A Cruel Courtship (12 page)

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 not 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.

‘Help me with these first,’ said the elderly priest as he eased himself down on his simple bed and proffered his booted feet. ‘In my youth I imagined an old age in a warmer clime where I might wear sandals. Instead I end my service in the windiest spital on earth.’ Obert pressed his stomach. ‘Oof. I already feel the food burning holes in my flesh. I’ll not be lying down for a while. To invite us to dine with him and then create such a strained mood is too cruel. I shan’t forgive him for this night.’

‘You do inspire him to prick at you.’

‘I have cause. Working well into the evening – that man’s never worked a whole day, much less into the evening. But do not fret, I have made my honesty into a game that he believes he is enjoying
with me.’ Obert chuckled, but suddenly bent forward, his hand to his stomach, his face contorted in pain. ‘
Deus juva me,’
he groaned. ‘Fetch me the little bottle on the shelf over there.’ He nodded towards the foot of his bed.

Andrew fetched it and pulled out the stopper before handing it to the elderly priest, who drank down its contents and then sat back against the wall with a sigh.

‘It will soon work, else I’ll take a powder of crowfoot and die laughing.’ Obert chuckled weakly. ‘Does that not sound pleasant, to die laughing?’

‘Were I assured of dying so I should not fear it,’ said Andrew, easing down on to a stool near the bed. Obert had closed his eyes. ‘What
did
you take?’

‘Oh dear, I forgot – the crowfoot works only on an empty belly, and mine is far from empty,’ said Obert, tears of laughter streaming down his eyes.

Andrew did not know whether his companion was laughing or crying, or indeed whether or not he had lost his wits. ‘Father Obert?’

‘I took rue,’ the old priest whispered. ‘It often works miracles.’

‘Are you in much pain?’

Obert eased upright and opened his eyes. They were still quite filled with tears, but he was now smiling. ‘Old age is so filled with pain, how might I measure this one alone?’ He used his sleeve to blot his tears. ‘Oh my, forgive me, I’ve frightened you. And why not?’ He let out a sound between a groan
and a sigh and then took a deep breath. ‘Better. So. I shall live another night.’

‘Can I fetch you anything else?’ Living another night did not seem compensation enough for what Obert had seemed to suffer.

But the old priest shook his head. ‘I need to be quiet, breathe deeply, from the bottom to the top of my lungs, and it will all calm.’ He demonstrated, coughing a little, but after a few rounds the coughing ceased and his expression was much less strained.

‘I must remember that,’ said Andrew. He thought he should leave the old man to his rest. ‘Sleep well,’ he said, rising.

‘But you wished to talk, eh? You held your own part well this evening. I do not believe Thomas could see how his talk disturbed you.’

That was not reassuring. ‘You could.’

Obert, still leaning back against the wall with his eyes half closed, smiled a little. ‘I know you far better than he does. Now. What is on your mind?’

‘Thomas was looking for something, wasn’t he?’

Tilting his head from side to side as if it was not such a terrible thing, Obert said, ‘He expects us to spy on one another.’

‘But we are priests.’

‘We are human, Andrew, just men beneath these gowns, and Thomas never forgets that. I advise you to pay more heed to that. Have I not told you that I betrayed someone to save myself?’

‘You’ve told me little. Even what you just said is more than you’ve revealed before.’

‘Let that satisfy you for tonight. My belly has suffered enough.’ He closed his eyes.

‘But–’

‘Leave me now, I pray you,’ said Obert.

Andrew withdrew, wide awake and frightened that if something should happen to Obert he would be responsible for the souls of all in this godforsaken place.

The assemblage of belongings Margaret and her friend presented was far smaller than James had expected. Margaret had more than did Ada, who he had expected would travel with household items as well as clothing.

‘Is this all you have brought?’ he asked her. ‘Are you so confident that your kinsmen’s house in Stirling will be in readiness for you? The English have taken over many dwellings.’

‘The tenants are skilled in gaining grace with whoever holds power,’ Ada said. ‘But I also sent my butler and cook on to prepare the house. So I carried only what was necessary for this journey and brought only my lady’s maid and the two menservants with me.’