Tapestry

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘All right. What can you see ahead for me?’

  Robin lifted a hand and held it out. ‘Death and misery,’ he said, before opening up the other hand. ‘Or life.’

  ‘Two happy lives?’ she asked, staring at his second hand, not wanting to be tricked. Suddenly she saw Robin as one of those cunning pixies of folktales, trapping their victims with seeming truths but playing with semantics. She wanted to be sure she understood his meaning precisely.

  ‘Oh, certainly I mean more than one,’ he replied evenly. He swallowed his last mouthful of coffee and put his glass down. She still hadn’t lost the feeling that she was being manipulated. ‘Don’t let yours go cold.’

  She downed the final contents of the small glass.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s directly ahead of you,’ Robin encouraged.

  ‘As you already said, I face a decision,’ she said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Which I’m glad about, in a way.’

  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘It allows me to take some control of the situation, I suppose.’

  Jane watched the glimmer in Robin’s eyes intensify. It was as though he were smiling behind that even façade. ‘Ah.’

  She blinked. ‘What?’

  He sat back, his expression one of innocence. ‘Well, I think we’re getting to the crux of your internal dilemma.’

  The pause lengthened. Perhaps she’d always known it, but the truth felt more obvious when an outsider called her on it. ‘I admit, life’s easier for everyone if I’m in control.’

  ‘Good,’ he replied, and she wasn’t sure if he was congratulating her on her candour or on passing some sort of test of his, answering the question correctly. ‘So what is the decision before you?’

  ‘Whether or not to let my fiancé return with his parents to America, where they feel he has a better chance of recovery.’

  ‘Does he have a better chance over there?’

  She frowned. ‘I can’t be sure, but they’re offering us no hope in the London hospital. In fact, they want me to consider switching off life support.’

  ‘And across the pond?’

  She bit her lip. ‘They want to try some things. The doctors at a top hospital in Baltimore say there are some cutting-edge therapies that might help Will.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you have any dilemma,’ Robin responded.

  The comment was delivered gently, but it was a bald statement that made her feel instantly remorseful that she had ever hesitated. ‘Well … er …’

  ‘You want him to survive, surely?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, injured that he had even mentioned it.

  ‘Then why wouldn’t you do everything in your power to give him that opportunity? If London isn’t and Baltimore is, surely you should grab the chance that someone is prepared to try new methods and therapies to bring him back to you.’

  ‘I would do anything for Will. I’d risk my own life, if that was what it took.’

  Something deep and knowing flashed in the pale gaze of her companion. ‘Anything?’

  Now he really was sounding like a Rumpelstiltskin sort of character … was that a cunning note in his voice?

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Anything, if it gave him back to me whole.’

  ‘You just want him back?’

  She nodded, initially too unnerved to answer in case it was a trap; it felt like one. ‘I want Will to be safe, and if there’s something I can do to achieve that, I will do it.’ That sounded clear — a bottom-line statement that no one could misinterpret.

  Robin nodded. ‘Your loyalty will serve you faithfully, Jane.’

  She frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

  He sat forward, ignoring her query. ‘Where is Will’s special place?’

  Her puzzlement deepened. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Well, it’s a simple enough question. Of all the places that Will might know and love, which is the most special to him?’

  ‘Wherever I am, of course,’ she answered flippantly, trying not to let irritation creep into her tone.

  It wasn’t so much a dismissive look at her response — even though she wanted to interpret his slight smile in that way — but more that, as he regarded her, she felt only his sympathy. Something told her that he wasn’t playing with her heartstrings, he was testing her. She felt this truth simmering behind that gaze — he was making her reach toward something, but she had no idea what that something was.

  ‘Of course it is. He loves you, Jane. He knows you would do anything for him; that he can count on your love, your resourcefulness and your independence to pull you both through — that you will be strong enough for both of you, and that you will seize control when everything feels hopeless.’

  ‘Is it hopeless, though?’ she pleaded, unsure of whether they were talking reality or in riddles. It felt like the latter.

  Robin shook his head slowly. ‘Never hopeless. But his life depends on your strength, your imagination, your ability to let go of things when needed, embrace others that you don’t necessarily understand and make decisions that might feel strange or dangerous. His future life and potential happiness also depend on your honesty.’

  She felt utterly confused now. Was he talking about the American therapies? ‘You mean I should let him go with his parents?’ she asked. ‘Back to America?’

  Robin shrugged. ‘I can only show you the pathways. You must wrestle with what you know, and reach a decision alone as to which path you should walk. I am merely a guide.’

  ‘A guide to what, though?’

  He smiled sadly. ‘To the great tapestry of life.’ She looked at him and realised tears were welling again. If he noticed, he didn’t react. His gaze had turned dreamy. ‘We’re all connected in various ways and our lives touch and affect one another, but the most powerful link is through the blood that connects one generation to another. Blood is the golden thread that runs through life’s tapestry.’

  He was losing her. Blood … generations … threads? What was he talking about? She tried again, making her question specific. ‘Do I send Will to America for treatment?’ She was aiming for a yes or no response.

  ‘He’s no use to you in a coma,’ Robin replied evenly, returning from his dreamy state, his gaze alert and twinkling again.

  Did she trust him? ‘That’s what Will’s father said.’

  Robin shrugged. ‘He can lie here unconscious, or there unconscious. It doesn’t bring him back to you, keeping him in London. Besides, I imagine you can afford to hold his hand in either country.’

  ‘Whatever makes you say that?’ she asked, her tone brittle, ever touchy about her family’s financial position.

  ‘If you were only wearing a vintage Chanel coat, Jane, I’d allow that it might have been something you’d saved up for, or perhaps something given to you. The fact that you shrug it off so carelessly along with your Hermès scarf, and barely cast a backward glance at either, suggests you are used to wearing fine, thoroughly expensive clothes. The jewelled, harlequin leather Chanel hobo slouch, however, is a dead giveaway.’ She could feel the blush rising from her neck. ‘No one carries that sort of thing around London, unless she’s some sort of celebrity with lots of minders, or someone like you with access to money that she cares little for. Those three items alone amount to thousands of pounds and most people couldn’t hope to afford them.’

  She had the grace to show her embarrassment by looking down at her hands. How curious it was that he could recognise her styling choices.

  ‘Yes, all right.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I could sit by his bedside in London or in America.’

  ‘Nevertheless, how thoroughly pointless,’ he said, flicking away a piece of lint from his thin, sea-green V-neck. She’d thought his eyes were blue when they met, but she realised now they were green, echoing the soft, woven Italian yarn sweater. He touched the knot of his multi-coloured silk tie. It was a Paul Smith, so maybe she sh
ouldn’t be surprised he recognised Chanel when he saw it. She’d bought Will the identical tie, but hadn’t given it to him yet. She didn’t want it to be the tie he wore to his own funeral.

  ‘So, what?’

  He blinked. ‘That’s up to you. You can either accept, or you can act.’

  ‘Robin, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He grinned. ‘Irritating, isn’t it? But that’s my role. As I say, I can only show you the paths.’

  ‘I don’t see any.’

  ‘I’ve already given you a clue. Consider where Will would most like to be right now.’ He winked at her. ‘Apart from awake and in your arms.’

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ she said, frustrated. ‘Anywhere but where he is. I don’t know.’

  ‘Think about it.’ He handed her a card; she didn’t even know he’d been holding one. Then he stood up. Clearly the free session was over.

  ‘You haven’t shown me the path,’ she said, as he went off to fetch her belongings.

  He slipped the coat onto her shoulders. ‘When you arrive back at your hotel, your mind will feel clear, I promise. It will allow you to go back over what we’ve discussed and realise that I have given you the information you need to see a clear path. A straight line,’ he said meaningfully. ‘Trust your instincts, Jane.’

  She turned to face Robin as she knotted her scarf and slung her bag over her shoulder. She held out her hand. ‘Well, thank you … for your time. It has been interesting.’

  ‘Enlightening, I hope.’

  She smiled. ‘We’ll see.’

  Robin shook her hand. ‘You came to see me. Use what you learned. Use what you know. I promise, you alone have the capacity to keep William safe.’

  William. Jane never called him by his full name. She could feel the ball of emotion rising through her throat. ‘I … I wish I knew how.’

  He held her hand between both of his. ‘Search within. The answers are there, and even though you don’t feel it, I promise you I have shown you the path forward. And I know you need that self-assurance, that control. It’s up to you now to walk that track. It won’t be easy. One more thing to bear in mind: there’s a push and pull in life always.’ So did he. Jane gave a perplexed shrug. ‘For every action there’s a consequence,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, trying to show him she was following his line of thought.

  ‘Drop a tiny pebble into still waters —’

  ‘And there’s a ripple effect,’ she finished. She understood the concept, but not the application of it to her circumstances.

  ‘Good,’ Robin said, as though pleased they’d got that out of the way. He smiled sadly. ‘There’s always a price, isn’t there?’

  ‘Robin, I …’

  Then she shook her head. He really did sound like a mystic now, and maybe that was for the best. She hadn’t really expected answers. She’d come here for a diversion and he had certainly provided that. She glanced at her watch. Her parents really would be worried now. ‘I must go.’

  He nodded, and again she saw the knowingness in his gaze. As though he understood her perfectly … knew her thoughts, anticipated her actions, felt her sorrows. ‘You have my card. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘You’ve been sweet to a stranger. I hope what goes around comes around.’

  Robin chuckled. ‘Never a truer phrase. Take care, Jane. There’s a bumpy road ahead, but you’re a survivor. Always remember that.’

  She left, lifting a hand in farewell as she disappeared down the flight of stairs, wondering at the strangeness of Robin, but also at how curiously powerful he’d made her feel during the short time she’d spent with him. She needed to hold on to that feeling of security — feed off it, if she could, in the difficult times ahead.

  SEVEN

  Scotland, autumn 1715

  At the beginning of September Mar’s troops had seemed unstoppable, and the Duke of Argyll had been sent to Edinburgh to take command of the English government’s army in Scotland, which was hopelessly outnumbered by a rolling mass of Scots, increasing by the day in numbers and confidence.

  But within a month, William’s words had returned to haunt him and his fellow lords. The new French regent turned out to be far more determined to remain on good terms with George I in England than to support the Jacobite cause, and as William and his fellow rebels had feared, the French ships and their precious cargo of weapons intended for Scotland were unloaded, to be held in France indefinitely.

  As October drew on, their exiled King James III of England was no closer to returning triumphant to Scotland, no matter how much his Catholic supporters proclaimed his name in various towns and how many English-based Catholics joined their marching throng.

  The highlanders stood firm for independence, but while Lord Mar might have a way of gathering men, he was rapidly proving he was no strategist and certainly no army commander.

  ‘His indecision will get us all killed!’ William growled as he sat beside the fire. They were camped at Perth, where food and accommodation were poorly organised. He glared at the two other noblemen sharing his meagre meal of rabbit and ale. Their faces looked ghostly in the glow of the flames and their expressions told him he was saying nothing they didn’t already know. He pointed behind them to other small campfires where men sat morosely hunched in groups, a few singing quietly, some playing dice by candlelight, but most silent. ‘There’s our army. Hungry, frozen and drenched, while the redcoats are fed, warm and well drilled. How can we expect farmers to sit around here while their animals and families starve through the coming winter because of our leader’s absence?’ No one bothered replying. William pressed his point. ‘I shall write to Mar this night. He has no grasp of what lack of direction, and ultimately boredom, will do. To a highlander especially.’

  But William’s declaration fell on deaf ears; he didn’t receive even so much as a reprimand for his forthrightness.

  By month’s end, with winter now nipping at their heels, a smaller force of Jacobites had completed a fatiguing march into England, and it felt to William as though this must be the final push.

  Wednesday, 9th November dawned slate-grey, with fierce, drenching rain and a chill that clawed beneath the highlanders’ tartan plaid to make even the most robust of them shiver. The sombre weather lowered the mood within the Jacobite ranks as the army moved out on what it hoped would be another triumphant march.

  One of William’s vassals, a bastard of the Pollock family, with which the Maxwells had been aligned down the centuries, drew his horse alongside his lord’s. They plodded slowly in the bedraggled column of Scots. ‘I don’t know how we’re doing it but we’re doing it, My Lord. The men believe we are touched by magic.’

  William laughed aloud. ‘Nay, Pollock. We are told the Almighty works in mysterious ways. Remind the men that we are witnessing a demonstration of that and tell them to cleave to their faith. It is beyond me, too, how we’ve come this far with so little support, and with even our own commander dithering so much he might effectively be our enemy.’

  Pollock grinned at the dark humour. ‘Perhaps, My Lord. But we will follow you into the very maw of the redcoats.’

  William shook his head, hating the responsibility that burdened him day and night, and especially the sense of foreboding that seemed to build within him on this twenty-five-mile march to Preston through slick and treacherous mud.

  ‘Urge the men forward, Pollock. Rally our boys’ spirits with the reassurance that we shall take the city of Liverpool next.’

  William arrived in Preston to the cheerful news that two troops of government dragoons had left the town on discovering the Scots were approaching. Whispers among the Jacobites quickly turned to open chatter, and ultimately into the belief that the King’s men would not be giving them any opposition.

  ‘Well, isn’t this a surprise!’ a fellow rider remarked, as they walked their horses unchallenged into the city centre.

  William nodded. ‘I had no idea
Preston possessed such fine buildings,’ he observed, noting the fine Town Hall and mansion-like residences of the local landed gentry.

  ‘I think at last the men can enjoy the spoils of their success.’

  William wasn’t convinced it was time to celebrate just yet, but kept his own counsel on this. ‘This city must not be destroyed. I must talk to General Forster about instructing our men not to pillage too enthusiastically.’

  But it soon appeared that there was no threat of this, as General Forster, a Tory politician who was in command of their smaller force, decided to spend the next couple of days relaxing and enjoying the delights of the town, and encouraged his men to do the same.

  By the time the General had recovered from his convivialities and crossed the Ribble Bridge with his fellow nobles to reconnoitre the region, he was astonished to see government troops gathering in numbers.

  While William had little faith in Forster, he trusted the man known as Old Borlum. William Mackintosh, the Laird of Borlum and uncle to the clan chief of Mackintosh, was in charge of two thousand of the most hardened and brave highland souls. It was his men who had inflicted most of the damage that had been giving the Jacobites cause for cheer until now.

  William found himself drawn to Old Borlum, particularly as the older man had served with Louis XIV’s army and had visited the palace where he and Winifred had met, fallen in love and married. He passed up a night of revelry with his fellow lords in favour of a drink with the highland clan in a copse on an incline overlooking the English Army’s encampment.

  ‘The sumph! That man’s soft in his head,’ the older man said of Forster. ‘He’s as timid as Mar in making decisions. He should be protecting the bridge.’ Mackintosh growled as he stomped up to where William was sipping an unhappy wine. He pointed. ‘That’s our weakness, Maxwell! If they take the bridge, they have us.’

  William nodded. Old Borlum was making sense. ‘We’ve had the men working on putting the town in a state of defence all afternoon as you instructed, Mackintosh. Lord Derwentwater has been giving the soldiers extra money to encourage them.’ William hoped this would give Mackintosh some reassurance as to their readiness.