Candace Robb - A Cruel Courtship

‘May Gordon Cowie rest in peace,’ Margaret whispered, crossing herself.

Celia did so, too. As she glanced at Margaret it was clear that she was overwhelmed by what she’d heard. ‘What now?’ she mouthed the question.

Margaret shook her head.

Suddenly Lilias sank down on to her chair and put her head in her hands. ‘Why has God done this? Why did He return the ring?’ Her voice was muffled, but Margaret could tell that she was weeping.

Margaret rose and searched the hall for something strong to drink, finding a little stale ale in a mug on a small table. Sitting down beside Lilias, she gently took her hands and placed the mug in it. The woman’s face was shattered with grief. She gulped the drink, then glanced up almost shyly at Margaret.

‘Perhaps God meant to melt the ice that held your heart imprisoned, Dame Lilias.’ Margaret said as she rose, placing the ring on Lilias’s lap. ‘Be at peace.’

Crossing the hall, Margaret called to Ranald to comfort his wife and departed with Celia, hurrying before the trembling overcame her and made it impossible to walk. She fled into Ada’s house, somehow managing the steps, and collapsed on the bed.

Still hoping he might escape in time to provide information to the Scots, Andrew stayed with Sir Francis and the others into the early evening, listening to developments when they were still fresh, before being contorted by being passed from man to man, adding opinions to the facts. The commanders planned to send troops across the Stirling bridge at dawn; Surrey had at last agreed. Sir Francis was to lead a later crossing. So far Andrew had heard nothing of battles around either Edinburgh or Perth. He prayed that meant Fergus and Margaret were truly safe.

The men were quietly discussing the plans when someone joined the group by the fire. Holm glanced over at him and asked Sir Francis who it was.

‘Sir Simon Montagu,’ said Francis. ‘We conferred at Soutra. He’s been biding at the castle. Let’s hear what he has to say of the situation up there.’

Andrew wanted to slip away, not eager to meet Ada de la Haye’s former lover again. The fewer Englishmen who knew him and where he’d been posted the better; especially now that his hope for escape was stirring.

But he ducked too late.

‘Father Andrew? Well, I’d not thought to meet you again so soon,’ said Sir Simon. He crouched down by Andrew, the firelight adding menacing shadows to his face.

‘He agreed to come as chaplain for my men, a sudden change in plan,’ said Sir Francis. ‘I thank God for him. He’s kept my men from despair.’

‘That’s more than the priests of Holy Rude have managed in Stirling,’ said Simon, studying Andrew’s face. ‘Murders abound in the town. The townspeople have all gone mad. Your sister is there, Father, did you know? Margaret. She’s a beautiful widow — my son Peter might be a good match for her.’

Knowing full well that Simon was trying to goad him into responding inappropriately for his post, Andrew asked merely, ‘Margaret is widowed? What happened to Roger Sinclair?’ while his mind was frantic with concern. What was she doing in Stirling of all places, and being courted by Sir Simon’s son?

‘He met an unfortunate accident while spying on Stirling Castle for the traitor Robert Bruce. Fell from a rock, hit his head, broke his neck.’

‘May he rest in peace,’ Andrew murmured, crossing himself and keeping his eyes lowered. It was not good that Simon Montagu knew of Roger’s alliance.

‘Your sister is here with an old friend of mine, Ada de la Haye. Peter is our son.’

Andrew ignored the scenarios vying for attention, needing a clear head. ‘I pray I have the opportunity to see her after the battle,’ he said. I pray for her , he silently added.

With that Simon seemed to become bored with the sport and withdrew.

‘I am sorry to hear of your sister’s loss,’ said Francis. ‘No matter how ill-advised her husband’s loyalties, it is sad news for you, too.’

‘I should pray for her,’ said Andrew.

‘I understand.’

Rising, Andrew made a show of yawning and excused himself. ‘If there is to be battle tomorrow, all the sinners in the camp will find their way to me tonight. I must catch sleep when I can.’

All but Sir Simon bade him a good night.

Ada had never witnessed Celia so withdrawn. She could not get a word out of her regarding Margaret’s collapse. Maus thought she’d seen them coming from the neighbour’s house, but Celia would not even verify that, going about her tasks pinched-faced and pale. It had been late morning when Margaret rushed through the hall and up to her bed; it was now mid afternoon and Celia was a cipher, though she had assisted Ada in sewing Peter into his shroud. Only then had she spoken, and only to say, ‘This minds me of the night my mistress opened Master Jack’s shroud.’

‘Roger’s cousin?’ He’d been murdered in Edinburgh while searching for Roger and his body had been taken home to Dame Katherine in Dunfermline for burial. ‘Maggie opened his shroud?’

Celia nodded. ‘She knew something wasn’t right. That was the beginning, I think.’

‘Of what?’ Ada had asked.

Celia had shrugged and gone silent. Maddening woman. Ada knew the moment she’d seen the dark, tiny maid that she would be difficult. Small people often made up for their lack of size in the strength of their will, and she’d seen that strength in Celia’s strong brows and clear, dark eyes. But she had proven her worth, standing by Maggie in some harrowing times, so Ada kept her mouth shut and let the woman be. Perhaps Maggie was simply that worried about James’s joining the battle.

It was to be a day of aggravating servants, Ada thought, when John asked if Archie would be departing soon.

‘Is that a request?’ Ada snapped.

‘As he gains strength he’s eating more and more,’ said John. ‘We have food for a week, perhaps a fortnight if we can barter for some oats that cook could grind into cakes. They’ll not let us off this cursed rock to seek out fresh supplies — we’ve tried. We’re trapped here. I hadn’t planned for a siege.’

‘We’ve food only for a week despite my eating every evening at the castle?’ Ada did not believe it. ‘You just want him gone.’

John denied it.

Ada knew the English had commandeered all the food for miles around, and she’d begun to feel they were as trapped as if under siege, but she wasn’t going to concede to a servant’s demands.

It was late afternoon when Margaret at last wandered into the hall looking like a wraith, her curly red hair loose like a caplet over her shoulders, her shift sleeves lacking their outer covering. Her appearance was not inappropriate when there were no guests, but it was very unlike Maggie. Celia hurried after her with sleeves in hand.

‘I’ll not wear Peter’s blood,’ said Maggie, pushing the sleeves away.

Ada shook her head when Celia appealed to her. ‘Let her be. Archie won’t mind her without decorative sleeves.’ Noticing that Margaret seemed confused by her surroundings, Ada put an arm around her and guided her to a chair a little away from the fire, out of Archie’s sight — the young man was sitting up today and quite curious about the household.

‘What happened, Maggie?’ Ada asked under her breath. ‘You are behaving — well, I almost think Christiana has taken your form.’

Margaret sank back in the chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and breathed deeply.

‘Can I bring you something?’ Ada asked.

‘A sip of brandywine, if you can spare it, and then I’ll be myself again, I promise.’ Margaret glanced down at the hair spilling across her shoulder. Pulling on a tress, she said, ‘Sweet heaven, Celia will have a fit about my unbound hair and no sleeves.’ Apparently she’d not noticed her maid shadowing her.