A Cruel Courtship (7 page)

Andrew had done so, turning his head when the soldiers accompanying him beat those courageous enough to defy them in the name of their king, John Balliol. His cowardice in that time would haunt him to the grave. The old man had thrust right into Andrew’s deepest wound, baring his terrible shame. He could not trust his voice.

Obert rested both hands on his stick and straightened a little. ‘What is this? Remorse?’ His mouth was pinched, from irritation or pain, Andrew could not guess.

‘Might we talk?’ Andrew managed, though he did not know what he would say.

Obert inclined his head. ‘Later. There will be time to speak of many things.’

‘Now, I pray you,’ Andrew said, inexplicably desperate to explain himself, wanting Father Obert to believe in his decency.

Obert shook his head. ‘Master Thomas awaits us.’

The elderly priest led the way to the master’s hall. Master Thomas and several of the men Andrew had noted in the hall the previous day rose to greet them as they entered the room. They rose not for Andrew, but for Father Obert. All greeted him with respect. Then Master Thomas introduced Andrew.

Sensing this to be a significant gathering, Andrew worked to set aside his irritation with Obert so that he might concentrate on memorising
each name. Sir Francis seemed uncomfortable in his finery, as would be St Francis of Assisi. Sir Marmaduke – the name was Irish, servant of Madoc – though the man’s accent was like Father Obert’s, that of Yorkshire. But he also dressed more simply than the others – servant, Marmaduke. And thirdly Sir Simon Montagu – this name was familiar.

‘Perth, did you say?’ Sir Simon studied Andrew closely as if he, in turn, thought he should remember him.

As Andrew’s memory found the connection, he tried to cover any sign of recognition with a simple, ‘A fine trading port, Sir Simon. I’ve always thought it deserved a cathedral – and an archbishop.’

The English made polite but amused noises. Scotsmen were always complaining of their lack of an archbishop.

Andrew tried not to stare at the thick-necked, broadly built man who had been the lover of Ada de la Haye. This was the man whose wealth had bought Margaret’s friend a house in Perth as well as some property in the west. Her family had arranged for her to meet him when he was an influential emissary between King Edward and the much mourned King Alexander of Scotland, whose untimely death without a male heir had led to the present troubles. Andrew did not need memory tricks to remember Sir Simon.

Indeed he knew his instinct had been correct that these were all important men and he doubted
he would forget meeting any of them. It made him even more fearful for his life and he cursed Master Thomas for inviting him to sup with them. Fortunately, they did not need him to carry the conversation at the table.

But after dinner the Englishmen gathered round him to ask what he had seen on his journey. A hard rain as they’d departed Holyrood Abbey had forced Andrew to keep his hood up, blocking his peripheral vision, and he’d been so closely watched by his English escort that he’d noticed little once they rode out of the storm. But even with so little to report, by the time Andrew had broken free of them Father Obert had departed.

Again that night he’d surrendered to a deep sleep despite his unease. But in the months following he’d spent the bulk of his nights pacing back and forth in his room until his body insisted on rest.

Father Obert had suggested the pacing as an aid to sleep. ‘I prefer brandywine, but that is in such short supply it is not even given to those lying bleeding in the infirmary – only the landed nobility are its beneficiaries – and Master Thomas, of course.’ As always, his sarcasm was softened by a mischievous grin, but Andrew knew the words trumped the genial mask.

Determined to continue his interview with Obert, convinced that the priest had hinted at a disaffection with the English that might make him
an unlooked-for ally, Andrew had hounded him for a few days, shadowing his pale, halting presence, until the elderly priest invited him to dine in his chamber.

‘I see that you’ll accomplish nothing until we clear your mind,’ said Obert after the servant had withdrawn. ‘I begin to imagine that Abbot Adam was glad to be rid of you if this is how you behaved with him.’

‘I avoided him,’ said Andrew. ‘Our parting lacked affection.’

‘That is interesting,’ said Obert as he thrust his knife into a piece of meat. He sat back, chewing it thoughtfully.

Andrew fell to the food. The meat was tough, overcooked, but the stew of vegetables was well seasoned and tasty, and good for softening the brown bread. He’d noticed the absence of oatcakes on the first night – in deference to the English, he supposed.

‘So there is a rift between the abbot and his secretary?’ Obert asked, breaking into Andrew’s reverie.

Andrew grabbed his cup and washed down a mouthful of bread and vegetables.

Obert chuckled. ‘There is no need to hasten through your meal. I’ll not send you off before you are satisfied.’ He was smiling when Andrew met his eyes. ‘Faith, I am most curious to hear what you are so driven to tell me.’ The pale eyebrows joined
briefly, then separated as the old priest smoothed his brow and smiled genially.

Now that he held Obert’s attention Andrew found himself choked with doubt. Suddenly it seemed absurd that this venerable priest would wish to hear of his remorse and his resolve to help his people. Indeed, Andrew questioned the wisdom in confiding in Obert, doubting the perception that had drawn him to desire to do so.

Apparently sensing Andrew’s confusion, Obert busied himself with some food and ale.

Andrew was relieved that Abbot Adam apparently had not told Master Thomas of Andrew’s disobedience. It permitted him some dignity and made it possible for him to be accepted as a trustworthy confessor, which might eventually allow him to help his people with information. But that hope would be dashed if he was wrong about trusting Father Obert. Yet as he considered the pale old man Andrew sensed God shining through Obert, and the more he watched him, the more convinced he became.

Obert sat back in his seat, patting his belly, his hunger apparently satisfied. ‘Well? Have you found your voice, Father Andrew?’

He thought he’d found the courage, but now Andrew felt emotion welling up within to challenge his ability to speak intelligibly. ‘You were right about my blind obedience to Abbot Adam in his service to King Edward. What you do not know is how I have since cursed myself–’ As tears rose,
Andrew looked away and breathed deeply. Obert did not comment. When Andrew could again breathe evenly, he continued. ‘I have since disobeyed the abbot, defied him in a matter concerning my family, and he no longer trusts me. That is why he sent me here. He knows that a Scotsman who has heard the confessions of English troops will never again be welcome among his people, nor will he be trusted to leave the English camp. This is my penance and my condemnation.’

Obert pursed his mouth and frowned, his gaze fixed on the air beyond Andrew. ‘I wondered about his wisdom in sending someone from Perth. I know there are canons born in my shire and others south of the border residing at Holyrood.’ The old priest sighed, shook his head slowly, and then gestured towards the food. ‘Satisfy yourself, my friend. I am glad to know your heart.’

‘What of you, Father Obert? Forgive my saying this, but I was surprised that the English commanders would bring such a venerable priest on campaign.’

Obert’s face lit up as he laughed in surprise. ‘Oh, bless you, but you are right, no commander would trust I’d survive such a journey. I have served here at Soutra for many years. First the Scots, now the English.’

This made no sense to Andrew. ‘You served my countrymen and yet the English trust and respect you. How can this be?’

Bowing his head, Obert muttered something to himself.

Andrew thought it a prayer. He helped himself to more of the food, some ale, and was beginning to think the old man had no intention of responding when Obert lifted his head.

‘
They
know that
I
know I’m too old to do anything rash.’ Obert smiled with his mouth, but not his eyes.

They had bonded that evening, and were now like father and son; Andrew enjoyed working with Obert. He had also been surprised by Master Thomas’s character. Abbot Adam had lately written to warn Thomas of the reason he’d sent Andrew to Soutra, advising him to keep a close watch on him. Andrew had wondered at Thomas’s reading the letter to him, until he heard the anger in the Master’s voice.

‘He insults me with this letter,’ Thomas growled, tossing it away from him. Then he’d looked at Andrew long and hard. ‘So you lied to me about your impartiality, eh?’ He wagged his head, his chins dancing, and then he shrugged. ‘To save your hide. I would have done the same. I have no complaints about you, Father Andrew. I believe you to be an honourable man of God. Abbot Adam is perhaps not the man of God he should be.’

So Andrew grew comfortable at the spital. But he did not forget his conviction that God’s purpose in bringing him to Soutra was so that he might provide
information to William Wallace, and to do that he must escape. This it was that kept him pacing at night.

Escape. He had thought himself close to an attempt at escape, hesitating only because a Welsh archer he’d befriended had disappeared the previous week and every room and all the grounds were being searched. This morning Obert said that it was believed the Welshman had escaped out the infirmary drain, or sewer.

‘God help David. Who could survive such a journey through hell?’ Obert had said with an unreadable expression.

Andrew could not spit out the curse that came to his tongue on hearing of David’s escape route. Andrew had not told Father Obert he was plotting to escape and get word to William Wallace of all he’d learned at Soutra. He could not be certain how Obert would react to the plan. But the news was maddening. Andrew had intended to use the infirmary drain, certain that no other human would be so desperate, that only a man who had forfeited his soul would attempt such an escape. Now the drain would be guarded. In the same breath he both cursed David and prayed for his safe journey.

3

The afternoon sun was softened by a humid haze rising up from the river. Margaret stepped from her mother’s chamber and stood leaning out over the rail that bordered the gallery hoping for a brisk wind to cleanse her of fear and sorrow. She was disappointed to find the air still and warm.

There was so much she wanted to ask about the Sight, but her mother, so frail in body and spirit, was not the one to ask. Though her mother felt cursed by the Sight she seemed never to have questioned it or tried to understand it despite her aunt’s urging. Margaret regretted not having known her Great-Aunt Euphemia, although she had never wished to learn about the Sight until now.

Margaret did not blame her mother for her incurious way; her heart overflowed with sorrow for her mother’s suffering, and she understood her fear.

She bowed her head to pray for her mother’s malaise to pass, but her father chose that moment to join her. Margaret tried to hide her tearful eyes but of course he caught her gesture.

He raked his age-spotted hands through what was left of his hair. ‘I’m not much of a praying man, Maggie, but I’ve been on my knees ever since coming to this godforsaken place and to what end, I ask myself, for the Lord has turned deaf ears on me. I cannot think why He’s so cursed our family. I’ve done nothing to deserve such suffering, I’m sure of it. I’ve offered myself, asked Him to take me and give my Christiana back her wits and her health. And even that He’s not accepted. What am I to do? Sacrifice one of my children, as Abraham was told to do?’