A Cruel Courtship (34 page)

‘They have,’ she said. ‘And there is more news.’

‘Not a truce, I hope?’

Margaret shook her head, smiling at his energy. ‘Come, sit and eat while I tell you all I know.’ She told him nothing of the Sight, although she did mention Huchon Allan.

‘I’d heard of his fate,’ said James. When she told him of Aylmer’s escape from the castle he shook his head at the news. ‘I’d imagined him long gone.’

What most disturbed James was Simon’s visit; he suggested that both Margaret and Ada take sanctuary with him. But Margaret reasoned once more that they had been rendered ineffectual by Archie’s injury, Johanna’s death, James’s being stuck in sanctuary, and Simon’s knowledge of their purpose.

‘How can we be of any threat to him?’ she asked. ‘We’ve nowhere to go, no one to pass messages to with the troops all around us.’

He touched her cheek. ‘True. But I should like you to stay here with me.’

Apparently taking that as a cue, Celia stood up. ‘If you have no need of me, I would like to spend some time in prayer, Mistress. I’ll be in the nave when you are ready to return to Dame Ada’s house.’

Margaret nodded. ‘I’ll find you there.’

As soon as they were alone, James leaned close to Margaret and kissed her on her forehead. ‘It could be quite innocent, your seeking sanctuary here. With me.’

He looked deep into her eyes and she could not resist moving closer. After all, she was now a widow, and James was not married. What a happy temptation amidst all the gloom.

‘Say you will stay, Maggie.’ He cupped her chin in his hand and drew her closer still, kissing her lightly on the lips. He put his arms around her and tilted her back.

He kissed her as if he’d been starving for her, and she found herself responding with delight. What else was there to do than to take what joy they might in this dark time? But as he began to fuss with the bodice of her dress she pushed his hand away, unwilling to commit a sacrilege in the kirk.

‘We are in the kirk, Jamie. Father Piers is just out in the nave.’

He desisted, but not before some final kisses. ‘My love, you must stay here with me.’

‘It will still be a kirk,’ said Margaret.

He sat up, raking back his hair. ‘You’re right, and I’m forgetting why I’m here. You must help me escape, Maggie.’

Watching him so quickly shift to his usual preoccupations, Margaret thought what a stranger he still was, and she to him, she was certain. They had shared much, but not about their hearts.

‘Jamie, do you know how Roger fell?’

James stared at her for a moment, then slowly shook his head. ‘My men found him – do you suspect them?’

‘No! By the tears of the Virgin I never considered such a thing, Jamie. I just wish – I should have looked out in the kirk yard …’ She stopped, realising how strange that might sound. She would not have had any idea that he was out there without the visions.

James rose and walked over to the window, standing silently, hands on hips, for a long while. Margaret could not know what he was thinking, but she could tell by the tension in his neck that he was angry. She joined him, not presuming to touch him.

‘Were he alive I’d curse him, but I’ll not curse the dead,’ said James in a voice tight with frustration. ‘Even from the grave he stands between us.’

‘That is not so, Jamie.’ She reached out to him. ‘If I find a way to free you, where will you go? Not to Ada’s and safety, I think.’

Now he faced her, looking into her eyes. ‘If there is time before I am needed by my kin, I would come to Ada’s.’ He pulled her into his arms.

She pressed her head against his shoulder, kissed his cheek. ‘I cannot ask more than that.’

As she and Celia were leaving the kirk, Father Piers joined them at the door. He looked drawn and sad. She recalled the man kneeling before him. Once on their way to the house, she asked Celia if
she’d noticed who the man had been while she was by herself in the nave.

‘Ranald Allan. You must have stirred something in him today, for he was sobbing while he spoke to Father Piers. Perhaps he was speaking of his son.’

‘That would explain how sad Father looked.’

‘Poor man,’ said Celia.

Later, as the long early September dusk filled the hall with a soft twilight, Margaret and Celia sat by Archie, talking quietly while he slept. He’d awakened and taken some food, but his leg was causing him much pain, so Margaret did not ask questions, and soon he had slept again. It was warm by the fire, but Celia considered it unsafe to leave the injured man unattended, and John claimed he had spent enough time watching over Archie while they’d been at the kirk.

‘Head wounds are slippery things,’ said Celia. ‘It could turn against him at any time. He might slip into a deeper faint.’

‘What would we do then?’ Margaret wondered aloud.

‘Wake him, and make him move about a little,’ said Celia.

When they’d returned from the kirk they’d learned from Maus that Ada had gone out to see Dame Isabel. Margaret wished that she’d been invited to accompany her. She was considering whether to go along when John answered a timid knock.

A young woman stood in the doorway, her stance that of someone unsure of her welcome. Her head looked too large for her slender body, the effect of having her hair tucked in a white cap while her much-mended gown reached only to the top of her collar bone, thus exposing a thin, delicate neck.

‘My neighbours heard that my brother Archie has taken shelter here. Is it true?’ she asked John.

Margaret was intrigued as Celia said, ‘That is Ellen, Archie’s sister.’

As John turned for instructions, Margaret beckoned Ellen over to the fire. The young woman opened her mouth to speak, but appeared to change her mind and instead silently approached. She gave Margaret a little bow and then knelt to look at Archie, who still slept. Margaret explained how she’d found him and what his injuries had been.

‘You aren’t surprised that he picked a fight with Peter Fitzsimon?’ Margaret asked when Ellen did not respond.

‘I don’t know all my brother’s friends,’ she said.

‘But Peter has been to your house,’ said Margaret. ‘While you were there.’

Keeping her head low, Ellen glanced over at Celia. Margaret had wondered whether she would remember her. ‘We don’t fuss about who buys the ale,’ Ellen said. ‘Archie,’ she called softly to her brother. His eyelids fluttered and opened for a moment, but his eyes were unfocused and he was
soon asleep again – if he’d ever actually awakened. ‘Will he wake?’ she asked, lifting one of his hands to kiss it. ‘I would have come sooner but the soldiers were all about today.’

As she leaned towards her brother, a trinket that had been tucked into her neckline slid out, shining in the lamplight. It hung on a short cord around her neck. Margaret shifted to see it better. It was a garnet ring, of a size and shape suiting a man’s fingers. Margaret kenned it was Huchon Allan’s, the one long in his family. How had Ellen come by it? For surely she was not his betrothed.

Archie’s sister’s eyes were brimming with tears when she left her brother’s side. ‘You are so kind,’ she said, averting her eyes. From Celia’s description of their earlier encounter, Ellen had not been shy, so her averted gaze intrigued Margaret.

‘We could hardly do otherwise,’ she said. ‘You are welcome to sit with him for a while.’

‘I should go. Ma needs me to watch the little ones. Will you want us to fetch him home?’

‘He can bide here as long as he needs to,’ said Margaret. ‘Has he had trouble with Peter Fitzsimon before?’

‘I don’t know. Why would he?’ Her voice was not sullen; Margaret sensed she was frightened.

‘Peter Fitzsimon didn’t worry your mother?’

Ellen edged towards the door. ‘Is there anything you would have us do? The corn’s run out so we have no coin to spare.’

But you have that ring
, Margaret thought. ‘At this point he is not eating or drinking much, so you need not pay us. You are welcome to return.’ She accompanied Ellen to the door. ‘I could not help but notice the ring you wear around your neck. It’s a man’s ring. Was it your da’s?’

Ellen lifted small, work-hardened hands to her neck and tucked in the ring. ‘It’s naught but a trinket, too big for my finger.’ She shrugged. ‘God bless you, Dame Maggie,’ she murmured. John opened the door for her and she fled into the bluetinged twilight.

Margaret turned from the door, her mind churning over all that had been said as she searched for what, if anything, she had just learned. If she could trust the Sight, that was Huchon Allan’s ring. Ellen was worried about her brother, and did not wish to acknowledge knowing Peter Fitzsimon. What else? Margaret could find nothing else in it. She would like to ask Ranald whether his son had known Ellen, but she imagined Ranald was not ready to talk to her again. Perhaps she could learn something from Isabel Cowie.

‘I’m going to join Dame Ada,’ she told Celia.

‘I shouldn’t leave Archie,’ said Celia.

‘There’s no need. I don’t need a companion for such a short distance, and I’ll return with Ada.’

It was an evening of delicate colours, although the woodsmoke from below was beginning to tinge the air. Margaret wished a good evening to a woman
who was sweeping just outside the door downhill from Ada’s.

‘It will be a good evening now, with the soldiers gone down to the camps,’ said the woman. ‘I thought we’d never be rid of them.’

‘You had some biding with you?’

The woman nodded. ‘And I ken who told them up at the castle that we had room to spare. I’ve been too trusting.’ With an energetic nod the woman withdrew, broom in hand.

Margaret wondered how many small feuds would linger among the townspeople after the army was gone. Turning uphill, she was just passing the Allans’s house when Maus came running up behind her from the wynd.

‘Dame Margaret!’ She caught Margaret’s arm. Her face was white, despite her exertion. ‘In the gardening shed – a body – we think it’s Dame Ada’s son!’

‘God help us!’ Margaret gathered her skirts and rushed down the wynd.

At the shed Sandy and Alec stood in the doorway, and John was within, crouching down over something on the ground. He rose and stepped back to let Margaret see what they had found.

He’d wrapped himself in some ragged, filthy bags, perhaps trying to get warm, but the amount of blood pooled round him – Margaret looked away. How would she tell Ada?

‘The knife is still in his chest,’ John said softly.

‘The young man in the hall was asking about his knife.’

‘Could he have killed Peter without knowing it?’ Margaret wondered aloud.

‘Stabbed him as he fell, in a struggle,’ John nodded. ‘It is possible.’

‘It must have been him I saw last night,’ said Sandy, ‘that bit of movement. He might have been alive if I’d gone to see. Just next door.’

‘What do we do with him?’ cried Maus. ‘If they find him here, we’ll be blamed and they’ll hang us all.’

‘Keep your wits about you,’ Margaret said, looking round the backlands. Thank God the neighbours appeared to be tucked inside their homes. ‘Leave him here while I think what to do. Close the door and secure it.’

She moved away from them, staring out into the fading light seeking a spark of the Sight, a sense of something leading her, but she felt nothing but her raw fear. Why hadn’t she seen this was coming? Why hadn’t she sensed that Archie had murdered Peter? Or that Peter was dead? She’d felt not the least shiver of knowing. She crossed herself and prayed for strength for all the household, especially Ada. Despite her disappointment in Peter, he was her son. The sight of him – Margaret turned back. Something was not right. She almost ran into John.

‘Why would he not pull out the knife?’ she asked.

‘Could he?’ The butler wiped his forehead. ‘I’ve
never had a knife in me. My mistress, who is to tell her? This is a terrible, terrible thing.’

‘Bring a lamp out to the shed,’ said Margaret.

‘But we will call attention to ourselves,’ John protested.

‘God knows we’ve already risked that. Do as I say. Get Sandy if you’re too frightened to do it.’

John was obviously too frightened to care about his pride, because Sandy appeared in a moment carrying a lantern, the shutters closed. Without a word, the two returned to the shed, Margaret holding the lantern while Sandy unfastened the door and pulled it open. The odour was stronger than it had been, but she noticed it only for a moment.

‘Shine the light on his chest,’ she whispered to Sandy, then crouched down. He did as ordered and she saw now that the knife went through one of the bags. She also noted that Peter’s left hand was badly cut up. She motioned for Sandy to move the light up to Peter’s face. His eyes were closed. She looked more closely. Blood was caked on his eyelids, but she saw no wounds above his neck, so he must have touched his eyes with his bloody hands. Taking a deep breath and holding it, she pulled one of the blood-soaked bags away from his middle and found a gaping wound. The bag above it was not torn.

Feeling queasy, she struggled to her feet, grateful for Sandy’s helping hand beneath her elbow, for she quit the shed just in time to vomit
without it. Afterward, she leaned her head against the wall and let the night air cool what it could. Had Sandy not been hovering about her she would have torn off her wimple to feel the breeze in her hair. Death was horrible enough, but violent death was a vision of hell. Peter’s fellow men had torn his body like that. He’d been a difficult man, hard, but she’d thought that of James before she’d joined his cause. Had Peter been fighting for the return of King John Balliol she would have thought him a brave man, committed to a righteous cause.