A Cruel Courtship (23 page)

‘Friends of the castle, those are the ones dying,’ said one of the men in her ear. ‘Like Dame Ada.’

The hatred and fear in their voices woke Margaret to her own danger. ‘I must go to Johanna,’ she said as she ducked past one of the lantern-carrying questioners, pushing past her own fear and doubt. She felt drawn to bear witness.

‘There’s naught you can do,’ said a woman. ‘The guard has warned us to stay out.’

Margaret turned at the door and faced the frightened neighbours. ‘What right has he to keep us from her?’ she exclaimed, conjuring anger to give her the energy to cross the threshold. ‘Has anyone gone for a priest?’

No one moved forward to join her, but one man said that another had gone for a priest from Holy Rude. She hoped that Father Piers came, for he knew how worthy Johanna was of God’s grace despite her sinful life.

The door to Johanna’s house stood ajar. As Margaret stepped within she felt an almost
suffocating wave of fear, not her own, and for an instant clearly saw Johanna’s lovely smile, how it had lit up Father Piers’s parlour the previous day. Beaten, they’d said. That was a personally passionate act, not a dispassionate action of war like she assumed the goldsmith’s stabbing had been. Margaret took a deep breath and moved farther in.

A portly soldier was crouched down beside Johanna, the light from his lantern illuminating her still form on the floor. She was surrounded by signs of the violence that had occurred: benches and a stool were on their sides, crockery from a shelf lay shattered beneath it, and meal had spilled from an overturned jar, which had already attracted rats. Johanna lay face down; her veil was dark with blood, as was the ground round her head. Margaret choked back a sob; she fought to see, not to react, for this was all she could do for Johanna now, find out what had happened, who had done this. She forced herself to look at Johanna’s clothing – it was bloodstained and torn near the waist on one side.

Margaret closed her eyes and prayed that the Sight might help her. When she looked again, she was focused on Johanna’s hands, which were stretched over her head, not bent as they would be if she’d tried to break her fall.

‘Have you moved her, or tidied her clothes?’ she asked.

‘What?’ the man, startled, almost dropped the
lantern as he straightened. ‘Who are you? What are you doing in here? No, I’ve not touched her.’

‘Have you checked whether she’s breathing?’ Margaret asked.

‘I have, and she’s not,’ he said with impatience. His accent was that of the north – he might be a Scot.

Besides the sickening sweet scent of blood there was another smell, of charred, damp straw. ‘Did something burn?’ Margaret asked.

‘Lamp was turned over. That’s what raised the neighbour, smoke in the doorway. We put out the fire. Who
are
you?’ He came closer, shining the lantern in Margaret’s face. She smelled his fear.

‘Maggie de la Haye – Sir Simon Montagu will vouch for me. The folk without asked whether I’d seen anyone in the backlands. So the murderer escaped?’

The man snorted. ‘Do you think anyone came out when she screamed? They say she screamed, and looking at her, you
know
she screamed.’ He shook his head, disgusted.

‘How did you come to be here?’ Margaret asked, although her heart pounded so in her ears that she feared she wouldn’t hear his response.

‘I should ask the questions,’ he barked quite clearly.

‘Is that the weapon?’ With the toe of her shoe Margaret pointed to a log the width of a woman’s forearm, with knobs where branches had been cut off. It lay near Johanna.

‘Aye, it’s bloody. Why are you here?’ His face was very close to hers now and she could smell that he’d been drinking.

‘She was my friend. I had come to see her. We must find who did this. She was a good person–’ Margaret covered her mouth. She was babbling, though it would not matter to him.

‘She was a whore. Slept with half the soldiers in the castle.’

Margaret slapped him in the face. ‘I’ll not have you speak about her with disrespect, God rest her soul.’

He grabbed her by the wrist and the vice-like grip made her cry out in pain. But she was too angry to desist. His lantern tilted so far sideways that it was dripping oil.

‘You’ll burn us all if you don’t see to your lantern,’ she said, a little breathless. She did not know what had gotten into her, to refuse to withdraw.

‘You’ll pay for that, lass,’ he growled, but let go of her hand. He put the lantern on the ground and with his heels tried to scuff the oil into the packed earth floor. Much good that would do.

Margaret rubbed her burning wrist. ‘Respect the dead. God knows you don’t the living.’

‘I’ve not touched her!’

‘I expected you to stand guard at the door.’ The voice came from a man who stood at the threshold, so tall that he filled the doorway. The lamp lit his face from beneath, rendering its chiselled features sinister.

‘I stepped within for a moment and this woman fell upon me,’ whined the guard. ‘She accused me of not respecting the dead.’

Margaret had picked up the lantern and now held it up to the newcomer’s face to assure herself he was human. She thought him familiar, and as he wore the livery of the castle guard she was reassured that he was the sort of devil to which she’d become accustomed, one of Longshanks’s soldiers.

‘How was he disrespectful?’ the man asked.

‘The woman lying there in her own blood was my friend, and this man called her a whore,’ said Margaret.

‘Walter, guard the door – from without,’ said the man.

When the portly guard had pushed past them, the tall man closed the door behind him. Margaret still held the lantern.

‘I would like to turn her over so that you could assure me this is Johanna.’ He glanced at Margaret over his shoulder. ‘Are you willing?’

Willing she was, but she did not know how well she would stand up to it. Still, she nodded and stepped closer.

‘Turn that bench upright,’ he said, indicating a long one. ‘I’ll lay her there.’

Margaret set the lantern on the shelf, shaking so hard that she knew she needed both arms to turn over the bench without fumbling with it. She was
fighting a surge of fear and regret for having stood her ground by staying in the room. She wished someone else were facing this terrible task. The room was hot and the odour of blood nauseated her.

With considerate care the man lifted the body from the floor and managed to turn her as he lay her down on the bench.

Margaret cried out. Johanna’s jaw had been broken with a blow, and she yawned crookedly, the visible gums bloody. Her eyes were open. Margaret knelt to close them.

‘It is your friend?’ asked the man.

In touching Johanna Margaret felt a surge of terror that propelled her up and away from the body. She could not speak at once.

The man stepped towards her. ‘I must be certain.’

‘Yes, it is Johanna,’ Margaret managed to say.
Forgive me for coming too late
. She had been badly frightened by the touch and wanted to escape, but she felt she should not, at least until the priest arrived.

‘I’ll have the women who stand without take care of her. Your household will be worrying about your absence on such a night.’

‘Who could have done this? She was a gentle woman.’

‘I have seen you with Ada de la Haye. I will have Walter escort you home,’ said the man, ignoring her question.

‘I’ll wait for the priest, and then I’ll take myself home.’

‘Walter is a foul-mouthed villain, but there is someone abroad who has killed once tonight, and a prisoner escaped to sanctuary, quite the slippery one. In thanks for identifying this poor woman I must have you seen safely home.’

‘Who are you?’

‘A captain, a soldier intent on my duty.’

Margaret did not move. ‘I said I’ll wait for the priest.’

‘I’ll wait here for him,’ he said. ‘There is no need for you to stay.’

She sensed in the man a strength of will that she decided it was best not to cross. Without a word she departed, nodding to Walter as the other ordered him to escort her. She did not speak all the way, nor did her escort, and as soon as John opened Ada’s door she hurried in without looking back.

Celia ran to her and Margaret asked for some strong drink and a basin of water in which to wash.

‘Dame Johanna has been murdered,’ said Margaret, crossing herself. ‘Beaten about the head.’

‘Dear God,’ Celia cried.

Margaret gathered her skirts and was about to climb up to the solar.

‘Father Piers’s clerk came for you a while ago.’ Celia’s voice shook. ‘He said Master James was taken by the English and escaped to sanctuary in the kirk. What a night, Mistress, what a terrible night.’

Margaret crossed herself and prayed for strength as she turned away from the steps. ‘I still need to wash and have a good strong drink.’

8

Frightened by the events of the evening, which had strengthened his terror of being found out by the English, Father Piers began to fuss to avoid facing his demons. He considered the room, trying to determine how he might best receive Margaret, how best to tell her of James’s misadventure and his sad news, as well as the summons that had come for a priest to administer the last rites to Johanna. He’d sent his elderly assistant, Father John, for Piers was needed here, to stand his ground against soldiers demanding James. He’d had a terrible feeling that Gordon Cowie’s murder had set off a wave of fighting to mirror that going on down below, and now he feared he’d been right.
God have mercy on all their souls
, he prayed, crossing himself.

He wondered how he, called to a contemplative life, had become so involved in treachery. It was
frightening to be in the middle of all of it. He was within his rights to grant James sanctuary, but he was uneasy about how the English would judge his doing so. He had assured the captain who’d pursued James that despite his wish to cooperate with the castle it was his duty to respect the sanctity of sanctuary.

‘Do you know who he is?’ the captain had demanded.

‘It matters not a whit who he is,’ said Piers, ‘he has claimed sanctuary and it is his right.’ He would lie outright if necessary – he had before, despite his fear of becoming mired in a quicksand of lies. The captain had hesitated, as if about to tell him of James’s connection with King John Balliol, but then decided against it.

‘I’ll return in the morning,’ he’d said, and departed.

Just as worrisome was Margaret’s being abroad in the town, and without an escort, not even her maid. He did not know what she could be thinking, to take no precautions after the death of the goldsmith. Most felt that Gordon had been murdered because of his support of the English. For all others knew Margaret, too, was on the side of the invaders – they didn’t know of her work for King John.

‘Dame Maggie is here,’ the clerk said.

Praised be God
.

The first thing Piers noticed was that despite the
summery night Margaret had a plaid wrapped around her. He also noted that her hem was filthy. As she stepped into the room she stumbled despite having her hand resting on the arm of her small maid.

‘Dame Margaret?’ Piers looked closely at her.