A Cruel Courtship (37 page)

‘May God watch over us, Matthew. I fear peace almost as much as an English victory. I pray you never have cause to regret your loyalty to me.’

Matthew crossed himself, then forced a smile. ‘If God suddenly allowed me to understand the written word I might desert you for a monastery, but save that I am content serving you.’

The page escorted Andrew through the clutches of men idly passing the time – some played dice, many obsessively polished their weapons, some dozed, others talked in small groups. Many glanced up and greeted Andrew. As they passed the small tent in which Sir Francis slept and took his meals a man hurried towards them.

‘Father Andrew, I would talk to you.’

‘He is wanted by Sir Francis,’ said the page.

‘I doubt I’ll be long,’ said Andrew. ‘Come to me later.’

The man bobbed his head and turned away.

‘They give you no peace, Father. How can you bear it?’ asked the page.

‘It is my calling,’ said Andrew.

A half dozen men stood beside a young willow, its branches arched but still too buoyant to reach down to the water though one root seemed to wave freely in the stream, its land side crowded by a mature birch. Something about the juxtaposition of the men and the struggling willow calmed Andrew with a thought of how men follow the same paths as nature. His countrymen’s struggle was young and uncoordinated as yet, but the blood and the effort were strengthening it day by day.

Sir Francis broke from the others to greet Andrew and draw him back to the group.

‘This is Father Andrew, my chaplain and counsellor,’ he said.

Most of the men were familiar, peers of Sir Francis or experienced soldiers he respected. Their expressions were universally grim.

‘We could use a blessing, Father,’ said Holm, a huge man whose left cheek carried an old puckered scar that pulled down the outer corner of the eye and his mouth. ‘A truce is not to be.’

‘Truce,’ spat Sir Marmaduke. ‘They never intended it, riding in here empty-handed after all this time.’

‘They did promise to return tomorrow with forty barded horses,’ Sir Francis reminded him.

‘I don’t believe it. Not after one of Lennox’s men killed one of ours,’ said Holm.

Andrew could not keep up with them, though he caught the fact that someone had finally snapped. ‘Would one of you help me understand what you’re so angry about?’

‘Treachery,’ said Sir Marmaduke. ‘Stewart and Lennox still claim to support us. They told Surrey today that although they’ve been unable to convince Murray and Wallace to throw down their arms they would return tomorrow with forty barded horses. Caparisoned horses, but no men to ride them.’ He cursed. ‘And then, as they departed, Lennox’s men found some of ours foraging, began to argue, and killed one of our men. That is not the behaviour of an ally.’

‘What does Surrey say?’ Andrew asked.

‘He is trying to calm everyone, assure us that it is worth waiting to see whether they return with the horses tomorrow,’ said Sir Francis.

‘And if they don’t?’ Andrew asked, though he could see the answer in the faces around him. Tired and angry men have little patience.

‘If the horses are not brought tomorrow, tomorrow we cross the Forth,’ said Sir Francis, ‘and slaughter the lot of them. They can’t possibly stand against our numbers.’

‘We should strike before then,’ said Sir Marmaduke, ‘while we have the advantage.’

‘What do you fear, my Lord?’ asked Holm. ‘That
Robert Bruce is going to escape our watch in Ayr and appear leading his dead men?’

Sir Francis laughed nervously. Sir Marmaduke cursed again. Andrew crossed himself.

John returned with word that all the English still in town were lying low in the castle, so Father Piers had agreed to bury Peter the following day – if Dame Ada was certain that she did not wish to give Sir Simon the opportunity to pay his respects to their son.

Ada felt a twinge of guilt, but she would jeopardise lives by revealing to Simon how Peter had died – and where. It would not surprise her if he were to accuse her of the fatal strike. She wished Margaret and Celia were there to help, but she and Maus were quite capable of preparing her son’s body for burial.

The men had fashioned a table from planks and benches in the corner of the kitchen and laid Peter there. Maus had gathered as many lamps as she could fill to light him, as well as rags and several bowls of water with which to bathe him. Ada hesitated in the kitchen doorway, reluctant to see her son. Noticing that Maus had wrapped cloths around her gown and sleeves to protect them from the blood, Ada realised that she was not dressed appropriately and turned round to change into a simpler gown.

‘I’m not thinking clearly this morning,’ she muttered as Maus hurried to her.

‘I’ll help you, Mistress,’ said Maus, and she impulsively hugged Ada. Her kind gesture brought on tears, but Ada reassured her maid that she was grateful for the affection.

‘I don’t know that I can do this,’ she whispered, fearing that for once her courage was failing her.

‘Come, I’ll find something old for you to wear, and then you can decide,’ said Maus, the adult for now.

Ada put herself into her maid’s hands, allowing her to fuss and console, and gradually she convinced herself that she would always regret having walked away from this final opportunity to see to her son’s needs. Though he was dead, his spirit perhaps already departed, she told herself that in some way this moment might still have meaning for both of them.

This time when she entered the kitchen she went straight over to where Peter lay on the table. It was terrible to see her handsome son bloody and torn, and at first she could only stand over him and weep. But in a little while she took a rag, wet it, and began to clean his face. Softly she spoke to him, telling him the story of his beginning, what she could remember about carrying him, birthing him, her dreams for him, her heartbreak when she had to let him go. Her hands were bloodied as she cut the bags and then his clothes from his cold body, but it was her son’s blood, her blood, and she thanked God she had been given this chance to ease her son to rest.

*

The Allans’s hall was sparsely furnished, but tidy and made pleasant by a beautiful tapestry depicting scenes from the life of the Blessed Mother. Lilias Allan noticed Margaret’s interest and explained, ‘That is not ours. It belongs to the Abbot of Dunfermline – we are his tenants. My husband does much trading with the abbey.’ She kept glancing at Celia, as if wondering why Margaret had felt the need to be accompanied by her maidservant. ‘I am sorry that I did not welcome you when you first came to Stirling, but I am sure you know about my son.’ She averted her eyes on the last words.

It brought to mind Margaret’s embarrassment whenever her mother had made a scene in the town. ‘You are in mourning, I know, and I apologise for disturbing your peace.’

Lilias invited them to sit by the door to a small garden that Margaret had not seen from the backland because it was surrounded by a low fence. Herbs and berry bushes attracted small birds to the wide, shallow bowl of water atop a stone in the centre.

‘This is a beautiful spot,’ said Margaret.

Lilias smiled, her long, thin face almost pretty for a moment. She was cadaverously thin, as if she had been fasting for a long, long while.

‘I have something to show you, Dame Lilias.’ Margaret drew out the ring.

‘Holy Mother Mary!’ Lilias gasped, staring at it.
‘Where did you get this? I never thought to see it again.’

‘Is this your son’s ring?’ Margaret wanted to be certain that she understood.

Lilias timidly reached out to it, stopping before she touched it, and met Margaret’s eyes. ‘How did you get this?’ Her lips trembled.

‘From Peter Fitzsimon, a soldier at the castle.’

‘A soldier. An Englishman. That would be the man I saw wearing it the day they hanged my son. He watched coldly. I flew at him when I saw he wore Huchon’s ring.’ Lilias pulled her hand back and stood up so quickly she stumbled against a small table. Margaret caught her and held the woman as she began to sob.

‘What is going on in here?’ Ranald Allan’s voice thundered even before Margaret saw him.

Lilias pushed away from Margaret, wiping her eyes and shaking her head at her husband. ‘Go away, Ranald, go away.’

‘I will not. What has this woman done to upset you?’ he demanded, staring at Margaret.

‘Tell him nothing,’ Lilias whispered.

But of course her husband heard her.

Margaret closed her hand over the ring. Celia looked to her for direction, uncertain how to handle this explosive scene. Ranald’s face was contorted with anger and fear – Margaret could not tell which was strongest. Lilias was terrified and heartbroken.

Standing behind Celia, Margaret said, ‘We
meant only good, but I can see this is not the time, it is too soon. Come, Celia.’

The maid slipped towards the door and Margaret followed.

‘No!’ Lilias cried, slapping Ranald hard across the face.

He clutched his nose and stumbled backward.

‘You will
not
silence these women. I won’t live like this.’

Celia had grabbed Margaret’s hand. ‘What shall we do?’ she whispered.

Margaret was watching the couple. ‘Stay a moment,’ she told her frightened companion. She, too had been frightened, but Ranald’s fierce attack had been halted by the woman he was trying to protect, and Margaret sensed that he was no longer dangerous to them.

Lilias took Ranald by the arm and drew him away, speaking to him in a quiet voice. She seemed suddenly calm, and Margaret believed that in her refusal to let her husband command the moment Lilias had found her strength.

‘He’ll be all right now,’ Margaret told Celia. ‘We’ll stay.’

Ranald left the room, and when Lilias was sure of that she invited Margaret and Celia to sit again.

‘My husband does not have a violent nature. It is the times – they make beasts of us all, defending our cubs, our homes.’

‘There was no harm done,’ said Margaret.

‘He thinks to protect us, but he has imprisoned us,’ said Lilias. ‘Father Piers was not nearly so harsh with Ranald as he is with himself.’

‘What has Ranald done?’ Margaret asked.

Lilias looked from one to the other. ‘Don’t you know? Didn’t Dame Isabel send you to hear it?’

‘Do you think Father Piers told us something?’

‘How else did you know that was my son’s ring?’ Lilias asked. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Dame Lilias, my mother is a seer, she has the Sight. Of late, I have seen things, too.’ Celia made a small sound and Margaret felt her maid’s eyes on her. ‘I was drawn to you and your husband, I believe to bring some comfort to you.’ Margaret opened her hand, letting the ring on her palm speak for itself.

Lilias stared down at it.

‘Take it,’ said Margaret. ‘It is yours by right.’

‘Even though Ranald – God still would comfort us?’ Lilias shook her head, her eyes a little wild.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Margaret said softly, ‘and I’ll tell Dame Isabel.’

Lilias still did not reach out for the ring, but she kept her gaze on it as she sat in silence. Margaret almost wept with disappointment, having been certain she was following the Sight, and that this was why she had been touched by it.

‘Huchon gave it to Agnes Cowie when he left home,’ Lilias finally began in a strained, hoarse voice, ‘for her to keep until he returned. And when
he was captured, and to be hanged, Isabel and Gordon sent her north. I thought she’d taken the ring, but when–’ she looked away, catching her breath.

Margaret was afraid to breathe.

‘No parent should ever witness such a deed.’ Lilias’s face was so pale as she spoke her veins might be traced beneath her skin. ‘They ordered us to watch, along with what townsfolk they could find. I think many hid.’ She nodded to herself, her long, thin face drawn with pain. ‘The soldier in charge spoke to us. I can’t remember what he said, I was watching my son. But I noticed his hand, the ring on it. I reached for it, and Ranald held me back.’ She hugged herself. ‘An anger grew in me, from a seed it grew and I watered it, I nurtured it, until one day I could contain it no longer; it had grown so wide and tall and it would root me to the ground and destroy me. I went to Gordon and accused him of selling the ring to the Englishman, of benefiting from our grief, and he admitted it. He defended himself, the greedy snake, he said his daughter had suffered, too, and it had cost them to send her north. Cost them! I flew at him, grabbed at his hateful eyes and he slapped me so hard I fell.’ Lilias rose and turned away from them, towards the garden. ‘I didn’t know Ranald had followed me. When he saw me hurt he attacked Gordon. He spent all his grief and anger on Gordon.’ Her voice shook. ‘He has
confessed to Father Piers, and he is truly remorseful.’ She looked back at Margaret and said with a defiance that chilled, ‘I am not. I regret nothing but that Ranald drew the knife instead of me.’

‘May Gordon Cowie rest in peace,’ Margaret whispered, crossing herself.

Celia did so, too. As she glanced at Margaret it was clear that she was overwhelmed by what she’d heard. ‘What now?’ she mouthed the question.