by Candace Robb
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 quit
e 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?’