A Cruel Courtship (28 page)

‘The archer was sick yet managed to journey from Soutra to Perth?’ she asked in what she hoped was a steady, slightly bored tone.

‘You
have
been listening,’ Simon said. ‘Yes. He managed to make the journey in good time, which is perhaps what made the Comyn wary of his sincerity, for Peter says the Welshman – David, by name – talks too much. A smart man, this James Comyn, for David had of course been advised of a safe route and had a mount for some of the time while his fever weakened him. The Comyn found a woman to nurse him in a small house quite isolated. More a prison than a house.’

‘How did his escape bring on a fever?’

When Simon described the man’s escape route, Ada made quite a fuss, hoping to annoy him enough
that he would end the discussion for the night. But she was disappointed.

‘You grow tiresome, Ada.’

Simon was studying her closely. With all the lamps lit she could find no shadow and felt frighteningly vulnerable.

‘Do you know James Comyn of Edinburgh, lately in Perth?’

‘The Comyns are a large family, Simon. It’s likely I’ve met him on some occasion. I doubt that I can be of help to you, but what does he look like?’ She forced herself to breathe quietly, not gulp air.

Simon shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea – haven’t seen him yet as he’s in sanctuary.’

‘Of course. I
am
very tired, Simon.’

‘There seem to be many spies in Stirling at the moment – I should not be surprised, but I thought we’d secured it better than this. We’ve even found a dead one in the kirk yard.’ He sighed as if impatient. ‘We’ve allowed his friends to take him away to bury him. Comyn’s friends, actually, which is odd for the man was known to be working for Robert Bruce. Isn’t that odd, Ada?’

God grant him peace, Ada silently prayed. ‘The families are not on friendly terms, it is true.’ Robert Bruce’s man, James taking an interest in his burial – she prayed it was not Roger Sinclair. She must get to Maggie.

Simon suddenly pushed back his chair and rose. ‘You’ll stay here tonight.’

‘But Simon, your men …’

He stood behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t care if they see you leaving my lodging.’ He reached beneath her veil with the other hand and pulled her hair loose. ‘It might be the last night we have together.’

She rose and found herself wrapped in his arms, pinned to him so tightly it was difficult to breathe. It was not inconceivable that he might kill her; she had loved his dangerous nature and she did not think he’d mellowed with age. But the thought of dying at his hands infuriated her and she pushed against him with all her strength.

He released her with a laugh. ‘Forgive me, my delicate Ada.’

‘Why might it be our last night together, Simon? Have you found someone who pleases you more? A younger woman, perhaps?’

‘Would you still care? I am glad.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘But no, you have my heart while I am here in Stirling. But should peace be declared I’ll no longer have cause to be here in the north and I’d not hesitate to depart. I weary of the company of soldiers.’

Had she still loved him his indifference would have broken her heart; now it just frightened her. ‘Do you weary of our son?’

‘I despair of his manners. He needs a wife, a woman who will teach him the gentle arts. What think you of a Comyn or a Bruce if we make peace
with these people? He
is
half Scot.’

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 not 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.