by Kate Jacoby
Robert took in a deep breath, his eyes still on Finnlay. “I killed her, brother. I killed my own wife.”
The chapel bell rang twice, paused, then rang a third time. Its baleful sound echoed across the sandstone cloister and floated up to the abbey church beyond. Within the square, a tall oak spread its branches to caress the cloister roof and cover the grass below with shade. A brick well stood in one corner of the square, capped by a wooden lid now littered with a fine sprinkling of dust.
Lady Margaret Douglas gazed down‘ on the cloister from her room above and watched as a novice approached the well and began drawing water. From up here, it looked like Sister Helen, with her long, fine fingers and square set shoulders. She wore the habit of the House, grey robe and black mantle, with the white veil of the novice. Against the shaded backdrop, the veil looked almost luminous as it caught the sunshine, a halo of soft linen. Margaret looked away and up over the top of the church to where the peaks of the surrounding cliffs rose towards the mountains. The air was clear and fine up here, so far from town or village. When Saint Hilary had founded the abbey more than two hundred years ago it had been her wish to separate the order from the daily trials of ordinary life. For the first fifty years that wish had proved hard to fulfil, with the abbey completely cut off for almost all of the winter months. Hilary had died an ancient woman of eighty, her bones resting under the altar of the church, and since then a small but strong community had grown up around the abbey. They were still cut off and most definitely separated from the rest of the world, but there was less of a struggle to survive. Saint Hilary’s was isolated, remote and very peaceful: the perfect retreat for a widow unable or perhaps just unwilling to cast aside her mourning.
A flicker of movement on the ridge above caught Margaret’s eye and she watched it for a moment as it came closer and separated into the shape of two riders. As they came down the steep slope Margaret found she could recognize at least one by the flaming red hair which floated around in the sunlight. The other man could therefore be only one person. She waited a little longer, then turned and made her way downstairs to the reception room.
After a few minutes, the door opened and Margaret smiled. “Heavens, Robert! Two visits in less than a month! What can you be thinking of?”
Her son moved forward and took both her hands in his. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, his face cold from the ride. “I thought you might be missing me.”
“And Micah!” Margaret took a step forward. “How are you? I haven’t seen you since you got back. Are you pleased to be home, or is it a little dull after the exotic climes of the last few years?”
Micah bowed over her hand. “You are looking radiant as ever, Lady Margaret.”
Margaret shot a glance at her son. “He’s learned to be courtly, Robert! What have you two been up to?”
Robert took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm, then led her through the door and out into the sunshine. “I do my best but there are some things I just have no control over. Unfortunately, Micah is one of them.”
A quiet chuckle from behind told Margaret that Micah followed them. She glanced aside at Robert. Her eldest son appeared to have weathered winter without harm. He looked well, if not necessarily happy. Every time she saw him, however, it struck her how much he looked like his father. More than a handspan taller than she, Robert sported the same wavy dark hair which occasionally glinted with auburn in the light of a summer sunset. His brow was clear and graced with the same level eyebrows which were so expressive of his moods. Robert had even inherited his father’s green eyes, though a darker hue. His straight nose and wide, generous mouth gave way to a firm jaw and when laughing, made her think that Trevor did indeed live on in his son.
And there was something else Robert had inherited: his father’s charm. Or was it charisma? Something both men had in full measure, Robert perhaps even more. It was a quality that made people trust and believe in him, made him an easy hero to worship. A quality that made him attractive in more ways than one. But, unlike his father, Robert had always remained completely unaware of the effect he had on other people.
Yes, he was handsome, this son of hers—handsome enough to make even a few of the novices notice when he came to visit. However, not knowing him as Margaret did, there were a few things they did miss. Like the way there was no spring in his step any more, nor any glint of genuine delight in his sea green eyes. Robert put on a good performance, but mothers are not so easily fooled.
“You know, Robert,” she said after a moment, “my sisters here are very disturbed by your constant visits. It took days for them to get over the last one.”
For a moment, Robert looked a little startled and she had to smile. He had a dry enough wit himself and was therefore surprised when someone else used it on him.
He grinned. “Afraid they’ll throw you out, mother? I’m surprised they haven’t already.”
“I’ll thank you not to cast aspersions on my character. I’m your mother, show some respect.”
They took a path along the garden edge which wound between hedges of lavender and rosemary then up to the potters’ kiln on the other side. From there Margaret could see her favourite panorama of the mountains and the narrow valley in which the abbey lay.
“This is a nice spot, isn’t it?” Robert said, gazing out at the view.
Margaret let go his arm and sat down on a tree stump which still clung tenaciously to the rocky ground. “You say that every time you come up here. Forgive me, my dear, but is there a specific reason you came? Not that I’m complaining, I just wondered. Is anything wrong?”
Robert glanced over his shoulder at her, then at Micah, who dusted off a neighbouring tree stump for himself. “I thought I’d let you know how Finnlay was.”
“You’re not bored, are you?” Margaret couldn’t help herself. There was always something about Robert’s detached calm which encouraged her to prod him. She knew Finnlay felt the same way about Robert, but he saw it more as a challenge.
“Bored, mother?” Robert raised his eyebrows in mock horror. “Never. I came to tell you how your younger son is. Duty, mother, duty.”
Margaret nodded, but smiled nonetheless. “And how is Finnlay?”
“Much better. He’s up and about now, even if he does still need rest. But that’s what you get for riding off to Marsay in the spring rains.”
Margaret felt her good mood dissipate as quickly as frost on a hot day. “He went to Marsay?”
Robert shrugged. “There was little I could do to stop him, short of forbidding him.”
“Then you should have.” Margaret stood and clasped her hands together in a gesture designed to encourage patience.
“I know we’re far from everything up here, but we do hear what happens, at least within the Church. We know all about Bishop McCauly and that fool Brome. Saint Hilary’s is afire with gossip about it. I should have thought you’d have more sense than to allow your brother to go walking into a mire like that. Why, anything could have happened.”
Robert turned and gazed down on her with easy reassurance. “Mother, he was all right. Finnlay just went to find out for himself how bad things really were. No one knew he was there. You don’t need to worry.”
“Worry?” Margaret almost laughed at the suggestion. “Ever since the day I decided to come here and leave you two alone at Dunlorn I have worried about you. And you have given me cause—not least because at times, I thought you would actually kill each other. But I was determined to leave you to your own lives. But worry? Why should I worry, Robert? After all the things you’ve done, the places you’ve wandered, the Kings you have upset, why on earth should I worry?”
Robert laughed and wrapped his arms around her, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Oh, mother. What would I do without you?”
Margaret drew back from him with a slightly acerbic smile, “I can give you a list, if you like. And don’t give me that worldly, comforting smile, Robert. Neither you nor your brother can be tru
sted—Micah will support me on this, won’t you?”
“I wouldn’t dare contradict you, my lady.”
With a glance at the young man, Margaret returned to her tree stump. She wasn’t really angry, nor even irritated. The simple fact that Robert had allowed Finnlay to go to Marsay told her that her sons were finally on reasonable speaking terms. For the moment, that was enough. Clasping her hands together on her lap, she asked, “So how are things at home?”
“Why don’t you come back with me and see for yourself?”
“I can’t, Robert. You know why.” Margaret gazed at her son for a moment, wondering if there was some other reason why he had come all the way up here to see her.
“But you do have a life there. You could make one. It’s your home, mother.”
“No. Not without your father. You have no idea how bad it was for the first few weeks after he died. As much as I wanted to be with you while you were imprisoned there, I was so glad I didn’t have to be in that place without Trevor. I beg you to understand. Without your father, I have only a half life left. Part of me died with him and the remaining part is better off here at the abbey, where I can at least teach a few meagre skills to the novices and postulates. I dare not even take the veil because I cannot give myself fully to the service of the gods. You two don’t need me around and you know it. Please, don’t ask me again.”
Robert’s eyes remained glued to hers for a moment, then he looked away. “Do you remember the day you met my father?”
“As clearly as I’m seeing you. Why?”
“Do you remember what you thought when you saw him? The very first thing that came to your mind?”
Margaret couldn’t miss the uncharacteristic intensity in her son’s gaze, but she didn’t flinch. “Yes, I remember.”
“What?”
She shrugged. “He’s the one.”
Robert’s eyebrows rose in surprise. That particular expression had always made him look a little vulnerable, and this time was no different. “And you never doubted it? Afterwards? When you got to know him?”
“I only became more certain—I still am to this day. Robert, what’s this about? Are you thinking of marrying again? Have you met someone?”
Her son shook his head and a gust of breeze tossed a strand of hair across his eyes. He reached up and brushed it away. “No. Nothing like that. Sorry. It’s just something Finn and I were discussing.”
“To do with what?”
“Just some old manuscripts he was reading. History. Nothing more. Forget it.”
She was tempted to do as he suggested, but for the life of her she couldn’t make the connection between her meeting Trevor and some historical manuscript. However, there was no point in questioning him any further. Once Robert decided not to talk about something, there was no changing his mind.
“My lord.”
Micah interrupted her thoughts and she looked up. The young man with the flaming red hair was standing and pointing out along the valley. Racing towards them across the gently sloping fields was a rider. The horse beneath him was exhausted and galloped unsteadily. As it crept towards them she could see white foam about its mouth and a layer of sweat on its hide. Whoever it was, he was in a big hurry.
“Can you see who it is?” Micah murmured moving to stand beside Robert and Margaret.
Robert shook his head. “No. But it looks important.”
The lay workers who tilled the land of the abbey had stopped work to watch the rider pass by. A few had gathered before the gate and were ready when the horse came to a stumbling halt. Barely waiting for them to take its head, the rider jumped down and, receiving instructions, ran through the gate and up the steps towards the garden.
Margaret glanced at her son, then turned to where the steps came out behind the lavender hedge. Moments later the man appeared, dust and mud smeared over his clothes while an empty scabbard swung idly at his side. He caught sight of them and rushed over with what seemed the last of his strength. He took one look at Robert and sank to his knees.
“My lord,” he gasped air in ragged breaths, “I have ridden long and hard with most grave news.”
Margaret found her hands clutch together against the words she most feared. McCauly. Something must have happened.
Robert, with more steadiness than she, moved a step forward. “Calmly now, man. Get some air into your lungs first, then tell me.”
“Sad tidings, my lord,” the man seemed unable to lift his head. “I come to tell you of a treacherous battle—and that your uncle, His Grace the Duke of Haddon, is dead.”
Chapter 14
“Well, I must say, Jenny, that it’s all been very quiet so far,” Lawrence smiled as he accompanied her into the shady garden. “Perhaps Bella’s fears will turn out to be unfounded.”
“Perhaps,” Jenn replied absently, glancing at the others in the garden. It may have seemed quiet to Lawrence, but after two weeks in Marsay, Jenn had discovered the court was a hive of all sorts of activity, some of which was obvious and some of which was almost invisible. For example, there was the Dowager Duchess of Coily, whose son was in love with one of the Queen’s ladies, but the Duchess disapproved of the match and so the lovers had to meet in secret. It appeared that all the court, with the exception of Her Grace, knew about it. There seemed no end to the amount of gossip which passed from one group to another. Just when Jenn had thought she’d heard the latest, another piece would fall into her lap. Not that she eavesdropped as such, but it was difficult to be unaware of the web of intrigue.
Lawrence was a better guide than Bella. He was easygoing and knew quite a few of the people at court. He’d spent a lot of time there off and on over the years and continued to keep in contact. He escorted Jenn with all the deference of a knight accompanying a Queen and at times had Jenn laughing with his chivalrous manner, as though it were a private joke between them. It was Lawrence alone who had made those first few days bearable. Especially now with the news about Robert’s uncle. Jenn longed to leave court, go to Dunlorn, but what could she do? Robert had lost his uncle and nothing would ever change that.
As Lawrence led her to a quiet bench by the pond, Jenn caught sight of the Queen surrounded by a small group of ladies but, like everyone else at court, she hardly glanced in Jenn’s direction. There was a well-dressed man sitting close by Rosalind and they seemed to be deep in conversation, but at this distance, Jenn could only guess what they talked about.
She’d met the Queen officially on the evening of their second day. The Queen had been polite, welcomed her to court, but said nothing more. Jenn had been glad of the easy escape. She was not altogether sure of what she could possibly say to a Queen. Of Selar she had seen almost nothing, only glimpsed him once at the end of the room. The tall fair-haired man had barely noticed her presence, but that did nothing to alleviate Jenn’s disquiet.
After a few moments of silence, Lawrence said, “I wanted to talk to you about Bella. Principally to ask you to be patient.”
Jenn glanced aside at him. “What makes you think I’m not?”
“Oh, nothing really,” Lawrence gave her a companionable smile. “It’s just that sometimes your face gives you away. When you first arrived at Elita I could hardly begin to know what you were thinking. Now it’s not so difficult.”
“I do my best,” she murmured, dropping her head, “but patience is not my strong point.”
“Oh, don’t take it as a criticism, Jenny,” Lawrence patted her arm, “I meant only to suggest that you give her a little more time. Your sudden arrival has caused a huge change in her life.”
“I know, Lawrence,” Jenn nodded. “I promise I’ll try.”
“Good.” He smiled, then froze as his eyes focused on something behind her. In a more conspiratorial voice he added, “Have your best curtsey ready, Jenny dear. I think the King is finally making his move.”
Jenn’s eyes widened, but she had enough self-control to stop herself from spinning around in her seat to see. When she did move
, she took her cue from Lawrence, standing as he did and turning around to drop to a low curtsey. Remembering Bella’s admonitions on the subject, she remained down, staring at a pair of silver-trimmed grey boots for some minutes. Then a distinctly superior and slightly amused voice bade her rise.
“So, this is Jacob’s child. Stand up straight, girl, and let me take a look at you.”
Jenn let her eyes rise only as far as the emerald pendant which hung around Selar’s throat. Her heart was beating wildly and she didn’t dare open her mouth to say a word.
“Yes. You have the look of Ross about you.” Then impatiently, “Oh, cease this demure behaviour, child, and look me in the eye!”
Jenn was only marginally aware of Lawrence beside her and the man who stood beside the King. She lifted her eyes to meet Selar’s, while trying desperately to get some control over her heartbeat.
The face that greeted her was not quite what she’d expected. He was older than she’d thought, about forty-five, tall and solid. His grey eyes were narrowed and topped with fair brows which were brought together as if in deep thought. An aquiline nose rested above a fine-lipped mouth set at the moment somewhere between a grin and a sneer—it was difficult to decide which. His finely modulated voice erred on the quiet side, as though he knew he would be heard regardless of how he spoke. His bearing was that of a man who was accustomed to power, and who knew how to use it.
So this was Robert’s great and closest friend. Or had been.
Selar spoke again. “I’m pleased you were able to accept my invitation to court. It had occurred to me that because of your rather odd upbringing you might enjoy a spring in Marsay.”