by Candace Robb
It was all the worse because she had allowed herself to hope that she might find some joy in James Comyn after the humiliation of her marriage with Roger. James had been attentive and affectionate of late, and she’d found it comforting to have a man concerned for her, gifting her with food in short supply – a little meat, a small barrel of ale – advising her on problems, and praising her accomplishments. They had grown close. He’d brought the Welshman to give her news of her brother – that was the third time James had brought her word of Andrew since Abbot Adam had condemned him. With what seemed immense patience James had worn down her initial distrust of his kindness, and she had come to think that although he might be using her for his own ends as had Roger, he had been a good friend to her. It did not hurt his cause that he also had a face and manner that Margaret found pleasing. Yet now she felt alone again. Her mother was wasting away, Roger was in danger, James was long away at his meeting with Wallace and Murray. She closed her eyes, praying for some good news, and found herself lingering over a memory of their last parting. James had pulled her into his arms and kissed her, a kiss so sweet, so welcome that she thought she might love him.
As she knelt at her devotion she felt the now familiar chill, so unlike the Virgin’s warmth, and the floor opened beneath her. She gasped to find herself falling. Dame Bethag’s song had slowed and softened, but now it was drowned out by a rushing sound all around Margaret. She fought to open her eyes, frightened by the sensation of freely falling through the air, but her eyes would not open. Her stomach heaved at the weightlessness.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun her fall ended, and her body was shot through with a pain that left her breathless, her ears assailed by a terrible roar of agony. She thought she screamed, but could not hear herself for the roar. The moment she collapsed, unable to bear any more, the pain and the terrible noise withdrew. She felt her feet touching the ground. She did not trust her legs after her terrifying fall, but she stood without effort and opened her eyes with ease. She was no longer in the kirk but standing at the foot of a rock outcrop, in a dusty pre-dawn light, and someone lay at her feet, his breath rattling piteously. She crouched down and to her dismay found it was Roger. He lay sprawled on the ground with his head at a frightening angle against a stone. The rattling ceased.
‘Christ have mercy!’ she cried. She attempted to arrange his head and limbs in a more natural order telling herself that he might recover if his humours could flow more easily. But his skin was cold and his body was already stiffening. ‘Roger, stay with me, I pray you, breathe!’ She felt herself pulled away, lifted off her feet, and she floated away, hand in hand with a warm, shining companion. ‘No! I cannot do this – I cannot leave him.’
‘Be at peace, Dame Margaret.’
Bethag’s voice called her from the dream. Her arm about Margaret’s trembling shoulders was warm and reassuring. Bethag gently touched her cheek. Margaret opened her eyes. Bethag’s eyes were wells of light.
‘What vision did the Lord bring you, young Margaret?’
‘I pray that it was no vision, but a dream.’ It was her recurring dream, yet different this time, experiencing Roger’s fall, and seeing him as he lay dying. Margaret crossed herself. ‘Your song made me think of those I love, those I am worried about.’ If it had been real she would not have abandoned him though dead. She would have sought a way to protect Roger from scavengers.
The nun’s focus was turned inward. Excited, she said, as if to herself, ‘My song inspired a vision. I have heard of this happening.’
‘But your song was joyous and the vision was filled with pain.’ Margaret struggled for breath and found it difficult to keep her eyes focused. She was being pulled down into the sleep of exhaustion.
‘Rest a while,’ Bethag whispered, stroking Margaret’s forehead as she drifted off.
Margaret woke with a start, confused by the high ceiling and the rattle of beads near her ear. Moving her head she discovered it was resting in Bethag’s lap and the nun was praying, her paternoster beads rattling as she fingered them.
‘I must have slept,’ said Margaret, her voice cracking a little.
‘Are you thirsty?’ asked Bethag. She set the beads aside and helped Margaret sit up, then handed her a cup of water.
Only then did Margaret notice the servant kneeling a few paces from them, her expression one of rapt wonder. She was about to ask whether the woman had been there earlier, but Bethag answered the question before she asked.
‘Mary came to change the flowers on the altar and found us here. She brought water for you.’ Bethag smiled. ‘Your colour has returned.’
‘How long have I been here?’
Bethag laughed as she stood up and took a few uneven paces, rubbing her right thigh. ‘Long enough for my right leg to lose all feeling, but at my age that does not take so long as it did in my youth.’
It took all Margaret’s strength to struggle up on to her feet. She felt shaky, as she often did after falling asleep during the day, but also as if all the light in her life had been smothered.
Dame Bethag saw her anguish. ‘Do not be afraid. God spoke through me to you.’
Owls and mystics – Margaret wondered why God would speak to her through others. ‘Why do you think God used you?’ Margaret asked. ‘What did you see while you sang?’
‘The Blessed Mother’s light of grace.’
‘So, too, did I – at first. But afterwards–’ Margaret hesitated, glancing at the servant Mary. ‘Might we talk privately?’
Dame Bethag nodded to the servant, who shyly rose and departed. The nun withdrew to a bench to one side of the altar. Margaret joined her, still feeling almost as if she were walking in her sleep so tentative did her movements feel to her.
Bethag smoothed Margaret’s forehead and then took up one of her hands. ‘You are so cold. Tell me what troubles you. As God is my witness I shall not betray your confidences to the other sisters.’
Margaret was loath to call to mind her terrible vision; but she needed guidance, and with the hope that Dame Bethag might be able to help her she described her experience, as well as the recurring dream.
As Margaret spoke, Dame Bethag dropped her head and listened with eyes half-closed. Margaret felt the nun’s hand grow as cold as her own.
‘Oh my dear,’ Bethag said at last, raising a tearful face to Margaret. ‘This is indeed a frightening vision. But the Lord must have cause to show this to you. Give thanks to Him and let it be – in prayer it will come clear to you why you have seen your husband’s death. It may not speak to his actual death at all. It might not even have been Roger Sinclair whom you saw.’
Margaret shook her head. ‘No, I am certain it was my husband.’
‘If he suffers such an end, it is God’s wish.’
That made it no more palatable for Margaret. ‘Have you ever had such a vision of what might come to pass?’
Bethag sighed. ‘I have been graced with no such power, young Margaret. My visions are but expressions of the ecstasy I experience when I touch the divine.’
‘How do I know that this vision is not the devil’s work?’
‘You also saw the Virgin Mary’s grace,’ Bethag said, as if that were all the argument necessary.
She looked so serene and spoke with such confidence that Margaret was tempted to believe her; but Bethag made it all seem too simple. Life was far more complicated.
‘I believe you are gifted with both the Sight and divine grace,’ said Bethag. ‘These are gifts you must honour with prayer and contemplation.’
‘I have work to do out in the world.’
Bethag was nodding.
‘How do I honour these gifts out in the world, in the midst of the fighting in our land?’ Tell me that, Margaret thought, but left it a question, not a challenge.
‘Do not be frightened. You walk in the light of the Lord. He will show you. You must keep your mind open to His guidance. Come.’ Bethag rose and held out her hand. ‘I’ll walk with you to the
guest house.’
Bethag helped Margaret rise, and then gently brushed her fingertips across Margaret’s forehead and down one side of her face.
‘You lack all joy, young Margaret. Surely God’s gifts, the most precious one being that of life, are to be treasured and rejoiced in.’ Her expression was one of gentle inquiry as she searched Margaret’s eyes.
Margaret thought of all her worries, but was struck by how self-pitying she would sound if she recited them. She could not imagine Bethag complaining about her lot in life – but then she seemed to enjoy a quiet peace here.
‘I forget to laugh,’ Margaret said, though she had not realised it until she spoke the words. She was embarrassed to have blurted out such a silly worry. ‘You must think me a child, fretting about whether or not I laugh.’
‘No, Margaret,’ said Bethag. ‘I see that you have left your childhood far behind.’
They had moved down the aisle and Margaret now stepped forward to hold open the door for Bethag. As she passed, the nun gave her such a beatific smile that Margaret found herself responding – tentatively, but she did manage a smile. It was such a small gesture, but it shifted something within her. Perhaps God was speaking to her through Bethag. Margaret crossed herself as she let go the door and joined her companion.
They walked slowly through the convent yard. As they approached the guest house the long shadows of early evening already stretched across the garden.
Margaret asked, ‘What did you mean, that I’ve left my childhood far behind?’
Bethag nodded at the question. ‘You carry yourself with a gravity unusual in a young woman. At your age I had been here for almost half my life and my cares were shared by a community of women. With your parents away, and your husband, too, you are responsible for your own well-being. I think I was fortunate in being called to God and to this place where I am not alone.’ She gave Margaret an apologetic smile. ‘I’ve never before considered how selfish we sisters might seem to you, how cockered.’
Margaret wondered whether the nun could read her thoughts. ‘Without your prayers we would be lost. I imagine all those who are cloistered resenting the rest of us for requiring so much prayer.’
They laughed companionably.
At the guest-hall door Dame Bethag paused and, catching Margaret’s smile, mirrored it in her beautiful face. ‘A smile is one of God’s little miracles, young Margaret. It is good to remember that.’ She pressed her hands together and bowed. ‘Now I must return to my cell. God go with you.’
‘And with you, Dame Bethag.’ Margaret wanted to wish her more than that, but she could not think what the woman did not have. She mulled this over as she stepped into the hall, unaware of Ada’s presence until she was swept up in her affectionate embrace.
‘You have been long away, Maggie,’ Ada said as she stood back to hold her at arm’s length and study her face. ‘I see a hint of a smile. Oh, that is so good to see. Your meeting with Christiana must have pleased you.’
As a cloud sweeping past the sun the memory of her mother’s condition swept over Margaret, chilling her. ‘No, it was not Ma who made me smile.’ Her throat tightened. ‘It was Dame Bethag. She was so kind to me.’ Her eyes filled with tears as she remembered how little cause she had to smile, a thought that irritated her, seeming so self-pitying.
‘What have I done?’ Ada steered Margaret towards a chair. ‘I’ve turned your smiles to tears. I pray you, let me make amends. Rest here, and I’ll bring you a cup of wine.’ Her silks rustled as she fussed about Margaret.
For her part, Margaret felt there could be no better person than Ada for her to be with right now, a practical woman whom she could not imagine suffering visions. Margaret was just sipping at the wine when her father arrived. He was not so welcome.
‘Ah, Maggie, I am glad to find you here. What are your plans now? Are you headed straight for Stirling?’
Margaret had said nothing to him of her destination. She glanced with suspicion towards Ada, who had remained in the hall with Malcolm while Margaret was with Christiana. Had she spoken to Malcolm?
Ada shook her head and shrugged.
Then it must have been Christiana who had divulged her destination to Malcolm. It was Margaret’s own fault for having mentioned it to her mother.
‘Give your daughter some peace,’ Ada said. ‘Go rest, Malcolm. You look weary.’
Her father’s indignant expression and Ada’s imperious stance with hands on hips almost made Margaret laugh. But she quickly sobered when Malcolm poured himself a cup of wine and sat down beside her. She knew by his affectionate smile that he wanted something from her.
‘Why would you go to Stirling?’ he asked. ‘You have a fine home in Perth.’
She hoped this was all he was after, to feel informed. ‘My home in Perth holds too many memories of my failed marriage, Da.’
Malcolm placed his other hand over hers and looked her in the eyes. ‘Ah. Well I ken such pain, Maggie. Would you at least heed some advice?’
She hesitated, wary of promising her father anything. ‘What would that be?’
‘Stay here, don’t return to Perth. James will come here when he doesn’t find you at home.’
She tried to withdraw her hand, but her father held it fast. ‘I said nothing of James,’ she said.
‘There was no need, lass. I know you and he have an agreement, and I’m sure it’s James who has you scurrying off to Stirling. Bide here until he comes for you, that’s all I ask.’
‘I’d never planned otherwise, Da,’ she said. ‘I left word for him to meet me here.’
Celia, Margaret’s maid, had been sitting in a quiet corner of the hall listening to the conversation, except for carrying the tray with the wine and cups over after her mistress arrived. She felt comforted that Margaret still intended to wait here for James Comyn. Her companion, Maus, Ada’s maid, had quietly stated her hope that Margaret would decide not to wait for James to escort them, but would carry on to Stirling. She was eager to reach her mistress’s comfortable town house. Celia disapproved of Maus, a young woman who thought only of finery. She was also jealous of her – she had been training to be a lady’s maid like Maus when her former mistress, Margaret’s goodmother, had sent her off with Margaret. Celia loved Margaret now, and was proud of her role in assisting her mistress in her work for James, but she envied Maus her soft hands that did not snag the silk of her mistress’s gowns. At the same time Celia enjoyed having Maus’s companionship and could see that her mistress was easier with Ada close at hand. Perhaps the time in Stirling would be pleasant, something Celia had not expected, as long as her mistress did not take too many risks in teasing out the reason the person carrying messages for James from Stirling had disappeared.
She wished Master Malcolm would leave and she might ask Margaret about the little smile on her face when she’d arrived just now.
But the old man was nothing if not a talker, and he’d now begun on Margaret’s Great-Aunt Euphemia and the cursed mantle her mother was making for the woman. Celia had never met the kinswoman of whom he spoke, but she could see that her mistress found the conversation distressing for she hugged herself as if feeling threatened.
‘Are you cold, Mistress?’ Celia inquired, and was rewarded by Margaret’s expression of gratitude as she rose and, making her excuses, withdrew to their chamber.
‘What was so distressing about a mantle for a kinswoman?’ Celia asked when they were alone, settled on the bed.
Margaret’s face was in shadow, but her hands plucked nervously at her skirt. ‘Euphemia MacFarlane is a great seer. My mother was sent by her parents to live with Euphemia to learn about the Sight.’
‘She does not bide in Perth?’
‘No. She lives far to the west.’ Margaret hugged herself. ‘Ma’s weaving a border for the mantle, a border of owls. They are special to Great-Aunt Euphemia.’
Celia was puzzled. ‘You laughed at my fear the other night.’
‘I know.’
Celia realised her mistress was shivering and she fetched her favourite plaid.
Margaret pulled it around her shoulders and up around her neck despite the warmth of the evening.
‘Ma said she has had no visions since the one of Kinnoull Hill. But while in the chapel – Celia, I felt Roger fall to his death. I thought I was falling, but then I saw him lying dead at the foot of the rock.’ Margaret crossed herself. ‘I was so frightened.’
‘Heaven have mercy on us.’ Celia crossed herself. She had much feared that Margaret was developing the Sight, for she was changing in subtle ways, becoming secretive, praying far more than was her wont. ‘But you were smiling when you returned to the hall.’
‘Dame Bethag had eased my mind.’ Margaret took a deep breath and let it out as a groan. ‘She is right, I carry such a weight. I must put my trust in God and believe that He will guide me. I have waited for the time to tell you, Celia – I–’
A knock on the door brought both of them to their feet.
‘Tell no one,’ Margaret whispered.
‘I swear,’ said Celia, hurt that her mistress felt the need to command her silence and frustrated by the interruption.
Ada entered the room, breaking the tension with a good-natured chuckle. ‘Your father is a difficult man to escape, Maggie. You are blessed with a perceptive handmaid.’ Ada gave Celia a warm smile. ‘I could see that all his talk of Euphemia and her owls distressed you. Oh that man!’
Celia was relieved to hear her mistress laugh.
‘Ada, you do my heart good. And you are right about Celia.’ Margaret shed the plaid. ‘Will Da join us for the evening meal?’
Ada shook her head. ‘He is apparently in the habit of eating with the prioress’s kinsmen and the chaplain. Thanks be to God.’
Andrew no longer cursed David for escaping through the drain. He was grateful that God had spared him and Matthew, for the guards sent through it afterwards were now very ill. He believed Sir Francis and Sir Marmaduke had sent them through to impress upon Longshanks’s royal lieutenant John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, and his treasurer the hated Hugh Cressingham, the seriousness with which they took desertion. It had seemed that David’s disappearance had been forgotten – a week had passed since he’d gone missing – when the administrators paused at Soutra for a night on their way to Stirling with their horse and foot soldiers. It was only then that the search had been ordered.