A Cruel Courtship (2 page)

‘Was ever woman in this humour wooed?

Was ever woman in this humour won?
I’ll have her, but I will not keep her long.’
Richard III
, Act I, scene ii, ll. 228–230

‘… oftentimes, to win us to our harm,
The instruments of darkness tell us truths,
Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s
In deepest consequence.’
Macbeth
, Act I, scene iii, ll. 123–126

For this execution the gallows in the bailey of Stirling Castle would not suffice; a special one was set up in the market square so that the townsfolk would find it difficult to avoid. Huchon Allan was a traitor. He’d been caught about to ford the River Forth with more weapons than one man could reasonably use – William Wallace and Andrew Murray were gathering their Scottish rabble on the far side of the river and the English accused Huchon of intending to take the weapons to them. His hanging would serve as a warning to the Scots of Stirling that King Edward of England would not turn the other cheek.

Johanna had never known such fear as she suffered now, nor such a debilitating guilt. She did not doubt the righteousness of her cause, to return King John Balliol to the throne that King Edward of
England had stolen, but the danger for her and for her lover, Rob, had never been so real, so clear. She knew from Rob, a soldier at the castle and her unwitting informant, that the English were furious about the raiding of Inverness and Dundee by Murray and Wallace, and that they were expecting reinforcements soon. They were abandoning their earlier efforts to keep peace in the town, convinced that their generosity had simply bred rebellion.

Johanna had much to tell Archie, the lad who carried the information she coaxed from Rob down to someone in the valley who passed it on to Murray’s and Wallace’s men. But she’d not seen the lad in days. When she’d first heard that a traitor had been caught she’d feared for Archie, or for Rob, and had been giddy with relief that it was Huchon. But her relief had not lasted, for she knew and liked Huchon and his family, and his capture brought home to her the mortal danger in which she was placing Rob. She worried even more about Archie and what kept him away of late. She’d found it difficult to trust him; in fact she’d urged Father Piers to find someone else to carry the messages. The priest had argued that there was no one else foolhardy enough to take the risk, and they needed someone small and known to be a forager, a lad folks were accustomed to seeing everywhere.

For two days Johanna had been unable to keep
anything down, so real had the danger of her activity become to her. Yet on the day of the hanging she could not stay away from the square. She arrived just in time to see Huchon’s parents, Ranald and Lilias, led from their house by soldiers. The expressions on the Allans’s faces broke Johanna’s heart. Only when they were in their designated position at the head of the small group facing the galley was their son led from the kirk at the top of the street and down towards them, paced by a mournful drumming.

‘His betrothed has been sent away to kin in the highlands,’ said the woman beside Johanna. ‘She should have been here.’

‘Hush, Mary, she’s too young to witness such a thing,’ said another woman.

Johanna had not known Huchon was betrothed, but she did not ask to whom, trusting no one now. She said a prayer for the young woman, pitying her for such a horrible end to her betrothal.

Peter, a young, handsome, well-spoken English soldier, read the accusations against Huchon. His manner chilled Johanna, for he read Huchon’s death sentence with indifference, as if it meant nothing to those watching.

Suddenly several things happened at once. As the soldiers tied Huchon’s hands behind his back and covered his eyes, his mother lunged towards Peter and grabbed his hand screaming, ‘What right have you to wear that? Thief!’

Her husband grabbed Lilias at almost the moment that Huchon dropped, his body doing a ghastly jig, his face darkening.

Johanna fell to her knees, hiding her own face in her hands.
Dear God, may he rest in peace
, she whispered over and over to shut out the horrible screams of Lilias Allan.

1

Perth, end of August, 1297
As the summer wore on the presence of King Edward of England’s army in Perth began to fray the tempers of the townsfolk. Women increasingly complained of the rude behaviour of the soldiers, and theft was rampant, the thieves aware of the backlog of more serious crimes to be presented at gaol delivery sessions than their small felonies. The walls that the army had reinforced and extended now surrounded the town on three sides, cutting off the merchants’ access to their warehouses from the ships in the canal. The English might have compensated for some of the inconvenience by allowing general access along the riverfront on the east – it would have quieted tempers and cost them little in security. Instead they restricted access from the River Tay, allowing only one ship per day
to offload. Now ships might idly sit at anchor in the river for days, impeding traffic and slowing trade to almost a standstill. Even though the fighting in Dundee at the mouth of the Tay made shipmen hesitant to sail upriver, some still did, and to the townsfolk the restrictions were symbolic of the potential loss of freedom if Edward Longshanks was not defeated.

For several mornings now the English soldiers had found breaches in the town walls, small areas where stones had been taken away. Though it was a minor rebellion they were now questioning all who lingered on the riverfront, so that the townsfolk were fearful of going abroad.

James Comyn had watched an interrogation turn ugly the previous day – a man who loudly protested at having his person searched had been thrown to the ground and brutally beaten. That was enough to convince James that he should depart Perth while he could. As a member of the powerful Comyn clan and kinsman of the Scottish king deposed by Edward Longshanks, James was ever wary. He’d intended to leave soon in any case, for he’d been summoned to a meeting with William Wallace and Andrew Murray, the leaders of the Scots who were presently at Dundee trying to force the English troops west towards the highlands where, fearful of being lost in the mist-shrouded valleys, the English would predictably turn south.

As he packed a few possessions an ache in his left
shoulder reminded James of the night several weeks past when he had escorted Margaret Kerr to Elcho Nunnery. He’d caught an arrow in his shoulder as he stealthily rowed past Perth – apparently he’d not been stealthy enough. The ache was nothing compared with the pain he’d experienced when the arrowhead had first struck into the muscle. At the time he’d been grateful that the invisible archer on the riverbank had hit him and not his companion in the boat, the fair Margaret Kerr. He still felt the same.

She had been much on his mind the past few weeks, ever since she’d walked away from her husband Roger, who’d been injured by the men guarding the nunnery as he tried to break in. It was not the first time the lovely young Margaret had confounded James’s expectations, but this time he was suspicious of his own feelings, of the relief he felt. He’d thought it was because he needed Margaret to continue her work in support of his kinsman, John Balliol, the deposed king. This work was one of the issues that had come between husband and wife, for Roger supported Robert Bruce for the crown of Scotland. But James found himself seeking Margaret’s companionship more and more often – how strange that he’d connived to keep her occupied without understanding he was falling in love with her.

He wished he might ignore the summons from Wallace and Murray – he knew what his
assignments were. He’d prefer to begin another journey that was critical to the cause, escorting Margaret and her friend Ada de la Haye to Stirling. He’d agreed to give Margaret a real mission. He hoped he wouldn’t curse himself for telling her that the messenger who’d been carrying information from Stirling to the farm of James’s comrades down in the valley below Stirling had grown unreliable.

‘In fact they’ve not seen him in a few weeks. I need someone to find out what has happened.’

‘You’re leaving for Stirling?’ she’d asked.

He shook his head. ‘I can’t go. I’m known to too many of the English and the Scots in the town.’

‘I’ll do it,’ she said, fixing her eyes on his.

‘Maggie, that is not why I mentioned it. You can’t go.’

‘Why not?’

‘With the English holding Stirling Castle and town it’s a dangerous place. I would not risk you there.’

‘As a young woman unknown to anyone in Stirling I would be scrutinised no more than the other townsfolk.’

‘But all
are
scrutinised.’

‘That is also so in Perth.’

James could not deny that.

By the following day Margaret had recruited her friend Ada de la Haye, also keen to help the cause, as part of the scheme. Ada had a town house in Stirling where they might lodge. Both women were ready to depart at a day’s notice.

But now James must delay. What stayed him from disobedience was the possibility that Wallace and Murray might have changed their plans and he might be following discarded orders. So be it. Margaret must wait. He had, at least, presented her with a gift. A Welsh archer had arrived in town after escaping from the Hospital of the Trinity at Soutra Hill, an Augustinian establishment that stood on the main road from the border between England and Scotland. The English were using it as an infirmary and camp for the soldiers. The archer had news of Margaret’s brother, Father Andrew, who had been sent to Soutra as a confessor to the English. Margaret had seemed comforted to hear he was well.

Whence comes the knowledge of dreaming when one is dreaming – for a fleeting moment Margaret wondered that, but her sleepy, thoughtful mood quickly turned to dread as she recognised the dream space in which she stood, behind a once unfamiliar kirk, familiar now that she’d dreamt of it so often. It sat on a rocky plateau beneath a great castle that stretched high above on an outcrop. Here below, the kirk was dark except for a lantern over the east door that was for her but a twinkle in the distance; the castle was lit by many torches that danced in the wind of the heights, making the stone walls shimmer against the heavens. At the edge of the kirk yard her husband, Roger, stood
atop a huge, scrub-covered rock that rose four times Margaret’s height, looking up at the castle. She stood far beneath him in the rock’s shadow, terrified because she knew what was to come.
I pray you, Lord, let this time be different. Spare him, my Lord God
. But the cry came, and then Roger came falling, falling, his head hitting the uneven, stony ground with a terrible sound. Margaret knelt to him …

An owl’s screech rent the fabric of Margaret’s dream, letting the true night reach through and waken her. Rubbing her eyes, she rolled over to find her maid, Celia, sitting bolt upright with her hands to her ears, staring into the darkness of the curtained bed in Margaret’s chamber. Shivering, Margaret asked her if she’d shared her nightmare.

‘It was the shriek of an owl that woke us,’ Celia whispered, as if fearful the bird might hear her. ‘My ma always said such a visitation was a forewarning that the master of the house is to die.’ She crossed herself. ‘Master Roger is in danger.’

Holy Mary, Mother of God, keep him in your care
, Margaret prayed.

‘What should we do, Mistress?’ asked Celia.