A Cruel Courtship (30 page)

Celia could not help but eavesdrop on mother and son, and was glad she had, for now she knew for certain that the man across the way was Archie. She’d been moved by his expression of abject sorrow in the kirk, breaking down into softly audible sobs as Johanna’s shroud-wrapped body was carried past. Now he was quiet, and definitely distracted by Peter Fitzsimon’s presence, but the depth of his mourning had been unmistakable.

Sandy’s warning came to mind. Archie had a way with women, had
his
way with women. If he’d been Johanna’s lover, and loved her deeply, Celia imagined that her taking an English soldier for a lover would have deeply wounded Archie, perhaps enough to beat her to death, and now he could not bear the guilt. But she could equally well imagine that he was not guilty, but missed Johanna, knowing that there was now no possibility of ever winning her back.

His reaction to Peter Fitzsimon was not surprising, for the man had certainly been watching Evota’s house. But when Archie had caught sight of him his expression had subtly changed, and she’d read a flash of anger – not merely resentment – before he’d drawn himself in with fear. Perhaps Peter had murdered Johanna, or at least Archie believed he had.

Celia’s observations intrigued Margaret, who’d spent the morning sitting in the solar with some spinning while she tortured herself with a review of her sad marriage, wondering whether she was in some way responsible for Roger’s death.

Earlier she’d sat beneath the eaves of the house facing the backlands watching the light rain, letting the cool air refresh her. But the Allans had begun quarrelling loudly again.

‘The ring had been in your family for generations,’ Lilias cried.

‘You’ll not be alone, wife, I assure you. We’ll both suffer the torments of hell, and the soldier will most likely be there with us. I pray you are satisfied.’

‘We are talking of our son!’ she screeched.

Margaret had withdrawn, not wanting to witness their private agony.

‘Ada has wondered about Archie and Johanna,’ she told Celia. ‘But he needn’t have attended the funeral – why would he if he is guilty?’

Celia sighed as she settled beside Margaret. ‘I wish we’d never come here.’ Her delicate features framed by the dark brows were pinched with worry.

Margaret thought Celia might more honestly extend that wish to never having left the home of Dame Katherine Sinclair.

‘I confess I wonder what good we’ve done here,’ Margaret said. ‘We still don’t know why Archie stopped delivering the messages to James’s men. I failed to prevent either Roger’s or Johanna’s deaths. Simon Montagu knows who I am, knows what Roger was about, knows of my connection to James–’ She caught her breath and could not face Celia’s frightened expression. Bowing her head, Margaret fussed with the spindle and wool though her hands were trembling so much she was creating a tangle.

‘God help us,’ Celia said. ‘What do you think Sir Simon will do?’

Margaret did not want to think about that. ‘I pray
the battle begins soon or a truce is struck so that he has more important things to think about.’

‘We are harmless with Master Comyn in the kirk,’ Celia said.

Margaret raised her head. ‘Sir Simon doesn’t know that, does he?’ She tugged at the wool. ‘I would that I could sneak James away.’

Ada knocked on the wall, announcing her presence. ‘May I join you?’

Margaret welcomed her.

Ada waved to someone behind her, and Maus appeared carrying a tray of cups and a wine flagon.

‘I hoard brandywine for days such as this.’ Ada took a seat on the bed near where Margaret and Celia perched on the bench. ‘Leave us, Maus. We will bore you with our dull conversation.’

The maid set down the tray and departed, looking pleased to be excused from the glum company.

For glum was the only word Margaret could think to describe both her companions, Celia with her pinched expression and Ada looking the part of a mourner even to her exhausted posture.

‘Celia has told you about my son’s presence in the kirk yard?’ Ada asked.

Margaret nodded. ‘Why would he attend Johanna’s burial?’

‘To frighten us,’ said Ada. ‘I’ve been thinking that you would be safer in sanctuary with James.’

‘I’ve thought of that,’ Margaret admitted, ‘but
I’d rather find a way to release him. I can’t bear just sitting here spinning while my country is being crushed beneath the boots of Longshanks …’ She shook her head as Ada seemed about to respond. ‘I am hardly a threat to Peter while I sit here. Would that I were!’

Celia poured a little brandywine in each cup.

‘People are executed for past deeds as well as present threat,’ Ada said softly, her expression solemn as she worked the tablets. ‘I regret the night I conceived that young man.’

So did Margaret. Ada’s words were disturbing, to say the least. ‘I wonder about the fate of Johanna’s lover,’ she said. ‘From the way Peter and the other soldier spoke of her that night, as she lay there, I believe they know who he was. She does not seem to have been as careful about her liaisons as she should have been, considering her purpose.’

‘Many loved ones will never know the fates of the young men who have come here to fight,’ said Ada. ‘Someone will be broken-hearted when he doesn’t return.’

Celia choked back a sob. Her face was flushed and her eyes red. Margaret reached out to her, but she shook her head. ‘Don’t mind me. I hadn’t thought about all the mothers and wives worrying and praying. And men like your son, Dame Ada, they act like it’s a game. As if after death the victims rise again and come back for another round. But they’re gone for ever.’

Margaret crossed herself. ‘I’m not going to join James in sanctuary. I prefer to remain free to do whatever I might to help our cause.’

‘I pray that my other children are more like you, Maggie, and not at all like Peter. It seems a cruel penance to meet one of my children only to be ashamed of him.’

‘It is the times,’ said Celia.

Ada broke down. ‘He is my son, flesh of my flesh, and for that I do love him. God save me. I love him and hate him both.’

Eventually the three bent silently, nervously, to their spinning and tablet weaving.

In the night, Margaret dreamt that an owl-woman sat beside her bed listening attentively to her narration of all that had happened to her since Roger left their home in Perth a year earlier. Now and then the owl-woman would ask Margaret to explain her feelings, or to expand on a detail, and by this method all became clear to both of them. Margaret embraced the downy yet strong woman and understood that she need never fear again. She clearly saw her purpose and her path.

But when Margaret woke at dawn the clarity was gone. Rising, she dressed in a simple gown, picked up her shoes and slipped down to the hall, where she opened the door to the backlands and breathed in the fresh morning air.

An owl-woman. She tried to recall her features but
could remember only white and grey feathers, dark eyes, and how she had completely trusted the woman and through her had known her own strength. What was much more vivid in memory was the setting, a lushly green glen studded with mounds and stone circles, seemingly alive with music and old memories. The owl-woman had not controlled it but had instead been an integral part of it, as was Margaret. It was powerfully seductive, even in the morning light. She wished she might return to it and explore not only the place but the change in herself that it engendered.

She laughed at herself when she realised she was yearning for Kilmartin Glen as her mother had described it, a place she’d never seen. This was madness. To pull herself more firmly into the world she inhabited, Margaret began to walk. She wandered towards the house next door, remembering the argument she’d overheard. A ring, damnation. She had heard such suffering in both their voices.

As she crossed the narrow wynd between the two houses something tickled her awareness. She paused, straining her eyes and ears to catch whatever it had been, and then took a few steps down the wynd. On the ground near the street she thought she saw movement, then nothing. She felt as if something or someone were tricking her into coming closer, but tried not to let her imagination get the best of her. It might be nothing more threatening
than a rat, a cat chasing a mouse, or a hardy weed catching a draught. Lifting her skirts she moved down the wynd with caution, for the morning sun had not yet dipped between the houses and it was quite dark. As she drew nearer to where she’d thought she’d detected movement a shape resolved, a body stretched on the ground, a child, she thought by the size.

‘Have mercy.’ The voice was so weak Margaret could just hear it.

Taking no chances, she crouched down more than an arm’s length away and asked, ‘Are you injured?’

‘He beat me and broke my leg.’

Margaret saw that one leg lay at a peculiar angle. She could not make out the lad’s features, for his face was covered with blood.

‘How long have you lain here?’

‘All the night. I pulled myself out of the square.’

‘I’ll fetch someone to carry you into the house.’

As she turned away, he cried out, ‘Don’t leave me!’ There was terror in his voice. ‘I can stand with your help.’

His fear was catching. ‘Surely your attacker won’t return in the short while I’d be away.’

‘I pray you, take my arm and help me rise.’

He did seem small enough for her to support. Margaret moved closer, crouched, and took him by the elbow. He clutched her shoulder with the opposite hand and managed to pull himself upright
by sliding along the wall behind him. When he was balanced on his good leg, Margaret realised he was not a lad, but a young man, though of small stature. She guessed who he was.

‘Who attacked you, Archie?’

He almost lost his balance, but caught himself. ‘How do you know me?’

That he had fallen so near her lodging was unsettling. ‘I’ll explain once we’re within,’ she said, wanting to be safely inside as soon as possible.

They both turned at the sound of footsteps coming towards them from the backlands. Margaret frantically considered what to do, whether to cry out or to leave Archie and run for the door. She was about to shout for help when she recognised Sandy the groom.

‘Thank God,’ she breathed. ‘Help me get Archie into the house, Sandy.’

The groom hesitated. ‘I thought I heard something in the night. It woke John, too, but we saw nothing and did not wish to go too far–’

‘What are you doing here now?’ Margaret asked.

‘I thought I heard voices again. This time I was right.’

‘Help me now,’ Margaret said, sharply interrupting him.

With both arms supported, Archie was able to hop the short distance to the street door of Ada’s house. Fortunately John was already in the hall and Archie was inside before the small procession
caused a stir in the square. Now Margaret could better see the young man’s condition. On his forehead was a bleeding gash, the eye beneath it swollen shut, and his nose was a pulpy mess. His clothes were bloody and torn as if he’d been in a brawl.

Once they’d seated him by the fire, she asked, ‘Who attacked you?’

‘I attacked
him
, the devil. I’m the greatest fool.’ He talked with difficulty through swollen lips, but his anger was quite clear.

‘Who, Archie?’

He looked away.

‘Are you in trouble?’

‘Not so long as you tell no one I’m here.’

‘Not even your family?’

‘Especially not them.’

‘I’ll clean him up, Dame Maggie,’ said Sandy. ‘I see to the animals when they’re injured.’

She could see by Sandy’s humbled manner that he wished to make amends for not venturing far enough to find Archie in the night, and grateful for his offer she thanked him, and then said to Archie, ‘We’ll talk when Sandy has seen to your injuries.’

‘How do you know me?’ Archie asked again.

She had no intention of confiding in him in the presence of others. ‘Servants talk, and I listen.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I have no cause to lie to you, Archie. I’ve taken you in, remember?’

Sandy had returned with water and rags. Margaret withdrew to the kitchen, the butler on her heels. John had kept his distance while she was with Archie, but she could see in the way he held himself that he was bursting with questions.

So was she. ‘Sandy told me that both you and he heard something in the night. Did you see anything at all?’

John angrily glanced back towards the hall as if resolving to have a word with the groom, then shook his head as he met Margaret’s eye. ‘No. We hear more of the night out here in the kitchen than you do in the hall. Whatever it was, it woke both of us, and we both looked without. He thought he saw something by the garden shed next to us, but then nothing. Cat after a mouse, rat after some dung, the backlands are not still at night.’

Margaret began to pour herself a mazer of ale, but John jumped to serve her. She was settling down near the fire when Celia entered the kitchen.

‘I saw the injured man in the hall. That is Archie, Mistress,’ Celia said. ‘What has happened?’

John moved closer, and Margaret explained to both of them how she’d found Archie in the wynd. At her request John then related how he and Sandy woke to a sound – John thought it a cry, Sandy a moan – but had seen nothing unusual astir.