by Candace Robb
‘I’d thought of that,’ said Roger. ‘I told Aylmer to meet us out here this even.’
Margaret felt a twinge of alarm. ‘You said nothing of this. I never would have agreed. I must help Celia.’
‘No. We’ll call attention to ourselves. It is enough that our servants must sneak past guards tonight. You must understand, Maggie.’
She could, but she didn’t like it. ‘You might have explained that back in town.’
‘You cannot mean that you haven’t enjoyed our afternoon together, eh?’ He reached over, gently stroking her cheek. ‘My bonny Maggie.’ His eyes were soft with love.
‘I’ve had much joy in you here,’ Margaret admitted. Yet she was uneasy. ‘Why did you not tell me we were not returning to town?’
‘I feared you would refuse me,’ said Roger.
She felt queasy to have been tricked and changed the subject to lighter things.
James’s servant returned with the news of Margaret and Roger’s early departure.
‘Their servants will follow tonight, like pack horses,’ he said.
‘Who told you this?’
‘Celia, Dame Margaret’s maid. She is troubled about her mistress going on ahead. She distrusts the master, I think.’
James, too, was troubled. ‘Was she given any reason for the change of plan?’
‘An opportunity for husband and wife to spend a day alone.’ The servant waggled his thick eyebrows.
‘What of the loss of horses?’
‘She’s been reassured she won’t need to carry the packs all the journey, but knows not what it means.’
James was certain now that Sinclair was manipulating Margaret. But he could only conjecture why.
Celia was uneasy. Proud of her abilities as a lady’s maid, she had little fear she would forget anything that she and her mistress would need. What she disliked was Roger’s power over Margaret, or his use of it. A husband was the master of his household, but a good one sought his wife’s willing cooperation. It did not bode well. And she dreaded breaking the news of Margaret’s early departure to Hal. She dreaded no less beginning the journey alone with Aylmer.
To distract herself, she took some time to visit Mary Brewster, knowing that Margaret had hoped to learn more about Old Will’s tragedy. If there was anyone in Edinburgh who knew Old Will, it was Mary.
The elderly woman stood defensively in her doorway, as if expecting Celia to force her aside and enter the house. ‘I’ve had naught but trouble about Will since I found him lying in his own blood,’ Mary said. ‘I’ll speak no more of him.’
Her daughter Belle reached past Mary and closed the door firmly in Celia’s face.
Cursing her, Celia headed towards St Giles, thinking Father Francis might tell her more. But it occurred to her that there was scant point in any of this as they were about to depart Edinburgh and, conscious of her responsibility, Celia returned to the inn to complete the preparations. She expected Aylmer to complain about the three packs she had him carry down from Margaret’s bedchamber, but he had already engaged Geordie and Hal to help them as far as the horses which would await them somewhere to the south of town. At least she had been spared the task of telling Hal about the change in plans. It was small consolation.
As evening settled over the valley and the fading sun no longer warmed her, Margaret asked where they were to wait for the others.
‘In a house nearby.’ Roger rose, then offered her a hand to help her up. ‘We’ll find food there. I made sure of it.’
He embraced her and gave her a lingering kiss. ‘I love you, Maggie. Never doubt it.’
Margaret hated to let go of him, fearing that the moment they resumed their journey the magic of the afternoon would dissipate and only her misgivings would remain.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to linger so long we’ll not be able to see the path.’
He led Margaret around the loch to the south end, and off the main path on to one less travelled. They had not gone far when a noise in the brush behind them made both stop. Roger pressed down on her shoulder and she crouched. He stepped between her and the sound, shielding her, watching the brush. At last a raven hopped out of the underbrush, cocking an eye at them.
Margaret crossed herself and rose, grateful for Roger’s protective stance, and for the outcome. And yet a raven cocking an eye at them seemed a dark omen. The peace of the past hours had been shattered and she walked now in wariness, reminded that she accompanied a man who had hidden from her in Edinburgh last spring so she would not be troubled by the English.
‘How is it you were able to come to me openly now, when you couldn’t in spring?’ she asked.
‘The beard, and sufficient time and trouble between then and now. Others have become greater threats than me.’
‘Does your side consider the supporters of King John your enemies?’
‘You mean Wallace’s and Murray’s men?’ Roger took a few more steps before going on, seeming to search the trees at the edge of the wooded area they were approaching. ‘We might brawl after too much drink. The worst we might do is steal their supplies and horse.’ He put an arm round her. ‘So many questions, Maggie. When did you become so curious?’
‘I was ever so.’ She left it at that. She was hungry, tired, and discouraged to think they would journey through the night.
Still he searched the tree line.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I don’t see the escort who was to await us.’
A rustle in the bracken reminded her of the raven, and she crouched before Roger told her to.
Quietly he said, ‘Who goes there?’
A lad rose from the scrub three strides from them, holding up a rabbit. ‘’Tis only me, sir, come to lead you. And this beast happened to join me in my hiding place.’ He was a dirty, skinny boy no more than twelve, Margaret guessed, barefoot and dressed in tatters.
‘Then lead on, Daniel.’
As they followed the boy, Margaret commented to Roger, ‘He wears rags. Do you pay your guides nothing?’
‘This is his disguise. If you had come upon him accidentally, would you not have believed he was just a starving lad hunting?’
‘I would,’ Margaret said, comforted and yet perversely uneasy about Roger’s thorough planning.
They wound their way in amongst the trees, over decaying stumps and thick, twisted roots, Roger always there with a supporting hand or arm whenever Margaret felt unsteady. Although he’d required an escort, he seemed to have far less trouble following in the lad’s footsteps than did Margaret. In the midst of the tangled wood a tiny house appeared. It seemed almost an illusion it blended so with the trees, built of logs with a roof spread with the mulch of leaves and moss. Within, a small hearth fire burned and a meal was already spread for more than two.
‘Where are the horses?’ Roger asked the lad.
‘Just beyond, in the shed,’ said Daniel.
‘And the others?’
‘Seeing to the beasts, fetching water. They had trouble and came late.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘An ambitious soldier thought to gain horses for the castle sheriff.’
‘What happened?’
‘He fell down a terrible steep embankment, I’m told.’
The indifference with which the boy told the tale chilled Margaret. ‘How old are you?’ she asked.
The lad shrugged. ‘Old enough to hate the English.’ He grinned, showing black teeth.
She wondered why Roger took the risk of trusting such a lad.
*
Murdoch, Aylmer, Geordie, Hal and Celia said little as they sat around a table in the tavern eating the evening meal. Murdoch had requested the guards’ permission to take their meal in the tavern, hoping that they would ascribe any suspicious activities later in the evening to drunkenness.
Celia tried to eat, knowing she needed nourishment for the journey, but her stomach was taut with fear and anxiety. Earlier, after thrice reviewin
g her preparations, she’d taken out her paternoster beads and said several rosaries but she seemed beyond divine help.
Hal and Geordie discussed various strategies for carrying the packs, Aylmer listening to them with an amused detachment that Celia found irritating. Who did he think he was, to be so condescending towards fellow servants? And yet she had been much like that when she’d first come to Edinburgh, determined to be a lady’s maid, trying to avoid work that would toughen the fine, smooth hands she had pampered in Dame Katherine’s employ so that she might handle the most delicate silks.
Murdoch was solemn when towards midnight they gathered in the stable. ‘I’d come along, but someone must be here to divert any unexpected attention.’ Fortunately, suspecting nothing, the guards had departed at curfew.
‘I know my master would wish me to thank you for all you’ve done,’ said Aylmer. ‘We’ll have a scout escort Hal and Geordie home once we’ve transferred the packs.’
Celia held out a hand to Murdoch, but he stepped forward and embraced her.
‘You’re a brave lass and a good friend to go with Maggie,’ he whispered. ‘God watch over you.’
She clung to him and fought tears. ‘God go with you in all your work,’ she said.
Hal and Geordie had arranged packs on Bonny and hoisted others. In a surprising last-minute gesture, Murdoch had loaned her to the travellers so that more food might be taken.
‘You’ll see your men and your beast before dawn,’ Aylmer assured him one last time.
Four men had joined Margaret and Roger for the evening meal. They were introduced as another of the Bruce’s men and a merchant who had done business in Ayr, both with their servants, all heading east and glad of more company. Unlike Aylmer, their servants seemed of humbler stations than their masters. Roger did not know the Bruce’s man, Macrath, but the merchant Alan was an old acquaintance. The latter was tall, grey of hair and slender to such a degree that he seemed ill, yet he was of good cheer and had an excellent appetite. He was also the most gregarious at the table, with tales of the challenges of trading in the present conditions. He reminded Margaret of Angus MacLaren, another embellisher of tales. Macrath was a short, muscular man with thick dark hair and a beard. He watched and listened, occasionally laughing with the others, but speaking only in monosyllables when he could not maintain his silence.
Watching and listening herself, Margaret compared Roger’s behaviour in this rough hut to the few times she’d witnessed his meetings with merchants in Perth. He’d become easier in his posture, muted in his speech; sure of himself yet wary, even in this company. Perhaps she was tired and overwrought, but he seemed even more of a stranger than the day he’d come to her in Edinburgh.
9
A DEATH OF SOUL
By the time the packs had been unloaded it was long after midnight. Margaret had been surprised that Aylmer and Celia were accompanied by Hal, Geordie, and particularly her uncle’s beloved Bonny. The loan of the ass touched her as a gesture of affection, though it was painful to bid farewell to the beast and Hal once more. She stroked Bonny while she fed her an apple.
Hal avoided eye contact until Daniel announced he was ready to lead the three back to Edinburgh. He glanced up then and met her eyes. Margaret took his hand and pressed it. He nodded once, wished her God speed, and then ducked out through the door of the small house into the night. Geordie bobbed his head to her and wished her a safe journey. She said the same to him.
Celia shaded her eyes. ‘It was so dark without, I thought we could not make our way, but after a time I came to see more clearly. Now the light in here seems too bright.’ She forced a little laugh.
‘At least you’ll be riding for a good part of the night with your horse following the leader,’ Roger said. ‘It will not be as difficult.’
Remembering Celia’s inexperience with a horse, Margaret imagined her discomfort and invited her to sit beside her. The maid’s first and only experience on a horse had been the crossing to Edinburgh. Although she’d sat her steed with grim fortitude, she had been in agony for days afterwards.
Margaret did not like the plan. ‘Is that safe, riding at night? Should we not lead the horses?’
‘They are accustomed to night riding,’ said Roger.
Macrath offered Celia a cup of warm ale. ‘You’ll be chilly from the walk in the damp.’
‘I am. God bless you.’ Celia glanced at Margaret as if wondering at such behaviour towards a servant.
Though Margaret was a decade younger than her maid she was responsible for her well-being. She had noticed Macrath studying Celia from the moment she arrived. Perhaps he thought them kin, with their similarly pale complexions, thick dark brows and short builds. His offering her the ale was a small gesture, but Margaret would watch Macrath for signs of designs on Celia.
Eventually the men went out to ready the horses, giving the two women some time alone.
‘We will need to ride slowly,’ Margaret said, ‘so it should be less uncomfortable than your last journey, when my brother Andrew was in such haste.’
Celia arranged her skirt. ‘I regret only that I took no opportunity to ride in Edinburgh.’
Margaret smiled at Celia’s stubborn dignity – there had been no opportunity for her to ride in Edinburgh, except on Bonny, who rode quite differently from a horse. ‘You managed so well before, you’ll find it quite familiar, I’m sure.’
Celia’s dark brows knitted together as she solemnly nodded. ‘Let us speak of something other than my coming humiliation. Had you time with Dame Janet?’
‘Yes, but I learned nothing useful from her,’ Margaret said. ‘Old Will and Bess were by her account a loving couple.’
‘I approached Mary Brewster for you today, but she said she’s had naught but trouble since finding Old Will, and then Belle slammed the door on me.’
‘How unlike Mary,’ Margaret said.
‘I found it so,’ said Celia. ‘Not even the town gossip wants to be of interest to the English. I wish I came with better news.’
‘You were good to attempt it.’ Margaret cursed Roger for all the questions that had opened up this new avenue of possibilities, only to have him rush her away. ‘How did you leave my uncle?’
‘Unhappy. You’ll be missed, have no doubt of that.’
‘It’s not only myself he’ll miss, but the companionship of his customers. He’ll have only Janet now. And Hal.’ They grew quiet, and in a little while Margaret felt herself begin to nod. ‘I need occupation. Shall we review what we’ve brought?’
The party departed in the dark of the summer night, a slow procession of riders following Macrath’s lead. Margaret was glad of the great beast beneath her, both for his warmth and the physical contact with something real, solid, alive; the countryside at night seemed an echoing emptiness, a void into which she expected the riders ahead to disappear. The watery meadows were alive with sounds, some of them familiar from the bogs around Perth, but they were midnight sounds associated with the terror of being abroad too late, hastening back to the town. The pebbly paths among boulders magnified the sounds of their passing. The woods seemed treacherous, low branches ready to catch the unwary rider and hang her. Margaret pressed down over her horse’s back.
As dawn grew in the east behind them, the procession moved further inland to the woodlands and marshes, seeking a thick morning fog to keep them safely out of sight until they reached the first day’s shelter. Margaret was relieved when just after dawn, as the fog swirled around her, word passed down the line that they were at their resting place.
It was a modest farmhouse, the inhabitants unobtrusive in their hospitality. Margaret drank a little ale and then crawled into the box bed she would share with Roger, shivering with cold and exhaustion, her limbs stiff and clumsy. Some time during the day she woke to Roger’s snoring and cuddled up to him, though the house was warming in the daylight that she glimpsed through the open door. It bothered her that they were exposed until she noticed the woman seated jus
t without, churning butter. Closing her eyes, Margaret fell back into a deep sleep in which she dreamt of ghostly landscapes. It seemed but a moment later that Roger was coaxing her awake. Beyond the door she glimpsed the muted colours of twilight.
The sound of Celia moaning brought her fully awake.
The farmer’s wife was kneading Celia’s thighs. ‘’Tis naught to be shamed of,’ the woman was saying. ‘Warming them up stops the cramping.’
‘She’d never sat a horse until she rode with me to Edinburgh,’ Margaret told Roger.
‘Then she’s a brave woman and quick to learn,’ he said, turning to Margaret and searching her face. His own looked haggard. ‘How are you faring?’
‘Better than you, I think. Did you not sleep well?’
‘I stayed up till midday with Macrath and Alan, planning. I’ll not do that tomorrow.’
The second night’s journey began in the late evening twilight. Against the stars Margaret became aware of the great crag on which stood Stirling Castle. In the pre-dawn mists she could see neither the top of the crag nor the marshy ground beneath her. Although her mount knew to follow the others as closely as possible, step for step, she was so disoriented by the subtly rippling mists that changes in his gait unbalanced her.
A sudden loud splash and cry ahead brought her head up to see whether to pause and dismount, but Macrath did not pause. Only Celia glanced round. Even the horses seemed unconcerned when another cry followed, fainter than the first. Reminding herself not to clutch the reins or dig in her heels in panic, Margaret thought she might calm herself by reciting a decade of Hail Marys. She did not want to fuss with the search for her paternoster beads, so she used her fingers to keep track of the prayers. It seemed a good distraction until she missed Alan’s servant, who’d ridden behind Macrath and his servant, and then noticed that Aylmer, who’d been fourth in line, was also gone. Neither man rode behind her, only Roger and Alan.
A shift in her mount’s gait brought her gaze forward again. The mist was now thicker, but she heard sluggish water, and then the sound of Macrath’s horse on timber. This must be Stirling Bridge. Margaret said a prayer of thanks, for it meant that they were soon to be at the new day’s lodging. Celia’s horse neighed softly as it reached the bridge. Margaret held her breath in fear that if it balked her maid would fall. But Celia leaned a little forward and the horse continued calmly.
