by Tamara Leigh
When he started to remove his dagger, Hendrie who he had not realized was among Cristina’s escort, said, “As the king tells you are no longer his prisoner but his special guest, you may keep it on your person.”
“I am honored,” Theriot said.
The princess set a hand on his arm, and they started across the bailey with her escort. Doubtless, the accompaniment of Hendrie and the others was mostly for propriety’s sake since the patrol around Dunfermline had been reinforced to prevent attempts to interfere with the wedding, whether from Scotsmen who did not wish a queen of English blood, William’s Normans who sought to extinguish the threat to his throne, or Marguerite’s vengeful kin.
Though Theriot was now conversant with the glen, from the palace one side of it to the chapel the other, he allowed Cristina to warn of turns and other obstacles though, just as done Malcolm, he had recently revealed to her his ability to see forms and colors.
Upon reaching the top of the glen opposite the palace, the plodding Dubh stirred to life.
The princess halted and clipped, “Malcolm’s pet has returned.”
Theriot knew she felt his reaction to the tidings, and that it was magnified by frustration at being unable to catch movement that would reveal Marguerite’s location.
“I do not see her escort,” Hendrie said. “Likely they are overly confident of the patrol and eager to take their ease in the hall. Malcolm will hear of this.”
The princess tsked. “No doubt she encouraged them.”
Dubh turning more restless, Theriot said, “Where is the lady, Princess?”
“She leads her mount toward the graveyard.”
Hendrie cleared his throat. “As two escort will serve you, Princess, I shall watch over the lady.”
“As you will.”
Theriot remained at Cristina’s side until they reached the chapel that she was to confirm had been adorned as directed. “As I can be of no aid within and there is a matter I wish to discuss with Lady Marguerite,” he said, “I shall leave you to your duties.”
The princess caught her breath. “What is of such import you abandon me?”
Certain this was jealousy, he said firmly, “That is between the lady and me.”
Though they were watched by her escort, she stepped very near. “How is it you have more regard for her than me?”
He bent his head, said low, “I am grateful for your prayers and enjoy your company, but if you believe I can be your savior, with regret I must tell I cannot be that to you.”
After a long moment, she whispered, “To me. But what of Lady Marguerite?”
He raised his eyebrows. “What of her?”
She gave a huff of disgust. “If you cannot have feelings for me, at least be honest in acknowledging you are capable of devotion to a woman. Are you?”
Though tempted to lie for her sake, he said, “I am capable.”
She breathed deep. “It is good you feel for her rather than me. Otherwise, I would suffer guilt for giving you hope of being able to wed as well as Malcolm shall. Since I am for the Church, the only way I might be persuaded to yield my calling is if I were presented with an offer of marriage to one of highest nobility and of great advantage to my family.”
Prideful words, albeit true, Theriot thought. “As ever I have known not to cast hope beyond friendship, I am grateful for what you have given me, Princess.”
She stepped back. “It is much, especially for a Norman, but the Lord works in this vessel, and I trust He knows you better than I.” She swept an arm in the direction of Marguerite. “Though you depart Scotland soon, she ought to know of your devotion, even though naught can come of it.”
Something could come of it—further hurt. Thus, having prayed and been prompted by Malcolm’s betrothed, this day he would unburden Marguerite. And that was all.
Accompanied by Dubh, he strode toward the graveyard whose perimeter he knew from having walked it with Cristina’s sister. Drawing nearer, eyes that had become less sensitive to sunlight picked out the shape and movement of three figures against the landscape.
Well back from the graveyard, standing alongside Marguerite’s horse, Hendrie watched over the lady who was likely unaware of his presence where she stood amid headstones.
Theriot nodded at him, then passed between low stone walls. As noted before, the resting places of the bodies of those lost were neatly arranged to allow visitors to move easily between them without trampling greenery and flowers.
He was still a good distance from Marguerite when she lowered before graves he knew must be those of her family.
It only then occurring this was not the place for them to speak, he questioned how he could be so thoughtless. Not liking the answer—that he thirsted and Marguerite was a cool drink—he halted.
Had not Dubh lost patience, her temporary master might have departed unnoticed.
A bark brought Marguerite’s head around. Seeing Dubh running at her and Theriot following, she straightened and turned—and observed the latter traversed the path as if it were known to him. Was it? Or had his sight returned? That was all she could ponder before the dog forced her back to her knees to avoid being toppled.
Denied the opportunity to leap at her mistress, Dubh halted. Tail whipping, she licked a cheek, dropped to her haunches, and thrust her nose against her lady’s hand.
“Have you been so mistreated you are pleased to see me?” Marguerite asked and wondered how she came by humor in this place of sorrow.
Rubbing her prickling nose, she set her other hand on Dubh’s neck and looked to the man who continued forward. Noting the cloth last seen around his hand was tucked into the neck of his tunic, she raised her eyes higher over a shortened beard bordered by silvered hair brushing his shoulders.
Though there were yet clouds upon his eyes, might they be smaller? Thinner? If so, could he see through them?
Two strides distant, he halted and, appearing to look down upon her, said, “You are returned.”
“I would not miss my king’s wedding.” She nipped her lip. “I regret still you are where you do not wish to be, but I am glad you appear well and…” She frowned. “You are permitted to depart the palace unescorted?”
“Malcolm has agreed to return me to England.”
Her heart leapt—with joy, she told herself though more it felt a leap to its death.
Theriot nodded over his shoulder. “According to Hendrie, I have been raised to the rank of special guest.”
She glanced at the Scotsman alongside her mount. Returning to Theriot, she thought how good it was to look upon him again, and further betrayed herself by opening the door to memories of their shared intimacies. She swallowed. “It gladdens me Hendrie and you are at peace and you shall soon return to your family.”
“I am pleased as well.”
Though she longed to ask after his sight, she said, “For what are you here?”
“Princess Cristina asked me to accompany her to the chapel to confirm all has been made ready for the wedding.”
She nodded, then remembering the gesture was lost on him, said, “Two days and Scotland and Malcolm will be blessed.”
“I think it a good match for all.”
“Except your king.”
“For that, Dunfermline is more heavily patrolled.”
“So I saw.” She frowned. “As you sought to aid your king in capturing the Aetheling, would you prevent the wedding if you could?”
“I would not. William is my liege, but just as I would not bury my conscience by leading men in harrying the countryside, once more I heed it.”
Mouth dry for being so near him, she said, “Ere you rejoin the princess, answer me one thing.”
“You would know of my sight.”
“As you make your way forward better than ere I left, I have hope your vision returns.”
“What I told none ere your departure, though all know now, is I see color and forms. Though often it is impossible to identify what is distant, when the light fal
ls right, whether by sun or flame, I can see what is directly before me and often make sense of it.”
Hope surged. “Then you—”
“My sight is better, but not enough to reclaim the warrior, and since improvement wanes, it may never be enough.” A muscle in his jaw jerked. “It is not easy, but I seek to accept what Malcolm’s betrothed tells—the Lord shall answer prayers for the restoration of my sight according to His will, not mine.”
He was not at peace but no longer seemed greatly astir. “I shall continue to pray for His answer, Theriot.”
“And my acceptance of it.”
She inclined her head, asked, “Could you see my nod?”
“Since we are near, aye.”
“Were we nearer, what could you see?” Immediately, she regretted how that sounded. “What I mean is…”
He stepped forward. “Here I can see the brown of your hair, shape of your face, and width of your shoulders.”
Staring at the green ringing the clouded centers of his eyes, she said, “I am pleased.”
His next step delivered him so close she felt the warmth of his body. “And here I see something of your eyes, nose, and mouth.”
“Can you…?”
His eyebrows rose.
“Can you see the color of my eyes?”
“Even if I drew very near, I do not think I would glimpse the green you say is similar to mine.” He stepped back. “Since soon I depart, I wished to tell you of my changed circumstances in the hope of easing your guilt.”
She blinked. “How so?”
“I have been angry, breeding bitterness that found satisfaction in blaming you for the loss of my sight.”
“I did cause it.”
“Not willfully, as ever I have known, just as I know it was the result of wrong turns made by myself and others—that I set a Norman contingent after the Aetheling, Edgar rode through the village, I tried to save a child from a burning home, you tried to save a child from a murderous Norman, Hendrie and others sought to save you from what appeared an enemy who meant a woman harm.”
Now she stepped closer. “You are saying you forgive me?”
“Nay.” That word stabbed, but then he said, “That would mean I believe you so greatly trespassed you require forgiveness. As told, I do not feel that. What is true is that in doing my liege’s bidding I am the one in need of forgiveness, as is the contingent for destroying the homes of innocents. Thus, it is I who seek forgiveness.”
Though it was not possible for him to separate his loss from her, there was relief in knowing he cared enough to try. “Whatever forgiveness is needed is granted, Theriot.”
As he continued to peer into her face, she was tempted to draw very near to test his belief it was not possible to see the green of her eyes.
“I will leave you to your privacy,” he said and turned, causing Dubh to lift her head from her paws.
“I would not mind your company a while longer,” Marguerite said with more longing than thought.
He came around. “You do not wish to be alone?”
“I thought I did, but of a sudden I weary of solitude.”
“I was told you went to your family’s cottage.”
She nodded. “’Tis a lovely home with more beautiful memories than painful ones, but at times that makes the quiet…very loud. Does that make sense?”
“More sense than it would have before I found myself in Scotland.”
Having not considered his impaired vision must magnify the silence, as well as the din, she winced. Then hoping he would remain, she lowered beside the graves. “Here are my infant brothers at the feet of their sire where they should have been in life to learn all the gentle and good of him ahead of the fierce and hard that allowed him to defend well those he loved.” She looked up. “Just as your father was for you one side, your uncle the other.” She gestured at the monument honoring her parents. “Here my parents.”
“One headstone,” he said, proving he could see its shape.
“Aye, when Malcolm returned my mother’s body to Scotland, he replaced my sire’s headstone with one of greater size to cover both. With the aid of the princess, he composed the words carved into it.”
He stepped around her and went to his haunches beside the headstone. Setting a hand on it, he slid a thumb around the embellishment in the upper corner.
So near him their shoulders would brush if she filled her lungs full, Marguerite said, “That is a circular knot representing beautiful things without end.”
He moved his thumb inward. Finding letters center of the circle, he began exploring the grooves cut deep to ensure they did not weather away. “M…” he said. “O…S…H…” He continued over the others, then turned his face to her. “Gaelic.”
“Aye. Mo shíorghrá, meaning my eternal love.”
“Beautiful, not only in meaning but pronunciation. The way you speak it sounds almost a wind through the trees making tongues of leaves. That must be the sparrow of you.”
The catch of her breath made his mouth curve. “It is as I have heard Malcolm name you. Since I know your voice is lovely now it no longer suffers from disuse, I have wondered if it is more so when you sing.”
She shivered when his eyes flicked to her lips. “I sing well, but sparrow was given by my sire for my love of whistling. Though many think it unseemly a woman express joy in that manner, and even my mother feared ill would be thought of me, my father said I should whistle if so moved—except in formal situations when no invitation is forthcoming.”
“Invitation?”
She smiled. “Many a dull winter night I have been asked to entertain at court, sometimes alone, both whistling and singing, other times accompanied by a harpist.”
His brow furrowed. “I have neither heard you whistle nor sing.”
“It has been a difficult year, not only of little joy, but much of it spent as a mute. Only in my garden these weeks have I indulged in birdsong.”
Now he smiled. “Perhaps you will be invited to perform at the wedding feast.”
She had not considered that. “Perhaps.”
He slid his hand from the circular knot to the inscription and began tracing those grooves.
“Gaelic as well,” Marguerite said. “Would you like me to translate what Malcolm and his princess composed?”
“I would.”
She cleared her throat. “Here Diarmad the Mad, Diarmad the Shield, husband of Lady Marguerite. Here—”
“Where is the name of your namesake?” he asked, moving fingers over a word distant from the one he sought.
It disturbed he wished to know, and that the only way to answer was to guide him to it.
“This is not it,” he said.
“That is the word for shield.” She leaned in and, shoulder pressed to his, curled her fingers over his.
Feeling breath gust her cheek, she moved his hand to the first instance of the name shared with her mother, set his fingertips on the peaks of the letter M, and released him. “That is where my mother’s name begins.” When he had traced every letter through to the last, she asked, “Should I continue?”
He lowered his hand. “Continue.”
“Here Lady Marguerite, wife of Diarmad the Mad, Diarmad the Shield. Here their tale. Love seized Love. Love walked beside Love. Love rejoiced with Love. Love mourned with Love.” She glanced at her brothers’ graves. “Love healed by Love. Love parted from Love. Love reunited with Love. Love walks beside Love.” She swallowed. “Again.”
“Beautiful,” Theriot said. “In those words I hear your king and she who will be queen.”
“And my parents,” she whispered. “It is as if…”
“As if?”
“Just as they were halves that could only be whole one with the other, I think it of Malcolm and Meg—that their union will be the blessed answer to many prayers.”
“I think you are right.”
His words drew her gaze to his mouth, and feeling the cessation of his breath as if he knew wh
at she wished, she looked away. Eyes falling on what was visible beneath the neck of his tunic, she said, “Will you tell me the import of that cloth?”
He drew it from around his neck. “I cut it from the tunic I wore at Hastings.”
“Why?”
“So I not forget the battle which made ruin of the garment without ruining me. That I remember how near death I came without suffering great loss like others of my family. That I remain grateful for God’s favor, though…”
“Though?”
“As my sight remains corrupted despite beseechings by the godly princess, you, myself, and others, these months I have been moved to think myself merely the recipient of good fortune to have survived Hastings and other battles—that rather than act on prayers, God but watches what goes here below. But…”
Aching over the battle he waged, she said, “But?”
“I aspire to embrace the princess’s belief the Lord is listening and doing, even if He will not do for me what I wish in my time rather than His.”
“Meg is wise. I have known no one like her. Indeed, she seems nearer God than many a priest.”
“The same is said of my sire, and yet both are of the world rather than the cloister.”
“Perhaps that is why they are wise. Not only can they draw near God but come alongside those they counsel.”
After some moments, he asked, “Do you believe as she does that all prayers are answered, that just because we do not like what comes does not mean the Lord is not listening nor acting? That His way, which may prove different from ours, is the better way?”
She considered the headstones. “It is hard, but I believe it. Even if I stray in the moment my faith is greatly tested, ever I remind myself of the blessings gifted me though it might cause another to hurt and think the Lord deaf to their prayers. No matter how bad something is, good can come of it, even if we blind ourselves to that good or do not live long enough to see it.”
“That asks much of those left behind.”
“It does, but I think the princess would say it is still far less than we ask of God and He gives.”
