Candace Robb - A Cruel Courtship

The men had fashioned a table from planks and benches in the corner of the kitchen and laid Peter there. Maus had gathered as many lamps as she could fill to light him, as well as rags and several bowls of water with which to bathe him. Ada hesitated in the kitchen doorway, reluctant to see her son. Noticing that Maus had wrapped cloths around her gown and sleeves to protect them from the blood, Ada realised that she was not dressed appropriately and turned round to change into a simpler gown.

‘I’m not thinking clearly this morning,’ she muttered as Maus hurried to her.

‘I’ll help you, Mistress,’ said Maus, and she impulsively hugged Ada. Her kind gesture brought on tears, but Ada reassured her maid that she was grateful for the affection.

‘I don’t know that I can do this,’ she whispered, fearing that for once her courage was failing her.

‘Come, I’ll find something old for you to wear, and then you can decide,’ said Maus, the adult for now.

Ada put herself into her maid’s hands, allowing her to fuss and console, and gradually she convinced herself that she would always regret having walked away from this final opportunity to see to her son’s needs. Though he was dead, his spirit perhaps already departed, she told herself that in some way this moment might still have meaning for both of them.

This time when she entered the kitchen she went straight over to where Peter lay on the table. It was terrible to see her handsome son bloody and torn, and at first she could only stand over him and weep. But in a little while she took a rag, wet it, and began to clean his face. Softly she spoke to him, telling him the story of his beginning, what she could remember about carrying him, birthing him, her dreams for him, her heartbreak when she had to let him go. Her hands were bloodied as she cut the bags and then his clothes from his cold body, but it was her son’s blood, her blood, and she thanked God she had been given this chance to ease her son to rest.

*

The Allans’s hall was sparsely furnished, but tidy and made pleasant by a beautiful tapestry depicting scenes from the life of the Blessed Mother. Lilias Allan noticed Margaret’s interest and explained, ‘That is not ours. It belongs to the Abbot of Dunfermline — we are his tenants. My husband does much trading with the abbey.’ She kept glancing at Celia, as if wondering why Margaret had felt the need to be accompanied by her maidservant. ‘I am sorry that I did not welcome you when you first came to Stirling, but I am sure you know about my son.’ She averted her eyes on the last words.

It brought to mind Margaret’s embarrassment whenever her mother had made a scene in the town. ‘You are in mourning, I know, and I apologise for disturbing your peace.’

Lilias invited them to sit by the door to a small garden that Margaret had not seen from the backland because it was surrounded by a low fence. Herbs and berry bushes attracted small birds to the wide, shallow bowl of water atop a stone in the centre.

‘This is a beautiful spot,’ said Margaret.

Lilias smiled, her long, thin face almost pretty for a moment. She was cadaverously thin, as if she had been fasting for a long, long while.

‘I have something to show you, Dame Lilias.’ Margaret drew out the ring.

‘Holy Mother Mary!’ Lilias gasped, staring at it. ‘Where did you get this? I never thought to see it again.’

‘Is this your son’s ring?’ Margaret wanted to be certain that she understood.

Lilias timidly reached out to it, stopping before she touched it, and met Margaret’s eyes. ‘How did you get this?’ Her lips trembled.

‘From Peter Fitzsimon, a soldier at the castle.’

‘A soldier. An Englishman. That would be the man I saw wearing it the day they hanged my son. He watched coldly. I flew at him when I saw he wore Huchon’s ring.’ Lilias pulled her hand back and stood up so quickly she stumbled against a small table. Margaret caught her and held the woman as she began to sob.

‘What is going on in here?’ Ranald Allan’s voice thundered even before Margaret saw him.

Lilias pushed away from Margaret, wiping her eyes and shaking her head at her husband. ‘Go away, Ranald, go away.’

‘I will not. What has this woman done to upset you?’ he demanded, staring at Margaret.

‘Tell him nothing,’ Lilias whispered.

But of course her husband heard her.

Margaret closed her hand over the ring. Celia looked to her for direction, uncertain how to handle this explosive scene. Ranald’s face was contorted with anger and fear — Margaret could not tell which was strongest. Lilias was terrified and heartbroken.

Standing behind Celia, Margaret said, ‘We meant only good, but I can see this is not the time, it is too soon. Come, Celia.’

The maid slipped towards the door and Margaret followed.

‘No!’ Lilias cried, slapping Ranald hard across the face.

He clutched his nose and stumbled backward.

‘You will not silence these women. I won’t live like this.’

Celia had grabbed Margaret’s hand. ‘What shall we do?’ she whispered.

Margaret was watching the couple. ‘Stay a moment,’ she told her frightened companion. She, too had been frightened, but Ranald’s fierce attack had been halted by the woman he was trying to protect, and Margaret sensed that he was no longer dangerous to them.

Lilias took Ranald by the arm and drew him away, speaking to him in a quiet voice. She seemed suddenly calm, and Margaret believed that in her refusal to let her husband command the moment Lilias had found her strength.

‘He’ll be all right now,’ Margaret told Celia. ‘We’ll stay.’

Ranald left the room, and when Lilias was sure of that she invited Margaret and Celia to sit again.

‘My husband does not have a violent nature. It is the times — they make beasts of us all, defending our cubs, our homes.’

‘There was no harm done,’ said Margaret.

‘He thinks to protect us, but he has imprisoned us,’ said Lilias. ‘Father Piers was not nearly so harsh with Ranald as he is with himself.’

‘What has Ranald done?’ Margaret asked.

Lilias looked from one to the other. ‘Don’t you know? Didn’t Dame Isabel send you to hear it?’

‘Do you think Father Piers told us something?’

‘How else did you know that was my son’s ring?’ Lilias asked. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Dame Lilias, my mother is a seer, she has the Sight. Of late, I have seen things, too.’ Celia made a small sound and Margaret felt her maid’s eyes on her. ‘I was drawn to you and your husband, I believe to bring some comfort to you.’ Margaret opened her hand, letting the ring on her palm speak for itself.

Lilias stared down at it.

‘Take it,’ said Margaret. ‘It is yours by right.’

‘Even though Ranald — God still would comfort us?’ Lilias shook her head, her eyes a little wild.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Margaret said softly, ‘and I’ll tell Dame Isabel.’

Lilias still did not reach out for the ring, but she kept her gaze on it as she sat in silence. Margaret almost wept with disappointment, having been certain she was following the Sight, and that this was why she had been touched by it.

‘Huchon gave it to Agnes Cowie when he left home,’ Lilias finally began in a strained, hoarse voice, ‘for her to keep until he returned. And when he was captured, and to be hanged, Isabel and Gordon sent her north. I thought she’d taken the ring, but when-’ she looked away, catching her breath.

Margaret was afraid to breathe.

‘No parent should ever witness such a deed.’ Lilias’s face was so pale as she spoke her veins might be traced beneath her skin. ‘They ordered us to watch, along with what townsfolk they could find. I think many hid.’ She nodded to herself, her long, thin face drawn with pain. ‘The soldier in charge spoke to us. I can’t remember what he said, I was watching my son. But I noticed his hand, the ring on it. I reached for it, and Ranald held me back.’ She hugged herself. ‘An anger grew in me, from a seed it grew and I watered it, I nurtured it, until one day I could contain it no longer; it had grown so wide and tall and it would root me to the ground and destroy me. I went to Gordon and accused him of selling the ring to the Englishman, of benefiting from our grief, and he admitted it. He defended himself, the greedy snake, he said his daughter had suffered, too, and it had cost them to send her north. Cost them! I flew at him, grabbed at his hateful eyes and he slapped me so hard I fell.’ Lilias rose and turned away from them, towards the garden. ‘I didn’t know Ranald had followed me. When he saw me hurt he attacked Gordon. He spent all his grief and anger on Gordon.’ Her voice shook. ‘He has confessed to Father Piers, and he is truly remorseful.’ She looked back at Margaret and said with a defiance that chilled, ‘I am not. I regret nothing but that Ranald drew the knife instead of me.’