by Candace Robb
Ada shook her head slightly and glanced at James, then Margaret, as if she’d just realised their presence. ‘My son was not yet walking when they took him from me,’ she said softly. ‘I doubt Simon’s told him that his mother is a de la Haye of Perth.’
Margaret took Ada’s hands in hers. ‘How hard it must have been for you.’
‘My family had warned me that I would not keep my children, though of course I had not understood how terrible it would be, how a mother loves her child.’ Ada caught her breath and dropped her chin.
‘Shall we leave you for a while?’ Margaret asked.
Shaking her head, Ada pressed Margaret’s hands and released them to dab at her eyes. She took a deep breath and then faced them both, with chin up despite tears still balanced precariously in the corners of her eyes. ‘It will not be the first time my skills as a player are tested.’
James nodded. ‘They will be tested. I must also warn both of you that the tempers of the townsfolk are brittle, distrust divides them, and as in Perth some are eager to prove themselves trustworthy to the English by betraying their neighbours. If either of you has any doubt of your ability to carry through with your roles, tell me now. It would be better to stand aside here than to fail us in Stirling.’ His eyes searched Margaret’s face, then Ada’s.
Margaret realised she was holding her breath and clenching her hands.
‘When are we to depart?’ Ada asked.
‘Nightfall,’ James said. He turned to Margaret. ‘And you, Maggie, are you still with us?’
The magnitude of what she was about struck her afresh. ‘I am.’ Fear might catch her breath and bring on a sweat, but she would not withdraw. There was no turning back for her.
James nodded to each of them. ‘I’ll find some refreshment for my men while you prepare for the journey.’
As Margaret rose she found her legs unsteady.
4
TRUST
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, t
hen 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 no
t 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.