by Candace Robb
‘I know that my daughter wishes to talk to you,’ said Evota, making it clear by her tone that she didn’t approve, but had resigned herself to it.
‘Let’s retire to the corner,’ Margaret suggested.
‘It’s about your husband’s death,’ said Ellen, at last looking squarely at Margaret.
Aylmer, Margaret thought, she’s spoken to him. She led the way to the corner, out of the light.
12
THE DYKE BREAKS
‘Have you heard the soldiers’ shouts from below, down by the river?’ Ellen asked.
Margaret nodded. ‘We can only pray that God is with us.’
The young woman sat with her hands clutching the bench on either side of her. Margaret felt Ellen’s anguish and wished she could just run away. How was it that after all the pent-up tension of the past week – months for the people in this town – everything was bursting apart now? All those troops massing below them. The town floated on a sea of armed men that would soon turn to blood; they would all drown in the hatred. God must have a reason for this, but Margaret could not fathom it.
She was trying to catch her breath and calm herself. She wanted a cup of wine but did not trust her legs to carry her across the room, so she judged it best to just get this over with. ‘What is on your mind, Ellen?’
‘What I have to say, Dame Maggie–’ Ellen paused. ‘I’m telling you because he wants you to know that he didn’t kill your husband.’
‘Who?’
‘Aylmer.’
Margaret was taken aback. ‘How do you know my husband’s comrade? Have you seen Aylmer since he escaped from the castle?’
‘He came to see me last night. I wish I didn’t know him.’ Ellen’s voice caught and she bowed her head for a moment. ‘I was with Aylmer that night. Your husband was on the great rock behind the kirk and they were to take turns watching the castle. It’s dark up on the rock and the torches up at the castle make the movement up there like a play. I was with Aylmer down below the rock, in its shadow.’ She paused, biting her lip.
‘Go on, go on.’ Margaret’s heart was racing.
‘He went after Fitzsimon last night because of what happened.’
‘Aylmer did?’
Ellen nodded.
Aylmer had struck the second, mortal blow? ‘What did happen the night my husband died?’
‘Peter knew I’d been with Aylmer before, and he made me lead him to where your husband and Aylmer were watching that night – or he’d take Archie – he knew Archie was carrying messages. After Aylmer fell asleep, I was sneaking away when your husband cried out. I wish I hadn’t moved.’ She took a breath. ‘He tumbled off the rock and landed right next to me. He’d come down with the most awful speed and his head – oh, Dame Maggie, I heard it hit the rock.’ Ellen moaned.
Margaret stifled a sob, remembering the vision.
‘When I looked up, I saw Peter standing at the edge of the rock, looking down on your husband. Aylmer grabbed me and I thought he was going to kill me, but Peter came running down with his men and I ran away. I ran and ran.’
‘Peter Fitzsimon killed my husband?’ Margaret asked, trying to grasp what Ellen was telling her. ‘Peter pushed Roger off the rock?’
‘Yes, I’m sure of it. He likes to tell me that I am responsible for your husband’s death because your husband saw me running away and then lost his balance, but I saw Peter up there. He gave me this ring for my reward.’ Ellen snapped the thong from her neck and pressed the ring into Margaret’s hand. ‘I don’t want this. It’s blood pay. I never thought– I’m so sorry.’ She began to sob. ‘I never meant any harm. I helped my family, sleeping with men. Peter would have taken my brother from us.’
Margaret stared at the floor, the ring heavy in her hand. ‘How did Peter get this ring?’ She repeated the question several times before Ellen calmed enough to respond.
‘He said he bought it fair, from the goldsmith. It’s Peter’s.’
‘It wasn’t,’ Margaret said. But she’d forgotten that Ellen did not know Peter was dead. ‘I’m confused, don’t mind what I say,’ she muttered, pressing the ring back into Ellen’s hand.
‘Keep it!’ the young woman wept.
Margaret did not want it, but she agreed. ‘I shall keep it for you until–’ Until what? She found it difficult to think clearly. ‘Until I find the owner. Bless you for telling me how my husband died, Ellen. I am grateful, and I know that you are not to blame.’
The young woman looked over at her mother. ‘There is more I would tell you, but not now. Archie might hear.’ She rose. ‘We should go now. Ma wants to bring him home tomorrow.’
Considering the corpse in the shed, Margaret thought it a good idea to send the young man home to heal. ‘We’ll talk of that tomorrow,’ she said.
Evota and Ellen had not long been gone when Ada returned, and Margaret faced the moment she’d been dreading since seeing Peter in the shed.
The marketplace was very quiet but for a few small clusters of folk as Ada hurried back to her home. The few there were talking softly among themselves, wondering how the Scots could gather enough men to stand against all the troops they could see camping down below.
‘Torches and fires as far as the eye can see,’ one man said.
Ada had enjoyed the evening with Isabel. Her old friend was already coming to terms with being a widow, planning to join her daughter who was away in the north if that became possible, determined to go on with her life. Without revealing that Peter was here in Stirling, Ada had talked about having at last met one of her adult children only to find him an unpleasant young man, someone of whom she was not very proud – although he was quite handsome and skilled in the arts of war. Isabel had listened with sympathy and confided some of her own disappointments. All in all it had cheered Ada and she felt much better about her life.
But the moment she entered her house she knew something was wrong. Maus sat by the fire with Archie, but the moment she noticed her mistress in the room she put her hand to her mouth and hurried out to the kitchen.
It was nothing unusual for Maus to abandon her post. Ada had considered replacing her many times – she was the youngest daughter of a couple whom Ada had taken under her wing many years ago, the husband a man who seemed unable to thrive in any occupation and the wife a longsuffering saint who would have done better for her family by losing her temper now and then. Maus seemed to have inherited the most useless traits from each parent. Muttering a curse, Ada headed for the kitchen after checking that Archie was resting peacefully.
Margaret and Celia sat near the fire talking quietly with John, Sandy, Alec, and cook. Ned was scrubbing something in a tub, Maus whispering some direction. The water seemed pink in the firelight. As they individually became aware of Ada’s presence, not one smiled or greeted her, but rather whispered her name. Dame Ada. The Mistress. Ada.
‘What has happened here? Why are you all so upset to see me?’ she demanded with a frisson of fear that perhaps she would regret asking.
Only Margaret rose and moved towards her. All the others seemed frozen where they were.
‘This is a pretty greeting,’ Ada said. As Margaret put an arm around her Ada noticed that her friend was so pale her freckles were visible in the firelight. ‘What has frightened you, Maggie?’
‘Come into the hall.’
Margaret urged her forward, but Ada walked over to the tub. ‘Those are the sleeves of the dress you wore today.’ She glanced back at Margaret’s gown. She wore her better one, for no apparent reason – except that the sleeves to the grey one were bloody. ‘What happened? Are you wearing bandages beneath your sleeves?’
‘Come into the hall with me,’ said Margaret. Her mouth was grimly fixed and her eyes anxious, but she did not appear to be in pain.
‘It’s someone else’s blood. Archie’s?’
Margaret pulled her out of the kitchen with more strength than Ada could resist.
After the kitchen the evening air felt cool and cle
an. ‘The air is so soft out here – let’s go into the backland,’ Ada suggested.
Margaret stopped and faced Ada, a hand on either shoulder.
Suddenly, Ada was frightened. ‘What is it, Maggie?’
‘Peter has been killed, Ada.’
Her first reaction – God forgive her – was relief, but that was short-lived. ‘My son? How?’
Margaret took a breath, and Ada knew that this was the part that her friend most dreaded telling her.
‘He was stabbed. First, I think, by Archie. Then he–’ Margaret pressed her forehead to Ada’s for a moment, then looked up again. ‘Sandy and I have tried to put it all together. We think that Archie managed to stab Peter in his left side and he sought shelter in the garden shed. He pulled some old bags around him for warmth.’ Her voice was gruff and it was plain she was holding back tears.
‘Dear God,’ Ada moaned. ‘He would be grievously wounded to do that.’
Margaret nodded. ‘I know. As much as I feared him, I think of his pain–’ She shook her head. ‘Someone else came upon him and stabbed him in the heart – through one of the bags – that’s how we know it was later.’ Margaret began to sob. ‘I don’t know where to begin, Ada. I don’t know where to begin.’
‘Begin what? No, shush now. He was heading down a road that could lead only to his death, Maggie. Archie should be grateful his wasn’t the fatal wound.’ I’m rambling on, thought Ada, trying to fill in the silence. The one child I knew is dead. He suffered. So near here. So recently. She stepped away from Margaret and began to heave. She felt Margaret behind her, steadying her, holding her forehead. When her stomach was empty, her knees threatened to buckle beneath her.
‘Come,’ Margaret said, supporting Ada as she straightened. ‘Brandywine and bed, that is what you need. Plans can wait until morning.’
In the early morning, as Ada dully stared out the solar window trying not to think about how little love she’d felt for her now dead son, she noticed Simon departing the castle on horseback, leading a group of foot soldiers. God be praised, she murmured when he continued on Castle Wynd to St John Street. He would feel far less ambivalent about their son’s murder than she did. Now she mourned Peter, now that he was dead she considered his courage and wished she had offered him affection. Surely she might have found a way to his heart. If she’d only tried.
She wanted to strangle the young man who slept so peacefully down in the hall. Had he not injured Peter, her son would not have sought shelter in such an exposed place. Aylmer she’d hated from the moment she met him in Perth. Shortly after he’d arrived with Roger Sinclair, Margaret had found documents on him that revealed he was not quite who he claimed to be. He was Robert Bruce’s kinsman, and was making certain that Roger fulfilled his mission and proved his loyalty to the Bruce; if Roger had failed, Aylmer was to kill him. It was not just Ada’s loyalty to Margaret and therefore her husband that had tainted her impression of Aylmer – he had seemed an arrogant man of no courtesy.
Margaret had explained Peter’s part in Roger’s death, so Ada understood why Aylmer might have gone after Peter. Yet hadn’t Christ told mankind to turn the other cheek? And how could the man who had carried an order to deal with Roger as needed consider it his right to avenge the man’s death?
Margaret knocked on the flimsy dividing wall of the solar. She’d slept with Celia and Maus to give Ada some privacy in her grief. ‘Did you sleep at all?’ Margaret asked.
Ada shook her head. ‘Come, sit with me a while.’ She patted the bench beside her. Margaret looked refreshed; so much better than she had the previous night. ‘You slept.’
Winding her red-gold, wavy fall of hair round one hand, Margaret fastened it with two polished wood sticks as she took the seat. She was a beautiful woman, Ada thought.
‘John has gone to Father Piers,’ she told Margaret. ‘I hope he will agree to bury Peter in the kirk yard.’
‘Will you tell Simon?’
‘He’s just headed down the hill, leading foot soldiers.’
Margaret closed her eyes and bowed her head. ‘We have a respite. Thank God. But Ada, you cannot attend your son’s funeral.’
Ada nodded. ‘But he’ll have a proper burial. And later …’ Whether she would tell Simon was something she was not yet ready to consider. One thing at a time. They must make safe the house by ridding it of her son’s corpse. ‘I wonder what Simon’s departure means,’ she said, ‘whether he’s to negotiate a truce or lead those men into battle.’ She pressed her hands to her face. ‘This town reeks of blood.’
They sat silently for a time.
‘I’d thought to join you at Isabel’s last evening. How did you find her?’ Margaret asked.
‘Glad to be alive,’ said Ada. ‘She hopes to join her daughter in the north if the truce comes to pass. She sent her there when–’ she remembered that Margaret would be most interested in a piece of information that had surprised her. ‘Maggie, her daughter was betrothed to Huchon Allan. When he was to be hanged, Gordon and Isabel sent her to kin in the north. Poor Isabel – she has suffered so much of late.’
Margaret suddenly brought her face so close that Ada could see shots of gold in the irises.
‘Her daughter and Huchon Allan?’ Margaret said, her voice high with excitement. She sat back so suddenly the bench rocked. ‘If it was his ring, then Peter – I must go out.’ She was off the bench before Ada could ask where she was going. ‘Celia, dress me. Hurry!’ Margaret called.
Margaret struggled not to jump to conclusions, though she kept thinking of her bargain with the Sight, that if it proved helpful she would go to her great-aunt in Kilmartin to learn more – she wondered whether the Sight was making sure she would. She wanted to ask Isabel about the whereabouts of Huchon’s ring when Gordon was killed, but first she needed to make sure that it was his ring that Peter had given Ellen, which meant she must show it to Lilias and Ranald Allan. It was not an encounter she looked forward to.
As Celia dressed Margaret, she listened quietly. When she was finished, she touched the ring in Margaret’s hand. ‘So this was Peter Fitzsimon’s ring? He gave it to Ellen?’
Margaret belatedly realised that she hadn’t explained any of this to Celia – she hadn’t expected her to be involved.
‘You know enough now. Don’t worry whether you understand it. All you need to do is be sure to not contradict me.’
Celia’s dark brows were knit in concern. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To the Allans’s house.’
‘Next door? You hardly need a companion to walk across the wynd.’
One could count on Celia to get right to the telling detail, thought Margaret. ‘I don’t want to go alone.’
‘Oh.’ Celia pressed her lips together and was quiet a moment.
‘Maggie, come quickly,’ Ada called from below, ‘James is here!’
Margaret’s and Celia’s eyes met.
‘He’s escaped?’ Celia whispered.
‘God help him,’ Margaret said. ‘We’ll go to the Allans soon.’
Celia crossed herself. ‘May God watch over him. Perhaps he will be able to join the others.’
As Margaret hurried down to the hall she felt a knot forming inside. She’d not thought about James fighting in the battle with the others.
He stood by the back doorway, dressed for travel, listening to Ada’s recounting of the conversations in the market square the previous night.
‘I’ve not had the courage to look down at the camps,’ she said, ‘but I can imagine. How can we possibly prevail against them?’
‘We cannot fail, else things will be far worse than they are now. We must carry the day.’ He glanced up, and seeing that Margaret had come, bowed to Ada. ‘The guards are gone,’ he said, taking a step towards Margaret.
‘Sir Simon Montagu left early this morning, leading some foot soldiers,’ said Margaret, guiding him to the far end of the hall, away from Archie.
James looked tired. ‘What of Peter? Is he still lu
rking about?’
Margaret’s stomach clenched, instantly back in the shed with Peter’s blood on her. She drew James down on to a bench beside her, taking his hands. ‘No, Jamie. Peter is dead.’ She told him how they’d found him, and explained how the fatal stabbing had occurred after he’d taken refuge in the shed, and that Ellen had said Aylmer had gone looking for Peter.
‘Aylmer. God’s blood. How did he find him there?’ James glanced towards the fire circle.
‘I don’t know. Archie admitted that the knife was his. Peter had grabbed it by the blade and Archie had not the strength to retrieve it.’ She remembered Peter’s cut-up hand and shivered at the thought of the pain he must have experienced.
James pulled her close. ‘I am so sorry you’ve seen the bodies of people you knew so viciously injured, Maggie.’
She clung to him, trying not to see the blood, the battered flesh, the gaping wounds, but her mind was full of Johanna’s and Peter’s suffering – and Roger’s, though she had witnessed it through the Sight, not her fleshly eyes. She could not help but think that souls so violently wrenched from the body were never entirely freed.
‘Maggie, Maggie,’ James whispered, ‘you are so young to be seeing all of this. I wish I could protect you.’
She turned her face towards his, and their kiss was long and sweet. This was a cruel courtship indeed.
When they moved apart, Margaret asked, ‘What will you do now that you are free?’ She did not for a moment expect him to stay here with her, knowing that his first loyalty was to John Balliol, his kinsman, and she respected him for that.
‘Free? I hardly feel that. I must return to my men below. This battle will decide whether we go on to fight another day, Maggie. I cannot bide here while they fight for my kinsman.’
‘I did not expect you to.’
‘I wonder whether Aylmer has run off to Robert Bruce? We could use all the men we can find.’
Margaret shrugged. ‘Will you try to reach Wallace and Murray on Abbey Craig?’