A Cruel Courtship (16 page)

‘Had I told you my story earlier, you would not have trusted me when I found a way to free you from your shackles,’ said Obert. ‘So now I confess my sin. You were not the first assistant confessor provided by the English. Last year I shared the confessional with a Scot who had been captured in Berwick and brought here to end his days in the service of his enemies. Master Thomas instructed me to spy on him so that at the first sign of an attempt to escape or somehow pervert the mission here he might be punished and by such means convinced to mend his ways.’

‘I had judged Master Thomas to be fairer than that.’

‘I saw that you did, but recently you witnessed how he tried to play us against one another. His purpose is the same as mine was then, to save his own neck. We become so attached to this fleshly shell.’

‘So you betrayed your fellow priest?’

‘Don’t hurry the tale, Father Andrew. Let me tell it fully, and in my own time.’

‘Forgive me.’

‘Forgiven. The young are always hastening to their ends, I do remember being so.’ Obert rubbed his eyes, as if he were reading the tale. ‘I falsely befriended the man, having no intention of keeping his counsel if I judged him unworthy. And when I had observed him long enough to be satisfied that he was an idle, lazy priest with no apparent calling I met with Master Thomas.’

‘You played God,’ Andrew observed, trying not to sound angry.

Obert closed his eyes and nodded. ‘I did.’

‘Was there much to tell?’

A tear slipped from one of the old priest’s closed eyes. ‘Oh my yes. His flesh was weak; he was overly fond of his young servant, a pretty lad who was only too glad to be away from the soldiers. Of course my comrade tried to be discreet, but I do not sleep as soundly as I did in my youth.’ Obert dabbed at his eyes. ‘Who was I to judge him? The captains here look the other way when their men are too fond, and I cannot imagine what that young servant suffered.
No doubt you’ve heard enough confessions here to know how it is in the camps. And is it worse than a group falling upon the camp followers and coming down upon them until they scream for the pain of it? You’ve heard those cries. They may be whores, but they are God’s children.’ The old priest looked up at him. ‘You must think me mad, to go on like this.’

‘The soldiers have not taken vows,’ Andrew said. ‘You were right to question the priest’s morals.’

‘Precisely what I told myself. My assistant needed to be reminded of his duty, of his vows. I told myself that it had never occurred to me he might take his own life. I told myself all this, but it was a lie. I had noticed how he took all imagined slights to heart because he knew he was weak and it tormented him. I knew he would be shattered, and Master Thomas knew that I knew.’

‘The priest took his own life?’

‘He hanged himself. And then the serving lad did likewise a few nights later.’

Andrew could not think what to say beyond, ‘May they rest in peace.’ He’d been here for four months and never heard anything about what must have been a very unsettling experience for everyone. ‘Were they living here in the master’s house?’

Obert shook his head. ‘We were then with the canons. Afterward I was removed at their request. Your more comfortable quarters have been thanks to my betrayal.’

‘You don’t believe that you told Master Thomas out of a sense of duty?’

Obert shook his head. ‘I have vowed never to deceive myself again.’

Andrew raised an eyebrow. ‘A good intention, but hardly possible to achieve. We seldom fully know our own hearts.’

‘Of course. I have the intention. But I am certain that my intention then was to convince Master Thomas that I was trustworthy. That I would choose my own life over that of one of my countrymen.’ Obert’s voice rasped on the last few words.

‘And over one of his also, if it served you.’

Obert shrugged. ‘You see why I did not tell you of this before.’

Andrew did indeed. The story had saddened him. He’d come to like Father Obert very much, but it was difficult to forgive such selfishness, such loss of life, especially to push two men to commit the unforgivable sin of taking their own lives. He could only pray that they saved themselves from the fires of hell by last minute repentance.

‘Longshanks believes us to be no better than beasts, and if we have not a care we shall become so,’ Andrew said as he rose. ‘God forgive us both, Obert.’

‘Pray for me, Andrew.’

‘I’ll pray for both of us. I do not think that saving me makes up for those lives.’

‘That depends. If you are the man I believe you to be, it will.’

Wallace and Murray needed news from the castle at once with the troop reinforcements arriving from England, and so James had rushed Margaret’s company to Stirling – these were Margaret’s first thoughts when she woke at dawn. Her heart pounding, she fell to planning how she would approach Father Piers after Mass at Holy Rude Kirk – for he was to be her guide in finding the messenger. She could not linger on concerns beyond that at present, not fret about whether Father Piers would preside at the Mass or whether the messenger could be or wanted to be found, and once found, whether he was still to be trusted. She had no time to worry, she must act. James had assured her that if the lad had been compromised Father Piers would be able to suggest another messenger. Pray God that wasn’t necessary, but if it was, pray God the priest had someone in mind. She woke Celia, who was surprisingly still abed, and then had a time convincing her that she must dress at once.

‘It is not a matter of whether I feel fresh enough.’ Either the journey or yesterday’s confidences must have addled Celia’s wits, for she spoke as if this were nothing more important than a polite visit. ‘Our commanders need information,’ Margaret reminded her. ‘The armies are massing. Dress me now.’

A sleepy Celia insisted on accompanying her to Mass but Ada was able to dissuade her by insisting on being Margaret’s companion. Margaret was relieved; Ada would be far more helpful than Celia for she knew Father Piers. James had described the priest, but it was comforting to climb the hill with Ada’s chatting again about what had changed – some houses had been enlarged, others, particularly near Castle Wynd, had suffered damage.

‘I’d not noticed these yesterday in my fear,’ she confessed.

Within Holy Rude Kirk they found a crowd of worshippers far greater than Margaret had seen in either Edinburgh or Perth.

‘The people of Stirling fear the end is near,’ Ada murmured as they paused at the back of the nave. ‘Father Piers must be rejoicing at their strengthened piety. Come. We shall kneel beside Isabel Cowie, the goldsmith’s wife, and hear some gossip of the town.’

Ada led the way towards a large-boned woman in a fine wool gown – Margaret thought it might be scarlet, the finest wool cloth. She wore a gold fillet over her veil and the paternoster beads moving through her fingers were ivory. Shoulders proudly thrust back, she might have been posing for her figure as pious donor at the base of a stained glass window. As Ada knelt beside her she whispered something that Margaret could not hear. The woman lifted her head with a start, and a sorrowful
expression turned to a smile. She was a handsome woman, no longer young but with large eyes and a smile that lit her face.

‘St Columba, I never thought to see you here, Ada.’

‘Nor did I, Isabel, but it warms my heart to see you.’

The woman leaned forward to look past Ada to Margaret. ‘And who is this young beauty?’ she asked, eyeing her up and down.

‘My niece Maggie,’ said Ada.

Margaret nodded to Isabel.

‘She is as bonny as you were in youth. But fie on you for bringing her here now. You expose her at the worst time, with the English king’s felons lying about. You’ve risked all bringing her here. And yourself.’

‘There’s nowhere except the highlands where she might be safe,’ said Ada, ‘and that way would lead to other problems.’

Isabel sniffed. ‘It’s true, a man is a man uphill or down. At least here she is among God-fearing friends.’

‘I have never seen the kirk so full,’ said Ada.

‘Fear makes saints of us all.’

A hissed argument behind them distracted Margaret. A woman and a man Margaret took to be a soldier stood behind a second man who knelt with head bowed, seemingly unaware of their presence. The woman gesticulated dramatically and the soldier appeared to ask whether she was certain.

‘I’ve known him from a lad,’ she spoke more loudly in exasperation.

Now the kneeling man glanced behind him and with a strangled cry scrambled to his feet, about to run. But the soldier caught hold of his tunic and jerked him backwards. The man went sprawling and those kneeling around him scattered. The silence of the crowd and the malevolence in the accuser’s eyes chilled Margaret. She heard Ada ask Isabel for an explanation.

‘It is the new game here – betray your neighbour. Accuse him before he accuses you. I do hope you had good cause to return, my friend, for you’ll find no peace here.’

Margaret broke out in a cold sweat; James had warned them about the tension in the town, but she had imagined herself too insignificant to attract anyone’s attention. That was quite obviously not true if neighbour was turning against neighbour.

The man’s cries did not interrupt the Mass. In fact many of the townspeople kept their heads bowed through the entire drama, though there was a communal letting out of breath after the soldier departed. Ada and Isabel had fallen silent, and Margaret prayed that no one would make note of her or her conversation to come with Father Piers.

This proved impossible. After the Mass, several people called out to Ada, all of them elders of the town. Ada’s friendly nods but determined stride made it plain she was on an errand, and none
stopped her – no one was so self-involved that they were not reading such signals. How alert all were in this place on the edge of war. It was different from Margaret’s experience in Edinburgh, where the threat had been less defined. Here the town sat above the most important bridge in this battle, and all knew that a confrontation must take place, and soon, whether or not they actually knew of the troops massing on the plain below the town.

Father Piers was a short, delicate man with dark, dramatically arching eyebrows that gave him a look as if surprised by life.

Upon recognising Ada he called out to her, ‘My old friend, praise be to God for watching over you.’ He embraced her. ‘It is good to see you well.’

To Margaret’s ears the greeting sounded forced, the priest’s tone guarded. Indeed she wondered at a priest considering Ada, the never-married mother of five and former mistress of an English commander who was part of the occupying force in the town, a ‘friend’. Though he might not be aware of all that.

‘I rejoice to find you still here, Father.’ Ada dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I feared for you.’

‘God holds me in His protection,’ the priest said quietly, and then, turning to Margaret, he asked rather sharply, ‘Who is this?’ No one listening would guess that she was the purpose of their meeting; indeed, they would think her unwelcome.

‘My niece Maggie,’ said Ada, snaking an arm
around Margaret’s waist and drawing her close, cheek to cheek. ‘Do you not see the resemblance between me and James’s friend from Edinburgh?’

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.