by Candace Robb
Margaret felt the chill of the water beneath that flowed down from the mountains as she crossed. For the length of the crossing the mist was icy on her face, warming again as she reached the far bank. There she saw that Aylmer and Alan’s servant had rejoined the company. Both were wet. Had they been in the river? When Roger reached the bank he brought his horse near hers. Margaret asked him what had happened.
‘The English had guards on the bridge – this is where tracks cross north-south, east-west. We knew of this. If God is watching over us, the bodies of Longshanks’s soldiers will float out into the firth.’
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners,’ Margaret whispered, crossing herself. She had not thought to be part of the killing. Though she hated Longshanks, the guards had only obeyed orders.
‘We have passed through what is likely to be the greatest danger on this journey,’ Roger said.
The company fell into line and moved forward into the thinning mist. Margaret could see the highlands rising in the distance, which cheered her a little.
When they arrived at the day’s lodging, she was just as weary as she had been the morning before but too agitated to go to sleep at once. She ate a little and drank more of the farmer’s ale than was her custom, fighting a compulsion to watch Aylmer’s eyes as he sat across the fire from her. They were dead eyes, expressing neither remorse nor satisfaction. She began to ask him how he had learned such dispassion, but she held her tongue. He would think her lacking gratitude for his protection. She knew she must become accustomed to such violent encounters. But still she wondered how Aylmer had trained himself to be so calm afterwards. Perhaps she misread his eyes, and the emptiness was a death of soul.
Roger joined her. ‘Had you the opportunity to visit your mother at Elcho before going south at Easter?’
‘No. I last saw her at Yuletide.’ Margaret was glad to return to the ordinary, although she thought she had already told him of her last meeting with her mother.
‘Is Dame Christiana attracting pilgrims to the priory, come to seek her advice?’
‘If she is, she said nothing of it.’
With a grunt, Aylmer rose, bid them a good day, and withdrew to the pallet he was to share with one of the other men.
Margaret had relaxed enough to feel the night’s ride in all her muscles. ‘We should retire as well.’
But Roger continued. ‘Was it at Yuletide she foresaw the end of our troubles, saw us standing together, our daughter in your arms, watching the true king of the Scots enter Edinburgh?’ He sat back with a sigh of contentment. ‘It is a happy scene.’
‘Happy, yes, it is,’ Margaret said, wishing she felt so. But this was nothing she had shared with him. ‘How did you hear of the prophecy?’
‘Murdoch, I think. Yes. I recall we were at Janet’s house.’
As Margaret was when Roger had come for her. She began to think that had been no accident.
‘And you going over maps,’ said Roger, ‘receiving instructions … perhaps we shall work together, eh?’ His tone was light, but now Margaret wondered if it did not sound a little forced.
‘You know I do not live by Ma’s predictions,’ she said.
‘So you have not changed in that.’
‘No.’ Margaret rose and shook out her skirts. ‘I should step without before I sleep.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Roger said, rising with a groan. ‘By St Fillan, I grow too old for all this riding.’
It bothered her that her uncle would have told Roger of the prophecy, angry as he had been with Roger’s treatment of Margaret. It was a good reminder that she must trust no one.
A scout informed James the following evening that Margaret’s company had crossed Stirling Bridge, first dispatching the English guards.
‘Spies, all of the men, is that how it seems to you?’ James asked.
The man nodded. ‘Their mounts are too steady through it all for merchants’ horses.’
‘Not mounts they could have bought along the way.’
‘Not such horses, sir.’
No, not such horses. ‘We’ll set out after the curfew – you’ve little time to eat and rest.’
‘I’m accustomed to that,’ the scout said. He bowed and moved on to the kitchen.
James left the house, wanting a few last words with Hal.
Hal was brushing Bonny, but when James entered the stable the groom dropped his hands and, fixing his gaze on James’s boots, shook his head. ‘I cannot do it.’
James had expected argument for he had discovered to his surprise that Hal was a stubborn young man. ‘Murdoch has no need for you now that the inn is closed.’
Hal shook his fair hair from his eyes and looked directly at James for a change. ‘I don’t agree on the master’s choice of king, but the Bruce is far better than Longshanks.’
James was irritated by Hal’s echo of Murdoch’s reasoning. He burst out, ‘How can Robert Bruce be king with his father still alive?’ He checked himself, reminding himself to focus on his goal. ‘That is no cause to stay,’ he said more rationally.
‘Who would watch over Bonny and Agrippa when the master’s at Dame Janet’s?’ Hal asked.
‘If the town burns Murdoch would come for them, you cannot doubt that,’ James countered.
‘No. But if the soldiers come for Bonny while the master is away, she would be gone before he knew.’
They might continue in this vein for ever. ‘I don’t believe that is your only reason,’ James said, closing the argument.
Hal gave a little shrug and resumed his grooming.
The young man was impossible. ‘You’d meet William Wallace,’ said James. ‘Fight with him.’
It was enough to make Hal pause. He stared at James’s feet, his hair hiding his face, but his hands, clenching and unclenching, expressed his uncertainty. After a while, he met James’s gaze.
‘It was not for the fighting I wanted to go to Perth, sir,’ he said, and quickly looked away.
So that was it. James had wondered whether it was truly only for Margaret that Hal had been willing to go north. Poor fellow. He must have been heartsick at the return of her husband.
‘We need men like you who know animals,’ James said. ‘Dame Margaret would be proud to hear you had joined the fight to put King John back on the throne.’
Hal had fallen into a rhythm again with the combing and did not reply.
James was now even less willing to give up on him. They did need grooms, and young men dedicated to the cause without wife and children, or any ties that would tempt them away home when most needed. Hal was ideal. But it was knowing the cause of this stubbornness that now motivated James. He knew the pain of loving someone who could never be his – his love was a beauty of wit and surpassing grace. It was his own skilled negotiations that had joined her to his cousin. All these long years James had cursed himself. And still he dreamt of her.
‘You’re wrong about the master favouring the Bruce,’ Hal said, stepping away from the ass, his head tilted to keep his hair from his eyes. ‘He helped Master Roger only because he was Dame Margaret’s husband.’
‘Maybe.’ James gestured towards Hal’s hair. ‘For soldiering you’d need to slick that hair back, or cut it away from your face.’ He got the grin he’d hoped for. ‘You won’t have another chance like this, to be so close to Wallace. How will you keep yourself busy? You can’t groom the ass all the day. You know Murdoch can manage.’
Hal shifted feet, then dropped to a crouch, tracing something in the dirt. ‘I could not leave without telling Master Murdoch.’
‘I did not think you would. Come to my house as soon as you can.’
Still on his haunches, head down, Hal gave a nod.
James left him to his farewells, satisfied in having liberated a worthy young man.
When word of a scouting party delayed the departure of the company, Margaret and Roger took the opportunity for some time alone, finding a bench behind one of the outbuildings. The evening was
soft with summer and yet held a hint of cooler air from the highlands above them. Delicate high clouds streaked the twilight sky. Margaret watched them passing as she rested her head on Roger’s shoulder. He kept an arm around her as they talked idly. They wondered whether Murdoch and Janet would wed, marvelled at Roy’s loyalty to Belle after she’d gone off for a time with another man, explored what might have happened to Old Will and Bess on Arthur’s Seat, then drifted into talk of Perth, how it had changed with the English in the country.
‘We are strong people,’ Roger said, ‘and I doubt the English will hold sway in Perth for long.’
‘It is good to be going home,’ Margaret said. ‘I have missed it more than I knew.’
‘You’ve missed Fergus most of all, I suspect.’
‘Yes. He’ll be so surprised.’ Margaret struggled straighter to kiss Roger’s cheek, a difficulty with the beard. ‘I’m grateful for this journey.’
They grew quiet watching the sky.
‘Do you hear anything of Andrew?’ Roger asked after a time.
‘I’ve had no word of my brother,’ Margaret said, feeling a wave of sadness.
‘I am sorry I doubted him,’ Roger said. ‘I grieve to think of him at Soutra with the soldiers. By blindly obeying Abbot Adam he hurt his kith, but he does not deserve such a grievous penance.’
‘They’ll not let him go, the English.’ Margaret felt a band of sorrow tightening around her chest. ‘I pray for Andrew every day.’
‘I have as well, since I understood it was a punishment.’ Roger withdrew his arm, took her hand, turning a little so that he might kiss her forehead. ‘Does your mother know of his plight?’
She studied Roger’s face, saw no dissimulation, just affection and concern. ‘No.’
‘Then we must see her, find out if she can offer us any hope.’
‘You’ve changed your opinion about the Sight?’ Margaret asked, for he’d been a non-believer.
He shrugged. ‘It seems a comfort to believe in it at such times.’
‘She’ll know nothing of his future,’ Margaret said, although her mother had once foreseen that Andrew would go through fire.
‘And the sisters can pray for him,’ Roger added.
‘The sisters’ prayers – I had not thought of that. Yes, I should go to her.’
‘And soon, I think. We’ll stop at the priory as we near Perth.’
It was too neatly tied up for Margaret’s comfort. ‘Why the haste? I’d rather see Fergus as soon as possible.’
‘It will make little difference in time, Maggie.’
‘Aye, that is my point.’ She wondered a little at her stubbornness. It would not matter a great deal. But she felt he’d manipulated her into agreeing with the plan.
‘You’ll not wish to come away once you’re home,’ he said, smiling down on her with a touch of insulting bemusement, it seemed to Margaret.
‘Have a care, Roger Sinclair. You may not know me as well as you think.’
He kissed her hand and rose, offering his arm to her. ‘It grows dark and chilly. Let’s go within.’
Margaret would have something new to ponder as she rode – an encounter with her mother, never a happy experience.
10
IT WILL BRING YOU ONLY GRIEF
A sudden summer storm delayed the company, now riding cautiously in daylight. A thrown shoe on another day forced them to stop. It was four days before they reached Elcho, long days and nights in which Margaret fretted about the coming meeting and her growing suspicion that Roger was manipulating her towards his own ends. When she questioned the genesis of his plan he insisted that a stop at the priory had not occurred to him until the evening he had suggested it.
‘I’ve not forgotten your feelings about your mother, Maggie, but we must think of Andrew.’
Was she being selfish? She was partially to blame for Andrew’s trouble, having urged him to do the very thing that his abbot had forbidden, going to Edinburgh Castle to ask for news of Roger.
The conversation left her in a familiar state of self-loathing. Roger had a knack for turning Margaret against herself. During his absence she had gradually shed the habit and resented its return.
She was grateful when her flux began and cooled his ardour. A few days earlier she would have been saddened that she was not with child, but at the moment she welcomed neither Roger’s attentions nor a stronger bond with him. She prayed God to forgive her for such antipathy towards her husband. But he gives me cause, my Lord.
Her anxiety over the reunion with her mother was a lesser matter, but when one worry ebbed, the other flowed. Her mother’s indifference to her family always unsettled Margaret. She felt diminished by her. If her mother did not love her, who else would? And her mother’s lack of compassion made Margaret question the source of her visions – Christ had preached love. It was the devil who was dispassionate. It was this aspect of her mother’s character that made her leery of her prophecies. At present Margaret was even less easy about seeing her mother than usual because if her fears about Roger’s purpose in taking her there were founded on fact, then her mother’s most recent prophecies regarding Margaret were central to her husband’s fresh betrayal.
Arguing that she was most anxious about Fergus, she tried several times to convince Roger to ride on to Perth first, but he stood firm. It strengthened her belief that this was no charitable visit.
On an afternoon of gentle breezes and golden sunlight, the company reached the Tay and continued east towards the nunnery, its tower visible ahead. The familiar countryside and the weather cheered Margaret until a shout up ahead brought the riders to a standstill. Four men, two of them archers with bows drawn, rose up from behind a stone wall.
‘God help us,’ Celia whimpered.
Margaret’s heart pounded. They rode high above the brush in the meadow with nothing to shield them, easy targets. She caught a glimpse of Roger’s grim expression as he rode forward to consult with Macrath.
‘English?’ she heard Macrath ask.
‘Unless they’ve taken the nunnery, no,’ said Roger. ‘The prioress is a Scotswoman of no great family. They would not bother to protect her.’
The two dismounted, handed the reins to the servants, and walked out to meet the four. Margaret crossed herself and prayed. As Roger drew near the four challengers, he called out the name de Arroch, which was the prioress’s family name. Margaret told the others they must be Dame Agnes’s kinsmen.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Alan. ‘I’ve not yet killed a man in the presence of ladies.’
‘Perhaps they are guarding the priory from the English,’ Celia said in a shaky voice.
‘I’ve little doubt that is what Roger will discover,’ said Margaret. But she said another prayer for good measure as Roger returned.
For once her prayers were answered, and Roger, Margaret, and their company were escorted to the priory.
When at last Margaret dismounted in the yard she submitted to Celia’s usual fussing with the grace of one too nervous to argue. Anything was worthwhile that might avert her mother’s frequent criticism. As the maid dabbed at dusty smears on her face, brushed off and tugged at her skirts, and adjusted her veil, Margaret wondered in what mood her mother would receive them. She glanced up at the guest-house windows but caught no one observing them.
On Margaret’s earlier visits to the nunnery the yard had been full of life, chickens strutting about, labourers coming and going, the high voices of the lay staff’s children at play competing with the rush of the river. But today the yard was deserted, despite the fair weather. Not even the chickens were about.
Dame Katrina, the elderly hosteleress, greeted them with wonder. ‘Dame Margaret! We understood you to be in Edinburgh. So said your brother Fergus.’
‘I was, Dame Katrina, and now I’ve come home. This is my husband, Roger Sinclair.’
‘Oh.’ The elderly nun looked aside, as if searching for a memory. ‘There was something …’ She shook her head. ‘W
ell, it must have been of little importance.’ Her smile took in all the company. ‘You are welcome, come away in, I shall arrange for some refreshments and send word up to Dame Christiana that you are here.’
The hall was of moderate size, chilly after the warmth of the sun.
‘We must light the fire,’ the hosteleress said to a servant. ‘The damp has spread out from the corners.’ Turning to Margaret, she explained, ‘Dame Christiana rarely uses the hall.’
Margaret murmured something reassuring, her mind on the coming reunion. She must not hope for any particular outcome, for her mother was too unpredictable.
The company settled on benches or stood stretching and shaking out their legs.
The plan was that only Margaret and Roger would speak with Dame Christiana. The others would stay in the hall enjoying the hospitality. It was not long before her mother’s servant joined them.
Marion was a rather simple woman of thirty or so, Celia’s age, who had long been her mother’s choice of servant to keep by her. She was devoted to Christiana but had been despondent at the thought of retiring to a nunnery. Margaret was glad to see that Marion had not abandoned her mistress.
The handmaid greeted Margaret and Roger with happy affection. But as both began to follow her out to the steps she halted and, humbly averting her eyes, said, ‘Forgive me, Master Roger, but the mistress said only her daughter and her maid were to come.’
Dame Katrina made a disapproving sound, her hands fluttering ineffectually.
‘Why my maid?’ Margaret asked. ‘My husband wishes to see his goodmother, as I expected she would wish to see him. They have not met in many a day.’
Marion bowed her head. ‘I pray you, Dame Christiana was very clear. You are welcome, and you might bring your maid if you care to choose some items from her trunk to brighten your house.’
