by Amanda Scott
“Good evening, Brother Kieran,” Wat said. “You have learned of our so-unexpected and tragic bereavement then.”
“We heard late yesterday, aye,” Brother Kieran replied solemnly. “We have been praying for his lordship’s soul since then.”
“Thank you,” Wat said sincerely.
“I’ll show you to your room if that will suit you, sir. Father Abbot expects you to stay the night. He did say to warn you that his grace be resting in the main part of the guesthouse and that his reverence is to take supper with him there.”
“The King is here?” That explained the unusual activity.
Nodding, Brother Kieran, said, “If you will agree, though, Father Abbot will meet with you as soon as you have had time to settle into your room. We put a pallet for your man in there, too. At present, we have no other rooms available.”
“That is acceptable, thank you,” Wat said. “If Father Abbot will forgive my riding clothes, I need only scrub off some of this dirt.”
“Aye, sure, m’lord. We stand on little ceremony here, as you know.”
Wat did know, but he also knew it behooved him to avoid offending the abbot. Therefore, it was always wiser to beg pardon before rather than after he did something of which he was uncertain.
Reaching his room and having no wish to delay the meeting, he attended quickly to his needs and told Jed to speak with Geordie and make sure the men were comfortable. “I want no difficulty between our lot and his grace’s entourage.”
“Geordie willna want trouble neither, laird,” Jed assured him.
“No talk about the King being here, either,” Wat added. “The lack of a royal standard flying must mean that his grace wants his visit kept quiet.”
“Aye, then,” Jed said.
Outside again and noting that Brother Kieran had vanished, Wat strode toward the chapter house. As he approached it, the Abbot of Melrose stepped onto the stone stoop outside its entrance, wearing the same unbleached, undyed woolen habit that all Cistercian monks wore. Only his heavy silver chain and cross distinguished him from the other monks. His tonsured hair and eyebrows were dark.
His demeanor as he watched Wat approach seemed unduly stern but his features relaxed sympathetically when he said in his mellifluous voice, “ ’Tis glad I am to see you, my son. I had hoped you would come to us. I know, though, that you have many more responsibilities now than you had three days ago.”
“I do, Father Abbot. ’Tis regarding some of them that I seek your counsel.”
“Then come into my parlor. We can talk privily there.”
Located just off the entry hall of the chapter house, the abbot’s candlelit conversation room was starkly furnished. Although the glow of candles and a small cheerfully crackling fire on the hearth suggested warmth, Wat kept his cloak on when he took his seat on a wooden stool facing the fire.
Taking a matching stool at a slight angle to his, so they could talk face-to-face, the abbot said, “Now, what counsel do you seek, my son.”
“First, Father Abbot, I want to assure you that I will honor all of the agreements my father made with you regarding the properties he exchanged for Bellendean. The abbey will retain all of its hunting and fishing rights there.”
“It never occurred to me that you might not honor those agreements,” the abbot said. “Your father and grandfather were both generous to the abbey. Your grandfather honored his close friend, the second Earl of Douglas, who lies buried here. Your father did much, too, simply—he said—for the good of his soul.
“Both of them provided extra labor for our renovations,” the abbot went on. “Thanks to them and others, and to Almighty God, we have rebuilt nearly all that the wicked English destroyed in 1385. We will forever be grateful for their aid.”
“I mean to continue as they did,” Wat said. “Next, then, I would extend my lady grandame’s respects to you, Father Abbot. She respects your abilities and agreed that I would be wise to seek counsel from you.”
“You may return my compliments and my deep condolence to Lady Meg,” the abbot said. “She is a fine woman and has lost more in her lifetime than many would think such a woman deserves to lose. She must be deeply mourning—your lady mother, too. But, what matter is it that disturbs you, Walter.”
“I want to learn about the laws of marriage, Father. You see…” He went on to explain, as briefly as he could, the situation that Molly faced.
Having done her best that morning to explain to Lady Meg how she had come to marry Tuedy, Molly had stopped at the point where her father’s traitorous priest had declared her Tuedy’s wife. Praying that her hostess would not demand more details than she was willing to share, she eyed her warily now.
Lady Meg just shook her head. “Sakes, child,” she said. “I thought that my marriage was forced upon me. Your experience shows me just how lucky I was.”
“I cannot imagine anyone forcing you,” Molly said.
“You did not know me then.” Meg grimaced. “Sithee, my father wanted to hang my Walter, but he gave him the choice of marrying me instead. Father didn’t ask if I was willing. He believed, you see, that no other man would want to marry me.”
“Mercy, my lady, how could he have thought such a thing?”
“I was sadly homely then,” Meg said. “Not that I am any great beauty today. However, when one reaches a certain age, one’s looks become less important to others than one’s character. In any event, my marriage was happy but too short. It lasted long enough to give me children, but…”
She paused with a rueful look and added, “But you had to face your troubles alone. My mother was alive. In fact, I believe my marriage was her idea.”
“It sounds horrid,” Molly said frankly.
“Aye, but others would have suffered had I not agreed to marry Sir Walter. I had reasons of mine own, too. My mother would have insisted that I obey my father, but he would not have forced me had I refused. I made the decision myself, to avoid any hangings. You were not given any choice.”
“True, so when the chance came…” Molly bit her lip.
“You fled, and were right to do so,” Meg said matter-of-factly. “Heaven kens what the Kirk and the law will say to that, but I will do all that I can to protect you. Walter will, too.”
Molly was not so certain of that.
They stopped talking then, because Brigid knocked to say that the midday meal was ready to serve.
Looking back on the conversation that evening as she prepared for supper, Molly could only hope that his Lady Meg was right about her grandson. She also hoped, too, that Lady Meg was satisfied with what little Molly had told her about her wedding day, and would seek no more details.
When Wat finished describing Molly’s wedding to the abbot as she had described it to him, the abbot’s heavy dark brows drew together thoughtfully.
Then he said, “ ’Tis true, my son, that a Scotswoman has the right to refuse marriage and that nae one can legally force her to wed against her will. However, God and Holy Kirk do also expect any unwed young woman to obey her father’s commands, knowing that he has her best interest at heart.”
Dryly, Wat said, “My opinion of her ladyship’s father, if I may say so, your reverence, is that he rarely considers anyone’s interest save his own. I will admit, though, that I do not know Cockburn personally. If I have met him, I have no memory of it. I do know his sons, though, and his reputation…”
“… is merely what other people think of him,” the abbot said when Wat paused. “Hearsay, we call it. It can sometimes condemn a man without due cause.”
“Aye, but I know Ringan Tuedy and would not let him near one of my sisters or female cousins. The man is a raider first, your reverence, a brutal one, at that.”
“How did you learn of this wedding if you did not witness it, Walter?”
“I met her ladyship in Ettrick Forest yester-midnight, fleeing barefoot in only a ripped shift,” Wat said. “She was spent, so I took her to the Hall and put her in my grandame’s car
e. Molly’s two elder brothers, Will and Ned, were after her with Tuedy and Will’s sleuthhounds. When I asked what they were doing on Scott land, they told me they were seeking a lost maidservant.”
“Such a lie bespeaks a guilty conscience, I think,” the abbot said with a deeper frown. “Let me ponder this matter overnight and seek counsel from above. We can talk again tomorrow after we break our fast.”
“Won’t his grace still be here?”
“He will, aye, and for some days more, I believe. He treasures his solitude whilst he is here, though. So we should have time in the morning to talk.”
It was a dismissal, and Wat had no objection. He wanted to think.
The fact was that if the Kirk expected Molly to obey her father and supported Piers Cockburn’s right to her obedience, it would deem her marriage to Tuedy legal.
If that meant that she would have to return to Tuedy, he knew what Lady Meg would say. For that matter, the more he thought about it, himself…
Suppertime passed slowly for Molly. She sat between Janet and Bella, with Lady Meg next to Janet and Lady Scott beyond Meg. Since the ladies supped alone, privy screens were in place. The table seemed somehow smaller so, and quieter.
Molly had expected Janet or Bella to ask her about her conversation with Lady Meg or about life at Henderland. When neither one asked her any questions, she wondered if they simply lacked curiosity or feared that the older women would disapprove of such personal questions.
Just as she was recalling that Lady Meg had expressed her own curiosity but had not pressed her to describe the actual events that had led to her flight, Lady Meg’s voice interrupted that reverie.
“Lavinia,” she said, “I know you are sorely grieving. We all are. But I hope you will not keep to your chamber whilst Rosalie is here. She is looking forward to seeing you. Moreover, it will be good for us to have to show our best faces to her.”
“I will try, Meg, truly,” Lady Scott said in a voice so faint that Molly could barely hear her. “But Rosalie may prove less of an antidote than you expect, since she is so recently widowed herself.”
“Richard Percy died over two years ago,” Lady Meg replied. “In any event, if our Rosalie has turned into a watering pot, I shall be much surprised.”
“Has it been two years?” Lady Scott asked. “It does not seem so long ago.”
Janet said, “How long has it been since you have seen each other, Gram?”
“It must be ten years,” Lady Meg said. “ ’Twas when my stepfather died. She met us at Elishaw, because Mother had decided to move back there and live with Simon and Sibylla. My brother and his wife,” she added, reminding Molly.
Molly was content to let them talk of Lady Rosalie. But her contentment fled as they prepared to retire to the solar, when Meg said, “You and I will talk again tomorrow, my dear. I want to get to know you as well as I can whilst you’re here.”
Bright moonbeams pierced the forest canopy. They cast their silvery glow on the narrow pathway and made it sparkle as if someone had cast diamonds along its length.
She walked barefoot toward him in a long unbleached gown, like a monk’s habit. Her long, lustrous hair was aglitter with golden highlights.
She smiled but did not speak, making him wonder if she was real or just a figment of his imagination. Her eyes looked more golden, and her dark lashes and eyebrows seemed more unusual than ever in such light.
She was near enough to touch, so he reached toward her.
As he did, the creamy cloth slipped from her as if magic fingers had pulled its top stitching free. Although he assumed that the fabric puddled at her feet or disappeared, he did not look down to see. His gaze fixed on her slender, shapely nudity.
The moonlight turned her smooth skin milky white. Her rosy nipples perked temptingly, inviting him to fondle her lovely breasts.
His hand had frozen in place when her garment fell but extended now in response to that perky invitation. Before it touched aught save air, she vanished, saying in Jed Elliot’s gruff, sardonic tone, “Wake up, laird. The abbot’s man be here…
“… and likely gey sorry t’ interrupt any dream that makes ye moan so.”
Blearily, Wat found himself staring into Jed’s twinkling blue eyes. The lad held a candle, but the rest of the room was dark. “What the devil?” Wat demanded.
“Father Abbot ha’ been up for an hour or more, m’lord, or so his man did say. He also said to break your fast as quick as ye can. They dinna ken if his grace will keep to hisself or no t’day.”
“As I recall, breaking one’s fast here takes little time,” Wat said with a sigh and a grimace. “ ’Tis nobbut bread and water or watery porridge.”
“Aye, the porridge be nowt t’ keep a normal man going long. The monks labor in their fields and orchards all day, though. They do eat well at midday, aye?”
“They do, and our supper last night was tolerable, too. Nevertheless, Jed, do you think you might find me some cheese to go with the bread?”
“I already did,” Jed said, nodding. “I’m no me da’s son for nowt, sir. I brung ye some fine ale, too.”
“Did you now? And how do you know that it’s fine.”
“I wouldna give ye nowt that I’d no tasted first, would I?”
“I think you are getting above yourself, my lad,” Wat said with mock sternness. “First interrupting my dreams—”
“It did sound like a good one,” replied the unrepentant Jed. “Ye were moaning, like I said. But ye didna sound as if ye felt any pain.”
“I’ll thank you to leave my dreams to me.”
“Aye, sure, sir. I just hope she were as pretty as the ones I dream up.”
Chuckling, Wat got out of bed and dressed hastily. After eating his meager breakfast, he told Jed to check the men again, and took himself off to the chapter house, where Brother Kieran awaited him on the stoop.
Despite his simple habit, the lay brother looked as if he were unaware of the icy chill in the morning air. “Father Abbot awaits you in his parlor, m’lord,” he said, opening the door for Wat. “I’ll take you to him.”
Following obediently, Wat was grateful to see the little fire again.
It was odd, he thought, that he could live off the land for days in any weather while leading a raid, going into battle, or chasing English raiders. But when he was indoors, he liked a roaring fire on a chilly day and plentiful food on the table.
The abbot stood before the fire with his feet apart, his hands behind him.
“Come in, Walter, and take your ease,” he said. Gesturing toward the stool where Wat had sat the previous evening, he added, “I have thought hard on this matter.”
“What did you decide?” Wat asked, tensing.
“I agree with you that if the Cockburn men forced the lady Margaret to marry Ringan Tuedy against her strongly expressed will, the marriage is illegal under the laws of Holy Kirk and Scotland, as well.”
Wat relaxed only to tense again when the abbot added, “However, she can legally declare the marriage unlawful only if she is still a maiden, just as a bridegroom can declare his marriage null if his bride proves to be unchaste.”
Wat’s heart sank then. He was nearly sure that no woman, let alone one Molly’s size and in her situation, could successfully deny a brute Tuedy’s size his connubial rights on his wedding night.
Before he might have voiced those thoughts, the abbot continued, saying, “If they consummated their union, she must apply through the Kirk for an annulment.”
“What does that mean?” Wat asked. Realizing his question was unclear, he added, “What is the procedure for such an application?”
“It requires a letter to the Pope and papal action. Since we do not have a papal legate in Scotland now, it will take months for such an application to reach him and for his reply to travel back to her. I must warn you, too, that His Holiness will likely refuse to grant the annulment, because he holds strongly that a woman is always better off with a bad husband than unwed.”
“But if she declares that she is still virgin…”
“She would require examination,” the abbot said, meeting Wat’s gaze.
“I shall tell her what you have said, Father Abbot,” Wat said quietly, feeling suddenly very protective of the lady Molly.
Then a new thought occurred to him. “When you say that she would require examination, whose word would the Kirk accept that she is still a maiden?”
“So you believe as I do that she is no longer intact,” the abbot said gently. “Sithee, I am the person who would question the examiner, so I will tell you that the only person whose word I would accept without hesitation is Lady Meg’s.”
Wat would never doubt her either. At that moment, though, he wished that his grandmother were not a woman known far and wide for her steadfast integrity.
“I should mention one other detail that you must consider carefully before advising the lady Margaret,” the abbot said. He had put his hands behind him again and was staring at the floor.
Looking up, he met Wat’s gaze and said solemnly, “Even if the lass can legally nullify her marriage, she should understand that word of it will have spread about quickly. She will need protection from the inevitable scandal, Walter, and likely from her infamously fractious kinsmen, too.”
His protective instincts in full force now, Wat said without hesitation, “I promise you, your reverence, her ladyship will have my protection and that of my kindred for as long as she needs it.”
“Consider carefully before you make her such a promise, my son. I mean to look further into her situation, but—”
A loud double rap on the door interrupted him. Sending Wat a rueful look that told him as clearly as words could that only one man would interrupt them in such a fashion, the abbot said calmly, “Enter.”
A man in the royal Stewart livery walked in and held the door wide for the square-built, auburn-haired man behind him to enter the parlor.
Wat had never met the King of Scots, but he had no doubt that the second man was James Stewart, known to all and sundry when they spoke of him, as Jamie.