by Candace Robb
The nun raised her eyes and smiled. ‘A moment of grace. Come. Close your eyes, empty your mind, and receive the Virgin’s gift of grace.’
‘But what if she is sending me a vision?’ Christiana asked.
Bethag straightened, her expression one of wonder. ‘Are you receiving a vision?’
Christiana shook her head. ‘No, or perhaps – look at the heavenly light!’
The nun’s expression was sympathetic. ‘It is but the sun lighting her face as it does every day at this time. There is no mystery to it. Now come. You asked for my instruction.’
Blushing, Christiana bowed her head and closed her eyes. Thoughts surfaced from the roiling pool of her mind, like salmon leaping upriver, flashing silver in the sunlight. She had behaved like a fool. Perhaps she had never experienced a real vision. She was a married woman – what was she doing biding in a convent? On and on. She fought the thoughts and tried to think of nothingness, but it was impossible.
‘How can I empty my thoughts when my thoughts do not come from within?’ she asked.
And how was this dear nun so patient, still encouraging Christiana with her peaceful smile? Surely Bethag had never had such an inept student.
‘But your thoughts do come from within. Even when the devil tempts you, he does so from within, and you are responsible for what thoughts you accept. God holds us responsible, you know that. Now close your eyes, breathe deeply, and feel the Blessed Mother’s love bathe you in heavenly light.’
‘I don’t deserve heavenly light.’
‘It is not for you to judge,’ said Bethag.
Once more Christiana closed her eyes. This time she tried imagining a white light emanating from the statue of the Blessed Mother before which she knelt. The light flowed around her, enveloping her, filling her with grace. A sweet smell accompanied the light, and the sound of tiny bells. Her sandalled feet grew warm, her heart lifted. Was this a vision? But Dame Bethag had led her to it. And with that thought, the beautiful moment dissolved. Christiana tried to recall it, tried to will the sensations, but her thoughts flitted all about with no order.
‘I felt it for a moment,’ she whispered.
‘What happened?’ asked Bethag.
Christiana described what she had seen and felt. ‘I began to wonder if it was a vision, and that is when it faded.’
‘The Virgin has blessed you,’ said Bethag with a radiant smile. She began to rise.
Christiana touched her arm. ‘Could we not try again?’
Bethag patted her hand. ‘You have no more need of me, Christiana. You asked how you might cultivate a quiet spirit. I showed you the way, and you were able to follow. Now it is a matter of practice.’
‘But I lost it.’
‘Grace must be earned, Dame Christiana. We must still our minds in order to receive it. And ever the world rushes in to shatter the stillness. And so we begin again. Moment after moment, day after day, year after year. Until we attain the everlasting grace that is the kingdom of heaven.’
Rising, Christiana bowed to Dame Bethag and whispered, ‘I asked for the key to your serenity, Dame Bethag, and your clear-headedness.’
‘And I have given it to you, Dame Christiana. Rest in the grace of the Blessed Virgin. Have faith that she is ever there to break your fall, to nudge you away from a mistake. Quiet your mind and accept her grace. That is all you need to do.’ Bethag bowed and seemed to glide out into the sunlit yard.
Kneeling again, Christiana closed her eyes and tried hard to resurrect the heavenly light. Years ago she had struggled to calm her mind under Aunt Euphemia’s tutelage. A busy mind dims the Sight, Euphemia had said over and over again, but Christiana could not still the thoughts. She should not have wasted Bethag’s time.
‘Dame Christiana,’ a voice called timidly.
Christiana turned towards the servant.
The woman bowed. ‘Dame Katrina bids you come to the hostelry.’
Christiana rose and followed her. An elderly, bearded man in the simple clothing of a labourer sat in the hall of the hostelry with Dame Katrina.
‘Your friend has returned,’ the hosteleress said. ‘I knew you would wish to see him at once.’ Dame Katrina bowed to both of them and left the room.
Before taking a seat, Christiana checked the doors for loiterers. A disguise might fool the sisters, but their conversation would give him away. When she was certain that no one could overhear, she sat down across from Malcolm, irritated by his interruption.
‘Why are you here?’ she demanded. ‘We’ve said all we need to say to each other.’
Malcolm pressed his hands together, pleading. ‘Christiana, my love, I have come to beg you to reconsider. Leave this place and return with me to Bruges.’
It seemed a suspicious change of heart. ‘Why should I reconsider?’
‘I don’t know whether I’ll ever dare return to Perth.’
Christiana tried to quiet her mind as Bethag had instructed and focus on her husband’s face. She did detect fear in his eyes, and a weariness in the way he sat with his usually proud shoulders rounded. ‘Why would you not dare return?’ she asked in a gentler tone.
‘I have taken too many risks.’
Risks. She knew something of his risks. He was not so different from his brother Murdoch. What distinguished them was that Malcolm made his piracy seem like honest trading, whereas Murdoch did not bother. But Christiana felt the same about most of his fellow merchants. It was their wives, their work in the community, that made them appear respectable.
She wondered whether that was the source of his dissatisfaction with her. ‘I am not the wife you need, Malcolm. I haven’t the skill to assist you.’
‘You are the wife I love,’ he cried and, taking her hand, he kissed it and then looked deep into her eyes. ‘I am nothing without you. You are my anchor.’
Christiana could feel his need and the force of it frightened her. ‘I was your burden.’
From his scrip he drew a necklace of gold, a thick, solid bar bent into a graceful semi-circle with intricately decorated knobs at the two ends.
‘Your wedding gift to me,’ she whispered.
He had given it to her on their wedding night. It is an old piece, as old as the gift you carry from your kin, as old as the mountains whence they came, he had said, and she had wept with joy that he understood and respected her Sight.
‘You said I forfeited this when I entered Elcho.’
Malcolm bowed his head. ‘I said many ugly things.’
She leaned forward, confused by this change in him, and tried to see his expression. ‘You agreed to my withdrawal from the world. In truth, you seemed glad of it then.’
He lifted his head and she saw that his cheeks were wet. ‘I no longer remember why I encouraged this, Christiana. I beg you to come away with me.’ His voice broke.
This was no clever play-acting. And yet she had seen such moods in him in the past, when he feared he had overstepped the bounds he set for himself. Such moods always passed.
‘I cannot be the wife you want.’
His face reddened. ‘How can you forsake me? We lay together as man and wife so many years. You bore my children. I held you when you wept over those you lost.’
A lump rose in her throat. But the memories he wished to conjure were of long ago. ‘Perhaps this is your purgatory to bear,’ Christiana said. ‘But I promise you it will pass.’
Malcolm rose with clenched fists. ‘I am begging you. Are you not satisfied?’
‘You are breaking my heart,’ she said. ‘You promised that you would not do this to me once it was settled.’
‘Did you never love me?’
She hesitated, frightened by the rapidity of her heartbeat, the upwelling of tears. ‘Do not ask me in that way. You accuse me of having no heart when you ask it so. I did love you. Faith, I do still. But it is not a carnal love. You have my heart always. You are the father of my children. I do remember how you held me. I do.’ She pressed her cold hands to tears on he
r hot cheeks.
‘God help me, I did not mean to make you cry,’ Malcolm said, his voice catching.
Both must bear this purgatory. They were unhappy apart, unhappy together. What would she do if he deserted her in Bruges? She breathed deeply and prayed until she calmed. By then Malcolm was pacing.
Christiana reached out to him. ‘Come, sit beside me for a moment. Tell me of your troubles.’
He shook his head. ‘I told you I cannot.’
‘And I cannot go with you to Bruges. I seek peace here, Malcolm. You have no idea how I have suffered with such a cruel gift as the Sight.’
‘You’ll have all the peace you wish in the grave.’
‘And with the English king killing our people – I cannot desert our children, Malcolm.’
Malcolm gave a cold laugh. ‘You have never thought of them before.’ He made for the door. ‘So be it, Christiana. Farewell.’ He was out of the door before she could respond.
Her hands were cold. She did not know how she felt. She had not lied to him, it was no excuse. The thought had come to her as if whispered in her ear. She must remain in the land to help her children.
Margaret had Jonet bring wine to the bedchamber and told her that they would dine as usual. She and Roger sipped wine and quietly talked about John Smyth’s death.
‘If the English learn of it, we are in danger,’ said Roger.
Margaret thought of Old Will’s death and the trouble that had brought to her uncle. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Have you a plan?’
Roger shook his head. ‘Fergus says John Smyth had been long absent from Perth, and that he has no kin here. My thought is to take his body without the town and bury him.’
‘Not in sacred ground?’
‘Maggie, Maggie,’ Roger said, shaking his head. ‘Do you really think we might find a village full of strangers who would vow to keep our secret?’
Of course he was right, and she felt childish, behaving just as he expected her to.
‘There is a rumour of Malcolm’s presence in Perth,’ Roger said. ‘Have you heard it?’
Margaret rose and pretended to wipe up spilled wine, keeping her face averted. ‘How odd. But perhaps not. If word of John Smyth’s death in Da’s warehouse is common knowledge, such a rumour is not surprising.’
Roger nodded. ‘What if it were true, that he is here – would he want Smyth dead?’
‘I can think of no cause,’ she said truthfully. ‘I doubt Da has given the man much thought since he turned him out.’ Perhaps that was not quite true.
So she had begun again to deceive Roger. It did not bode well for their marriage.
His skiff hidden in the water meadow near the nunnery landing, James stepped out, stretched his legs, and considered Malcolm Kerr’s careful disguise, his nervous glances at the shore and behind him as he’d rowed downriver. James parted the grasses and took a few steps towards Kerr’s boat, but quickly withdrew as a man rowed past, his eyes on the very boat James was watching. The man seemed familiar, although he was moving away too quickly for James to see his features clearly with the sunlight on the river reflecting on his face. But James thought him one of Wallace’s men. He was disturbed that Wallace had not told him he was watching Malcolm. He must not trust James to keep it from Margaret.
14
WHO IS THE LAW?
A shout woke Christiana.
Marion was already up, pressing an ear to the door. ‘They sound far away, not inside the priory walls,’ she said. ‘Dame Agnes’s kin are protecting us, praise God.’
Christiana knelt before her altar to the Virgin Mary and tried to quiet her mind to receive grace. Is it Malcolm without? Her heart raced. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for my husband, a sinner, and guide him to the light of God.
‘Shall I go to the cloister to find out what the others know?’ Marion asked, sounding close to tears.
Christiana did not respond, intent on reaching out for the calm she had found under Bethag’s instruction. But her mind filled with the memory of Malcolm’s hands. They had been so warm, strong, and full of life. Prioress Agnes had told her that abstinence from the pleasures of her marriage bed would awaken Christiana’s connection with the divine. But she was still so weak that Malcolm had awakened her desire with but a touch. She had lied to him when she said she no longer loved him in a carnal way. It seemed more than a lie, for that was the only sense in which she had ever truly loved him. It was an impossible love if she was to live with the Sight, and that she must do if her life was to be of any consequence. Her parents had once taken her to St Andrews to seek guidance about her gift and when her flux had begun while there, they had interpreted it as a sign she was to abandon her visions for ever for motherhood. This morning Christiana thought that it had meant she was to set aside this gift while a mother, yet now in these mutinous times she must perforce take it up again in order to protect her children, and perhaps her people.
If this was so, and she strongly felt that it was, she must not see Malcolm again, for he weakened her. She would tell Dame Katrina that she could no longer accept visits from the old gardener. It was a sad and frightening resolve.
She rose to tell Marion not to bother going to the cloister, but her maid had already departed.
When she retired for the night Margaret paused by her mother’s tapestry, pleased by how it livened the bedchamber. ‘Is it not lovely?’ she asked Roger, who stood in the middle of the room.
He lifted his hands as if conceding an argument, a soft smile on his lips. ‘The colours do improve the room, Maggie. And now I think the bed needs curtains that add to the warmth. One small tapestry cannot do all the work.’
‘Do you mean it?’
He stepped closer and gently smoothed her unbound hair. ‘I do,’ he said, his voice softening as his eyes and hands caressed her hair, her shoulders. ‘I could not see it before. Is Celia skilled in such things?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Margaret, fighting the desire to lift her mouth up towards his. She felt wanton desiring him despite all her doubts. ‘She and I might do much, and quickly, with some cloth.’
‘Tomorrow morning I’ll go to the warehouse and see what we have that might suit, eh?’ Roger ended on a soft sigh, lifting her chin, his mouth so close she felt his breath on her eyelashes.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, kissing him, wrapping her arms around him. Perhaps he truly meant to work on their marriage.
He carried her to the bed, the cold, uncurtained bed.
After their lovemaking Roger fell asleep, with one arm wrapped around Margaret’s waist. His breath stirred her hair, his body warmed her down the length of her back and legs. Life seemed so simple here, in this bed, their bodies pressed together in quiet comfort. When they desired one another the past was erased. Now was all that mattered. Would that were enough.
Marion returned to Christiana quite late, apologising for staying to pray with the sisters in the kirk. ‘It was a small party of English soldiers, riding ahead of a larger force.’
Christiana noticed that Marion crossed herself despite all the prayers she must have already said.
‘The prioress’s kinsmen refused the soldiers’ request to stay here the night,’ Marion continued. ‘Trouble will come of this.’
Marion’s news was nothing to Christiana at first. She had fallen into a most comforting state of calm, returning in spirit to a great glen with burial chambers, a stone circle, and whispering shadows that her Aunt Euphemia had told her was one of the oldest sacred places in the land. Once again she had heard the sea birds aloft, the sighing winds, the music – rattles, drums, flutes, horns – and then the great voice in the cave. It was said that St Patrick had preached in such a voice. She had no idea where the glen lay. It had taken several days to journey there from Loch Long, where she had been biding with her aunt while learning about the Sight, for it was Aunt Euphemia and not her mother who had carried the gift. Tonight had been a joyous return to the glen for Christiana, the first time her spirit had journeyed
there since before her marriage. The memory had lain forgotten in her cluttered mind, buried by marriage, childbirth, and her endless failed efforts at mothering her three children and her husband.
Now she tried to rise, but having knelt a long while she needed Marion’s assistance. She asked for warmed wine and a heated stone for her bed.
As she grew warmer and the spell of the glen receded, she grew anxious about the news. ‘Are the English headed for Perth?’
Marion, who had settled on to her cot at the foot of Christiana’s bed, rose on her elbow. ‘They are, and more follow.’
‘My children, have a care,’ Christiana whispered.
‘What, Mistress?’
‘Nothing, Marion. I’ll sleep now.’ Christiana blew out the lamp beside her bed and sat in the dark, holding the wine to warm her hands as in her mind’s eye she followed the sacred glen to the sea, seeking wisdom. She might help her daughter if she could trust her visions, and the glen was where they had grown clear to her.
Margaret woke early and slipped from the bed before Roger woke. Sun blessed the morning and she lingered on her way to the privy in the backland, smiling as she passed the kitchen where Jonet hummed as she ground oats on the quern stone. For this moment Margaret pretended that she and Roger could settle into a comfortable life, bairns would come, and the house would fill with love. This morning such a future did not seem impossible.
As she stepped out of the privy she noticed Fergus’s dog in the yard and then Fergus himself in the doorway of the stable. He looked surprised to see her – unhappily surprised, she thought, as she drew closer.
‘You are up early,’ he remarked.
‘It is a warm morning for boots,’ she said, nodding at his.
‘I’m riding out to see to some matters regarding the business. Da might be back, but he’s not seeing to things.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Aye.’
‘Are you going out to search for him?’
Fergus muttered an oath. ‘I don’t care to find him, no. There’s naught to admire in him. All he’s worried about is whether John Smyth had anything about him that would connect Da to the man’s death.’
