together, and he dropped his head for a moment as if praying.

‘God grant you everlasting joy, Father Obert,’ said Andrew.

The old priest raised his eyes. ‘You might wish to retract that prayer once I tell you a story I would share with you. It is only fair that you know my shame as I know yours.’

Andrew could not imagine what shame the elderly priest could carry, but if it somehow motivated this unexpected act he would hear it. He wished to know whether Obert had arranged this out of trust, faith, defiance, or some other inscrutable motive. ‘I pray you, tell me.’

The old priest nodded. ‘It is a common sort of tale, an example of the fear in which we hold ourselves prisoners, desperately holding on to a life that is only the beginning of our existence.’ Obert glanced away for a moment.

Andrew waited, his feet now warm and his muscles beginning to waken. He realised that he would miss Father Obert, for it was only the constant knowledge that he was imprisoned in Soutra that had made him intent on escape. He’d found his work here fulfilling and his companion warm, profound in his faith, amusingly acerbic in his observations of others. The other Augustinian canons at the spital, those not acting as confessors to the soldiers, went about their own work, neither troubling Andrew and Obert nor including them in their community. Lost in thoughts of the months past, Andrew was startled when Obert resumed speaking.

‘Had I told you my story earlier, you would not have trusted me when I found a way to free you from your shackles,’ said Obert. ‘So now I confess my sin. You were not the first assistant confessor provided by the English. Last year I shared the confessional with a Scot who had been captured in Berwick and brought here to end his days in the service of his enemies. Master Thomas instructed me to spy on him so that at the first sign of an attempt to escape or somehow pervert the mission here he might be punished and by such means convinced to mend his ways.’

‘I had judged Master Thomas to be fairer than that.’

‘I saw that you did, but recently you witnessed how he tried to play us against one another. His purpose is the same as mine was then, to save his own neck. We become so attached to this fleshly shell.’

‘So you betrayed your fellow priest?’

‘Don’t hurry the tale, Father Andrew. Let me tell it fully, and in my own time.’

‘Forgive me.’

‘Forgiven. The young are always hastening to their ends, I do remember being so.’ Obert rubbed his eyes, as if he were reading the tale. ‘I falsely befriended the man, having no intention of keeping his counsel if I judged him unworthy. And when I had observed him long enough to be satisfied that he was an idle, lazy priest with no apparent calling I met with Master Thomas.’

‘You played God,’ Andrew observed, trying not to sound angry.

Obert closed his eyes and nodded. ‘I did.’

‘Was there much to tell?’

A tear slipped from one of the old priest’s closed eyes. ‘Oh my yes. His flesh was weak; he was overly fond of his young servant, a pretty lad who was only too glad to be away from the soldiers. Of course my comrade tried to be discreet, but I do not sleep as soundly as I did in my youth.’ Obert dabbed at his eyes. ‘Who was I to judge him? The captains here look the other way when their men are too fond, and I cannot imagine what that young servant suffered. No doubt you’ve heard enough confessions here to know how it is in the camps. And is it worse than a group falling upon the camp followers and coming down upon them until they scream for the pain of it? You’ve heard those cries. They may be whores, but they are God’s children.’ The old priest looked up at him. ‘You must think me mad, to go on like this.’

‘The soldiers have not taken vows,’ Andrew said. ‘You were right to question the priest’s morals.’

‘Precisely what I told myself. My assistant needed to be reminded of his duty, of his vows. I told myself that it had never occurred to me he might take his own life. I told myself all this, but it was a lie. I had noticed how he took all imagined slights to heart because he knew he was weak and it tormented him. I knew he would be shattered, and Master Thomas knew that I knew.’

‘The priest took his own life?’

‘He hanged himself. And then the serving lad did likewise a few nights later.’

Andrew could not think what to say beyond, ‘May they rest in peace.’ He’d been here for four months and never heard anything about what must have been a very unsettling experience for everyone. ‘Were they living here in the master’s house?’

Obert shook his head. ‘We were then with the canons. Afterward I was removed at their request. Your more comfortable quarters have been thanks to my betrayal.’

‘You don’t believe that you told Master Thomas out of a sense of duty?’

Obert shook his head. ‘I have vowed never to deceive myself again.’

Andrew raised an eyebrow. ‘A good intention, but hardly possible to achieve. We seldom fully know our own hearts.’

‘Of course. I have the intention. But I am certain that my intention then was to convince Master Thomas that I was trustworthy. That I would choose my own life over that of one of my countrymen.’ Obert’s voice rasped on the last few words.

‘And over one of his also, if it served you.’

Obert shrugged. ‘You see why I did not tell you of this before.’

Andrew did indeed. The story had saddened him. He’d come to like Father Obert very much, but it was difficult to forgive such selfishness, such loss of life, especially to push two men to commit the unforgivable sin of taking their own lives. He could only pray that they saved themselves from the fires of hell by last minute repentance.

‘Longshanks believes us to be no better than beasts, and if we have not a care we shall become so,’ Andrew said as he rose. ‘God forgive us both, Obert.’

‘Pray for me, Andrew.’

‘I’ll pray for both of us. I do not think that saving me makes up for those lives.’

‘That depends. If you are the man I believe you to be, it will.’

Wallace and Murray needed news from the castle at once with the troop reinforcements arriving from England, and so James had rushed Margaret’s company to Stirling — these were Margaret’s first thoughts when she woke at dawn. Her heart pounding, she fell to planning how she would approach Father Piers after Mass at Holy Rude Kirk — for he was to be her guide in finding the messenger. She could not linger on concerns beyond that at present, not fret about whether Father Piers would preside at the Mass or whether the messenger could be or wanted to be found, and once found, whether he was still to be trusted. She had no time to worry, she must act. James had assured her that if the lad had been compromised Father Piers would be able to suggest another messenger. Pray God that wasn’t necessary, but if it was, pray God the priest had someone in mind. She woke Celia, who was surprisingly still abed, and then had a time convincing her that she must dress at once.

‘It is not a matter of whether I feel fresh enough.’ Either the journey or yesterday’s confidences must have addled Celia’s wits, for she spoke as if this were nothing more important than a polite visit. ‘Our commanders need information,’ Margaret reminded her. ‘The armies are massing. Dress me now.’

A sleepy Celia insisted on accompanying her to Mass but Ada was able to dissuade her by insisting on being Margaret’s companion. Margaret was relieved; Ada would be far more helpful than Celia for she knew Father Piers. James had described the priest, but it was comforting to climb the hill with Ada’s chatting again about what had changed — some houses had been enlarged, others, particularly near Castle Wynd, had suffered damage.

‘I’d not noticed these yesterday in my fear,’ she confessed.

Within Holy Rude Kirk they found a crowd of worshippers far greater than Margaret had seen in either Edinburgh or Perth.

‘The people of Stirling fear the end is near,’ Ada murmured as they paused at the back of the nave. ‘Father Piers must be rejoicing at their strengthened piety. Come. We shall kneel beside Isabel Cowie, the goldsmith’s wife, and hear some gossip of the town.’

Ada led the way towards a large-boned woman in a fine wool gown — Margaret thought it might be scarlet, the finest wool cloth. She wore a gold fillet over her veil and the paternoster beads moving through her fingers were ivory. Shoulders proudly thrust back, she might have been posing for her figure as pious donor at the base of a stained glass window. As Ada knelt beside her she whispered something that Margaret could not hear. The woman lifted her head with a start, and a sorrowful expression turned to a smile. She was a handsome woman, no longer young but with large eyes and a smile that lit her face.

‘St Columba, I never thought to see you here, Ada.’

‘Nor did I, Isabel, but it warms my heart to see you.’

The woman leaned forward to look past Ada to Margaret. ‘And who is this young beauty?’ she asked, eyeing her up and down.

‘My niece Maggie,’ said Ada.

Margaret nodded to Isabel.

‘She is as bonny as you were in youth. But fie on you for bringing her here now. You expose her at the worst time, with the English king’s felons lying about. You’ve risked all bringing her here. And yourself.’

‘There’s nowhere except the highlands where she might be safe,’ said Ada, ‘and that way would lead to other problems.’

Isabel sniffed. ‘It’s true, a man is a man uphill or down. At least here she is among God-fearing friends.’

‘I have never seen the kirk so full,’ said Ada.

‘Fear makes saints of us all.’

A hissed argument behind them distracted Margaret. A woman and a man Margaret took to be a soldier stood behind a second man who knelt with head bowed, seemingly unaware of their presence. The woman gesticulated dramatically and the soldier appeared to ask whether she was certain.

‘I’ve known him from a lad,’ she spoke more loudly in exasperation.

Now the kneeling man glanced behind him and with a strangled cry scrambled to his feet, about to run. But the soldier caught hold of his tunic and jerked him backwards. The man went sprawling and those kneeling around him scattered. The silence of the crowd and the malevolence in the accuser’s eyes chilled Margaret. She heard Ada ask Isabel for an explanation.

‘It is the new game here — betray your neighbour. Accuse him before he accuses you. I do hope you had good cause to return, my friend, for you’ll find no peace here.’

Margaret broke out in a cold sweat; James had warned them about the tension in the town, but she had imagined herself too insignificant to attract anyone’s attention. That was quite obviously not true if neighbour was turning against neighbour.

The man’s cries did not interrupt the Mass. In fact many of the townspeople kept their heads bowed through the entire drama, though there was a communal letting out of breath after the soldier departed. Ada and Isabel had fallen silent, and Margaret prayed that no one would make note of her or her conversation to come with Father Piers.

This proved impossible. After the Mass, several people called out to Ada, all of them elders of the town. Ada’s friendly nods but determined stride made it plain she was on an errand, and none stopped her — no one was so self-involved that they were not reading such signals. How alert all were in this place on the edge of war. It was different from Margaret’s experience in Edinburgh, where the threat had been less defined. Here the town sat above the most important bridge in this battle, and all knew that a confrontation must take place, and soon, whether or not they actually knew of the troops massing on the plain below the town.

Father Piers was a short, delicate man with dark, dramatically arching eyebrows that gave him a look as if surprised by life.

Upon recognising Ada he called out to her, ‘My old friend, praise be to God for watching over you.’ He embraced her. ‘It is good to see you well.’

To Margaret’s ears the greeting sounded forced, the priest’s tone guarded. Indeed she wondered at a priest considering Ada, the never-married mother of five and former mistress of an English commander who was part of the occupying force in the town, a ‘friend’. Though he might not be aware of all that.

‘I rejoice to find you still here, Father.’ Ada dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I feared for you.’

‘God holds me in His protection,’ the priest said quietly, and then, turning to Margaret, he asked rather sharply, ‘Who is this?’ No one listening would guess that she was the purpose of their meeting; indeed, they would think her unwelcome.

‘My niece Maggie,’ said Ada, snaking an arm around Margaret’s waist and drawing her close, cheek to cheek. ‘Do you not see the resemblance between me and James’s friend from Edinburgh?’

Margaret held her breath as the priest looked from her to Ada and back. She thought he’d caught the code identifying who she was, for he looked closely, having a vested interest in their story being believable.

‘You might be twins,’ he said with a chuckle although his eyes did not smile. He seemed preoccupied. ‘Let us withdraw to my quarters where we can tell our tales without an audience. I understand there was trouble in the nave this morning. A man who posed as a soldier to trespass and commandeer a woman’s goods. Another neighbour recognised him and pointed him out this morning.’

‘But you were at the altar — how do you know this?’

‘I must know all this. Now, come with me.’

He swept them up and out of the kirk, across the kirk yard and into a cool, dark hall. Silence surrounded them as a servant brought in additional cups. As soon as he was gone, Father Piers sat down beside Margaret, leaning uncomfortably close to her. He smelled of incense and sour wine. Broken blood vessels on his nose bespoke a fondness for drink.

‘You are so young,’ he said, shaking his head as if in sympathy. ‘Too young to be involved in all this.’

She thought it a feckless comment, implying that she had a choice in the matter. ‘In what, Father? If you mean our struggle against King Edward, all in this land are involved, even babes in the womb.’

Piers tilted his head, studying her face for a moment. ‘The resemblance is very, very good. Folk will not question whether you are a de la Haye,’ he said, ignoring her comment. ‘But that is the least of the danger.’

Margaret intended to stand her ground. ‘I am here, Father, sent by James Comyn, and I require your assistance.’

Father Piers looked bored. ‘You do indeed.’

Insulted, Margaret looked away, biting her tongue. Her attention was drawn to a jumble of clothing atop a chest near the door. A worn shoe, a blood-stained hat, a ripped, dun-coloured jerkin, a scrap of leather sticking out from beneath it that might be a scrip, a green tabard with a brown stain that might be either old blood or perhaps mud, much more of the same.

‘Why would you wish to risk your life spying, Dame Margaret?’ the priest asked.

‘Call her Maggie,’ Ada said. ‘Maggie de la Haye. It sounds less — threatening.’

‘So it does. But the question remains.’

‘King Edward slew the citizens of Berwick and replaced them with Englishmen,’ said Margaret. ‘He won’t stop there.’ She moved closer to the pile on the chest, a sadness descending upon her.

‘Indeed, he did not stop there. Just a few days past a young man of the town was hanged for treason. He was accused of taking weapons to Murray and Wallace, though he’d not yet crossed the river. Are you prepared for death, Dame Maggie?’

Margaret crossed herself.

Ada rapped the arm of her chair. ‘Piers, my old friend, as you love me, quit your questions and tell Maggie what she needs to know. She is young — the Comyn believes that will stand her in good stead. I can vouch for her. I could not be more proud of her were she truly my niece.’

‘What are these?’ Margaret asked, reaching out, but not quite touching the items piled on the trunk.

‘They are not our concern,’ Ada said.

Father Piers had joined Margaret. ‘When a body is found in the town it is brought to me. Kin might make use of the cloth or the leather.’ He lifted a piece and let it drop.

‘So many,’ Margaret said quietly, not wishing to disturb the dead who she felt surrounding her. ‘Do many kin come to claim the goods?’

Piers hesitated a moment. ‘No,’ he said, but nothing more.

Yet in that word Margaret heard his suffering. ‘I would not think so,’ she said softly. ‘The fear of seeing proof of their loved one’s suffering would give pause to all but the hardest of heart.’

‘Yet I keep them, waiting for kin to claim the property,’ Piers said, resignation dulling his voice.

‘Yes.’ Margaret turned her attention to him. ‘You do not sleep well, do you?’

‘Are you a seer?’ He searched her face, as if setting eyes on her for the first time.

The question startled Margaret, determined as she was to hide her awakening Sight. ‘I merely noticed that you feel so much for the people.’

‘I’ll give you some of my mandrake ointment for your wakefulness,’ Ada offered.

Piers turned to her with a sigh. ‘The apothecary has given me his best sleep potions, but nothing helps.’ He lifted his hand, the tips of his fingers hovering over the dark circles beneath his eyes. ‘It becomes more apparent by the day.’

Margaret was grateful for the change of topic.

‘Applying mandrake to the skin is most effective,’ said Ada. ‘It is weakened when mixed with wine.’

‘Wine, ale — most nights I drink myself into an uneasy slumber. But I thank you, it is a generous offer and I accept with pleasure.’ Piers returned his attention to Margaret. ‘Forgive me if I offended you. It is your youth — but you are right, youth are not spared. Let us sit in the light from the windows,’ he said, motioning to a small trestle table surrounded by benches, ‘and I shall tell you all I know that might be of value to you, and by my eyes you shall ken the truth.’

Margaret settled across from him so that she could watch his eyes, though she wondered at his implying that she might doubt him.

Piers moved with a grace that gave dignity to his small frame. His dress was impeccably clean, no small accomplishment when there were so many extra demands on the water supply at present. He pressed the tips of his slender fingers to his temples and stood before his chair with eyes closed for a moment, then settled down and, leaning forward with elbows on knees, began to talk.

‘I am worried about the messenger — Archie. He’s usually a reliable lad, but he’s let me down of late. He says his mother has kept him busy. And now it is worse — he has not shown up for several weeks.’

‘You do not believe his explanation?’ Margaret asked.

Piers shook his head, a slight, precise motion. ‘It is unlike his mother, Evota, to keep him away for she depends on the pay Archie receives for each trip out of town. She is a widow with a half dozen children to feed. She brews ale for the English — it is said she spits in it, and worse, but they pay well.’

‘Are you worried that he has been taken for a spy?’

Piers nodded. ‘Yet I have heard nothing of it, which would be unusual.’ He gave Margaret directions to the widow’s house. ‘But I advise you to wait a day before you go to her, until folk have forgotten you.’

‘They’ll not forget me in a day.’

‘You would not say that if you had spent any time here of late. Each day brings a new problem — there is little bread to be had, the soldiers boarding with a family are not always the most courteous guests, news of a family member’s death or capture wipes out all other thoughts. In a day you will no longer be the subject of gossip.’

Impatient though she was, Margaret said, ‘I’ll wait a day, then, though no more. I understand that Archie is not the spy, merely a messenger.’

Had she not been studying Piers so closely Margaret would not have noticed his surreptitious glance at Ada, and a hesitation as he chose his words. ‘No, Archie has been carrying information from a woman. She — entertained soldiers until she found one who was growing disaffected and careless, and she has been passing on to Archie the information he unwittingly provides.’

‘Where might I find her?’ Margaret asked.

‘I’ll tell you when the time comes. First you must find Archie.’

Margaret wondered whether the time he was waiting for was when Ada was not there to overhear.

Afterwards, as they walked back to the house, Ada wondered aloud at the priest’s asking Margaret if she was a seer. ‘Perhaps he has communicated with someone at Elcho and knows of Christiana’s gift of Sight,’ she said. ‘You’ve not felt anything more since the owl’s visitation, have you?’

‘That was quite enough,’ said Margaret, skirting the question. She had not told Ada of her vision at Elcho, not wishing to worry her. She was of course wondering about his question too, but not with Ada’s idle curiosity. She had noticed the clothing because it emanated a sadness that was palpable for her. She’d felt the presence of the dead. The experience had been very clear despite her being in an unfamiliar place.

‘I did think it odd how you picked out those rags in the corner,’ said Ada.

Margaret was spared the need to respond as they had reached the house.

A fresh wind caught Celia’s skirts as she walked along the curve that gave Bow Street its name, and she enjoyed the coolness for a moment before she smoothed them down in deference to Ada’s butler John, who was a pious, pinched-face man. His tedious company did not bother her, though, for she was proud to be abroad on a mission for the Wallace. John was not aware that this errand to purchase a barrel of Evota’s reputedly excellent ale would assist Wallace’s cause, but Celia had recognised the woman’s name and volunteered to accompany him on the pretence of seeing the town. She might gather information for Margaret.

The house to which John led her was behind a modest two storey dwelling. It crouched in the backland, a small building of sticks and mud near the burn. Several very young children were playing in the yard, overseen by a girl who handled her drop spindle with a smooth efficiency that contrasted with her slatternly posture and dress.

‘Is Evota selling ale today?’ asked John.

The girl twisted her small mouth into an unpleasant scowl. ‘You’re too late.’ She had to shout it to be heard above the cries of the younger children, who were fighting over a straw doll which was shedding its stuffing. ‘An English soldier has just bought all we have.’ She set aside the wool and stepped into the fray, yanking one of the children aside and slapping the other with a force that made Celia wince.

An older woman appeared at the door, a plaid wrapped about her and yet another small child in her arms, this one sickly. ‘Are you watching them, Ellen?’ She noticed the strangers and frowned.

Celia caught her breath as the soldier who had made her so uneasy at Ada’s the previous day joined the woman in the doorway. The woman stepped forward to allow him room.

John repeated his question, adding, ‘This young woman tells us we are too late?’

‘You are a servant in the de la Haye household,’ said the soldier.

John nodded. ‘I am.’

‘Let them have this barrel of ale, Dame Evota.’

Evota glanced back at the soldier. ‘You’re certain?’

He nodded.

She turned back, squinting almost as fiercely as Ellen. ‘Pay now and you can bring a cart later to fetch it home.’

The English soldier had retreated into the house.

Evota stepped aside, nodding towards the door. ‘Come within.’ The child on her hip had begun to whimper, and Evota bobbed him up and down as she followed them in.

The dark interior reeked of ale, urine and peat smoke, a combination that reminded Celia of Margaret’s uncle’s tavern in Edinburgh — it had nauseated her then, and it did so now. She wished she did not need to breathe.

Hitching the child on her hip, Evota stated a price and John agreed, but the Englishman chuckled.

‘Dame Evota, you were given the corn to make the ale but you charge as if you grew it yourself.’

In the dim light Celia could not see the woman’s expression, but she heard the resentment in her voice as she spit out a considerably lower price.

As they departed, Ellen openly stared at them, and Celia felt her fell eyes boring into her back as she and John made their way down the wynd. She wondered at the priest and Master James trusting Evota and her family. Celia did not. Having seen no young man, she was thinking that Margaret could not count on Archie’s wary family to help her find him.

Ada had not expected to be so atwitter about the reunion. ‘Once gowned in my finest silk I’ll be more confident,’ she’d assured Maggie, and she did calm a little once dressed. But the arrival of the soldier sent to escort them made her heart pound. It must be a dozen years since she had spoken with Simon — no, fourteen. In their brief meeting yesterday she’d found him changed, as of course was she. But this invitation had surely been made more from courtesy or suspicion than affection. Perhaps Simon hoped to learn something from her of the state of Perth or the countryside through which she had just passed. She prayed he did not so easily see through their ruse.

Climbing the hill to the castle, she stole glances at their escort, curious what he thought of his commander inviting two Scotswomen to sup. But the man was a cipher.

High atop the crag the wind blew fresh and slightly chilly for a summer afternoon — it had felt much warmer down below that morning. Their escort had slowed his pace as they entered the castle precinct. As it had been yesterday, the bailey was crowded with buildings, tents, carts, and people jostling for space in which to live and work. She was disappointed to see some townspeople there doing business, though in her heart she could not condemn them for the folk of Perth had been no more stalwart in their loyalty to King John Balliol.

‘That is Isabel’s husband Gordon, the goldsmith,’ Ada said to Maggie, nodding towards the man sitting before a tent with a well-dressed Englishman, the pair deep in discussion. ‘I wonder whether Isabel approves.’

Maggie had been unusually quiet, and even now simply nodded. Of course she was anxious, Ada was, and she at least knew Simon.

Their escort led them to the timber house in a corner of the south wall. This time a servant greeted them at the door, and as he stepped aside Ada saw Simon standing in the middle of the sparsely furnished hall, hands on his hips. She guessed from the pleasant expression fixed on his face that he had prepared himself for disappointment. But when he looked her up and down his eyes lit up, making her glad she’d chosen to wear the blue silk gown that gave her good colour and the gossamer veil — white hair she might have, but her face was young and the white became her. She’d kept her figure, which was more than she could say for Simon, whose thick neck and barrel-shaped trunk suggested that he now spent his time on diplomacy rather than arms. The fine wool tunic and surcoat he wore, long and elegant, was the attire of an adviser, not a commander in the field. She would have thought he would refuse such a passive part in any war, insisting on going down with his men — she wondered whether he’d perhaps been injured in such a way that he no longer trusted himself in battle.

Simon bowed courteously to Maggie, welcoming her, but as soon as possible he returned his gaze to Ada.

Ada felt herself blushing and bowed her head in confusion, having thought herself past such feelings.

‘My beautiful Ada.’ Simon caressed her with his eyes. ‘I cannot tell you with what joy I beheld you yesterday.’ His voice was husky with emotion.

A servant had brought a tray with three mazers of wine. After sending the young man away, Simon handed a mazer to Ada, and reached for another as he slipped an arm round her shoulders. ‘I see that your niece favours you.’

Ada proposed a toast to this happy meeting, a little dizzy with relief that Simon did not question that Maggie was her niece. She was surprised by the intimacy of his arm round her and when he suddenly drew her even closer his kiss was as passionate as ever. So, much to her surprise, was her response. She drew away from him with reluctance, but she was uncomfortable with Maggie standing there, and glancing at her friend Ada saw that she was disturbed by their behaviour.

Simon must have also perceived Maggie’s discomfort, for he left Ada’s side and suggested that they sit by the fire circle and tell him what brought them to Stirling just ahead of Percy and Clifford’s thousand cavalry and many thousand foot soldiers.

‘Just ahead?’ Ada whispered, pretending ignorance. She worried that the explanation she had rehearsed required Simon to find her much changed, a little forgetful — she would not have used such a ploy fourteen years past. She caught Maggie’s eye and saw her doubt mirrored there, and her fear — so many thousands. But Ada had no time to think up something more appropriate, and so she focused on the fire, reaching out to it to warm her suddenly cold hands.

Maggie, too, was leaning towards the fire, her hands trembling. ‘It is chillier up here than down below,’ Maggie said. ‘This fire is very welcome.’

‘It is,’ said Ada. ‘I’ve come to a time of life when my hands are chilled by the slightest draught.’

Simon took her hands in his. ‘Quite cold, indeed. That is a change. So, my love, why come you to Stirling?’ he asked, and she saw how closely he regarded her.

‘Well might you wonder,’ she said, ‘for I see I have chosen a most dangerous time for my return. God must have been watching over us.’ She withdrew her hands and delicately pressed her temples. ‘I do not like to admit it, but age must have addled my wits for I thought Stirling would be less astir than Perth, being protected by its position high above the bridge. We did see encampments, but we were permitted to cross the bridge.’ She turned to gaze on Maggie. ‘Still, those men who accosted us when we entered the town yesterday have made me very uneasy about my niece’s safety.’

‘Aunt Ada,’ Maggie murmured in convincing embarrassment, ‘I’m not a child.’

Ada took more than a sip of wine.

Simon grunted as he rose to pour more. ‘That is the point, my dear. You are all too obviously no longer a child amidst a crowd of men long away from their women.’

Ada could not deny that Maggie was right in saying, ‘That is little different from Perth.’ But she knew that they’d been safer in Perth. Fortunately, Simon seemed willing to believe that Ada had made a mistake. She felt perversely irritated by that.

He resumed his seat. ‘I am here to advise and keep the peace in the town, not to lead men into battle, and for that I am grateful — though I had resented that when it was first made known to me. I felt old and ridiculed. But King Edward has depleted our supply of men of fighting age with all of his wars and now he has gathered felons, rapists, rogues, and cut-throats, men who should not be serving in his name, men impossible to control. They fight amongst themselves, sometimes to the death, over petty issues. The captains are at wits’ end to discipline them. And here in Stirling they are short of food, of all supplies, and trapped on this great rock with only the townspeople to steal from. As happy as I am to see you, I am sad you are here. Yet I cannot in good conscience send you back to Perth. It is a miracle you made it here unscathed. Did you have an escort?’

‘A friend escorted us to Elcho Nunnery. From there we joined various companies of farmers and tradesmen on the way, anyone journeying along our path.’

‘No doubt most of them were spies,’ Simon said wearily. ‘You are fortunate to have arrived safely.’