A Cruel Courtship (24 page)

She raised her eyes to his, fixing on him with exaggerated attention though it made her blink. Her face was flushed and slack.

God help us, she’s been drinking
.

He pulled the chair slightly out of the light – her eyes must be sensitive to it – and appreciated Celia’s coaxing her to take the seat so proffered.

Margaret did not move at once. ‘I was too late,’ she said.

The clerk caught Piers’s eye –
Water? Wine? Neither?

But Celia asked for some watered wine for her mistress.

‘Forgive me, but Dame Maggie appears to have already drunk overmuch,’ said Piers.

‘And so would you had you been asked to look closely at a woman beaten beyond–’

‘You were there?’ Piers said, horrified.

‘Celia, quiet.’ Margaret kept her hand raised just a little too long, then dropped it as she gingerly sat down. ‘Yes, I’ve had a mazer full of Evota’s fine ale.’ She said nothing more for a moment, but emotion welled in her eyes. ‘Her face did not take the brunt of the blows – it was the back of her head. But her jaw –
the teeth–’ Margaret had reached out, sculpting the air with her hand as if drawing the horror.

Thank the Lord she could not actually make him see what she’d seen
, thought Piers, for in her dazed eyes he saw enough. ‘Who made you look, Dame Maggie?’

‘He had to know whether it was Johanna,’ Margaret said.

‘Christ have mercy,’ said the clerk.

‘What were you doing there?’ Piers asked.

‘I’d gone to see her,’ Margaret said. ‘But too late.’ Her voice broke, yet she sat rigidly staring towards him.

‘You describe such terrible injuries,’ said Piers. ‘You arrived after she’d been attacked?’

Margaret nodded. ‘May the Blessed Mother hold her to her breast and comfort her,’ she whispered as she took the cup from the clerk’s hands, her own hands trembling so that she needed both to bring the cup to her lips.

Piers left her in peace for a moment, but he was bursting with questions and finally asked, ‘Who did it?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘I know not, but the people think she was murdered for her English lover, as Gordon Cowie had been murdered for doing so much business with the castle.’

‘We must tell James of this. He awaits you in the kirk. Who was it who had you look upon her?’ Piers asked once more.

Margaret took a breath, visibly shivering as she
exhaled. ‘An English soldier, very tall, slender, sharp-featured. He spoke like a noble.’ She pulled the plaid higher round her neck.

‘Why were you there this evening?’

She lifted her eyes to his and seemed about to speak, but pressed her lips together and dropped her gaze again. It was a few seconds before she said, ‘I heard shouts in St Mary’s Wynd and was curious. It was my undoing.’

‘Was she touched?’ Piers asked. ‘Or robbed?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘Neither.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘Let us go to James.’ She looked pale and terribly fragile.

‘Do you think you should, Mistress?’ asked the maid, rising to support her.

She’d been so still that Piers had forgotten her presence. He had a sense that there was much the two were not telling him. God help him if he’d been mistaken in trusting them.

‘I wish to talk to James, to tell him what I saw,’ said Margaret.

She was steadier on her feet now, but Piers was having second thoughts about her seeing James tonight.

‘There is no need for you to tell him, I shall,’ Piers offered. ‘You have witnessed such violence. You should rest. Come to him in the morning.’

Margaret kept walking towards the door. ‘I’ll not sleep tonight, so I’d as lief have someone to talk to,’ she said.

She was a very stubborn woman.

‘It is out of my hands,’ Piers murmured as he crossed himself. ‘Stay a moment. There’s bound to be someone watching. We’ll carry bedding to him.’

When all three were so burdened, they moved out into the kirk yard. Torchlight illuminated a guard at the side door of the kirk, and another apparently stood by the nave door, where his torch danced wildly in the breeze.

‘God have mercy.’ Piers said it as if a curse. He had not thought that they would set up sentinels so soon. Thank God he’d prepared.

Margaret covered her head with her plaid.

‘I’ll not tell them who you are,’ Piers promised. ‘They ken they haven’t the right to deny the faithful access to the kirk.’ Perhaps it was best that Margaret go to James now, in the dark, before the gossips fed on the night’s deeds.

The market square had been almost deserted when Ada stepped out of her house with her escort to the castle.

‘How it has changed in a day,’ she said.

‘All are fearful since the stabbing of the goldsmith,’ said the young man. ‘There will be little law in the town when most of the soldiers have gone down to the camps.’

Ada prayed that those loyal to King John would not take it as an opportunity to punish those who had courted the English. She hesitated, wondering
whether she should warn John to be extra vigilant. But he was, as a rule.

In the castle bailey she sensed that here, too, was a heightened tension, and looking around she noticed only martial activity, no townsfolk doing business, no idle hands. The men were cleaning and sharpening weapons, training, packing, dismantling tents, talking in hushed tones. The eyes that followed her passage were already haunted. Just yesterday Gordon Cowie had been here, doing business. She picked out the spot where he’d sat. Not since she had defied Simon and then almost died birthing Godric’s child had she felt so close to death, for she understood there was little, perhaps nothing to prevent anyone from murdering anyone when the captains and commanders were fixed on the enemy across the river. Who would punish a murderer? What difference was it to them whether someone was murdered, killed in battle, or merely in the wrong place at the wrong time? She hurried after the escort, uneasy about being so exposed in the castle yard.

Simon, too, was different this evening, repeating himself and sometimes forgetting his train of thought. She tried to bring him back to subjects that bonded them because she felt so vulnerable tonight.

‘Where was I?’ he’d just muttered for at least the eighth time when the servant announced Peter. They were at table, talking about the children,
making plans for Ada to travel south to see them, although she doubted it would happen and knew full well that she would not be welcomed by any of them. Still, she yearned to know her children. Except for Peter – she was not eager to renew acquaintance with him. He’d shown up in her dreams last night as a chilly-eyed executioner.

And here he was now, standing over them, a sheen of sweat bringing a welcome imperfection to his handsome face. Perhaps that was part of what disturbed her – such a beautiful man should be angelic, all things good.

‘What’s amiss?’ Simon asked, rising slightly as he gestured to his son – their son – to join them at the table.

Peter took a seat and helped himself to some wine, adding almost as much again of water. Apparently he meant to keep his wits about him this evening.

‘The Welshman led us right to our quarry,’ Peter said to Simon. ‘But the prisoner escaped us and has claimed sanctuary in Holy Rude Church.’

‘What? How could he escape?’ His face reddening, Simon inexplicably looked at Ada as if she might answer that.

But of course she had no idea of whom they spoke. She returned to her study of Peter, watching his jaw muscles flex. He held himself so tightly it was plain to her how humiliated he was to have lost a captive, and thus that he was human after all,
which was good in a sense. Beneath this motherly observation she realised with great unease that Simon had looked at her as if he thought she knew something of the prisoner’s escape. But she’d known all along that they would find her presence at this time suspicious.

‘The men are too excitable tonight,’ said Peter. ‘They jump at the slightest movement or sound. My prisoner must have noticed and watched for his chance. When the men were distracted by a pair of brawling drunkards he rushed straight to the church and claimed sanctuary before we could recapture him.’

‘The priest will not hand him over?’ asked Simon.

Peter shook his head. ‘Father Piers insists that he must honour sanctuary.’ Now he took a drink, avoiding his father’s eyes.

‘The Comyn is in sanctuary.’ Simon wearily pressed his brow. ‘What a sad end to a good day’s work.’

Ada’s stomach fluttered to hear the name. The Comyn was almost certainly James, for he’d complained that few of his kinsmen were yet rising for either side. James a prisoner. God help them if it was so. She tried to recall whether anything she’d done since she’d arrived in Stirling had connected her with him. But of course there had always been the risk that spies had seen them riding here together.

‘And there is more,’ said Peter. ‘A woman of the town has been brutally beaten.’

‘Dead?’ Simon asked.

Peter nodded, more at ease with this news, Ada noticed with disgust. ‘Johanna of St Mary’s Wynd – the one who bedded with a dozen soldiers or more before choosing someone unhappy with his lot.’

‘She wanted a man willing to talk?’ asked Simon.

Peter nodded.

‘She was spying for Wallace and Murray?’

‘I believe so.’

‘And you’ve spied on her.’

‘I have a certain skill,’ said Peter.

Ada fought to hide her fear that they spoke of the woman who had been sending messages to James. ‘No matter what she had done, to be beaten to death is a horrible end,’ she said, looking first to Peter, then to Simon. ‘It is not an honourable means of execution.’

‘I agree,’ said Peter, ‘although “beaten to death” makes it sound as if she were repeatedly hit. I believe she was hit but twice, once in the back of the head, once on one jaw.’ He delivered this assessment in a cool voice, his expression one of mild impatience.

‘That is still horrible,’ said Ada, crossing herself and saying a prayer for her son’s soul as well as for the victim’s.

‘But I doubt it was an execution.’ Peter tore off the corner of his father’s trencher and chewed on
the bread as if he’d completed what he’d had to say.

‘By saying you doubt it was an execution you imply you have an idea what the motive was,’ said Simon, adjusting his heft on the bench so that he might observe his son.

Peter, poking at a slice of cold meat with his dagger, shook his head. ‘No. But execution would imply a soldier’s deed, and soldiers carry weapons, they don’t pick up logs to beat a woman and risk her surviving such an uncertain attack.’ He took a bite of the meat, only now meeting his father’s eyes. ‘There had been two, perhaps three blows.’

Simon grunted. ‘The wisdom of Solomon, presented with a bold confidence.’ He shook his head at Ada’s expression of dismay. ‘He has none of your fine feelings, eh?’

‘How could I?’ asked Peter, the meat on the knife poised before his mouth. ‘She did not raise me.’

‘That was not my choice, if you care to know,’ said Ada.

Peter was too busy eating to bother to answer with more than a shrug. Ada had never imagined a warm reception from her children, but Peter’s discourtesy was uncalled for. The more she saw of him the less she thought of the family who had fostered him. He would have grown up with far better character if she’d brought him up.

‘How did your commander receive the news that Comyn escaped?’ Simon asked.

Peter had finished eating and was wiping down his knife. ‘How do you think?’ He rose, sheathing his knife. ‘I must decide who takes the next watch at the kirk.’ He came to stand behind Ada, lightly resting his hands on her shoulders, then bending to say, as if conspiratorially, ‘Cousin Maggie was a good friend to Johanna. On your recommendation, Ma?’

She must have guessed correctly that the woman had been James’s connection. Ada did not dare breathe, though she longed to slap Peter for his insolence.

‘How do you know that?’ Simon angrily demanded.

‘She was at the woman’s house.’ Peter straightened. ‘I had her look closely to make certain that the woman was Johanna.’

‘How cruel,’ Ada cried. She had not expected Maggie to be so incautious. She might have been killed.

‘I had need,’ said Peter. ‘It was my opportunity to discover whether Maggie knew Johanna or was merely over curious. And then one of my men escorted her home.’

With his every act Ada disliked him more.

Simon looked at Ada. ‘Had your niece any cause to murder Johanna?’

Ada stood up abruptly. ‘My niece is not a murderer, Simon. How dare you–’

‘I did not mean to suggest that,’ Peter cut in. ‘She arrived after I’d set a guard on the house. Ill
fortune on her part to choose tonight to seek out her friend.’

‘Yes,’ said Ada, uncertain whether her outrage had compromised anything. She thought not. It was natural for her to react so. She allowed herself to breathe, though she remained standing.

Moving to the head of the table Peter bowed to both. ‘I must leave you now. Forgive me for casting a pall on your merrymaking.’ The ghost of a smile played around his mouth. ‘You should advise the lovely Maggie to choose her friends with more care, Ma.’