by Candace Robb
‘No, uncertain what to do. I need advice from someone less caught up in these matters of the heart, but there are few I trust in Perth since the English arrived. Folk are too eager to prove themselves friends of the English in order to protect their property.’
‘I’m sorry I’ve given you a new worry.’
Not a new one. You merely made me face myself.’ There was one woman she trusted. ‘We’ll consult Dame Ada.’
Ada de la Haye was not only Margaret’s old friend but she also happened to be an integral part of James’s plan, for she was to provide lodgings for Margaret in Stirling and a plausible reason for her presence, as well as being a travelling companion.
Celia nodded her approval.
By the time they crossed North Gate the sun beat down unmercifully. What faint breeze came from the river did little to relieve the heat. Margaret and Celia mingled with townspeople listlessly going about their errands. Fortunately Ada de la Haye’s house was not far along the main street, and the two women were soon welcomed in to the cool shade of Ada’s hall. From without it was a modest house, disguising the wealth of the inhabitant and the richness of the furnishings within.
The de la Haye family were well connected leaders in the community, but Ada’s station and wealth had to do with her kin’s ambition, not their generosity. She’d been an orphaned niece who was given the choice of being a pawn for the family’s gain or being married off to either a very elderly man or a younger son. Having set her mind to wealth, and already fond of men, Ada had chosen to be a mistress to the powerful and thus aid her family’s influence in politics. Marriage had sounded boring to her.
For many years her beauty and grace had held the devotion of her lover. Simon Montagu, an Englishman who had won King Edward Longshanks’s favour in combat and diplomacy, had been generous to her, and now in her mature years she enjoyed a comfortable life. After returning to Perth from the English manor on which Simon had kept her, Ada had in turn been generous to St John’s Kirk and had thus earned the respect of the community on her own terms. She was an educated woman and despite her unmarried state she was as influential as any de la Haye. In short, she was a force to be reckoned with. Margaret admired her above all women and most men. In her childhood she had often fantasised about life as Ada’s daughter, particularly when her mother Christiana was lying abed, exhausted after having a vision.
Now Ada, elegant in her silks, her white hair caught up in a fussy cap that emphasised her still slender ivory neck, listened with growing concern to Margaret’s account of the owl, and her indecision. Margaret relaxed as she spoke, imagining that Ada was already devising a plan, but was disappointed by her friend’s initial comment.
‘This is too unlike you, Maggie. All this confusion because an owl lit on your rooftop two nights ago? Are you unwell?’
Perhaps she was – it was the second time someone had asked that this morning.
‘I upset her with my ma’s tale of the owl,’ said Celia.
‘She woke me to my responsibility,’ Margaret said.
Ada sat back a little, gazing at the ceiling. ‘I tried hunting with owls when I lived in the south. I loved their silent flight and their feather weight – despite their huge wingspans, long claws and noble beaks they weigh so little.’ She tilted her head and smiled as if admiring one on the blank ceiling. After a pause, she drew her attention back to Celia. ‘They are fierce birds; one would be unwise to trust them. It seems perverse to cast them as messengers.’
Celia shrugged.
‘But I hear something else in your words, Maggie,’ Ada continued. ‘You will be no good to James Comyn while you fret about Roger. Perhaps it would be best to begin our journey to Stirling by visiting Elcho. My menservants can escort us. My household has made the journey before, though, I grant you, we haven’t for a long while.’
Celia gave a little cry. ‘But Master James–’
‘Needs your mistress calm, Celia. What he is asking of her requires that she have all her wits about her.’
Ada was right, Margaret thought, and she wished only that she had expressed herself more rationally. It frustrated her to have stopped short of reasoning through her worries so that she might have simply said that until she was satisfied that Roger was receiving the care he needed she would not be able to concentrate on her work for James.
‘How soon might we depart?’ she asked Ada. She was sorry to see Celia’s stony expression, which clearly conveyed her regret about having said anything about the owl. If stopped by the English Margaret might explain her own travel to Elcho – both her parents and her husband were biding there. ‘But how can I explain a company of not only my maid but you and your servants, Ada? The English here in Perth have no doubt heard of your former connection to Simon Montagu, but the mere act of leaving the town seems to make one suspect.’
‘I pray you, one question at a time is only fair,’ said Ada. ‘Why not leave tomorrow? We’ll manage, Maggie, just as we planned to with James escorting us.’ Ada cradled one of Margaret’s hands in both of hers. ‘Do not be fearful of God’s intention. I do believe He means for you to thrive.’
‘I am doubting,’ Margaret admitted, dismayed by how quickly she’d slipped back into doubt. If she was to be of service she must trust that it was God’s will.
Ada pressed Margaret’s hand, then let go as she rose. ‘Come, let us prepare.’ She smoothed down her skirts, ready for action. ‘A few of the household will ride straight to Stirling with enough silver to bribe any soldiers on the way. I want my bedding to be there on my arrival.’ She broke out in an impish grin.
Margaret had only recently discovered Ada’s penchant for intrigue; but she’d learned to expect the unexpected from her friend.
‘I’ll leave a message for James, and I’ll also tell Tom where we’ll be, in case James comes first to my house,’ said Margaret.
She often wondered what unnatural powers Ada wielded that fed her confidence, for on the following day they were miraculously spared the need to explain their journey to anyone. Indeed they travelled through a quiet countryside to the nunnery with no encounters with soldiers.
Elcho Nunnery sat on the south bank of the River Tay just beyond where it turned east from Perth towards the sea, across from the high promontory of Kinnoull Hill. The whitewashed nunnery buildings were primly clustered on a gentle mound that rose from the water meadows, like a swan atop her nest. Prioress Agnes de Arroch delighted in beautiful surroundings, so the grounds flowered cheerfully in late summer and all was ordered and pleasant. The prioress’s kinsmen guarded the dozen nuns and their servants, the chaplain and the staff. The armed men of either side in the struggle for the throne might find a convent a tempting place to loot.
The guards recognised Margaret at once and escorted her small party safely to the nunnery. Her father, Malcolm, napping in the guest-house hall, woke with a start as Dame Katrina, the hostelleress, welcomed them.
He was paler than when Margaret had last seen him, the eyes beneath his bushy brows dull and shadowed, and his belly had shrunk. She was surprised that he’d stayed so long at the nunnery; he must truly be determined to win back her mother. While their maids arranged their belongings, Margaret and Ada took some refreshment with him.
‘What brings you to Elcho, Maggie?’
‘My husband. How is he, Da?’
‘Fairly mended. But here I thought you a clever lass to choose your time so cunningly, for you’ve just missed him. He left a few days ago.’
‘No!’ Margaret cried.
Ada slipped a protective arm around Margaret.
‘Dear Lord, watch over him,’ Margaret prayed as she crossed herself. It had never occurred to her that Roger might no longer be at the nunnery. ‘Did he say where he was going, Da?’
‘You’re as changeable as your ma,’ Malcolm exclaimed. ‘You hated him a fortnight past.’ He shook his head and winked at Ada. ‘I feared she’d forget his neglect and go running to him.’
‘She has forgotten nothing,’ A
da said, ‘but the other night–’ she stopped as Margaret nudged her foot. ‘She wished to consult him about business.’
Margaret was grateful for Ada’s quick wit, having no intention of telling her father about the owl.
‘Did he leave with Aylmer?’ she asked. The man had been Roger’s travelling companion, a kinsman of Robert Bruce. Margaret loathed and distrusted him, with good reason, but at least he might watch out for Roger.
‘Aye, they left together. Don’t tell me you’re worried about Roger?’
‘As Ada said, I needed advice on a business matter.’
‘Humph. Well, I could help you with that,’ said Malcolm.
‘And you, Da? How are you faring? You don’t look well.’
‘It’s your ma.’ He launched into an account of her mother’s extreme repentance, how her condition was breaking his heart.
Margaret knew why her mother undertook such extreme penance; through the use of Second Sight Christiana had unintentionally caused the death of five of her countrymen at the hands of the English invaders on Kinnoull Hill. Although she had been coerced by the prioress and her kinsman to fabricate a vision that would lead the English away from the nunnery, it had touched off a true vision over which Christiana had no control. Once in its grip she’d been unaware of what she said or did. Yet she insisted that the blame fell squarely on her shoulders because she had ignored her misgivings about playing at a vision. All her life Margaret had witnessed in her mother the suffering brought on by Second Sight, and this was why she so feared it. But the tragedy on Kinnoull Hill had left Christiana more shattered than ever before.
Despite all his years of complaining about his wife’s behaviour and his original enthusiasm for her withdrawing to Elcho Nunnery, Malcolm obviously loved her and belatedly regretted their separation. Eyes glistening with tears, he described his attempts to convince Christiana that God did not require her penance, and surely nothing so severe as what she had undertaken.
‘She’ll not listen to me. But you might reach her, Maggie,’ he said with a spark of hope.
Margaret climbed the stairs to the gallery and approached her mother’s chamber dreading what she would find. She would have preferred to go to the kirk and pray for Roger, sick at heart that he’d departed the nunnery on the day after the owl had presaged his death. She was frightened that her dream of his death was a foretelling.
Marion, Christiana’s handmaid, welcomed Margaret into the room with her customary apologies.
‘I have done my best to convince her to eat … I have not been able to console her … I have not the gift …’
‘Bless you for all you do,’ Margaret said, taking in the chaos of a chamber stuffed with the contents of several much larger rooms. Her mother had found it impossible to part with all of her things when she had retired to Elcho and the room was filled with tapestries, cushions, chairs, small tables, all exquisite gifts brought back by Malcolm from his travels.
‘Dame Christiana spoke of your arrival yesterday,’ Marion continued. ‘She hopes you will untangle the tablets for the border she has been weaving while the two of you talk.’
‘She knew yesterday that I would come?’
Marion nodded.
Margaret wondered whether the owl had brought this news to her mother. Such a messenger, such messages unasked for, these were not changes she welcomed. Dear God, I humbly pray you, relieve me of the Sight. I am not worthy. I haven’t the wisdom to use it for the good. As she stepped around the carved screen that shielded her mother’s bed she found Christiana lying with eyes closed, though it was mid afternoon. Stepping back, Margaret whispered to Marion, ‘My father thought she might be awake, but I see–’
‘Do you speak only to my maid, daughter?’ Christiana called out in a voice that was scratchy, as if little used.
‘I thought you were asleep.’
Marion shook her head in sympathy. ‘She drinks little water. Her throat is ever dry,’ she whispered.
Returning to her mother, Margaret knelt and kissed Christiana’s parchment cheek. Despite the mounds of bedclothes her skin was dry and cold. A month ago she had still been lovely, indeed had seemed more vigorous than in recent years. Now her eyes were shadowed, her hair greyer.
‘How is Ada?’ Christiana asked.
Margaret wondered whether her mother had been told about her arrival or whether she had foreseen her visit. She did not ask. ‘Ada is well, Ma. And you? Are you eating? Resting?’
Christiana stopped the questions with a cold finger to Margaret’s lips. ‘I am as you see me, as the Lord hath made me.’ She fumbled about. Marion hastened over to hand her the basket of tablet weaving. ‘Can you untangle this, Maggie? It’s snarled and needs your patient hands.’
Glad for the distraction from her mother’s condition, Margaret took the basket and sat down on a high-backed chair that Marion had placed close to the bed. The work was far more skilled than anything Margaret could recall her mother doing. The pattern puzzled her for a moment, but after some study she recognised the outstretched wings and the large, round heads. ‘Owls,’ she whispered with a shiver of dread.
‘The work helped me stop thinking about the men who died,’ said Christiana. ‘But one night the head on which I worked became a man’s and I saw that he was tumbling from Kinnoull Hill – one of the men I betrayed.’ She gave a sob and turned away from Margaret. ‘I could not bear to hold it.’
The Sight was a curse. Her mother had received no joy from it, her marriage had been ruined by it, her children had suffered. A cold panic numbed Margaret’s fingers. Dear Lord, not me.
‘Marion,’ Christiana called out, ‘I would sit up in my chair now.’
Margaret glanced up from her work and involuntarily winced as she witnessed how Christiana clutched Marion’s arm and struggled to rise from the rumpled bed. Beneath the wool tippet her mother’s thin gown hung loosely. Her hands were claw-like in their fleshlessness.
‘How long have you been fasting?’ Margaret’s voice cracked with emotion.
‘You know when my penance began,’ Christiana said. ‘You tire me with such questions.’
Marion held firmly to her too-slender mistress, helping her shuffle to the cushioned chair near the bed. Christiana held Marion’s hand as she turned and sank down, and then the maid quickly tucked a lap rug about her. All was done with practised efficiency. Such quick deterioration bespoke a severe fast. As Marion straightened she gave Margaret an apologetic look and shook her head. Margaret did not blame the maid. Her mother would be far worse if she were not in Marion’s loving hands.
Christiana studied Margaret with fevered eyes. ‘Did Malcolm send for you?’ Her voice was surprisingly stronger now that she was sitting up.
‘No, Da did not summon me. I came here to see how Roger was healing before I go on to Ada’s house in Stirling, but I’ve learned he left a few days past.’
Closing her eyes, Christiana slowly nodded, and tears began to fall. Bowing her head, she crossed herself.
Margaret’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Ma, what is it?’
‘I fear for him,’ Christiana whispered.
‘What have you seen?’
Christiana shook her head. ‘I did not need the Sight to ken his condition. He has not recovered enough to travel. He limps so, he will be unbalanced in the fight.’
‘What fight?’ Margaret asked. ‘You must have had a vision.’ Not to mention that it was not her mother’s wont to be concerned about the consequences of another’s affliction.
Christiana’s pained expression suggested an affection of which Margaret had not been aware.
‘What have you seen, Ma?’
‘I told you, I saw how he limps.’ Christiana looked at the tangled yarn and tablets in Margaret’s lap. ‘Oh, put that aside, Maggie. I haven’t the strength to work on it anyway.’
Margaret persisted, finding the painstaking unravelling calming. ‘Did you see Roger often?’
‘I asked after him daily. When he was abl
e to walk along the gallery he came to see me at least once a day. He is a good man, Maggie, a kind man. He told me you spoke of annulling your marriage. Did you?’
Margaret was confused by her mother’s sudden approval of Roger, whom she usually disliked. ‘You know of our troubles,’ she said. ‘Some things cannot be mended.’
‘But you came now to see him?’
‘I loved him once,’ Margaret said. ‘We are still man and wife in the eyes of the Kirk.’
‘Indeed you are, and he means to keep it so. Pity. You are only nineteen and so pretty – we might have found you a more worthy husband.’
‘But you just said he is a good man.’
‘Did I?’ Her mother looked at her with an expression so blank Margaret thought it must be sincere.
‘Ma, do you know where was he going?’
Christiana averted her eyes, but not before Margaret saw a shadow fall across them. ‘He did not say.’ She shifted in her chair and fussed with her sleeves. ‘Why are you for Stirling? What is there for you?’ Her voice trembled.
Margaret could not confide in her mother; in her state she could not be trusted to practise discretion. ‘I have been lonely. Ada has invited me to her home in Stirling for a while. There is nothing holding me in Perth, so I am accompanying her.’
‘If only you’d had children. They give a woman purpose.’
Margaret agreed. But God had not yet granted her children.
‘Would that you had the Sight,’ Christiana murmured, then shook her head fiercely. ‘No, no I did not mean to curse you with this wretchedness.’
This wretchedness. Margaret shivered. ‘Why did you choose to weave a border of owls, Ma?’
‘Aunt Euphemia said owls had the wisdom of women and lived in the moon’s cycles, as we do. I feel the need of the owl’s strength.’
‘Celia told me that her ma believed that when an owl alights on a roof and wakes the household the master is marked for death. Have you ever heard that?’
‘I recall something like that. There are no roofs in this border.’
Not wishing her mother to read anything in her eyes, Margaret kept them lowered and tried to focus on the matter of her mission to Stirling.