by Candace Robb
Ada wanted to scream at the suddenly inane conversation. ‘It is late, Simon. Let’s to bed.’
For Celia it seemed like old times, her mistress crying herself to sleep over Roger Sinclair. Only now there was no longer any hope of reconciliation.
She’d asked Margaret how they might get word to Dame Katherine.
‘We must deliver this terrible news ourselves, Celia, when the fighting is over. If the fighting is ever over. We will reach her somehow. I cannot let her hear it from a stranger.’
It comforted Celia to think of such a journey. ‘Would you leave me with her?’
Margaret had not replied at once. ‘It will be your choice.’
That had given Celia something to ponder.
After a frighteningly brutal lovemaking Ada lay awake, aching and fearing what Simon would do with her and Maggie now that he held her in such low regard. How far they had come. She wondered whether it would have been different had they been wed. But of course, she would yet live in England and be respected as the mother of his legitimate children. Peter would look forward to being a wealthy landowner, perhaps a knight.
As she began to drowse she imagined Simon ordering Johanna’s lover to murder her in such a way that no one would guess a soldier had done it. And then what? Had Simon had the lover executed?
She wondered what method of murder Simon would choose for her – strangling, poisoning, beating to make it look as if someone was murdering the English soldiers’ whores, a knife to the heart and neck to mimic Gordon Cowie’s murder. She was oddly calm as she considered the various methods, and then fell to wondering who might have murdered Gordon.
Once among his fellow commanders Sir Francis seemed to forget about Andrew and Matthew. They were left to their own devices and wandered a bit away from their company without causing any stir. Andrew kept his direction towards the river. The pows, this marshy land cut through with many rivers and burns on the south bank of the Forth, was not easily navigated. Andrew had reluctantly hunted here with Abbot Adam on occasion, a preferred companion because of his experience with water meadows along the Tay. Matthew, too, had walked this area. They moved cautiously but steadily northeast, in the general direction of Cambuskenneth Abbey, which was on the far bank of the Forth. When at last Andrew paused, Matthew pointed to an empty area in the shelter of a rocky outcrop and suggested he lay out their plaids there. Andrew absentmindedly agreed.
He was thinking about summer in his childhood, how he’d learned to swim in the Tay so that he could assist with small repairs on the outer hulls of his father’s ships. It was an uncommon skill and the mates had found him useful. He’d enjoyed listening to their tales of far-off places.
‘Can you swim?’ he asked Matthew, almost hoping he could not, for Andrew had just made a pact with himself that if his servant could swim he’d take it as a sign that God approved of his plan.
‘What?’ said Matthew. ‘Swim? Were we going to need to swim out that drain at the spital?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ said Andrew. But it might have been necessary, and he’d never thought to ask Matthew then. ‘Can you?’
‘Why?’ When Andrew didn’t answer, Matthew said, ‘I can. I suppose I still can.’
God willed it, then. Andrew moved close to where the young man was working on a small fire. ‘Would you rather stay here or try to swim across the Forth to Cambuskenneth Abbey?’
Matthew paused, but didn’t raise his head. ‘Escape?’
‘At night. You would be risking your life.’
‘Where you go, I go, Father.’
‘You might be safer here.’
Matthew shook his head, still not looking up. The fire liquefied the shadows so that the young man’s flesh looked by turns haggard and mysterious. Andrew had one qualm – Matthew was clean, pleasant-looking, young, which appealed to some of the soldiers. The lad might feel he had no choice but to follow Andrew. He owed it to Matthew to give him a true choice.
‘Perhaps I’m being a fool. The abbey might be full of English soldiers by now, and here we are safe. In truth, it isn’t fair to leave the soldiers without a confessor.’
‘They would think nothing of leaving you behind to die if they might save themselves, Father. You ken that as well as I do. We owe them nothing.’
He spoke with more passion than Andrew had ever witnessed in him. Looking round he saw that they were as yet isolated from the others, too far from the nearest campfires to be noticed once theirs died down later on.
‘Keep the fire small and let it die out,’ he whispered.
Matthew nodded.
Late in the evening, as Andrew prayed by the dying fire, he glimpsed two of Sir Francis’s men at the nearest campfire and tried to withdraw completely from the light without so much movement that he’d attract their attention. But it was too late, one of the men at the fire gestured in their direction, and the searchers approached.
‘Damn,’ Andrew muttered. ‘Matthew, pretend to be asleep.’
Matthew snored softly.
‘Who goes there?’ Andrew demanded in a hushed tone, as if not wishing to wake Matthew.
‘Father Andrew, forgive me for waking you.’
One of the men stepped into the meagre light and Andrew recognised him as Will, an unexpectedly pious man considering his large repertoire of profane expressions in French and English. He was one of the felons in the company.
‘I was not asleep, Will. Did you want me to hear your confessions?’
He now recognised Will’s companion, a scrappy young man, Pete, who was missing an ear and a finger though he swore he’d never committed a crime.
‘Bless you, Father,’ said Will. ‘I feared you’d been relieved of your duty to such as us, gone to the knights and such. They’re sinners, too, some worse than me, but I’m the one who will be dangled first as bait, eh? And Pete, here.’
Sir Francis did plan to place the felons in the most vulnerable positions. Andrew wondered whether he had already announced his plan or whether Will was prescient. Perhaps it did not take much intelligence to guess that would be a commander’s strategy.
‘I’ll move away so I can’t hear,’ said Pete, dipping into the shadows.
Andrew made the sign of the cross over Will and bowed his head to listen. As the man laid bare his soul, Andrew could not help thinking of the others in the company who might be comforted by his presence. He was forgetting his vows. He must minister to them, safeguard their souls. If the day was won and the company safe, God would surely allow Andrew another chance to escape. He pronounced Will’s penance and called softly to Pete.
When he had given Pete his penance, Andrew asked the two if they would escort him and Matthew back to the camp. ‘I sought some peace in which to think. But I see now I was selfish.’
The men glanced at one another questioningly, and Andrew realised they’d meant to desert. He waited, wondering what they would do.
‘Aye, we owe it to you to see you back safely,’ said Pete with forced cheer.
Andrew gently shook Matthew awake – it seemed he had actually fallen asleep – and explained his change in plan. Without a word the young man rose and draped his plaid round him. Andrew did likewise. They collected their small hoard of food and their lantern and followed Pete and Will into the darkness, heading away from the river.
‘Forgive me, Matthew, but I could not desert them.’
‘There is nothing to forgive, Father.’
‘We will escape when the time is right.’
‘I am bound to you, Father. It does not matter where we go.’
Never before had Andrew felt so keenly what a burden he had accepted in taking his vows. Escape had been within his reach. And now he carried the added burden of Matthew’s devotion. He prayed for the strength to live up to all that was expected of him.
Towards dawn Margaret fell into a light sleep, but wakened at the first birdsong and knew her rest was over for the night. She lay there trying to be quiet so that Celia would n
ot hear her through the flimsy divider and come to fuss over her. She found her thoughts turning to Gordon Cowie’s murder. She was grateful for the preoccupation for it was better than dwelling on Roger’s suffering or her own danger, but she also found it frustrating, as if she had some knowledge that might reveal the murderer but could not recall it. She had seen the goldsmith in the castle yard, but she had seen other townsfolk as well. Evota and her family apparently frequented the castle precinct, and she’d heard of no organised resistance to the soldiers in the town, though there had been the poisoning. Celia had reported a rumour that Isabel had murdered her husband, but it did not seem founded on any evidence, merely the fact that Isabel was well-liked and her late husband had been generally resented for his fustian speech and superior manner.
Stabbed in the heart and the neck meant to Margaret that the murderer wanted to ensure the man died, and quickly. She wondered whether a pair of murderers were responsible, each wanting to strike the death blow. Might it be possible that both Johanna and Gordon had been murdered by the same person, or persons, or at the bidding of the same person or group, the purpose being to punish those who seemed too friendly with the occupiers? She had a feeling there was a connection between Gordon’s murder and Huchon Allan’s execution. Perhaps Huchon’s fellows believed Gordon had betrayed his neighbour. She remembered the suffering in his parents’ voices in the night.
Slowly she turned onto her left side to quiet a throbbing behind one of her shoulder blades. Once settled again she put her mind to alternative motives. Johanna might simply have been silenced by the English. Gordon might have cheated someone – his death need not necessarily be related to the occupation. But Johanna’s brutal beating – what motivation could there be that had nothing to do with the struggle against Longshanks? She was a beautiful woman and promiscuous. No doubt she’d broken a few hearts. Margaret considered the possibility that a jealous former lover had waited until her English protector was away and then avenged his pride. A man’s pride was so different from a woman’s. Only recently had she begun to understand Roger’s anger about her behaviour, how he’d felt it reflected on him because he considered her his property, his responsibility. If his wife misbehaved, he was at fault. Just as God banished Adam as well as Eve when she managed to tempt Adam with the forbidden fruit. She had certainly heard of men beating their wives for less than she had done. Thinking it through, she could believe that one of Johanna’s former lovers had murdered her.
Lovers – she’d never made love with anyone but Roger. Often of late she’d wondered about James, what he would be like. She sensed there was some part of him that he shared with no one, or at least not her.
A sound down below startled her for it came from the street side rather than the rear of the house where the servants slept. She recognised the creak of the street door, its muffled groan as it swung back into its jamb, and then the thud of the bolt in its socket. Light footsteps crossed to the steps leading up to the solar, and now the steps creaked. She prayed it was Ada returned at last, but in case it was not she drew out the knife she kept beneath her pillow and sat up, ready to defend herself.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ she breathed as Ada’s head appeared.
Ada started when she grew aware of Margaret sitting up.
‘Oh, Maggie, it has been a most horrible night,’ she said as she sank down on to the bed.
‘For all of us, Ada,’ Margaret said.
As Ada unfastened her shoes, Margaret lit a cruisie from the embers of the small brazier in the room.
‘So you know about James and Johanna,’ Margaret said.
The light did not compliment Ada. For once she looked her age, haggard and puffy-eyed.
‘You are in danger, my friend,’ Ada said.
‘I know.’
‘I feel unclean,’ Ada said, her voice trembling. She tugged at her veil and wimple with such impatience that she tore the silk. ‘Damned silk.’ Leaning over to toss the head dress on a chest, she suddenly slumped, and face in hands began to weep.
Margaret knelt to her and drew her head to her shoulder, smoothing out Ada’s long white hair. Her own heart was pounding, wondering whether Ada knew of an immediate danger and what her friend had suffered.
After she had been quiet for a while, Ada raised her head ‘It is all my fault. I should not have insisted you play my niece, for it has brought you to his attention. He would not have given you a second thought otherwise.’
Margaret sat back on her heels. ‘Do you mean Peter?’
‘Peter?’ Ada shivered and held out her hands to the warm brazier. ‘No, Simon. But I forgot – you met Peter tonight.’
‘He told you?’
Ada seemed to take on the weight of the world in her nod. ‘He said he asked you to look at the murdered woman and tell him if it was Johanna. Was he unkind?’
‘It was not a gentle moment, though he played the role of a considerate man.’
‘I can imagine,’ Ada said in a bitter tone.
‘He is a busy man, your son Peter. He has spent much time at Evota’s house, he seized James, he showed up at Johanna’s soon after she was found murdered; why, Celia says he was here in the hall the day we arrived. Wherever we turn, Peter Fitzsimon is there. I am almost certain that it was he who silenced Archie.’ And perhaps Johanna, Margaret thought, but did not say it.
Ada crossed herself. ‘He and Simon are so much alike. I had not seen it until tonight.’ She rose and began to fuss with her sleeves.
While Margaret untied them for her, Ada said, ‘So you have solved your mystery.’
How pointless it seemed to Margaret now. ‘With James in Holy Rude, Archie’s situation is no longer of any consequence to me – unless it was he who murdered Johanna.’
Ada shrugged. ‘At least James is safe for now.’
‘Are you so certain the English will honour the sanctuary?’
‘I often wonder at the niceties of war,’ Ada said. ‘But in this case yes, they have no cause to risk excommunication because Simon is satisfied that James can do no harm while hiding in the kirk. I should think that the keeper of the castle feels the same.’
‘I am glad of it,’ said Margaret, though she felt little relief. ‘Ada, before we talk of anything else you must know – Roger is dead.’
Ada caught her breath and bowed her head for a moment, then met Margaret’s eyes. ‘How do you know this?’ she asked, but she was not surprised.
‘You already knew.’
‘I guessed. Simon spoke of a dead spy in the kirk yard. He knows that James’s men took him away for burial, which he thought strange since the dead man was believed to be a spy for Robert Bruce. A Comyn caring for a Bruce’s soul is unexpected. It’s plain to me that they had left him there as bait.’
Margaret could not speak for her anger.
Ada let her be for a while, then said, ‘Would you tell me about it, Maggie?’
Margaret swallowed bile and nodded, though she waited a while before trying her voice. ‘James’s men found Roger in the backlands of the kirk. He’d fallen from a height and broken his neck. He’d been dead for several days when they found him hidden in the underbrush.’ She’d begun to shake and hugged herself tightly. ‘I hate the thought of him lying there, exposed– How could the English be so unchristian as to leave him there unburied?’
‘As in Berwick,’ Ada whispered.
Margaret moved closer to the brazier, hoping the heat would dispel the trembling. ‘I am a widow before I ever felt truly a wife.’
‘Maggie, oh my dear child, I am so sorry. Here I sat weeping like a baby in a fit and you had such a heavy heart.’
‘I’d already spent my tears.’
Ada reached for one of Margaret’s hands and held it, palm up, tracing the lines. ‘There are some who believe our lives are written in these lines. I’ve never wanted to hear what they would say about mine. But how could anyone have guessed what has happened? If they had, we would have fled. Our country would be empty.’
<
br /> Ada had never sounded so despondent.
‘What will happen to us?’ Margaret asked, expecting no reply.
Ada shook her head. ‘There is more you must know. David, the Welshman who came to you with news of Andrew, is here in Stirling. If he sees you and tells Simon who you are there will no longer be any doubt. I don’t know what Simon will do.’
‘We are found out, and all we can hope is that the battle comes soon.’
Ada lay back on the bed. Margaret lay down beside her.
‘I hate him now,’ said Ada.
She did not need to explain whom she meant.
‘I just pray you have a chance to marry again and have children,’ said Ada. ‘The child Christiana saw in your arms.’
‘Do you still believe her vision will come to pass?’
‘I cling to it for hope, Maggie. Don’t you?’
‘But who is the husband? Not Roger – it’s too late for that.’
‘I wonder whether Christiana knew it was not Roger and spared you the knowledge of his death.’
Margaret considered the possibility, fighting a sudden drowsiness. ‘I doubt it.’ The Sight was deceptive, cunning in its opacity. She could believe that her mother truly had no idea who the man was. ‘I intend to find out who murdered Johanna,’ she said, preferring to think of a practical matter. ‘And Gordon Cowie. He has been on my mind, too. Perhaps I am tricking myself into believing there is a future, that I have time to accomplish something, to solve a murder. He was Huchon Allan’s neighbour. Might their deaths be connected?’
Ada made worried sounds. ‘You must not leave the house for a day or two, Maggie. I beg you.’
‘James gave me the same advice. Will you go to Johanna’s funeral?’
‘I will. For you. And for myself.’
Margaret wondered at Ada’s last words, but she was too close to sleep to make the effort to speak.
10
A FUNERAL AND A RING