A Cruel Courtship (32 page)

‘He is feverish,’ she said when Margaret asked about his condition. ‘I have made him something to cool him, but his mouth is so swollen he does not want to drink. So I drip a little into his mouth now and then.’

‘You are very kind to him.’

‘The worst I know of him is that he fought with Peter Fitzsimon,’ said Celia. ‘I cannot fault him for that.’

Margaret yawned.

‘You could do with a rest, Mistress.’

‘Or some air.’

Seeing that Archie was being well looked after, Margaret felt free to do what she pleased, as long as she didn’t wander out into the town. She headed out into the backlands and settled on a seat beneath a pear tree on the edge of the property near the Allans’s house. The sense that she was about to understand something grew stronger and she had an uneasy feeling that the Sight was playing with her. So be it. She welcomed it if it showed her what to do next.

After what seemed a long while a man came out of the next house. She felt a shiver of anticipation, and silently proposed a bargain with the Sight, that she would honour the gift and seek out Great-Aunt Euphemia in Kilmartin Glen so that she might learn to use it for good if it proved now that it could
be used for good. She prayed that it was God’s gift and not that of the Devil. She almost laughed at herself for bargaining with a mere string of thoughts, but she reminded herself of its power, how it ruled her mother’s life. Ready now, she turned her attention to the man.

He wore a wide-brimmed hat and carried a bundle of clothing. Because of the hat, she could not tell the colour of his hair, but his shape and posture were those of an older man, perhaps like Roger in his early forties, so she guessed it was Ranald Allan. He picked up a long-handled spade from a small gardening shed – she noted that his right hand was bandaged and he held the spade awkwardly. He continued a few paces past the tidy kitchen garden and there crouched down, setting the bundle to one side, and with his hands cleared an area of weeds and debris. Rising, he stabbed the spade into the dry earth and drove it into the soil with one foot on the blade, then suddenly abandoned the project, walking away, farther into the backlands. Behind him the handle stuck out of the ground like a feeble marker. Margaret noticed his shoulders heaving as he fell to his knees, his head in his hands.

She was uncomfortable about observing his sorrow. But he need only have glanced her way to see her sitting there. She had not hidden from him.

When at last he rose, never glancing in Margaret’s direction, he attacked the digging with a grim determination. His behaviour intrigued her. As the
mound of earth grew she wondered how deep a hole he needed. Perhaps she’d been wrong about what he’d carried out with him. Although it looked like a small bundle of clothes, it might actually be something wrapped in a piece of clothing. She watched closely as he jabbed the spade into the pile and then bent to pick up the clothes. When he tossed the bundle into the hole it flowed in; if there was something other than clothing it was small and light. He made short work of filling in the hole, tamped down the earth with his feet, and propped the spade by the shed as he passed it, headed back towards the house.

Just opposite the spot where Margaret sat he paused, took off his hat and rubbed a sleeve over his sweaty grey hair, then fanned his face with the hat as he glanced around, as if considering what to do next. Margaret wished she could sink into the bench. When he noticed her, which had been inevitable, he strode over to her.

Hands on hips, he demanded, ‘What are you gawping at?’ His face flushed crimson.

Margaret reminded herself that it was perfectly reasonable for her to sit beneath a tree on a warm early autumn day behind the house in which she was staying. ‘I came out to enjoy the garden,’ she said. ‘You look hot. Would you care to sit here in the shade with me?’

‘You’re biding here with Ada de la Haye?’

Margaret nodded. ‘I’m her niece, Maggie.’

To her surprise, he sank down beside her, the bench creaking under his weight. ‘Ranald Allan,’ he said. ‘I should not have shouted so.’

‘I understood. I startled you. But there’s no harm done.’

‘You’ve chosen a darksome time to bide in Stirling.’ Pain resonated in his words. Margaret sensed the mourning in his posture and his voice and her heart went out to him.

‘I know, and I regret it. I pray my aunt does not suffer because of my selfishness in wanting to come here.’

‘Your choice? Why did you wish to travel at such a time?’ He spoke with a delicacy, as if he anticipated a sad tale.

‘My husband died recently and I could not bear to be in the house we’d shared. I hoped that if I were away for a little while …’ She let her voice trail off. It was not really a lie. She
had
wished to escape the house she’d gone to with such hope when first married, and she
was
a widow. It was not a story she’d planned to tell anyone, but she had a sense that Ranald would respond with his own tale of grief. She was following her impulse, still challenging the Sight to prove itself worthwhile.

‘You are so young to be a widow,’ Ranald said. ‘Did your husband die a soldier?’

She hoped not to shut him up with her nod.

‘It is a terrible time.’ Ranald’s voice broke and he turned away from her.

She waited, feeling horrible for causing him to recall his sorrow.

‘My son was hanged by the English,’ he said, catching his breath at the end as if biting off a sob.

‘God grant him peace,’ Margaret whispered, crossing herself.

‘They made an example of him, hanging him in front of the townspeople. He’d been caught with a cache of weapons in his pack, down in the pows.’

‘How horrible for you to see that.’

‘My wife knew she could not bear to watch, but they forced us out to the market square to stand at the head of the crowd. I’d meant to be there all along; I believed that my son would know I was there, and find some comfort in that.’ Ranald’s voice broke again and he shakily dabbed his forehead with his bandaged hand. ‘My wife has not recovered.’

‘I’m sure he died bravely, and in God’s grace. His brothers and sisters must be proud of him.’

‘He was our only child,’ said Ranald. ‘He was soon to be wed, and Lilias, my wife, looked forward to having a daughter, and grandchildren.’ He opened his hands on his lap, as if letting go a dream. ‘All lost now.’ His palm was wrapped, the bandage bloody. His digging must have opened a wound.

‘I hope his betrothed is a comfort to you in your grief,’ she said.

‘Her? A comfort? Do you know what she–’ He stopped himself. ‘Her parents sent her away. To kin up north.’

With the sharpness of his anger, she realised she’d touched on the source of his deep bitterness.

‘You hadn’t heard about my son’s execution?’ Ranald asked.

‘I think people are too frightened to gossip. Death surrounds us.’ Something in his mood shifted as she spoke. She tried not to think, but to let words come as they would. ‘You must also mourn your neighbour Gordon Cowie.’

‘Gordon?’ Ranald seemed startled, but then hurriedly murmured, ‘God grant him rest.’

‘Were you burying your son’s clothes just now?’ Her heart pounded at the boldness of the question.

‘What? Oh,’ he flushed and nodded. ‘My son’s. Yes.’

‘What of his ring?’ she asked, though she had not meant to.

He turned and grabbed her by the wrist, his face livid. ‘What do you know of that? Who are you? Has she talked to you?’

It felt as if he might break the bones in her wrist, he held her so tightly with the bandaged hand. But Margaret could not stop the flow of words. ‘What happened to your son’s ring?’

‘God, help me. Dear God, help me,’ Ranald moaned, and letting go her wrist he hurried away, disappearing into his house.

Margaret could not breathe for a moment; she thought her pounding heart would break through her ribs. She cursed herself for mentioning the ring.
If this was what she must suffer with the Sight she wanted none of it. She fled into the house.

‘What is it, Maggie?’ Ada said, stepping in front of her and grabbing her by the shoulders. ‘You look terrified. Was that Ranald you were talking to? Did he say something to frighten you?’

Finding her voice, Margaret said, ‘We spoke of his son’s hanging.’

‘Poor man,’ Ada murmured. ‘No wonder you are upset.’

Margaret was grateful that Ada queried her no further, but allowed her to escape up to the solar where Celia was soon beside her, helping her remove her wimple and shoes.

‘You are shivering, Mistress,’ Celia murmured as she helped Margaret into bed and pulled the covers up over her.

By the expression on her maid’s face Margaret knew she looked as strange as she felt. Her mind was agitated and she thought that the last thing she wanted was to lie down, and yet her body felt drained of life. How she was going to quiet her mind while lying with the covers pulled up over her head she did not know. Sleep was impossible, yet motion was equally impossible.

Dear God, teach me how to contain these thoughts, this knowing. I can do no good if I go mad
.

11

Ada had just taken a soothing tisane to Margaret, having hoped to talk to her some more about their neighbour. She had been alarmed by Margaret’s state after speaking with him. That his son was hanged as a spy was horrible, but Margaret had already heard of the execution. Ada sensed that something else had deeply unsettled her. She was disappointed to find Margaret asleep.

Celia was sitting beside the bed. ‘After tossing so that I worried she’d never rest, she’s finally calmed,’ said the faithful maid.

Although glad that Margaret was resting, Ada was frustrated to be left in the dark about what had so disturbed her – yet not so much that she considered waking her. Leaving the cup with Celia, Ada had reached the head of the solar steps when she heard voices outside the hall door, and then a
knock. John hurried to open the door, saying as he did so, ‘Sir Simon.’ He bowed his head with respect.

Simon gave the butler a curt nod and stepped past him into the hall. He was dressed as a soldier today and looked like one, straight-backed and grim. A stranger followed him in; he wore an unfamiliar livery, and was clearly a commoner.

Anxious to know why Simon was breaking his rule about being seen outside the castle precinct with her, Ada hurriedly descended to greet them.

‘Good day to you, Dame Ada,’ said Simon with an uncharacteristic formality. He glanced towards the fire, noticing Archie on the pallet. ‘An injured servant?’ Simon asked, walking over to see him more clearly. ‘This young man is often at the castle. Is he a member of your household?’

‘No, Simon. We found him lying in the wynd this morning,’ said Ada, grateful that Peter had not accompanied him. ‘As you can see, he was in no condition to be moved far.’

Simon grunted, ‘Drunken brawling,’ and moved away from the fire. ‘Has Peter been here – last night or this morning?’ he asked.

Ada’s heart raced. ‘No. He has not graced me with his company. Did he say he was coming to see me?’

‘No. No matter.’ Nodding to his companion, who waited by the door, Simon motioned for him to join them.

‘Can I offer you something? A cup of wine?’ Ada asked.

‘I’ll not be here so long as that. I want a word with your niece.’