Eleanor struggles but the men turn away, looking back now and then as they return to work, not wanting to become involved in a domestic dispute.
Araminta’s breathing has become shallow in horror. A man can get away with anything, if he only says he’s related to the woman he’s terrorising. Fingers fluttering, she pulls open thesoft calfskin concealed in the base of the crown. Inside there’s a velum. A document. It’s covered in careful handwriting. Latin, she realises, with a tiny seal over a red ribbon showing a coat of arms. A fleur de lis and a lion. She reads, hurriedly, crouched and hiding.Lura Feminarum.The Rights of Women. She scrambles to the bottom of the page where there’s a signature. Mary Regina Scotorum. Mary Queen of Scots and two words in the same hand, that she recalls from the family bible.Ad libertatum.Towards freedom.
Ahead, Thom waits until the men are far enough away.
‘Mrs Moore,’ he calls, as if he’s tempting a pussycat to a bowl of cream.
She wonders where Douglas and Davey are. Has Thom dispatched them with the blade as he did with Brodie? He seems wild-eyed and determined enough to kill three men. ‘You think I won’t hurt her?’ he jeers. ‘You think I give a toss about your brassy little bitch?’
‘You run, ma’am,’ Eleanor shouts pluckily. ‘There’s no point in him getting the pair of us.’ Then she squeals as he pulls her hair to bring her to her knees.
‘I’ve got your sword, Mrs Moore. And I’ll use it. Poor Eleanor Thrale. I wonder if I can behead her in one stroke.’
Eleanor squeals again and Araminta peers round the side of the boat. A line of blood is trickling down Eleanor’s face where he’s cut under her cheekbone. Araminta ducks back down. She wonders if she ought to wade to the other side of the canal and run along the far side of the water. The boatmen will help her, surely. She’s dressed like a lady, after all, and Thom looks like some kind of shabby artisan. She’s calculating how much more difficult it will be to run, weighed down by a sodden skirt. He’s bound to catch her.
‘Mrs Moore,’ Thom calls again. ‘What’s it to be?’
Araminta’s mind races. She thinks about everything Sister Winifred has told her. Everything the McKenzies stand for. Women can have it all. But to do so they’ll need help. Why, she wonders. Why a worthy queen? Why not Catherine of Braganza, as Derbhille had it? Nor any queen after apparently, at least till the crown was lost. She re-reads the dark words on the vellum. It’s an edict, she understands suddenly. It proclaims the rights of women. According to this, women might own property. Sue for divorce. Mary’s signature at the bottom stands as a totem. There’s something she can’t quite make out about ancient law being enshrined into the Scots statute. She realises this deed then is part of the law that governs Britain, for the countries are now joined. Towards freedom. ‘This is the treasure,’ she whispers, as understanding drops. The crown it’s been concealed in is a symbol merely. A bauble. But this velum might change the world. Araminta rolls it up and conceals the deed in her bodice, careful to protect the ink from her skin. She takes a breath and stands. He has no idea.
On the towpath, Thom has Eleanor by the throat.
‘Unhand her. I’ll give it to you,’ Araminta shouts.
Thom grins. He throws Eleanor onto the towpath and reaches across the tarpaulin. For a moment they both have a hand to the crown but then Araminta lets go.
‘Ma’am!’ Eleanor lets out in shock.
‘You stupid cow!’ Thom spits, as he turns with the Queen’s Honour held ahead of him, Eleanor on her feet, springing out of his way as he strides along the path and disappears in the direction of town.
Araminta steps off the boat. ‘Are you all right?’
Eleanor gazes after Harry Thom. ‘Why did you just give it to him?’ she demands.
‘Let him go,’ Araminta says. There’s no time to explain. ‘Come on. We must check what happened to Mr Brodie and the others.’
She cuts down the path and into the copse with Eleanor trailing after.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mother is waiting in the bishop’s study in his house at 22 Stafford Street in the West End. The order is affiliated to the Anglican Church, being episcopalian in nature. The Catholics have a far more blousy bishop’s palace but this townhouse will do for the Protestants. It’s been a long time since Mother has ventured into town, though little appears to have changed in Edinburgh. A few more houses that look much like all the others. She clasps her hands in her lap and tries to be patient. The ticking of the clock on the mantle is a kind of torture and she rises from the oak chair to stand by the window and watch the sun sink along the street. The study smells pleasantly of cloves. The door opens and the Reverend James Walker enters in bishop’s robes, with a handkerchief to his nose. The scent of cloves gets stronger.
‘You’re unwell, Your Grace,’ Mother observes.
The bishop coughs. His eyes are pale brown and, today, rheumy, though they haven’t entirely lost their usual sharpness. The Bishop of Edinburgh has known Mother for years and is glad to see her. When his wife, Madeline, required respite after giving birth to their twin daughters, she went to the convent for a month and Mother nursed her personally. Mrs Walker recovered in a grand room overlooking the garden and often talks fondly of Mother’s kindness and her delight at the nun’s voices raised in song. This has left the order in particular favour with the bishop, and he’s always happy to visit the convent in Sciennes. The place is exceptionally well run.
‘I wasn’t expecting you, Mother,’ His Grace says and sits down, motioning for Mother to do likewise. She settles once more into the oak chair.
‘Thank you for seeing me.’
The bishop waves this off. Mother takes a deep breath. She’s thought long and hard about how to outline Sister Gloria’s findings. It occurred to her that the bishop is himself a man, a gentleman as was, and she’s realised that, however kind he’s been in the past, she must be circumspect. She must test him.
‘It’s the Order of the Hermit. St Giles, Your Grace,’ she announces and waits for his reaction. The bishop merely leans forward.
‘I’m not familiar. Hermits, eh? Iona, is it?’ he ventures.
Mother relaxes a little. Had he frozen or blustered she would have continued differently, but as it is, she deems it safe and proceeds to lay out clearly the case as she sees it. A group of violent men hounding a group of women. John Knox instituting the order. ‘It’s a recent action against a local family,’ as she terms the McKenzies. When she’s finished, the bishop pauses. The knot of worry tightens once more in Mother’s stomach. She isn’t entirely sure what he will do.
‘What is it you believe they’re after, these latter-day Templars?’ he asks, at length. ‘They sound like brutes.’
