A Cruel Courtship (13 page)

James silently cursed himself for not having anticipated that Ada would send servants ahead. Now Simon Montagu might be forewarned and expecting a de la Haye. But it did not change
anything, merely hastened the meeting, for Montagu would have soon discovered Ada’s presence anyway, gossip typically being rife in a town under siege; unfortunately the gossip did not pass so easily out of the town to the countryside, and hence his need for Margaret. He noticed that she, however, looked distraught.

‘From this moment on I must think of myself as Ada’s niece,’ she said quietly to him. ‘For–’

Ada interrupted.

‘I heard you curse beneath your breath, James, but what would you have had me do? I could not expect the tenants to rejoice if they were suddenly consigned to the hut in the backlands.’ Her voice was tensely defensive. ‘Nor could I be certain they would have cleaned and laundered everything before they withdrew from the house.’ She was quite flushed with self-righteousness.

‘It is as it is,’ James said. ‘Come. We must make some distance before we rest tonight.’

Celia remembered an earlier journey made mostly by night, when Roger Sinclair brought Margaret from Edinburgh to Perth. She felt safer in the present company; James Comyn was not new to stealth and he seemed to have armed men at his beck and call. He was also more open about his purpose than Roger Sinclair had been.

But she was not confident about her mistress’s mission in Stirling, especially now that Dame Ada’s
former English lover was there. Margaret had been frank with Celia, as always, about the added danger, and although she understood that both her mistress and James Comyn considered it the best they could do when time was so short, Celia was worried about going on with the original plan. But not even fear would make her desert her mistress.

The land began to rise and the night grew chillier. Celia was grateful for the warmth of the horse beneath her, and for the wimple that just hours earlier she’d resented because of the damp warmth near the river. When not far along the road they turned off into a copse of trees she eagerly watched for light from a hut or a barn. One of the men opened the shutter on a lantern and she saw that they’d come to an earthen mound in a small clearing. She hoped it was a natural hillock and not a burial mound.

As she did not see or hear a stream or see any shelter Celia felt anxious, worried that the men had sensed someone following them and intended to make a stand here, which seemed quite ill-advised near a burial mound. Strange things happened around them, especially at night, and the battle might be fraught with surprises. She hoped she was wrong. Perhaps they were awaiting additional horses here, for with the men walking and leading the horses with the women astride they moved slowly. The man leading hers came around to assist her in dismounting.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ James was saying to Margaret, ‘we will rest here for the remainder of the night and my men and I will change into our disguises. We want to escort you near enough to Stirling that we can be fairly certain you’ll safely reach Dame Ada’s house, so we must look like farmers.’

‘We’ll sleep in the open?’ Margaret asked.

‘No, in the barn.’

Celia had just heard a strange sound, the groan of something large being shifted, and turning to look back watched what she’d thought a section of the mound swing wide. It was a large door camouflaged with sod, part of an earthen barn, and within was a two-wheeled cart such as farmers brought to market.

Lanterns were lit within and soon Margaret and Celia were lying side by side on hay, beneath a blanket and hide.

‘I thought this was a burial mound,’ Celia whispered.

Margaret shivered. ‘So did I. I pray that keeps us safe from attack.’

Celia pulled out her paternoster beads and prayed until she realised she’d fallen asleep and had been dreaming about doors in trees and riverbanks, then turned on her side and slipped back into sleep.

She woke confused by the smell of animals and the murmur of men’s voices, but when she
remembered the barn and the night journey she settled into her nest and fell into a deep sleep once more. When next she woke the barn door stood slightly ajar and a misty dawn freshened the air. Margaret was already sitting up with a small wooden cup in her hands. When she noticed Celia watching her, she proffered the cup.

‘Cider – it is strong, so just sip it.’ Her hands trembled.

Celia tasted the cider and sighed with pleasure. ‘I like travelling with James Comyn.’

Margaret laughed, but it sounded sadly forced.

‘Did you sleep?’ Celia asked.

Margaret nodded. ‘Not peacefully.’

‘You need this more than I do, then,’ said Celia, handing back the cup. ‘I’ll fix your wimple when you are finished.’

‘See to your own needs first,’ said Margaret. ‘There are oatcakes and perhaps more cider near the door.’

As Celia moved out of their little corner she saw that the men now wore undyed tunics and leggings well patched and stained from work in the fields. They were quite believable, and disturbingly quiet and grim-faced. Maus was busy fixing Dame Ada’s hair in the opposite corner. Celia wished them good morning and then hurried out to relieve herself, trying not to look at the man who escorted her and stood at a discreet but careful distance with an arrow at the ready.

Back in the barn she took several oatcakes and another small cup of cider to her corner. Margaret had already folded the blanket and put the hide atop it. The oatcake took the edge off Celia’s anxiety, and she tried to engage her mistress in talk, but Margaret seemed distracted.

‘What troubles you?’ Celia asked.

‘I’m worried about Roger. Ma felt he was still much too weak to leave the nunnery.’

Celia was relieved that it had to do with Roger and not with this journey. She murmured some inane comfort while combing Margaret’s lovely russet hair and then covering it with the wimple and veil.

At last ready, they joined Ada and her servants near the door.

James approached with an odd gait. ‘We’ll escort your company to Stirling, Dame Ada,’ he said in a voice quite unlike his usual one, and no wonder with the odd twist to his back and neck which made him look frail. ‘But it will cost ye.’

‘I had no doubt of that,’ said Ada. Then she laughed and clapped her hands.

Margaret shook her head but Celia saw the admiration in her expression.

‘Why are the men so grim?’ Celia asked.

‘Because the English army is not far behind us,’ said Ned, one of Ada’s servants, his eyes jumpy with fear.

*

Andrew had retired to his room after hearing confessions for several hours – a troop of soldiers was preparing to march on and the fear in their voices had been terrible to hear. Abbot Adam would have urged Andrew to lecture the men on the terrible sin of despair, but he could not find it in his heart to do that. To be absolved of their sins was small enough comfort when facing the fear of losing courage, suffering mutilation, dying without the last rites, far from home, for a cause they’d never understood.

He fell on to his bed and tried to free his mind from the morning’s work, but he felt as if his ribs were bound by steel too tightly to allow him to breathe. He felt guilty about the soldiers’ fears, as if he should be able to reassure them as a mother her children. As if it had been he who had ordered them to invade his country, or perhaps as if he’d taunted them to come and attempt to conquer his people, or as if he’d trained his own people to be far stronger than the English had expected. He amused himself with these variations on his sense of guilt, and gradually his ribs began to expand with his breath.

He ignored a knock on the door. But whoever it was knocked a second time and then entered the room. Andrew recognised Father Obert’s shuffling gait, and as the elderly priest had never before intruded, that he was doing so now meant something serious was on his mind.

Andrew sat up.

Father Obert leaned on his cane, his back so crooked that his hips seemed those of an animal that walks on all four legs. ‘We are summoned to Master Thomas’s chamber,’ said Obert in a slightly breathless voice.

Andrew’s heart sank. ‘I have heard confession all morning and I am weary.’

Obert grimaced sympathetically. ‘I know, my friend, but I also know the matter about which Thomas would confer with us and I urge you to put on a pleasant face and come along.’ Without waiting for Andrew’s reply, Obert turned to withdraw.

‘Tell me – what is this about?’

Obert shook his head. ‘You will hear soon enough.’

Taking pity on the old priest, Andrew hurried to join him, offering his arm for support to ease Obert’s twisted spine. Of course he hoped the priest would trade information for relief. ‘It is always of benefit to know something of the reason for a summons.’

‘I know nothing for certain,’ said Obert.

‘You are a stubborn man.’

‘I think of it as cautious rather than stubborn.’ Obert grinned with mischief.

Andrew found himself incapable of being angry with Obert when he exhibited this lightness of spirit. How the old priest found it possible to smile
and tease when trapped in a twisted, pain-wracked body filled Andrew with wonder and he believed it must be a sign of God’s grace. It inspired Andrew to seek an uncharacteristic lightness, which felt oddly calming.

‘Cautious,’ Andrew repeated. ‘It does sound less irritating.’

But the flicker of amusement faded quickly as their slow progress through the hall to Thomas’s door brought back Andrew’s grim exhaustion.

‘I feel your weariness,’ Obert commented when they paused at the door. ‘Laymen are doubtless unaware how they weigh us down with their sins and fears. I’ve heard them complain that we do little to earn the relative comfort in which we bide. It is not so.’ He lifted his hand to knock, but the door swung open, the servant bowing them in.

Master Thomas stood with another visitor, Sir Francis, whose men were to depart on the morrow for the north, taking the land route across Stirling Bridge. As Andrew stepped into the room he had noticed a fleeting, angry expression on Thomas’s face, and a frustrated look on Sir Francis’s, but they then stepped away from each other as if they’d been interrupted in a private conversation. As he helped Father Obert settle down on a chair it seemed to Andrew that Thomas and Francis regarded him with unease. The room was stuffy. The day was warm and the wind that had seemed never to abate had done so just when it would be appreciated. Sir
Francis wore a simple dark tunic and surcoat and fine leather girdle and boots, the picture of simple elegance next to the unlovely Thomas, whose green tunic hung limply on his heavy frame damp with sweat.

After all had exchanged greetings, Sir Francis chose the seat nearest Andrew and nodded to him.

‘I am aware that you have heard the confessions of my men all morning, Father Andrew,’ he said, ‘and I am grateful that even so you have agreed to meet with us.’

If he’d meant to disarm Andrew with his considerate words he’d succeeded. Father Obert nodded as if approving the sentiment.

‘He is a hard worker and I have much appreciated his assistance these past months,’ said Obert.

Sir Francis did not look pleased by the comment.

‘Have you changed your mind, Father Obert?’ Master Thomas asked.

‘Has he changed his mind about what?’ Andrew asked, feeling as if he were being deliberately kept in the dark.

‘I told him nothing,’ said Obert.

Sir Francis glanced at him in puzzlement. ‘Forgive me,’ he said to Andrew. ‘I’d expected you would have heard about it from Father Obert. I have a problem that must be resolved before we ride in the morning. The chaplain who arrived at long last to travel with my men and Sir Marmaduke’s has broken his leg – it is very badly
broken. He cannot sit a horse. I cannot in good conscience continue without a man of the Church. You’ve listened to my men, Father Andrew, you know how frightened they are, hearing awful tales of the Wallace and the bloodthirsty highlanders–’

Andrew smiled without being aware of it, but Francis paused.

‘What is amusing?’

‘Forgive my discourtesy. The men from the highlands have no cause to join with the Wallace for they are not under siege – nor can I imagine them fighting under a lowlander. Your words painted an unlikely picture, that is all. I am tired, as you so kindly noted.’ Andrew felt like a babbling fool.

‘Sir Francis is not a Scotsman, Father Andrew,’ said Master Thomas. ‘He knows not the–’

Sir Francis held up a hand to stop the conversation. ‘I thank you for pointing out my error, and see yet another good coming out of Father Guthlac’s accident – if you agree to accompany me and my men in the morning, Father Andrew.’

Andrew glanced at Obert, who was gazing at the floor, then at Master Thomas, who looked uncomfortable. Sir Francis had an encouraging expression on his face, as if hoping that by his demeanour he might persuade Andrew to risk his life on the march. But of course Andrew could hardly contain his excitement, could not believe his good fortune, feared that at any moment Master
Thomas would cry out that Andrew could not be trusted outside the close confines of Soutra where his Abbot had placed him. For outside the spital he might escape. With Matthew.