Confession, thought Alys. He has confessed the man.
‘Was he honest in his employment?’ asked Lady Egidia, stroking the cat.
‘He was. I can safely say that he was.’ Sir John nodded judiciously.
The two women looked at one another again. One thing he cannot have confessed, thought Alys, and saw the same assumption in her mother-in-law’s face.
‘He died in mortal sin,’ said Lady Egidia, as Alan Forrest entered the hall, followed by the women with responsibility for the linen and tableware. ‘Ah, supper must be ready.’
‘You asked me of his employment, madam,’ said Sir John, ‘and I say he was an honest workman.’
Alys’s estimate of Sir John rose. It took a strong character to stand up to her mother-in-law.
Over supper, by unspoken agreement, they allowed the priest to soliloquize almost uninterrupted on the forthcoming translation of St Malessock. Alan Forrest listened from his place next him at the board, with a wary expression as if he was certain too much of the planned junketing would devolve on him.
‘It’ll be a longer procession than the opening of Parliament, Jackie,’ he said at last. ‘You should send to Lanark and get the carts from Corpus Christi, and save your feet — ’
‘No, no,’ broke in Lady Egidia, in tones of innocence. ‘I’m certain you should put the corp — the saint on the Meikles’ cart, Sir John. They brought him here, after all.’
‘The men of Thorn must have a part,’ said Alys, keeping her face straight despite the image this conjured up. ‘And if he should recover, so must Sir David.’
The meal was over, the long table cleared away, and the two women, Socrates and Sir John had retired to sit by the brazier in one of the smaller chambers before Alys accepted that Gil would not be home that night. The evening ahead of her suddenly seemed very long and empty, though the board had been set up for the game of tables, and she knew there was a piece of plain sewing waiting in their chamber. She sat smiling and nodding and caressing the dog as her elders conversed, wondering whether he had stayed away because she had argued with him, or because it was too late to come home. When the priest finally rose to take his leave, and extricated himself in a flurry of compliments and Indeeds, Lady Egidia looked wryly at her and said:
‘My dear, if you’re only now learning that love hurts, you have been fortunate.’
‘Am I so obvious? I’m sorry, madame — I was better reared than that.’
‘Not to our guest, I imagine, but I could tell you were elsewhere. Gil will put his duty first, you know that. He’ll be home when he’s done it.’
‘I wouldn’t have him otherwise,’ Alys said firmly. Lady Egidia turned her head sharply as a step sounded in the hall, but Socrates had done no more than prick his ears, so Alys was not disappointed when it was Alan who appeared in the doorway, looking harassed.
‘It’s her from the Pow Burn at the yett, mistress,’ he said. ‘She’ll not say what she wants, save it’s for Maister Gil only. I’ve tellt her he’s not here and won’t be back this night, but she’s saying she’ll wait.’
‘Which of them?’ asked Alys with sudden anxiety. ‘Is something wrong up there?’
Alan looked at his mistress, who nodded. And I was trying not to put myself forward, thought Alys.
‘It’s Mistress Lithgo. The one that does the healing. She was up at the yett as soon as I saw Jackie Heriot out to the road, just walked down from the coaltown. She’ll not say what it is,’ he repeated, ‘only it’s for Maister Gil.’
‘See if she’ll speak to one of us,’ said Lady Egidia, regaining control.
Beatrice Lithgo was seated in the steward’s room, still wrapped in a great blue plaid, her indoor cap covered by a veil of coarse black linen secured with a carved wooden pin. Her feet were propped on a brass box of charcoal, a cloth bundle and a jug of hot buttered ale beside them, and she held a cup in her hands. Her face was shadowed from the candlelight but she was as still and tense as a strung bow. As Alys stepped into the room and closed the door, she looked up and her mouth twitched in a small smile.
‘M-my husband is not here,’ Alys said. ‘He went — he went on an errand. We think he may not come back till morning now.’ Beatrice considered this, the expression of her eyes hidden. ‘Is there some difficulty at the coal-heugh? Can I help, or should we send someone with torches to Cauldhope?’
‘No, Maister Michael’s not who I need.’ The other woman looked down at the cup of buttered ale, and up again. Her shadowed gaze met Alys’s and slid aside. She looked higher still, at the broad boards stretched between the rafters, and took a breath. ‘I want to ask Maister Cunningham who I should tell.’
‘Tell what? Has something happened? Are your daughters safe? Is Joanna — ?’
‘They’re well enough.’ Again, the quick glance at the ceiling. Then, squaring her shoulders and looking Alys in the eye, she said, ‘I need to ask your man who I should tell that I poisoned Thomas Murray.’
Alys put out a hand and steadied herself on the corner of the steward’s desk. She became aware that her mouth had fallen open; closing it, she said very carefully, ‘You wish to confess to poisoning Thomas Murray?’
‘You heard me right,’ Beatrice assured her, with a faint flicker of her usual irony.
‘Do — do you know what that will lead to? If you confess? If you are found guilty?’
‘Drowning.’
The Scottish form of execution for a woman, thrust into a pit with the hands tied, held down by long poles. Probably better than hanging, if one had the choice. Alys stared at her, then turned away and poured herself a cup of the buttered ale, as much for something to do with her hands as anything else. She sat down, and sipped the fast-cooling brew, her mind still racing. After a moment she said, ‘But what about your children?’
An infinitely small shrug was the only response.
‘How.’ She swallowed. ‘How did you do it? What did you use? Why did you do it?’
This could not be happening. Gil should be here. Why had he not come home?
‘I put the poison into the flask,’ said Beatrice, patiently and very slowly. ‘Seeing Arbella had tellt him to use it to mind her birthday.’
‘When? When did you put it in the flask? And what did you use?’
‘You keep asking me that. I should ha’ thought you could work it out for yourself, lassie.’
‘No, I think you have to tell us.’ Alys frowned, trying to fit this into what she knew already. ‘I don’t understand why, either. Should we send after Sir John Heriot? Would you wish to confess to him?’
‘No,’ said Beatrice briefly. ‘He was annoying my lassies, Thomas I mean. And Joanna,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘When did you put the poison in the flask?’ Alys asked again.
‘I got the chance while he made his farewells.’
‘But where was the flask then?’
‘In his scrip. In the hall. They were all in the window chamber, and nobody saw.’
It fits together, thought Alys. As I should have expected.
‘And what was it? What did you use?’
‘Work it out, lassie.’ Beatrice sat back, her shoulders softening as if she had laid down a burden. ‘Now, if your man’s no looked for till the morn’s morn, you’ll have to keep me here,’ she prompted. ‘A dangerous felon like me’s no safe to be running about the countryside in the dark. Will your good-mother be wanting to chain me?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Alys found she was still staring at the older woman, unable to read her expression. ‘Sir John cannot be far on his road — would you like me to send after him? Will you not confess to him?’
‘Our Lady save you, my dear,’ said Beatrice, with a flicker of amusement, ‘I stood out there in the mirk getting chilled to the bone, waiting for him to take his leave. No, we’ll not trouble Sir John. Your man can hear me when he comes home.’
‘Won’t they miss you at the coal-heugh? Your daughters will be worried.’