A Cruel Courtship

7

Celia’s concerns about Margaret’s uneasy silence the previous evening had not fallen on deaf ears. Margaret had heard her, but she had not the strength to respond. Now she understood her mother’s lethargy after a vision, for she was experiencing just such a draining of strength. She wanted silence and darkness, and that is what she sought in the curtained bed.

But in all the hours of lying there she had not slept, seeing the kirk yard and the castle crowning the hill. When Ada came so late to bed, Margaret was awake and aware of every movement, as well as the scent of sex on her companion. Even that additional evidence that Ada might be so in love with Simon that he might succeed in persuading her to change sides stirred no emotion but a little jealousy. At last that turned her thoughts to James, and as the early morning noise of the household comforted her with the sense of an ordinary day, she fell asleep wondering how he would be as a lover.

She woke with Celia shaking her and reminding her that she had wished to attend Mass. Margaret could smell fresh air in her maid’s clothing.

‘You’ve been outside?’

‘Yes,’ said Celia, averting her eyes. ‘We need to hurry.’

As Margaret swung her legs off the side of the high bed, Celia asked, ‘Are you certain you wish to go out? You do not look well.’

‘I did not sleep well, but I wish to attend Mass all the same.’

‘You went up so early in the evening. I should have checked to see if you needed something-’

Margaret had managed to straighten and reach for her gown. ‘Peace, Celia, just dress me now.’ While Celia helped her with her sleeves Margaret caught the scent of fresh air again. ‘You have been out for quite a while this morning.’

‘I accompanied the groom to Evota’s.’

‘Again?’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘Thrice now you’ve disobeyed me.’

‘I pray you, Mistress, speak softly, or you’ll wake Dame Ada,’ Celia said, glancing at their hostess’s still form, no part of her visible beneath the bedclothes. ‘I went to fetch the barrel of ale John purchased yesterday.’

‘Something happened,’ Margaret said more quietly. ‘I see it in your face. You were frightened.’

‘I followed Archie.’

When Celia told her of chasing the lad and then seeing the English soldier back at Evota’s, Margaret despaired at the risks she had taken.

‘Celia, what have you done?’ She held her breath for a moment as Ada stirred in the bed, but she did not waken. Still, only heavy drapes closed off the solar from the hall below. She did not want the household joining the argument.

‘I pray I caused no mischief,’ said Celia, ‘but I fear that I might have.’

Margaret did, too, but what was done could not now be undone with words of remorse. ‘Let us pray all the harder at Mass.’ She led the way to the steps down to the hall.

They walked out in silence, for which Margaret was grateful. She greedily breathed in the fresh air and tried to force the memory of the veil around Johanna from her thoughts. She’d yet to find any use in the Sight — it seemed only to stir her feelings and provoke frightened prayer. In the kirk the Kyrie was already being sung, and Margaret and Celia dropped to their knees near the back of the nave. God would hear their prayers here as well as closer to the altar.

After Mass they waited behind, nodding to people who greeted them, and when it grew quiet Margaret suggested that they go to the choir screen to see whether Father Piers was still at the door. She hoped he might have discovered the identity of the English soldier or might give them some counsel about Celia’s encounter with him this morning.

The look of relief on Piers’s face when he saw them worried Margaret. Had he cause to think they might not appear, or had something happened to Johanna? He motioned for them to follow him down the aisle, then led them to the sacristy.

‘What is it? What has happened?’ Margaret asked.

‘Archie came last night,’ said Piers.

‘God be thanked,’ she said, though she wondered at the priest’s solemn expression — he should be relieved.

But Piers was shaking his head. ‘He says he can no longer carry messages because someone is watching him.’

‘Celia’s English soldier.’

‘He would not say, though I’m sure it was an Englishman.’

‘Do you think it might have something to do with Gordon Cowie’s murder?’

‘Would that I had an answer for you,’ Piers said.

‘If someone is watching him, they might also be watching Johanna.’

Piers was nodding. ‘We must be quiet for a few days, convince whoever it is that there is nothing to watch.’

‘We have no time to wait,’ said Margaret, exasperated by the man. ‘The armies are gathering, Father. What little information we have must get to James.’

‘Everything has changed, don’t you see that?’

‘We have some details that might be of use to Wallace and Murray. If you are saying that you won’t take it, I must.’ Though she would need his help in finding the contact down below.

Father Piers looked distraught. ‘If something should happen to you James Comyn would have my life, without hesitation. In faith, I would guess that Sir Simon is having you watched. I have told you that if necessary I shall go myself.’

‘Surely you’re watched as well,’ said Margaret.

‘There might yet be someone else-’ said the priest.

‘Who else might there be? All the men who can be trusted are gone, except for some servants.’

‘Among them there are possibilities. I must think.’

‘Don’t think too long,’ Margaret said, taking her leave.

Celia followed silently, but when they were back at the house she asked to speak to Margaret up in the solar.

‘What is it?’ Margaret asked, expecting a question about her behaviour. But Celia surprised her.

‘What you said to Father Piers, that made me wonder how Archie has escaped service. Sandy the groom says that he is a man, not a boy, and has fathered many bastards off serving girls who think him harmless in that way, looking so young.’

‘Yet Father Piers calls him a lad.’ If only James were here. ‘I am uneasy about Piers,’ said Margaret. ‘With a murder in the town we need James. Perhaps it’s time I donned men’s clothing and tried to leave as we came, quite out in the open.’

‘And what happens to Dame Ada when her niece has disappeared?’ asked Celia. ‘I’m the one to go, Mistress. No one would miss me. And I’m as small as Archie. I have his colouring, too. I could pass for him, name and all.’

‘I hardly think that is true, Celia.’ But Margaret was moved by the offer, and the love with which it was made. ‘I am ever in your debt. I know you offer this from your heart. But I am the one who accepted this mission, not you. I cannot risk your life for this. Yet you are right about my disappearing, I cannot do that to Ada.’ There seemed no responsible way to proceed. ‘I wish I knew whether I could really trust Father Piers.’

When Dame Ada had at last risen and gone below to break her fast, Celia took the opportunity to tidy Margaret’s trunk. It was a warm morning and the solar was hotter than the hall below, so Celia worked more slowly than usual. She regretted that when Ada caught her up there.

‘John tells me that you were out early this morning following a young man.’

Sandy must have told John. ‘John sent me to fetch the ale.’ How dare Sandy betray her?

‘You left Sandy to the task and chased after the young man. Is that not so?’

‘I did it for my mistress,’ Celia said with as much dignity as she could muster, her anger making her want to spit.

‘You call attention to yourself, running through the streets. You will have everyone watching us and with my friend Isabel’s loss — haven’t you heard of the goldsmith’s murder?’

‘Might we talk more quietly?’

Both women turned in surprise to discover Margaret had joined them. Celia was relieved to have her mistress put a steadying hand on her shoulder, which she interpreted as a sign of support. But Margaret’s expression was grim.

‘You heard about Gordon’s death, then?’ asked Margaret.

‘Yes,’ whispered Ada. As her composure crumbled she hid her face in her hands.

‘I am so sorry, Ada,’ Margaret said.

Ada lifted her face, her expression one of determined calm. ‘I should go to Isabel.’

‘I won’t keep you long,’ said Margaret. ‘I just wanted you to know that I have asked Celia to assist me. I am not happy that she openly pursued someone today, but we have little choice.’

Ada nodded. ‘I am only thinking of your safety, Celia,’ she said.

‘I know, Dame Ada.’

‘Good,’ said Margaret. ‘We must work together. That is our strength.’

Sir Francis dropped back to ride by Andrew as they reached the eastern boundary of the troop encampments — King Edward’s troops. He seemed to enjoy conversing with Andrew, trying out his philosophy of life, of leadership, of faith. Andrew found him a man of honour with a strong sense of responsibility for his men — those who were not felons.

‘There is some news,’ said Francis. ‘James Stewart and the Earl of Lennox met with Surrey several days ago to request a week’s grace in which to persuade Wallace and Murray to put down their arms. He granted it.’

With a glance at Andrew, Francis paused, obviously awaiting a comment.

‘An unexpected development.’

‘What do you think is the likelihood of a peaceful settlement?’

‘I know none of these men, Sir Francis,’ Andrew said.

‘You must have an opinion.’

He’d grown comfortable with Sir Francis, but not so that he forgot the danger of his intention. ‘I pray for peace, but do not expect it.’

‘John Balliol has made no attempt to escape back to his people here. Nor is there any evidence of his communicating with his subordinates to rally the people against King Edward. Why are your people so stubbornly supportive of a man who does not seem to miss being their king?’

Andrew looked out over the sea of men. ‘It is possible that Balliol is not necessarily what they are fighting for, but simply rule by their own king, so that they retain their sovereignty rather than become a little-loved part of Edward’s kingdom.’ They — it was so simple as long as he used ‘they’ instead of ‘we’.

Sir Francis did not respond at once, and Andrew wondered whether he’d gone too far. But perhaps he was simply distracted by the army among which they rode.

Despite the fairly steady stream of soldiers passing through the spital at Soutra, Andrew had not been prepared for the size of the camps stretching along the water meadows, or pows, to the south of the River Forth and into the dry land south of Stirling. In sheer numbers his countrymen could not hope to compete against such a host. He wondered whether it was possible for them to make up in strength, courage, and the passion they felt for defending their own land and people what they lacked in numbers. He was not sanguine.

‘You might be right, Father Andrew,’ said Sir Francis at last. ‘It would explain much that I have heard. What do you think of the rumours that the younger Robert Bruce, now Earl, has turned against his benefactor and long-time friend, King Edward?’

Andrew smiled — an easy, quite natural smile. ‘I think it laughable that anyone would give any credit to such a rumour.’

‘I think it quite possible,’ said Francis, ‘but doomed to failure. Balliol’s Comyn relatives would never support him. Who do you think they would put forward?’

‘Though of course I know of them I know little about them, Sir Francis.’ It was true, and he was glad of it. ‘Abbot Adam is able to expound at length upon such matters, but I have never moved in such circles.’

Sir Francis nodded, then excused himself to ride to the head of his men as they neared the base of Stirling rock. Andrew wondered whether he’d inadvertently given away any information.

In the evening, after Ada had been escorted once more to the castle, Margaret turned her attention to her growing sense of urgency about Johanna. She argued with herself about whether to go to her and warn her of the vision, not entirely certain whether it had been the Sight or her own intuition. She must keep her head about this, for surely she was still capable of perception and judgment. In Father Piers’s chamber she might have been drawn to the clothing of the dead by the Sight, but it was by her own powers of observation that she had understood his distress and noticed the signs of his drinking and lack of sleep.

Dame Bethag believed Margaret’s vision and Christiana’s visions were from God; if she was right, they must have a purpose. But beyond a general warning for Johanna, Margaret could think of no other way to help her. She had no one who might stand guard at the woman’s home, and an attack might happen anywhere. Yet she felt she owed it to Johanna to give her the choice whether or not to heed the warning and seek sanctuary.

She sought out Celia, who was sitting with Maus in the doorway to the backlands, enjoying the evening breeze. Drawing Celia aside, Margaret told her she was going out for a little while, not far, and did not need an escort.

‘But it’s dark, Mistress, or nearly,’ Celia said, glancing up at the dusky sky. ‘The men will have been drinking.’

‘I doubt there is enough ale left in the town to make them dangerous,’ Margaret said. She was not as sanguine about that as she tried to sound, but she was not ready to discuss the Sight at length with Celia. ‘This I shall do alone.’

Dusk was darkening the backlands, though the sky was shot with eerily lit clouds. Margaret wondered whether the colours were caused by the armies’ cook fires down in the valley. The smoke of the cook fires in the town gave texture to the air. From the surrounding houses came the murmur of voices, punctuated now and then by shouts, snatches of arguments, or a child’s cry, but Stirling seemed subdued this night. She imagined that Huchon Allan’s hanging and more recently Gordon Cowie’s murder had frightened many — particularly those who supported the English. She had been disappointed that Ada had learned nothing from Isabel — except that the widow was weak with grief and terrified that she would be next. ‘A wife is judged by her husband, as a husband his wife,’ she’d repeated over and over again to Ada.

But besides her concern for Johanna, what was oddly uppermost in Margaret’s mind this evening was the coming battle for the bridge across the River Forth. She’d not given much thought to the fighting before, focused as she was on reopening the line of communication between Johanna and James, but despite her irritation with Father Piers’s hesitation to proceed she, too, worried whether it was now too late for James to relay any message to Murray and Wallace. She did not know how he would make his way through the English camps and across the River Forth to the Scots on Abbey Craig. James had told her so little, and having never been in battle she could not imagine what might be happening down in the valley.

Awakening to the danger, she realised that she and the rest of the townsfolk were precariously balanced over a deadly precipice with little information about what lay below them, or even whether the fighting would be contained in the valley. She had assumed that any battles would occur down below, but considering the charred houses farther down the hill, the bloodstains on walls near the Grassmarket in Edinburgh, the rubble left along the route of a siege, she realised that these were such chilling scars because they were evidence that the fighting often encroached on or even moved through the towns. Here on Stirling Rock they would be overrun if Wallace and Murray sent a raiding party to the castle. Margaret’s heart pounded in her ears. There was no way out. She and everyone in Stirling were trapped here, between the battling armies and the castle. Perhaps it was this tension that was behind Gordon Cowie’s death, an anger fanned by fear.

‘God help us,’ she whispered. And what was it for, but that they might have a slightly less English, slightly more Scots king to rule them. Suddenly it all seemed like a pathetically misguided child’s game.

She’d picked her way out to the midden as if headed to relieve herself, and then slipped into what had been a carpentry shop until the English had confiscated the wood and tools. Idle now, it was dark and deserted, lacking both door and shutters, merely a wattle and daub shell, truly only twigs and mud, which was made apparent by a chilly draught on her feet. It had been stiflingly hot in the house, but out here a breeze cooled the day’s heat. She’d intended to wait in the shelter for a while to see whether anyone followed her. Now it seemed less important. Perhaps she and Celia would be safer slipping down the hill in men’s clothing than waiting here for what was to come.

This was panic, she told herself, not clear thinking. Longshanks had ordered the men of Berwick slaughtered the previous summer, their bodies left to decay in the streets, to be eaten by scavenger birds. He was a murderer, not fit to be king, and that was why they fought him. She had never heard what became of the women and children of Berwick. Had they been taken away, sent out of the town? Had they died of the disease brought by the putrefying corpses? Had they tried to bury their men? Although she’d prayed for the victims often, she whispered a prayer for those she’d forgotten until now, now that she feared she might have something in common with them. She wondered whether there was enough earth in Stirling for all the corpses that the army might leave behind.

But Wallace and Murray knew that Scots were still in the town; they would not slaughter their own people, else they would have little left to defend and rule. And Father Piers had mentioned an attempt at negotiations, about which he disapproved but which might save many lives. Waiting to give the negotiations a chance might give James time to carry a message across the river.

The usually quiet Allans were loudly arguing — Margaret assumed it was them and not their servants.

Lilias Allan shouted, ‘How could you stand there and say nothing? He had no right to wear the garnet.’

‘God’s wounds, will naught satisfy you?’ a man cried.

Margaret tried not to listen to their argument. She thought she might still do some good by warning Johanna. That is what she’d set out to do, and with God’s grace she would accomplish that this evening, and afterwards she would see Father Piers and insist that either he personally deliver the information to the contact or tell her where to go herself.

What had seemed a quiet night was alive with sound once she gave it her full attention, with the high-pitched buzz of insects seeming to own the air and the low murmur of voices providing an almost rhythmic drone in the background interrupted by occasional shouts that startled her. She had grown accustomed to the noise of an occupying army in Edinburgh; Perth had fortunately been quieter. Except for the sense of a collective waiting it might be an ordinary night in Stirling. By now Margaret felt assured that she had not been followed. Leaving her shelter, she made her way to St Mary’s Wynd through the backlands rather than going out into Broad Street. The murmur of voices grew louder as she approached St Mary’s Wynd. It sounded as if folk were out on the street and talking rather loudly, in anxious tones, as she imagined they’d done with news of the goldsmith’s death. She prayed his murder had not been the beginning of anarchy while the soldiers were occupied elsewhere, particularly caught as they were between the army’s camps and the castle, with no easy escape. Fear created a terrible energy.

In the alley she paused to collect her thoughts, planning how she would approach the subject of having Second Sight, how little she understood it, and how it was possible it had not been a vision, but that she believed it was for Johanna to choose whether or not to heed it and seek sanctuary. Margaret was flustered by how foolish it all seemed when laid out so. God help her if she mentioned the owl’s warning — Johanna would laugh so loudly the entire town would soon ken that Margaret was mad. She must take action now before she lost her courage.

After tidying her wimple and shaking out her skirts — she’d no doubt that her hems had collected dust and debris in the backlands — she continued down the alley and emerged into a tableau of a half-dozen townsfolk, several carrying lanterns that darted light here and there, seemingly silenced in mid-sentences to stare at her in alarm. She regretted her stealthy approach. As she distinguished faces and expressions she saw that they all looked either angry or frightened.

‘Has something happened?’ Margaret asked. Into the resounding silence she added, ‘I’m the niece of Ada de la Haye,’ hoping that might reassure them.

‘The de la Haye house is on Broad Street,’ a man said. ‘Why’d you come through the backlands?’

‘What is wrong with that? I came to see Dame Johanna.’

One of the women began to weep, leaning on her companion who was faring better with fighting tears.

Crossing himself, another man asked, ‘Did you hear her scream all the way over in the market square?’ He’d poked his lantern so close to Margaret’s face that she took a few steps backward, frightened by the emotions swirling around her.

‘Scream?’ Margaret cried. ‘Holy Mother of God, what monster has been unleashed on this town?’

‘Did you come upon anyone in the backlands?’ asked another man from behind her.

It was like a nightmare, the crazy lights, the angry strangers questioning her, when all she wanted was to see Johanna.

‘I saw no one,’ said Margaret. ‘Has Johanna been hurt?’

‘She’s been murdered,’ sobbed the weeping woman, ‘beaten about the head, her beautiful face, God help us!’

‘One of the English guards is in there now,’ said the first man, nodding towards a small house.

That sweet, beautiful woman beaten to death. Margaret’s vision blurred; she felt sick to her stomach. It had happened. She’d been too late. What was the use of the vision she’d had if she could not save Johanna from the threat? She wanted to scream.

‘Who is doing this?’ one of the women cried. ‘First Gordon, now Johanna. Are they going to kill us all?’

‘Friends of the castle, those are the ones dying,’ said one of the men in her ear. ‘Like Dame Ada.’

The hatred and fear in their voices woke Margaret to her own danger. ‘I must go to Johanna,’ she said as she ducked past one of the lantern-carrying questioners, pushing past her own fear and doubt. She felt drawn to bear witness.

‘There’s naught you can do,’ said a woman. ‘The guard has warned us to stay out.’

Margaret turned at the door and faced the frightened neighbours. ‘What right has he to keep us from her?’ she exclaimed, conjuring anger to give her the energy to cross the threshold. ‘Has anyone gone for a priest?’

No one moved forward to join her, but one man said that another had gone for a priest from Holy Rude. She hoped that Father Piers came, for he knew how worthy Johanna was of God’s grace despite her sinful life.

The door to Johanna’s house stood ajar. As Margaret stepped within she felt an almost suffocating wave of fear, not her own, and for an instant clearly saw Johanna’s lovely smile, how it had lit up Father Piers’s parlour the previous day. Beaten, they’d said. That was a personally passionate act, not a dispassionate action of war like she assumed the goldsmith’s stabbing had been. Margaret took a deep breath and moved farther in.

A portly soldier was crouched down beside Johanna, the light from his lantern illuminating her still form on the floor. She was surrounded by signs of the violence that had occurred: benches and a stool were on their sides, crockery from a shelf lay shattered beneath it, and meal had spilled from an overturned jar, which had already attracted rats. Johanna lay face down; her veil was dark with blood, as was the ground round her head. Margaret choked back a sob; she fought to see, not to react, for this was all she could do for Johanna now, find out what had happened, who had done this. She forced herself to look at Johanna’s clothing — it was bloodstained and torn near the waist on one side.

Margaret closed her eyes and prayed that the Sight might help her. When she looked again, she was focused on Johanna’s hands, which were stretched over her head, not bent as they would be if she’d tried to break her fall.

‘Have you moved her, or tidied her clothes?’ she asked.

‘What?’ the man, startled, almost dropped the lantern as he straightened. ‘Who are you? What are you doing in here? No, I’ve not touched her.’

‘Have you checked whether she’s breathing?’ Margaret asked.

‘I have, and she’s not,’ he said with impatience. His accent was that of the north — he might be a Scot.

Besides the sickening sweet scent of blood there was another smell, of charred, damp straw. ‘Did something burn?’ Margaret asked.

‘Lamp was turned over. That’s what raised the neighbour, smoke in the doorway. We put out the fire. Who are you?’ He came closer, shining the lantern in Margaret’s face. She smelled his fear.

‘Maggie de la Haye — Sir Simon Montagu will vouch for me. The folk without asked whether I’d seen anyone in the backlands. So the murderer escaped?’

The man snorted. ‘Do you think anyone came out when she screamed? They say she screamed, and looking at her, you know she screamed.’ He shook his head, disgusted.

‘How did you come to be here?’ Margaret asked, although her heart pounded so in her ears that she feared she wouldn’t hear his response.

‘I should ask the questions,’ he barked quite clearly.

‘Is that the weapon?’ With the toe of her shoe Margaret pointed to a log the width of a woman’s forearm, with knobs where branches had been cut off. It lay near Johanna.

‘Aye, it’s bloody. Why are you here?’ His face was very close to hers now and she could smell that he’d been drinking.

‘She was my friend. I had come to see her. We must find who did this. She was a good person-’ Margaret covered her mouth. She was babbling, though it would not matter to him.

‘She was a whore. Slept with half the soldiers in the castle.’

Margaret slapped him in the face. ‘I’ll not have you speak about her with disrespect, God rest her soul.’

He grabbed her by the wrist and the vice-like grip made her cry out in pain. But she was too angry to desist. His lantern tilted so far sideways that it was dripping oil.

‘You’ll burn us all if you don’t see to your lantern,’ she said, a little breathless. She did not know what had gotten into her, to refuse to withdraw.

‘You’ll pay for that, lass,’ he growled, but let go of her hand. He put the lantern on the ground and with his heels tried to scuff the oil into the packed earth floor. Much good that would do.

Margaret rubbed her burning wrist. ‘Respect the dead. God knows you don’t the living.’

‘I’ve not touched her!’

‘I expected you to stand guard at the door.’ The voice came from a man who stood at the threshold, so tall that he filled the doorway. The lamp lit his face from beneath, rendering its chiselled features sinister.

‘I stepped within for a moment and this woman fell upon me,’ whined the guard. ‘She accused me of not respecting the dead.’

Margaret had picked up the lantern and now held it up to the newcomer’s face to assure herself he was human. She thought him familiar, and as he wore the livery of the castle guard she was reassured that he was the sort of devil to which she’d become accustomed, one of Longshanks’s soldiers.

‘How was he disrespectful?’ the man asked.

‘The woman lying there in her own blood was my friend, and this man called her a whore,’ said Margaret.

‘Walter, guard the door — from without,’ said the man.

When the portly guard had pushed past them, the tall man closed the door behind him. Margaret still held the lantern.

‘I would like to turn her over so that you could assure me this is Johanna.’ He glanced at Margaret over his shoulder. ‘Are you willing?’

Willing she was, but she did not know how well she would stand up to it. Still, she nodded and stepped closer.

‘Turn that bench upright,’ he said, indicating a long one. ‘I’ll lay her there.’

Margaret set the lantern on the shelf, shaking so hard that she knew she needed both arms to turn over the bench without fumbling with it. She was fighting a surge of fear and regret for having stood her ground by staying in the room. She wished someone else were facing this terrible task. The room was hot and the odour of blood nauseated her.

With considerate care the man lifted the body from the floor and managed to turn her as he lay her down on the bench.

Margaret cried out. Johanna’s jaw had been broken with a blow, and she yawned crookedly, the visible gums bloody. Her eyes were open. Margaret knelt to close them.

‘It is your friend?’ asked the man.

In touching Johanna Margaret felt a surge of terror that propelled her up and away from the body. She could not speak at once.

The man stepped towards her. ‘I must be certain.’

‘Yes, it is Johanna,’ Margaret managed to say. Forgive me for coming too late. She had been badly frightened by the touch and wanted to escape, but she felt she should not, at least until the priest arrived.

‘I’ll have the women who stand without take care of her. Your household will be worrying about your absence on such a night.’

‘Who could have done this? She was a gentle woman.’

‘I have seen you with Ada de la Haye. I will have Walter escort you home,’ said the man, ignoring her question.

‘I’ll wait for the priest, and then I’ll take myself home.’

‘Walter is a foul-mouthed villain, but there is someone abroad who has killed once tonight, and a prisoner escaped to sanctuary, quite the slippery one. In thanks for identifying this poor woman I must have you seen safely home.’

‘Who are you?’

‘A captain, a soldier intent on my duty.’

Margaret did not move. ‘I said I’ll wait for the priest.’

‘I’ll wait here for him,’ he said. ‘There is no need for you to stay.’

She sensed in the man a strength of will that she decided it was best not to cross. Without a word she departed, nodding to Walter as the other ordered him to escort her. She did not speak all the way, nor did her escort, and as soon as John opened Ada’s door she hurried in without looking back.

Celia ran to her and Margaret asked for some strong drink and a basin of water in which to wash.

‘Dame Johanna has been murdered,’ said Margaret, crossing herself. ‘Beaten about the head.’

‘Dear God,’ Celia cried.

Margaret gathered her skirts and was about to climb up to the solar.

‘Father Piers’s clerk came for you a while ago.’ Celia’s voice shook. ‘He said Master James was taken by the English and escaped to sanctuary in the kirk. What a night, Mistress, what a terrible night.’

Margaret crossed herself and prayed for strength as she turned away from the steps. ‘I still need to wash and have a good strong drink.’