A Cruel Courtship (20 page)

‘If I cannot, and I deem it still necessary, I’ll go myself.’

She had been about to ask him why he had not found a messenger to replace Archie earlier, but if he was to be the replacement she understood. His absence would be noticed. But seeing the determination in Piers’s face, Margaret did not argue.

She turned to Johanna. ‘I want to hear all that you were to tell Archie. Celia will also listen so that nothing is forgotten.’

The precaution proved invaluable, for as Johanna
spoke a veil seemed to form around her, as if Margaret were seeing her through a piece of the sheerest silk, of a smoky colour. A feeling of such intense doom fell on Margaret that she broke out in a cold sweat; no one else in the room seemed aware of either the veil or the fear in the air. After a while, the smoky veil moved, gathering and reshaping itself into a figure standing over Johanna with what looked like a club in their hands.

‘Dame Johanna, you are in grave danger.’ Margaret’s voice came out as a mere whisper, her throat being so constricted by fear.

Johanna crossed herself. ‘I have understood the danger from the beginning. Like you, I could not stand aside and let Longshanks take our land from us.’ She bowed her head. ‘But my lover has gone with the other soldiers down to the camps near the river today, and I’ll hear no more from the castle.’ For a moment she rested her head in her hand, then looked up with a forced smile. ‘I’ll no longer be a threat to anyone.’

Margaret could not see what good it would do to describe her vision to Johanna, for she could not provide any practical advice. In fact she wanted to escape the vision. She rose to take her leave, grateful that Celia had known to be her eyes and ears.

In the nave, Margaret asked Celia what Johanna had told her.

‘You had a vision?’

‘Yes, while Johanna was talking. She is in mortal danger.’

Celia crossed herself, her face pinched. ‘She described the hanging of Huchon Allan, the son of our neighbours to the north.’

‘For carrying weapons to the river?’

Celia nodded. ‘The soldier I’ve spoken of – the one at Dame Ada’s yesterday – he presided, and Dame Lilias, the mother, suddenly attacked him. The townsfolk are frightened, everyone suspecting everyone else of betraying Huchon. She also spoke of the poisoning of a soldier by the family he’d boarded with – they have disappeared, and it’s believed they are at the castle. Someone has been watching the castle from the outcrop in the kirk yard, though Father Piers swore that wasn’t so.’

Margaret crossed herself. ‘That is where Roger dies in my vision,’ she whispered.

They both knelt to pray.

Before leaving the kirk, Celia told Margaret the most important piece of information Johanna had provided: Rob had told her of a path up the side of Stirling rock that was no longer guarded because of a rock slide. This was something James must be told.

As Sir Francis’s company rode through Lothian, Andrew wondered at the eerie quiet. In such dry, pleasant weather there should be folk working in the fields, but he’d seen none so far. The crops
must still be tended, the animals herded. He prayed that the English had not stripped the land, for then it mattered little who won the coming battle, for the people would die of famine.

As they neared Edinburgh Andrew caught sight of the saddle-shaped outcrop known as Arthur’s Seat and shivered, thinking of his abbot in the monastery on the far side. Abbot Adam would be furious to know his fallen angel was unshackled and so close at hand. As they grew closer and Edinburgh Castle became visible on the horizon, flashes of memory assailed Andrew, particularly scenes with his sister Maggie, whose strength in adversity had taken him by surprise. He prayed that she was safe with her Uncle Murdoch in Edinburgh. Better that she never be reunited with Roger Sinclair; he’d never been worthy of her.

Summer it might be, but Ada’s light cape did nothing to block the wind that buffeted her as she followed her son through the castle ward. Son. She did not feel anything for him. In fact she found him almost lacking in personality. He moved like a well-trained fighter and his face, what little she could see of it in the lantern light with her ageing eyes, lacked all expression. She found him as chilling as the wind that slipped beneath her cape and up her skirt.

That was not all that had been up her skirt this evening. Heaven, what a reunion this had been.
She had never dreamed that she would share Simon’s bed again, never, in all the years since she left him. Not that she had not wished to, nor could she refuse him without endangering everyone, but she knew that what she had done was nothing he would easily forgive. And she was not at all contrite. He’d had a wife, and heaven only knew how many other women he’d dangled on his knee. Why should she not have had a lover of her choice? In faith, she knew why, so that he might know that his bastards were truly his bastards. But she had not lied to him; when she knew she was pregnant with Godric’s child she had told Simon. He had flown into a rage and insisted that she go to the midwife to be rid of it, and to swear she would never speak to, let alone touch, Godric again. In love with both the father and the child growing in her womb, she had refused, and with her lover she had fled back to Scotland, foolishly expecting this child to be born, if not conceived, in wedlock. In the end Godric had deserted her.

‘Too fast, young Peter,’ she breathed, her night vision not what it once had been. How ridiculous to be filled with her lover’s seed at such an age, and even more ludicrous to be escorted back to her house by a son she had not seen since an infant. Her life was a farce. She wondered how much Peter knew about her, whether he knew of her rebellion, his father’s unbending nature.

Once past the castle gate it was much quieter,
and Ada thought she might have some conversation with her son.

‘Have you served before with Sir Simon?’

‘I am not serving with him. I am with the governor of the castle.’

‘Ah. You are merely in the same place at the same time.’

Peter nodded.

She had thought she detected a less than cordial relationship between father and son, but thought perhaps she was the thorn between them, the mother who was merely a mistress. But perhaps not.

‘I pray that the situation of your birth has not caused you suffering.’

‘Madame, I was brought up in a household of noble bastards.’

He was a charming conversationalist. She thought it might be quite easy to hate this particular bastard of hers.

‘Had you arrived earlier you would have met your cousin Maggie.’

‘I wonder – is she not my half-sister, about my age, I think, perhaps several years younger?’

So he had been told the tale of her leaving with Godric. ‘No, Maggie is not your sister.’ She wondered who had told this unfeeling young man, but did not care to ask. He was ruining what had otherwise been a quite wonderful evening. She wondered how a de la Haye offspring had gone so far astray.

Home at last, as she slipped into bed beside Maggie, Ada was suddenly overwhelmed by a memory of Peter’s half-sister, five years his junior. She had suffered so much in her brief life. But had Simon been less unbending she would have lived in far more congenial circumstances, and with her health intact. Ada should have loathed bedding with Simon after what he’d done, but pleasures had been scarce of late.

Waking early and impatient to begin the day, Celia slipped out of the curtained bed she shared with Maus and found John stirring the fire in the kitchen. He was grumbling about the short supply of ale.

‘We cannot have already drained the barrel of Evota’s ale,’ said Celia. She’d thought her portion meagre last night.

‘No. I’ve not had anyone to spare, so it’s not been fetched.’

‘I would not mind a walk.’

John gave her a searching look. ‘You would return there? What is your interest in that family?’

‘My portion of ale was so small last night. I thought perhaps you would be more generous if I did you a favour.’

John grunted. ‘You are too small to roll a barrel up the hill.’

‘Send the groom from the stable with me.’

‘So that is your plot.’

Celia blushed, realising what he thought.

With a nod, John agreed. ‘In a little while. There is little enough pleasure in our lives at present.’

It was difficult, but Celia bit her tongue and let him think what he liked. It served her purpose.

As the household began to waken, cook stirring from his pallet in the corner, Maus sleepily reaching out towards the heat of the fire, Celia grew impatient with John.

‘Someone as needy as Evota will have been up with the dawn, or earlier,’ she argued.

‘Not if she is entertaining soldiers to help with the expense of raising her children,’ said John.

It irritated Celia that she could not flatly reject that idea. But going out for some fresh air, she soon cleared her head enough to admit to herself that her impatience stemmed from her concern about Margaret’s behaviour the previous evening – as they’d left the kirk her mistress had fallen into a grim silence that Celia could not penetrate. She felt as if Margaret had slammed a door in her face. She could not remember a time, even when first in Edinburgh they had argued over every bit of work, that Margaret had so ignored her. That she knew it had to do with the Sight made it all the worse. Once back at the house Margaret had climbed the steps for bed quite early, without supper. It was very troubling to Celia.

She’d had only Maus to keep her company for the evening, who kept moaning about how the
household was in terrible danger because of the mistress’s invitations to the castle. When she could no longer bear the woman’s fear, for it echoed her own, Celia left her waiting up for Dame Ada.

According to John, Dame Ada was not likely to rise until midday, so Maus would probably sleep late, too.

‘She woke me to help her stay awake after you had gone to bed,’ he explained, ‘but the fire was warm and we were both frighted from sleep when Dame Ada arrived with the sombre young man she calls her son.’

‘What does he look like? Is he as handsome as Dame Ada is fair?’ Celia was very curious about Dame Ada’s past.

‘He has the cold eye of a born soldier,’ said John. ‘He’s like his father.’

‘So you’ve met him?’

John said nothing.

‘Do you think we’re in danger because of Sir Simon and Dame Ada? The goldsmith was friendly with the English, too.’ Celia hoped the butler would laugh at her fear.

‘It does seem that what I’d considered to be our protection might be our undoing,’ said John. He nodded as the groom came in for his meal. ‘Soon as Sandy’s eaten, the two of you might fetch the ale.’

The prospect would have cheered Celia had John dismissed her fears. But it was best to be busy, so she tidied herself and pushed the groom out the door the
moment he set down his morning tankard. The market square was alive with folk criss-crossing it on their way to the day’s business, or standing about trading theories about the goldsmith’s demise. It seemed that commerce had been allowed to continue here far more than in Edinburgh. Yet she’d already heard many complaints about the lack of meat and fresh vegetables, that everything went straight to the castle. Her heart went out to a man being led up towards the castle in chains. He looked innocent as the day was young, and his expression was one of utter despair. Crossing herself, Celia urged Sandy to walk faster with the handcart. Once they’d crossed over the burn and turned down Bow Street they encountered fewer folk. Sandy the groom was one of the servants hired in Stirling for their stay. Celia thought she might learn something of the town from him. She asked about the damaged homes.

‘They’re mostly where spies have been caught,’ he said with an uncomfortable expression. ‘It’s best not to talk about them.’

Particularly when pulling the noisy cart – he was practically shouting. Celia waited until he paused to rest his hands before asking her next question.

‘Is this the poorer part of the town?’

Sandy glanced around. ‘Might say so, but most of it isn’t nice like the de la Haye house. Fortune brought me to the attention of the tenants who recommended me to Dame Ada’s butler. Just a bit farther now.’

They turned into the wynd leading to Evota’s small house.

The yard was quiet this time, and Celia was about to knock on the door when a young man came round the side, a hand up the front of his tunic, scratching at his groin. He flushed with embarrassment, then nodded and hurried on down the wynd in the direction of Bow Street. Celia thought it likely to be Archie.

‘Sandy, knock on the door and collect the barrel – we already paid good coin for it. I must have a word with that boy.’

‘Man, more like,’ said Sandy. ‘And a troublesome one, I warn you.’

There was no time to ask the groom what he knew of Archie. Celia hurried down the wynd, glad that she had worn her soft-soled shoes which were much easier to run in than her boots – quieter, too. In Bow Street she was momentarily turned in the wrong direction, following a dark-haired lad who she suddenly realised was too small, and then corrected herself in time to see Archie slipping down St Mary’s Wynd. She gathered her skirts and hurried after him, glad that the streets were still quiet. But at the crossing of Broad Street she slowed, not wanting to call attention to herself from the busier market square. Unfortunately, the delay cost her the quarry, for she saw him not, though she peered down all the wynds and closes.