by Candace Robb
‘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 Jo
hanna’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.’
8
REVELATIONS
Frightened by the events of the evening, which had strengthened his terror of being found out by the English, Father Piers began to fuss to avoid facing his demons. He considered the room, trying to determine how he might best receive Margaret, how best to tell her of James’s misadventure and his sad news, as well as the summons that had come for a priest to administer the last rites to Johanna. He’d sent his elderly assistant, Father John, for Piers was needed here, to stand his ground against soldiers demanding James. He’d had a terrible feeling that Gordon Cowie’s murder had set off a wave of fighting to mirror that going on down below, and now he feared he’d been right. God have mercy on all their souls, he prayed, crossing himself.
He wondered how he, called to a contemplative life, had become so involved in treachery. It
was frightening to be in the middle of all of it. He was within his rights to grant James sanctuary, but he was uneasy about how the English would judge his doing so. He had assured the captain who’d pursued James that despite his wish to cooperate with the castle it was his duty to respect the sanctity of sanctuary.
‘Do you know who he is?’ the captain had demanded.
‘It matters not a whit who he is,’ said Piers, ‘he has claimed sanctuary and it is his right.’ He would lie outright if necessary – he had before, despite his fear of becoming mired in a quicksand of lies. The captain had hesitated, as if about to tell him of James’s connection with King John Balliol, but then decided against it.
‘I’ll return in the morning,’ he’d said, and departed.
Just as worrisome was Margaret’s being abroad in the town, and without an escort, not even her maid. He did not know what she could be thinking, to take no precautions after the death of the goldsmith. Most felt that Gordon had been murdered because of his support of the English. For all others knew Margaret, too, was on the side of the invaders – they didn’t know of her work for King John.
‘Dame Maggie is here,’ the clerk said.
Praised be God.
The first thing Piers noticed was that despite the summery night Margaret had a plaid wrapped around her. He also noted that her hem was filthy. As she stepped into the room she stumbled despite having her hand resting on the arm of her small maid.
‘Dame Margaret?’ Piers looked closely at her.
She raised her eyes to his, fixing on him with exaggerated attention though it made her blink. Her face was flushed and slack.
God help us, she’s been drinking.
He pulled the chair slightly out of the light – her eyes must be sensitive to it – and appreciated Celia’s coaxing her to take the seat so proffered.