A Cruel Courtship (Margaret Kerr Mysteries 3)

by Candace Robb

  Celia, heart pounding, moved towards Evota’s in the shadows and was almost caught in her spying by the man she so feared. Now he knew she was aware of him. Perhaps it meant nothing. But she was very much afraid.

  Back on Bow Street, as they paused to let some people past, she asked Sandy what he had said to the soldier’s question.

  ‘That you were not to be hanging about me so you’d hoped to run off before they saw you,’ he said, blushing.

  Celia almost hugged him, but restrained herself and merely thanked him.

  ‘Do you know the lad I followed?’

  Sandy nodded as he looked at her with curiosity. ‘You don’t? But you followed him.’

  ‘We have not been introduced,’ she said, for it was unwise to let the groom know she knew of him. ‘What is his name?’

  ‘Archie. So that is why you called him a “boy”? He is small, but so are they all in that family.’

  ‘You said he is trouble?’

  ‘Trouble for ladies is what I meant. I never thought, but mayhap they all think him a lad and no trouble in that way, you see, and then – well, there are many short children born to the poor wenches of these parts.’ Sandy was blushing furiously by now.

  ‘You don’t think I would–’ She stopped herself.

  ‘Forgive me. I just thought to warn you.’

  Celia was irked that he thought her in danger of being lured into sin by Archie. She was older than her mistress, for pity’s sake. But he meant well, and the information might prove useful in some way, though she didn’t see quite how at present.

  ‘We should have a care when we’re abroad,’ said Celia hoping to lure Sandy to gossip. ‘I would not wish to meet up with the goldsmith’s murderer.’

  ‘If as some say his wife killed him you’ve nothing to fear.’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘Others say it was a neighbour whose son was killed by the English in a skirmish last summer, or the one whose son was hanged for a traitor. But all say it was punishment for giving so much money to the English.’

  God help us, Celia silently prayed. ‘Who is looking into the matter?’

  ‘I doubt that anyone is. The English are too busy and the townsfolk don’t care. We must get this to the house. I’ve work to do.’

  Celia couldn’t believe that no one cared – she certainly did. But she knew it was not safe for either her or her mistress to begin asking questions about the goldsmith’s death.

  7

  BETWEEN CAMPS AND CASTLE

  Celia’s concerns about Margaret’s uneasy silence the previous evening had not fallen on deaf ears. Margaret had heard her, but she had not the strength to respond. Now she understood her mother’s lethargy after a vision, for she was experiencing just such a draining of strength. She wanted silence and darkness, and that is what she sought in the curtained bed.

  But in all the hours of lying there she had not slept, seeing the kirk yard and the castle crowning the hill. When Ada came so late to bed, Margaret was awake and aware of every movement, as well as the scent of sex on her companion. Even that additional evidence that Ada might be so in love with Simon that he might succeed in persuading her to change sides stirred no emotion but a little jealousy. At last that turned her thoughts to James, and as the early morning noise of the household comforted her with the sense of an ordinary day, she fell asleep wondering how he would be as a lover.

  She woke with Celia shaking her and reminding her that she had wished to attend Mass. Margaret could smell fresh air in her maid’s clothing.

  ‘You’ve been outside?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Celia, averting her eyes. ‘We need to hurry.’

  As Margaret swung her legs off the side of the high bed, Celia asked, ‘Are you certain you wish to go out? You do not look well.’

  ‘I did not sleep well, but I wish to attend Mass all the same.’

  ‘You went up so early in the evening. I should have checked to see if you needed something–’

  Margaret had managed to straighten and reach for her gown. ‘Peace, Celia, just dress me now.’ While Celia helped her with her sleeves Margaret caught the scent of fresh air again. ‘You have been out for quite a while this morning.’

  ‘I accompanied the groom to Evota’s.’

  ‘Again?’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘Thrice now you’ve disobeyed me.’

  ‘I pray you, Mistress, speak softly, or you’ll wake Dame Ada,’ Celia said, glancing at their hostess’s still form, no part of her visible beneath the bedclothes. ‘I went to fetch the barrel of ale John purchased yesterday.’

  ‘Something happened,’ Margaret said more quietly. ‘I see it in your face. You were frightened.’

  ‘I followed Archie.’

  When Celia told her of chasing the lad and then seeing the English soldier back at Evota’s, Margaret despaired at the risks she had taken.

  ‘Celia, what have you done?’ She held her breath for a moment as Ada stirred in the bed, but she did not waken. Still, only heavy drapes closed off the solar from the hall below. She did not want the household joining the argument.

  ‘I pray I caused no mischief,’ said Celia, ‘but I fear that I might have.’

  Margaret did, too, but what was done could not now be undone with words of remorse. ‘Let us pray all the harder at Mass.’ She led the way to the steps down to the hall.

  They walked out in silence, for which Margaret was grateful. She greedily breathed in the fresh air and tried to force the memory of the veil around Johanna from her thoughts. She’d yet to find any use in the Sight – it seemed only to stir her feelings and provoke frightened prayer. In the kirk the Kyrie was already being sung, and Margaret and Celia dropped to their knees near the back of the nave. God would hear their prayers here as well as closer to the altar.

  After Mass they waited behind, nodding to people who greeted them, and when it grew quiet Margaret suggested that they go to the choir screen to see whether Father Piers was still at the door. She hoped he might have discovered the identity of the English soldier or might give them some counsel about Celia’s encounter with him this morning.

  The look of relief on Piers’s face when he saw them worried Margaret. Had he cause to think they might not appear, or had something happened to Johanna? He motioned for them to follow him down the aisle, then led them to the sacristy.

  ‘What is it? What has happened?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘Archie came last night,’ said Piers.

  ‘God be thanked,’ she said, though she wondered at the priest’s solemn expression – he should be relieved.

  But Piers was shaking his head. ‘He says he can no longer carry messages because someone is watching him.’

  ‘Celia’s English soldier.’

  ‘He would not say, though I’m sure it was an Englishman.’

  ‘Do you think it might have something to do with Gordon Cowie’s murder?’

  ‘Would that I had an answer for you,’ Piers said.

  ‘If someone is watching him, they might also be watching Johanna.’

  Piers was nodding. ‘We must be quiet for a few days, convince whoever it is that there is nothing to watch.’

  ‘We have no time to wait,’ said Margaret, exasperated by the man. ‘The armies are gathering, Father. What little information we have must get to James.’

  ‘Everything has changed, don’t you see that?’

  ‘We have some details that might be of use to Wallace and Murray. If you are saying that you won’t take it, I must.’ Though she would need his help in finding the contact down below.

  Father Piers looked distraught. ‘If something should happen to you James Comyn would have my life, without hesitation. In faith, I would guess that Sir Simon is having you watched. I have told you that if necessary I shall go myself.’

  ‘Surely you’re watched as well,’ said Margaret.

  ‘There might yet be someone else–’ said the priest.

  ‘Who else might there be? All the men who can be tr
usted are gone, except for some servants.’

  ‘Among them there are possibilities. I must think.’

  ‘Don’t think too long,’ Margaret said, taking her leave.

  Celia followed silently, but when they were back at the house she asked to speak to Margaret up in the solar.

  ‘What is it?’ Margaret asked, expecting a question about her behaviour. But Celia surprised her.

  ‘What you said to Father Piers, that made me wonder how Archie has escaped service. Sandy the groom says that he is a man, not a boy, and has fathered many bastards off serving girls who think him harmless in that way, looking so young.’

  ‘Yet Father Piers calls him a lad.’ If only James were here. ‘I am uneasy about Piers,’ said Margaret. ‘With a murder in the town we need James. Perhaps it’s time I donned men’s clothing and tried to leave as we came, quite out in the open.’

  ‘And what happens to Dame Ada when her niece has disappeared?’ asked Celia. ‘I’m the one to go, Mistress. No one would miss me. And I’m as small as Archie. I have his colouring, too. I could pass for him, name and all.’

  ‘I hardly think that is true, Celia.’ But Margaret was moved by the offer, and the love with which it was made. ‘I am ever in your debt. I know you offer this from your heart. But I am the one who accepted this mission, not you. I cannot risk your life for this. Yet you are right about my disappearing, I cannot do that to Ada.’ There seemed no responsible way to proceed. ‘I wish I knew whether I could really trust Father Piers.’

  When Dame Ada had at last risen and gone below to break her fast, Celia took the opportunity to tidy Margaret’s trunk. It was a warm morning and the solar was hotter than the hall below, so Celia worked more slowly than usual. She regretted that when Ada caught her up there.

  ‘John tells me that you were out early this morning following a young man.’

  Sandy must have told John. ‘John sent me to fetch the ale.’ How dare Sandy betray her?

  ‘You left Sandy to the task and chased after the young man. Is that not so?’

  ‘I did it for my mistress,’ Celia said with as much dignity as she could muster, her anger making her want to spit.

  ‘You call attention to yourself, running through the streets. You will have everyone watching us and with my friend Isabel’s loss – haven’t you heard of the goldsmith’s murder?’

  ‘Might we talk more quietly?’

  Both women turned in surprise to discover Margaret had joined them. Celia was relieved to have her mistress put a steadying hand on her shoulder, which she interpreted as a sign of support. But Margaret’s expression was grim.

  ‘You heard about Gordon’s death, then?’ asked Margaret.

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Ada. As her composure crumbled she hid her face in her hands.

  ‘I am so sorry, Ada,’ Margaret said.

  Ada lifted her face, her expression one of determined calm. ‘I should go to Isabel.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ said Margaret. ‘I just wanted you to know that I have asked Celia to assist me. I am not happy that she openly pursued someone today, but we have little choice.’

  Ada nodded. ‘I am only thinking of your safety, Celia,’ she said.

  ‘I know, Dame Ada.’

  ‘Good,’ said Margaret. ‘We must work together. That is our strength.’

  Sir Francis dropped back to ride by Andrew as they reached the eastern boundary of the troop encampments – King Edward’s troops. He seemed to enjoy conversing with Andrew, trying out his philosophy of life, of leadership, of faith. Andrew found him a man of honour with a strong sense of responsibility for his men – those who were not felons.

  ‘There is some news,’ said Francis. ‘James Stewart and the Earl of Lennox met with Surrey several days ago to request a week’s grace in which to persuade Wallace and Murray to put down their arms. He granted it.’

  With a glance at Andrew, Francis paused, obviously awaiting a comment.

  ‘An unexpected development.’

  ‘What do you think is the likelihood of a peaceful settlement?’

  ‘I know none of these men, Sir Francis,’ Andrew said.

  ‘You must have an opinion.’

  He’d grown comfortable with Sir Francis, but not so that he forgot the danger of his intention. ‘I pray for peace, but do not expect it.’

  ‘John Balliol has made no attempt to escape back to his people here. Nor is there any evidence of his communicating with his subordinates to rally the people against King Edward. Why are your people so stubbornly supportive of a man who does not seem to miss being their king?’

  Andrew looked out over the sea of men. ‘It is possible that Balliol is not necessarily what they are fighting for, but simply rule by their own king, so that they retain their sovereignty rather than become a little-loved part of Edward’s kingdom.’ They – it was so simple as long as he used ‘they’ instead of ‘we’.

  Sir Francis did not respond at once, and Andrew wondered whether he’d gone too far. But perhaps he was simply distracted by the army among which they rode.

  Despite the fairly steady stream of soldiers passing through the spital at Soutra, Andrew had not been prepared for the size of the camps stretching along the water meadows, or pows, to the south of the River Forth and into the dry land south of Stirling. In sheer numbers his countrymen could not hope to compete against such a host. He wondered whether it was possible for them to make up in strength, courage, and the passion they felt for defending their own land and people what they lacked in numbers. He was not sanguine.

  ‘You might be right, Father Andrew,’ said Sir Francis at last. ‘It would explain much that I have heard. What do you think of the rumours that the younger Robert Bruce, now Earl, has turned against his benefactor and long-time friend, King Edward?’

  Andrew smiled – an easy, quite natural smile. ‘I think it laughable that anyone would give any credit to such a rumour.’

  ‘I think it quite possible,’ said Francis, ‘but doomed to failure. Balliol’s Comyn relatives would never support him. Who do you think they would put forward?’

  ‘Though of course I know of them I know little about them, Sir Francis.’ It was true, and he was glad of it. ‘Abbot Adam is able to expound at length upon such matters, but I have never moved in such circles.’

  Sir Francis nodded, then excused himself to ride to the head of his men as they neared the base of Stirling rock. Andrew wondered whether he’d inadvertently given away any information.

  In the evening, after Ada had been escorted once more to the castle, Margaret turned her attention to her growing sense of urgency about Johanna. She argued with herself about whether to go to her and warn her of the vision, not entirely certain whether it had been the Sight or her own intuition. She must keep her head about this, for surely she was still capable of perception and judgment. In Father Piers’s chamber she might have been drawn to the clothing of the dead by the Sight, but it was by her own powers of observation that she had understood his distress and noticed the signs of his drinking and lack of sleep.

  Dame Bethag believed Margaret’s vision and Christiana’s visions were from God; if she was right, they must have a purpose. But beyond a general warning for Johanna, Margaret could think of no other way to help her. She had no one who might stand guard at the woman’s home, and an attack might happen anywhere. Yet she felt she owed it to Johanna to give her the choice whether or not to heed the warning and seek sanctuary.

  She sought out Celia, who was sitting with Maus in the doorway to the backlands, enjoying the evening breeze. Drawing Celia aside, Margaret told her she was going out for a little while, not far, and did not need an escort.

  ‘But it’s dark, Mistress, or nearly,’ Celia said, glancing up at the dusky sky. ‘The men will have been drinking.’

  ‘I doubt there is enough ale left in the town to make them dangerous,’ Margaret said. She was not as sanguine about that as she tried to sound, but she was not ready to discuss t
he Sight at length with Celia. ‘This I shall do alone.’

  Dusk was darkening the backlands, though the sky was shot with eerily lit clouds. Margaret wondered whether the colours were caused by the armies’ cook fires down in the valley. The smoke of the cook fires in the town gave texture to the air. From the surrounding houses came the murmur of voices, punctuated now and then by shouts, snatches of arguments, or a child’s cry, but Stirling seemed subdued this night. She imagined that Huchon Allan’s hanging and more recently Gordon Cowie’s murder had frightened many – particularly those who supported the English. She had been disappointed that Ada had learned nothing from Isabel – except that the widow was weak with grief and terrified that she would be next. ‘A wife is judged by her husband, as a husband his wife,’ she’d repeated over and over again to Ada.

  But besides her concern for Johanna, what was oddly uppermost in Margaret’s mind this evening was the coming battle for the bridge across the River Forth. She’d not given much thought to the fighting before, focused as she was on reopening the line of communication between Johanna and James, but despite her irritation with Father Piers’s hesitation to proceed she, too, worried whether it was now too late for James to relay any message to Murray and Wallace. She did not know how he would make his way through the English camps and across the River Forth to the Scots on Abbey Craig. James had told her so little, and having never been in battle she could not imagine what might be happening down in the valley.

  Awakening to the danger, she realised that she and the rest of the townsfolk were precariously balanced over a deadly precipice with little information about what lay below them, or even whether the fighting would be contained in the valley. She had assumed that any battles would occur down below, but considering the charred houses farther down the hill, the bloodstains on walls near the Grassmarket in Edinburgh, the rubble left along the route of a siege, she realised that these were such chilling scars because they were evidence that the fighting often encroached on or even moved through the towns. Here on Stirling Rock they would be overrun if Wallace and Murray sent a raiding party to the castle. Margaret’s heart pounded in her ears. There was no way out. She and everyone in Stirling were trapped here, between the battling armies and the castle. Perhaps it was this tension that was behind Gordon Cowie’s death, an anger fanned by fear.