A Cruel Courtship

1

Perth, end of August, 1297

As the summer wore on the presence of King Edward of England’s army in Perth began to fray the tempers of the townsfolk. Women increasingly complained of the rude behaviour of the soldiers, and theft was rampant, the thieves aware of the backlog of more serious crimes to be presented at gaol delivery sessions than their small felonies. The walls that the army had reinforced and extended now surrounded the town on three sides, cutting off the merchants’ access to their warehouses from the ships in the canal. The English might have compensated for some of the inconvenience by allowing general access along the riverfront on the east — it would have quieted tempers and cost them little in security. Instead they restricted access from the River Tay, allowing only one ship per day to offload. Now ships might idly sit at anchor in the river for days, impeding traffic and slowing trade to almost a standstill. Even though the fighting in Dundee at the mouth of the Tay made shipmen hesitant to sail upriver, some still did, and to the townsfolk the restrictions were symbolic of the potential loss of freedom if Edward Longshanks was not defeated.

For several mornings now the English soldiers had found breaches in the town walls, small areas where stones had been taken away. Though it was a minor rebellion they were now questioning all who lingered on the riverfront, so that the townsfolk were fearful of going abroad.

James Comyn had watched an interrogation turn ugly the previous day — a man who loudly protested at having his person searched had been thrown to the ground and brutally beaten. That was enough to convince James that he should depart Perth while he could. As a member of the powerful Comyn clan and kinsman of the Scottish king deposed by Edward Longshanks, James was ever wary. He’d intended to leave soon in any case, for he’d been summoned to a meeting with William Wallace and Andrew Murray, the leaders of the Scots who were presently at Dundee trying to force the English troops west towards the highlands where, fearful of being lost in the mist-shrouded valleys, the English would predictably turn south.

As he packed a few possessions an ache in his left shoulder reminded James of the night several weeks past when he had escorted Margaret Kerr to Elcho Nunnery. He’d caught an arrow in his shoulder as he stealthily rowed past Perth — apparently he’d not been stealthy enough. The ache was nothing compared with the pain he’d experienced when the arrowhead had first struck into the muscle. At the time he’d been grateful that the invisible archer on the riverbank had hit him and not his companion in the boat, the fair Margaret Kerr. He still felt the same.

She had been much on his mind the past few weeks, ever since she’d walked away from her husband Roger, who’d been injured by the men guarding the nunnery as he tried to break in. It was not the first time the lovely young Margaret had confounded James’s expectations, but this time he was suspicious of his own feelings, of the relief he felt. He’d thought it was because he needed Margaret to continue her work in support of his kinsman, John Balliol, the deposed king. This work was one of the issues that had come between husband and wife, for Roger supported Robert Bruce for the crown of Scotland. But James found himself seeking Margaret’s companionship more and more often — how strange that he’d connived to keep her occupied without understanding he was falling in love with her.

He wished he might ignore the summons from Wallace and Murray — he knew what his assignments were. He’d prefer to begin another journey that was critical to the cause, escorting Margaret and her friend Ada de la Haye to Stirling. He’d agreed to give Margaret a real mission. He hoped he wouldn’t curse himself for telling her that the messenger who’d been carrying information from Stirling to the farm of James’s comrades down in the valley below Stirling had grown unreliable.

‘In fact they’ve not seen him in a few weeks. I need someone to find out what has happened.’

‘You’re leaving for Stirling?’ she’d asked.

He shook his head. ‘I can’t go. I’m known to too many of the English and the Scots in the town.’

‘I’ll do it,’ she said, fixing her eyes on his.

‘Maggie, that is not why I mentioned it. You can’t go.’

‘Why not?’

‘With the English holding Stirling Castle and town it’s a dangerous place. I would not risk you there.’

‘As a young woman unknown to anyone in Stirling I would be scrutinised no more than the other townsfolk.’

‘But all are scrutinised.’

‘That is also so in Perth.’

James could not deny that.

By the following day Margaret had recruited her friend Ada de la Haye, also keen to help the cause, as part of the scheme. Ada had a town house in Stirling where they might lodge. Both women were ready to depart at a day’s notice.

But now James must delay. What stayed him from disobedience was the possibility that Wallace and Murray might have changed their plans and he might be following discarded orders. So be it. Margaret must wait. He had, at least, presented her with a gift. A Welsh archer had arrived in town after escaping from the Hospital of the Trinity at Soutra Hill, an Augustinian establishment that stood on the main road from the border between England and Scotland. The English were using it as an infirmary and camp for the soldiers. The archer had news of Margaret’s brother, Father Andrew, who had been sent to Soutra as a confessor to the English. Margaret had seemed comforted to hear he was well.

Whence comes the knowledge of dreaming when one is dreaming — for a fleeting moment Margaret wondered that, but her sleepy, thoughtful mood quickly turned to dread as she recognised the dream space in which she stood, behind a once unfamiliar kirk, familiar now that she’d dreamt of it so often. It sat on a rocky plateau beneath a great castle that stretched high above on an outcrop. Here below, the kirk was dark except for a lantern over the east door that was for her but a twinkle in the distance; the castle was lit by many torches that danced in the wind of the heights, making the stone walls shimmer against the heavens. At the edge of the kirk yard her husband, Roger, stood atop a huge, scrub-covered rock that rose four times Margaret’s height, looking up at the castle. She stood far beneath him in the rock’s shadow, terrified because she knew what was to come. I pray you, Lord, let this time be different. Spare him, my Lord God. But the cry came, and then Roger came falling, falling, his head hitting the uneven, stony ground with a terrible sound. Margaret knelt to him …

An owl’s screech rent the fabric of Margaret’s dream, letting the true night reach through and waken her. Rubbing her eyes, she rolled over to find her maid, Celia, sitting bolt upright with her hands to her ears, staring into the darkness of the curtained bed in Margaret’s chamber. Shivering, Margaret asked her if she’d shared her nightmare.

‘It was the shriek of an owl that woke us,’ Celia whispered, as if fearful the bird might hear her. ‘My ma always said such a visitation was a forewarning that the master of the house is to die.’ She crossed herself. ‘Master Roger is in danger.’

Holy Mary, Mother of God, keep him in your care, Margaret prayed.

‘What should we do, Mistress?’ asked Celia.

Waking a little more, Margaret realised that Celia had not shared her dream, but was speaking of the owl on the roof. It seemed a silly worry compared to her nightmare. ‘Visitation? Owls hunt at night, Celia, and I’m sure they often alight on roofs. Surely they cannot always mean to warn someone.’ Margaret spoke loudly to drown out the chilling rustling of the bird’s talons in the thatch.

‘This one shrieked and woke us, Dame Margaret.’

When she was a little girl, Margaret recalled, she, her father, and her brothers Andrew and Fergus were out late one night in the water meadows downriver from Perth. A shadow gliding across the moon had frightened her, and she’d screamed as it disturbed the air above her head. Her father had picked her up, and she’d buried her face in his neck. It was but an owl, he had said, and already far away. It is but a bird, Maggie, a bird of the night.

So, too, might be the owl this night. ‘If God means to warn me, I should think He would send a clearer message,’ said Margaret. Such as her dream? ‘Roger is safe in the infirmary at Elcho Nunnery — the same guards who injured him will do so to any others who arrive unannounced.’ She prayed that was true. Turning away from Celia, Margaret settled back into her pillow with a loud sigh that she hoped would silence her maid.

‘Can the Sight come to you as an owl?’ Celia asked.

Could she not be still? ‘In faith, I know not,’ said Margaret, ‘and I am too weary to wonder about that now.’ Second Sight — several of the MacFarlane clan, her mother’s kin, were afflicted with it; her mother had nearly been destroyed by it. All her life Margaret had resented the suffering it brought to her family and for years had been thankful that she had not been so cursed. But that had changed of late. ‘Go to sleep, Celia. You can conjure more worries in the morn.’

But the damage had been done, for Celia had touched on a subject of much concern to Margaret of late. She shivered as her thoughts turned to the possibility that her mind was opening to the Sight. Celia must be cold, too, because as she rolled and tossed seeking a comfortable position she brushed Margaret with an icy foot. The jolt of cold was like the chill Margaret felt when her surroundings grew strange and time past and future fused with the present. Of late, she might be kneeling in the garden tending the beds when without warning the earth seemed to drop away from her and she would gasp for breath, suddenly somewhere else and possessing frightening powers — hovering over people as she listened to their thoughts. They were often strangers and yet she knew them.

‘Shall we light a cruisie and talk?’ Margaret said to Celia’s back, suddenly wanting the reassurance of her pragmatic company.

‘It’s still night,’ Celia murmured, ‘time for sleep.’

She had a talent for sleep — the blessing of an untroubled soul, Uncle Murdoch would have said. Troubled or untroubled, that did not seem to matter for Celia.

Margaret both resented and envied Celia’s slumber as she herself lay in the dark weighing the possibility of God’s moving one of His most unsettling creatures to cry the darksome warning that her estranged husband was marked for death. His injuries had not seemed mortal, but wounds could so easily fester and then so quickly kill that even the most skilled healer might lose a patient. Indeed, Margaret had based her confidence in Elcho’s infirmarian on little information. But the recurring dream of Roger falling to his death made her question her judgment.

She lay in the dark full of remorse for neglecting him. He was her husband in the eyes of God regardless of their estrangement. She did not wish him harm.

The difficulty was that she had promised James that she would wait for him in Perth and then ride with him to Stirling. He had a mission for her, one that she had begged him to entrust to her, and he had particularly asked that she not involve herself in anything that might prevent her from leaving Perth when the time came. James’s opinion of her meant a great deal of late. If something were to come of their relationship over and above their work for his kinsman, she wanted James to have the memory of her courage in successfully completing a mission so that he would never look upon her as Roger had done, as a woman to be installed in his household and then largely ignored, never to be a confidante.

That she was thinking of James in a romantic way would puzzle her Uncle Murdoch, who had introduced them in Edinburgh. They had not seemed destined for friendship, let alone anything deeper, in the beginning; in fact, James had threatened her and she had suspected him of being a sadistic murderer. Even now she tried not to think of the events that had led her to believe that of him. She understood that war changed the rules. She tossed in bed, uncomfortable with her acceptance of that. Losing her heart to someone other than her husband embarrassed her here in the dark of the bed she’d shared with Roger. Eager to be of some use, she had vowed to do all in her power to help James in the effort to restore his kinsman John Balliol to the throne of Scotland. Desiring James had not been part of her plan.

She trained her thoughts on the owl’s visitation, returning to the question of whether Roger was safe at the nunnery. It was not a small thing, to go to him there. With the English, who held Perth, closely watching the countryside around the town and considering no wanderer innocent, she had little room to manoeuvre. She prayed that her mother might also have premonitions of Roger’s danger and warn him. It was because her mother bided in Elcho Nunnery that both Roger and her father were there. Her mother had retired to the nunnery when Margaret was wed. Her father had been pleased for her to do so at the time, but he’d recently returned from abroad determined to coax her back into living as man and wife. Roger had accompanied her father to the nunnery, apparently hoping to convince her mother to give him details of a vision she’d had of Margaret standing with her husband and child watching the King of Scotland arrive in Edinburgh. Roger’s chosen lord, Robert Bruce, was understandably keen to know whether he was that king. James, too, was keen, but hoped the king was his kinsman. That they had all arrived at Elcho on the same evening had been an unfortunate coincidence — two boats stealthily arriving on the riverbank had thrown the guards into a panic that resulted in injuries to Roger, his companion Aylmer, and her father.

Although the English soldiers left Elcho Nunnery in peace as a favour to her mother, who had to her shame done them an inadvertent service, Margaret feared she might not be included in her mother’s protected circle. It was possible the English knew of her connection to James Comyn, and thus to William Wallace and Andrew Murray, who were fighting to return the throne to John Balliol. She should not risk the possibility that the English might be waiting for her to leave the town and the protection of her neighbours so that they might take her for questioning without raising an alarm. But she had agreed to help James, and so she must wait for his escort.

Margaret’s resolution unfortunately did nothing to help her sleep, for she had a wealth of worries awaiting her attention. The owl’s visit was only the most recent one. She had hoped to enjoy some quiet after the storm of familial troubles that had brought her back to Perth from Edinburgh. She must have been mad to think there would be any peace for her when all her family were involved in the struggle between the Scots and King Edward of England. The immediate danger was a fresh English army approaching the southern border. Margaret had thought the summer’s end would be relatively peaceful because King Edward was in the Low Countries, but apparently his presence was not necessary for an attack. Worst of all, the army would be marching across Soutra Hill, the site of the spital where her brother Andrew was confessor to the English soldiers. His assignment there was a condemnation, for as he was a Scot he would never be released now that he had heard the confessions of the enemy — which is precisely why his abbot had sent him there.

Worries upon worries, cares upon cares. Yet despite it all Margaret must have drifted off because suddenly the dawn shone softly through the bed curtains that Celia had parted as she slipped out.

‘I must go below,’ said Celia, noticing that Margaret stirred.

‘Tom can see to the kitchen fire,’ Margaret assured her.

‘He can’t manage everything,’ Celia said. ‘If we overwork him we’ll lose him.’

The new servant was a young man with whom Margaret was mostly delighted; he was efficient and energetic, though she did wonder why he had not chosen a side in the struggles and gone to fight. Celia believed that a man might be just as reluctant to fight as any sensible woman would be. Indeed Celia worried that Margaret’s hovering might frighten him off when there were so few young men to help with the heavier work.

Falling back on the pillow, Margaret immediately resumed her inner debate about whether Celia had been right about the owl and she should go to warn Roger. But she had no idea what to warn him about. It had been his choice to risk his life and his property, knowing full well that as Robert the Bruce’s man he would be considered a traitor by the English. And the owl might simply have been hunting.

Margaret spent the day in her garden, arguing with herself about her responsibilities while cutting down the spent plants, weeding, hoeing composted leaves from the previous year into the soil. It was good work for anger, and she had the garden to herself while Celia was at the river with the laundry.

This was not a time to put her own feelings first, especially since she had coaxed James into allowing her to take on this mission. Wallace and Murray needed news from Stirling Castle and the lad who’d been providing it had been failing them. News from the castle was critical because in order to regain control of their country the Scots must control the crossing of the River Forth, which was guarded by Stirling Castle — now in the hands of the English. Therefore they must wrest control of Stirling and its castle from Longshanks’s army.

She’d wondered why they’d left it so long. It had seemed foolhardy for them to focus so much of the summer’s fighting at Dundee when holding the bridge over the River Forth was so crucial to the protection of the north. She imagined that merchants concerned about their shipping were buying some of Wallace’s and Murray’s wits, pressuring them to keep the port open. Now, with English forces approaching, the two needed as much information about the English plans as possible, and as soon as possible. Margaret could not allow her concerns about Roger to distract her. She could not jeopardise the mission she’d fought for by rushing off to Elcho.

Certainly Roger had not put aside his work for Robert Bruce in order to pay attention to her. And therein lay the crux of their marriage’s failure. Roger had disappeared the previous autumn, promising to return by Yuletide, but he had not returned until early August, lying his way back into their conjugal bed by swearing that he’d not meant to desert her, but rather he’d been caught up in the struggle against Edward Longshanks and then judged it dangerous to communicate with her. Margaret had been cautiously happy for a time, particularly with the bed sport, but once she’d learned the extent of Roger’s lies she could no longer trust him; nor could she see how they could peaceably bide together while supporting competitors for the Scottish crown. She wished he might have come round to her way of thinking.

Margaret did not understand how Roger could believe that the Bruce, who had until very recently supported the invader, King Edward Longshanks of England, cared a whit for the people of Scotland. Two powerful Scots families had made claim for the empty throne, and Longshanks, invited to advise, had chosen the Comyn claimant, John Balliol. Now Robert Bruce, the young heir to the other claimant, was gathering supporters. Roger argued that Robert Bruce was the country’s only hope against Longshanks, that he’d proved steadfast in his defence of Ayr against the English troops in weeks past. That he had not surrendered despite being overpowered was proof of his loyalty to his people. As punishment for his rebellion Bruce was to deliver his daughter to the English as a hostage. Margaret had said a prayer for the daughter, but she’d reminded Roger that Robert Bruce had been defending his lands, which was no more than his duty. When Roger further argued that John Balliol had failed his people and would never regain their confidence or even more importantly that of the nobles, his argument had fallen on deaf ears, for Margaret was convinced of the opposite, that the nobles, including Robert Bruce, had failed Balliol, their king.

Their warring loyalties and Roger’s lies had created such a rift in their marriage that Margaret had finally suggested to Roger that he use whatever influence and wealth he had to annul their marriage. But it seemed he’d belatedly decided their marriage was salvageable.

She slept poorly again that night despite all the tiring work in the garden, plaguing Celia with her tossing, eventually falling into a brief, exhausted sleep at dawn. Waking with the indecision still gnawing at her, Margaret pushed back the covers and pulled aside the bed curtains. Sunlight streamed in the open windows and filled the room with a delicious heat. She was grateful for the warmth of the floor as she slid out of bed. She might think it a glorious day had there been no owl a night past. But it had kindled a sense of guilt she’d struggled to ignore, and now she thought that because she’d been anxious to escape Roger she’d not questioned the level of care he would receive at Elcho if she were not there to supervise.

She struggled into her simplest gown, impatient with her awkwardness. She’d become too accustomed to Celia’s assistance in dressing. She was muttering to herself when a darksome thought stopped her in mid-motion: Celia believed the owl portended the death of the head of the household — not a possibility, but a fact. There was nothing she could do to avert his fate. Nothing … She rejected that idea as she slipped on her shoes and went off in search of Celia. Margaret could not think that God would be so cruel as to warn her if she was powerless to prevent her husband’s death. God was good. God was love. God was at least reasonable or mankind was doomed.

But should she not at the very least tell Roger of her fears? In the eyes of the Kirk she should honour her marital vow above her vow to James Comyn. She should go to Roger at Elcho Nunnery. It was only a short distance downriver. Besides, James was away, somewhere between Perth and Dundee conferring with Wallace and Murray — he might be away for a long while. She would leave a message with one of his men still in town asking that James meet her at the nunnery and continue to Stirling from there.

In the kitchen, drawing Celia away from the capable Tom, Margaret proposed her plan — the woman was not only her maid, but her trusted confidante, although she had told her nothing of the visions or the recurring nightmare.

Celia listened, hands on hips, never one to let her small stature give the impression of timidity. As soon as Margaret had presented her case, Celia rejected it with a shake of her head, her straight dark brows joined in a forbidding frown. ‘I fear you’re thinking with your heart, not your wits, Mistress. Master James instructed you to bide here until he returns, and you did promise.’

Margaret threw up her hands. ‘Then what am I to do about the owl that so frighted you the other night? It’s not like you to defend James — you do not trust him.’

‘But neither do I trust Master Roger.’

‘So I’m to say nothing to my husband?’

‘Perhaps a messenger could be sent?’

Margaret imagined asking someone to risk their life to tell Roger that a bird had warned her that he was marked for death, and it made her wonder at her own wits for having given it any thought at all. Still, it had forced her to face her unease about his welfare.

‘Dame Margaret?’ Celia awaited a response, her brows knit in concern. ‘Are you unwell?’

‘No, uncertain what to do. I need advice from someone less caught up in these matters of the heart, but there are few I trust in Perth since the English arrived. Folk are too eager to prove themselves friends of the English in order to protect their property.’

‘I’m sorry I’ve given you a new worry.’

Not a new one. You merely made me face myself.’ There was one woman she trusted. ‘We’ll consult Dame Ada.’

Ada de la Haye was not only Margaret’s old friend but she also happened to be an integral part of James’s plan, for she was to provide lodgings for Margaret in Stirling and a plausible reason for her presence, as well as being a travelling companion.

Celia nodded her approval.

By the time they crossed North Gate the sun beat down unmercifully. What faint breeze came from the river did little to relieve the heat. Margaret and Celia mingled with townspeople listlessly going about their errands. Fortunately Ada de la Haye’s house was not far along the main street, and the two women were soon welcomed in to the cool shade of Ada’s hall. From without it was a modest house, disguising the wealth of the inhabitant and the richness of the furnishings within.

The de la Haye family were well connected leaders in the community, but Ada’s station and wealth had to do with her kin’s ambition, not their generosity. She’d been an orphaned niece who was given the choice of being a pawn for the family’s gain or being married off to either a very elderly man or a younger son. Having set her mind to wealth, and already fond of men, Ada had chosen to be a mistress to the powerful and thus aid her family’s influence in politics. Marriage had sounded boring to her.

For many years her beauty and grace had held the devotion of her lover. Simon Montagu, an Englishman who had won King Edward Longshanks’s favour in combat and diplomacy, had been generous to her, and now in her mature years she enjoyed a comfortable life. After returning to Perth from the English manor on which Simon had kept her, Ada had in turn been generous to St John’s Kirk and had thus earned the respect of the community on her own terms. She was an educated woman and despite her unmarried state she was as influential as any de la Haye. In short, she was a force to be reckoned with. Margaret admired her above all women and most men. In her childhood she had often fantasised about life as Ada’s daughter, particularly when her mother Christiana was lying abed, exhausted after having a vision.

Now Ada, elegant in her silks, her white hair caught up in a fussy cap that emphasised her still slender ivory neck, listened with growing concern to Margaret’s account of the owl, and her indecision. Margaret relaxed as she spoke, imagining that Ada was already devising a plan, but was disappointed by her friend’s initial comment.

‘This is too unlike you, Maggie. All this confusion because an owl lit on your rooftop two nights ago? Are you unwell?’

Perhaps she was — it was the second time someone had asked that this morning.

‘I upset her with my ma’s tale of the owl,’ said Celia.

‘She woke me to my responsibility,’ Margaret said.

Ada sat back a little, gazing at the ceiling. ‘I tried hunting with owls when I lived in the south. I loved their silent flight and their feather weight — despite their huge wingspans, long claws and noble beaks they weigh so little.’ She tilted her head and smiled as if admiring one on the blank ceiling. After a pause, she drew her attention back to Celia. ‘They are fierce birds; one would be unwise to trust them. It seems perverse to cast them as messengers.’

Celia shrugged.

‘But I hear something else in your words, Maggie,’ Ada continued. ‘You will be no good to James Comyn while you fret about Roger. Perhaps it would be best to begin our journey to Stirling by visiting Elcho. My menservants can escort us. My household has made the journey before, though, I grant you, we haven’t for a long while.’

Celia gave a little cry. ‘But Master James-’

‘Needs your mistress calm, Celia. What he is asking of her requires that she have all her wits about her.’

Ada was right, Margaret thought, and she wished only that she had expressed herself more rationally. It frustrated her to have stopped short of reasoning through her worries so that she might have simply said that until she was satisfied that Roger was receiving the care he needed she would not be able to concentrate on her work for James.

‘How soon might we depart?’ she asked Ada. She was sorry to see Celia’s stony expression, which clearly conveyed her regret about having said anything about the owl. If stopped by the English Margaret might explain her own travel to Elcho — both her parents and her husband were biding there. ‘But how can I explain a company of not only my maid but you and your servants, Ada? The English here in Perth have no doubt heard of your former connection to Simon Montagu, but the mere act of leaving the town seems to make one suspect.’

‘I pray you, one question at a time is only fair,’ said Ada. ‘Why not leave tomorrow? We’ll manage, Maggie, just as we planned to with James escorting us.’ Ada cradled one of Margaret’s hands in both of hers. ‘Do not be fearful of God’s intention. I do believe He means for you to thrive.’

‘I am doubting,’ Margaret admitted, dismayed by how quickly she’d slipped back into doubt. If she was to be of service she must trust that it was God’s will.

Ada pressed Margaret’s hand, then let go as she rose. ‘Come, let us prepare.’ She smoothed down her skirts, ready for action. ‘A few of the household will ride straight to Stirling with enough silver to bribe any soldiers on the way. I want my bedding to be there on my arrival.’ She broke out in an impish grin.

Margaret had only recently discovered Ada’s penchant for intrigue; but she’d learned to expect the unexpected from her friend.

‘I’ll leave a message for James, and I’ll also tell Tom where we’ll be, in case James comes first to my house,’ said Margaret.

She often wondered what unnatural powers Ada wielded that fed her confidence, for on the following day they were miraculously spared the need to explain their journey to anyone. Indeed they travelled through a quiet countryside to the nunnery with no encounters with soldiers.

Elcho Nunnery sat on the south bank of the River Tay just beyond where it turned east from Perth towards the sea, across from the high promontory of Kinnoull Hill. The whitewashed nunnery buildings were primly clustered on a gentle mound that rose from the water meadows, like a swan atop her nest. Prioress Agnes de Arroch delighted in beautiful surroundings, so the grounds flowered cheerfully in late summer and all was ordered and pleasant. The prioress’s kinsmen guarded the dozen nuns and their servants, the chaplain and the staff. The armed men of either side in the struggle for the throne might find a convent a tempting place to loot.

The guards recognised Margaret at once and escorted her small party safely to the nunnery. Her father, Malcolm, napping in the guest-house hall, woke with a start as Dame Katrina, the hostelleress, welcomed them.

He was paler than when Margaret had last seen him, the eyes beneath his bushy brows dull and shadowed, and his belly had shrunk. She was surprised that he’d stayed so long at the nunnery; he must truly be determined to win back her mother. While their maids arranged their belongings, Margaret and Ada took some refreshment with him.

‘What brings you to Elcho, Maggie?’

‘My husband. How is he, Da?’

‘Fairly mended. But here I thought you a clever lass to choose your time so cunningly, for you’ve just missed him. He left a few days ago.’

‘No!’ Margaret cried.

Ada slipped a protective arm around Margaret.

‘Dear Lord, watch over him,’ Margaret prayed as she crossed herself. It had never occurred to her that Roger might no longer be at the nunnery. ‘Did he say where he was going, Da?’

‘You’re as changeable as your ma,’ Malcolm exclaimed. ‘You hated him a fortnight past.’ He shook his head and winked at Ada. ‘I feared she’d forget his neglect and go running to him.’

‘She has forgotten nothing,’ Ada said, ‘but the other night-’ she stopped as Margaret nudged her foot. ‘She wished to consult him about business.’

Margaret was grateful for Ada’s quick wit, having no intention of telling her father about the owl.

‘Did he leave with Aylmer?’ she asked. The man had been Roger’s travelling companion, a kinsman of Robert Bruce. Margaret loathed and distrusted him, with good reason, but at least he might watch out for Roger.

‘Aye, they left together. Don’t tell me you’re worried about Roger?’

‘As Ada said, I needed advice on a business matter.’

‘Humph. Well, I could help you with that,’ said Malcolm.

‘And you, Da? How are you faring? You don’t look well.’

‘It’s your ma.’ He launched into an account of her mother’s extreme repentance, how her condition was breaking his heart.

Margaret knew why her mother undertook such extreme penance; through the use of Second Sight Christiana had unintentionally caused the death of five of her countrymen at the hands of the English invaders on Kinnoull Hill. Although she had been coerced by the prioress and her kinsman to fabricate a vision that would lead the English away from the nunnery, it had touched off a true vision over which Christiana had no control. Once in its grip she’d been unaware of what she said or did. Yet she insisted that the blame fell squarely on her shoulders because she had ignored her misgivings about playing at a vision. All her life Margaret had witnessed in her mother the suffering brought on by Second Sight, and this was why she so feared it. But the tragedy on Kinnoull Hill had left Christiana more shattered than ever before.

Despite all his years of complaining about his wife’s behaviour and his original enthusiasm for her withdrawing to Elcho Nunnery, Malcolm obviously loved her and belatedly regretted their separation. Eyes glistening with tears, he described his attempts to convince Christiana that God did not require her penance, and surely nothing so severe as what she had undertaken.

‘She’ll not listen to me. But you might reach her, Maggie,’ he said with a spark of hope.

Margaret climbed the stairs to the gallery and approached her mother’s chamber dreading what she would find. She would have preferred to go to the kirk and pray for Roger, sick at heart that he’d departed the nunnery on the day after the owl had presaged his death. She was frightened that her dream of his death was a foretelling.

Marion, Christiana’s handmaid, welcomed Margaret into the room with her customary apologies.

‘I have done my best to convince her to eat … I have not been able to console her … I have not the gift …’

‘Bless you for all you do,’ Margaret said, taking in the chaos of a chamber stuffed with the contents of several much larger rooms. Her mother had found it impossible to part with all of her things when she had retired to Elcho and the room was filled with tapestries, cushions, chairs, small tables, all exquisite gifts brought back by Malcolm from his travels.

‘Dame Christiana spoke of your arrival yesterday,’ Marion continued. ‘She hopes you will untangle the tablets for the border she has been weaving while the two of you talk.’

‘She knew yesterday that I would come?’

Marion nodded.

Margaret wondered whether the owl had brought this news to her mother. Such a messenger, such messages unasked for, these were not changes she welcomed. Dear God, I humbly pray you, relieve me of the Sight. I am not worthy. I haven’t the wisdom to use it for the good. As she stepped around the carved screen that shielded her mother’s bed she found Christiana lying with eyes closed, though it was mid afternoon. Stepping back, Margaret whispered to Marion, ‘My father thought she might be awake, but I see-’

‘Do you speak only to my maid, daughter?’ Christiana called out in a voice that was scratchy, as if little used.

‘I thought you were asleep.’

Marion shook her head in sympathy. ‘She drinks little water. Her throat is ever dry,’ she whispered.

Returning to her mother, Margaret knelt and kissed Christiana’s parchment cheek. Despite the mounds of bedclothes her skin was dry and cold. A month ago she had still been lovely, indeed had seemed more vigorous than in recent years. Now her eyes were shadowed, her hair greyer.

‘How is Ada?’ Christiana asked.

Margaret wondered whether her mother had been told about her arrival or whether she had foreseen her visit. She did not ask. ‘Ada is well, Ma. And you? Are you eating? Resting?’

Christiana stopped the questions with a cold finger to Margaret’s lips. ‘I am as you see me, as the Lord hath made me.’ She fumbled about. Marion hastened over to hand her the basket of tablet weaving. ‘Can you untangle this, Maggie? It’s snarled and needs your patient hands.’

Glad for the distraction from her mother’s condition, Margaret took the basket and sat down on a high-backed chair that Marion had placed close to the bed. The work was far more skilled than anything Margaret could recall her mother doing. The pattern puzzled her for a moment, but after some study she recognised the outstretched wings and the large, round heads. ‘Owls,’ she whispered with a shiver of dread.

‘The work helped me stop thinking about the men who died,’ said Christiana. ‘But one night the head on which I worked became a man’s and I saw that he was tumbling from Kinnoull Hill — one of the men I betrayed.’ She gave a sob and turned away from Margaret. ‘I could not bear to hold it.’

The Sight was a curse. Her mother had received no joy from it, her marriage had been ruined by it, her children had suffered. A cold panic numbed Margaret’s fingers. Dear Lord, not me.

‘Marion,’ Christiana called out, ‘I would sit up in my chair now.’

Margaret glanced up from her work and involuntarily winced as she witnessed how Christiana clutched Marion’s arm and struggled to rise from the rumpled bed. Beneath the wool tippet her mother’s thin gown hung loosely. Her hands were claw-like in their fleshlessness.

‘How long have you been fasting?’ Margaret’s voice cracked with emotion.

‘You know when my penance began,’ Christiana said. ‘You tire me with such questions.’

Marion held firmly to her too-slender mistress, helping her shuffle to the cushioned chair near the bed. Christiana held Marion’s hand as she turned and sank down, and then the maid quickly tucked a lap rug about her. All was done with practised efficiency. Such quick deterioration bespoke a severe fast. As Marion straightened she gave Margaret an apologetic look and shook her head. Margaret did not blame the maid. Her mother would be far worse if she were not in Marion’s loving hands.

Christiana studied Margaret with fevered eyes. ‘Did Malcolm send for you?’ Her voice was surprisingly stronger now that she was sitting up.

‘No, Da did not summon me. I came here to see how Roger was healing before I go on to Ada’s house in Stirling, but I’ve learned he left a few days past.’

Closing her eyes, Christiana slowly nodded, and tears began to fall. Bowing her head, she crossed herself.

Margaret’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Ma, what is it?’

‘I fear for him,’ Christiana whispered.

‘What have you seen?’

Christiana shook her head. ‘I did not need the Sight to ken his condition. He has not recovered enough to travel. He limps so, he will be unbalanced in the fight.’

‘What fight?’ Margaret asked. ‘You must have had a vision.’ Not to mention that it was not her mother’s wont to be concerned about the consequences of another’s affliction.

Christiana’s pained expression suggested an affection of which Margaret had not been aware.

‘What have you seen, Ma?’

‘I told you, I saw how he limps.’ Christiana looked at the tangled yarn and tablets in Margaret’s lap. ‘Oh, put that aside, Maggie. I haven’t the strength to work on it anyway.’

Margaret persisted, finding the painstaking unravelling calming. ‘Did you see Roger often?’

‘I asked after him daily. When he was able to walk along the gallery he came to see me at least once a day. He is a good man, Maggie, a kind man. He told me you spoke of annulling your marriage. Did you?’

Margaret was confused by her mother’s sudden approval of Roger, whom she usually disliked. ‘You know of our troubles,’ she said. ‘Some things cannot be mended.’

‘But you came now to see him?’

‘I loved him once,’ Margaret said. ‘We are still man and wife in the eyes of the Kirk.’

‘Indeed you are, and he means to keep it so. Pity. You are only nineteen and so pretty — we might have found you a more worthy husband.’

‘But you just said he is a good man.’

‘Did I?’ Her mother looked at her with an expression so blank Margaret thought it must be sincere.

‘Ma, do you know where was he going?’

Christiana averted her eyes, but not before Margaret saw a shadow fall across them. ‘He did not say.’ She shifted in her chair and fussed with her sleeves. ‘Why are you for Stirling? What is there for you?’ Her voice trembled.

Margaret could not confide in her mother; in her state she could not be trusted to practise discretion. ‘I have been lonely. Ada has invited me to her home in Stirling for a while. There is nothing holding me in Perth, so I am accompanying her.’

‘If only you’d had children. They give a woman purpose.’

Margaret agreed. But God had not yet granted her children.

‘Would that you had the Sight,’ Christiana murmured, then shook her head fiercely. ‘No, no I did not mean to curse you with this wretchedness.’

This wretchedness. Margaret shivered. ‘Why did you choose to weave a border of owls, Ma?’

‘Aunt Euphemia said owls had the wisdom of women and lived in the moon’s cycles, as we do. I feel the need of the owl’s strength.’

‘Celia told me that her ma believed that when an owl alights on a roof and wakes the household the master is marked for death. Have you ever heard that?’

‘I recall something like that. There are no roofs in this border.’

Not wishing her mother to read anything in her eyes, Margaret kept them lowered and tried to focus on the matter of her mission to Stirling.

But what came to mind was David, the Welsh archer James had brought to her in Perth, the man who’d deserted the English army at Soutra, intent on finding William Wallace and fighting for him. He’d brought news of her brother Andrew.

She remembered how shocked she’d been by the archer’s condition. ‘But you should be abed,’ she’d said to David, looking askance at James. It was inhuman to push this man to speak to her when he was so ill. He was sweating and obviously weak with fever, and his hands and face were disfigured with a crimson rash. Margaret tried to keep her gaze from it after expressing her sympathy that the brothers at the spital had been unable to ease it.

David had lifted his hands, turned them over to reveal oozing scabs on his palms, and shaken his head. ‘It was not for this I was at the spital, Dame Margaret. It is the price I paid for my freedom. I escaped by crawling out of the infirmary drain, which carries away the blood and offal.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘Freedom to choose for whom I fight — that is not so easily won. When I heard that you were Father Andrew’s sister I asked to come to see you.’

Celia brought cushions for the one chair with back and armrests and Margaret invited David to sit. She took a seat on a bench, James beside her.

‘Andrew is well?’ Margaret asked.

‘He is,’ said David, ‘and respected by all the men. All trust him and find comfort in his presence, which is as it should be with a priest, I’m thinking.’

‘All the men,’ Margaret said softly, ‘even the commanders? The master of the spital?’

David nodded. ‘It is plain to all that Father Andrew was called by God to be a confessor to men. He chooses no sides.’

Celia brought ale and they were quiet as she poured.

‘He spoke of you, Dame Margaret,’ said David after a good long drink. ‘He said if I made it, and if by some blessed chance I saw you, that I should tell you he is glad he went to the castle.’ The man kept his eyes on his cup as he spoke the words, as if he did not wish to know how they were received.

Margaret crossed herself. ‘Bless him,’ she said softly. Andrew’s subtle message was that he did not blame her for being sent to Soutra. Ah, but she still blamed herself. She had asked Andrew to go to the English sheriff at Edinburgh Castle, the father of an acquaintance from his time at Oxford, to inquire about her husband. Andrew had disobeyed his abbot in granting her wish. It was this defiance that had sealed his fate.

‘Father Andrew knew of your plans to desert?’ James asked, half rising to reach for more ale.

‘I had much on my mind, and Father Andrew listened. He sometimes talked about God’s kingdom on earth, how men should all join together in community, and how it’s our greed and jealousy and fear that divide us. He is a holy man, Father Andrew is,’ David said, nodding down at his cup.

For a moment, no one spoke. Margaret was moved and not a little surprised by the man’s description of her brother. She had never doubted Andrew’s vocation, but she had never heard anything so profound and all-encompassing from his mouth. ‘How do the other priests regard him?’

‘He and Father Obert seem easy with one another. I think Father Obert worries that he will lose Father Andrew to a more important post.’

‘In truth?’ Margaret murmured, glad that Andrew had a friend in his fellow priest. At least he had that companionship, and perhaps protection.

‘It is men like Father Andrew who helped me see the evil in King Edward’s ambition.’

‘I should have thought a Welshman would have learned to hate Longshanks while in swaddling clothes,’ said James.

Something in James’s tone caught Margaret’s attention, and she realised how restless he was, playing with his cup, shifting on the bench. James was not easy about David. Neither was Margaret. She did not believe his last statement.

‘My da said that Scots fought with Longshanks against us, so it was fair to return the favour,’ David said, ducking his head. ‘But Father Andrew helped me see it differently.’

‘Did he encourage your desertion?’ Margaret asked, anxious about her brother’s trust of this man.

‘He — no,’ David shook his head. ‘He made sure I understood the danger. Not that he knew how I meant to sneak away. He forbade me to tell him that.’

‘You said he is well. Does he seem — content there?’ Margaret asked.

‘Not when he talks of home. And how nothing is as it might have been. But as I said, he is respected and the soldiers are grateful for his readiness to hear confession at any time.’

Later, Margaret learned that James was indeed uncertain whether to trust the Welshman, so he was keeping David in a shed in the backlands with a midwife to attend him.

‘He’ll not fight with the Wallace?’ Margaret asked.

‘I would not risk it,’ said James. ‘He escaped too easily for my comfort.’

‘The rash, Jamie, and the fever — his escape brought him great hardship.’

‘It smells wrong to me, Maggie.’

‘Except for his suffering, I’m uneasy about him too, Jamie.’ Margaret admitted. She wondered whether there were different degrees of the Sight.

The thought brought her out of her reverie and back to her mother’s quiet, stifling room. The tablets were in order now. She handed the basket to her mother.

Christiana waved it away. ‘I’ll tell you this, Maggie. I’ve had no visions since the one that sent those men to their deaths.’

‘But you knew I was coming.’

Christiana shrugged. ‘Perhaps the Sight has been taken from me. I pray that it is so.’

Margaret knew it was not so, but that her mother wanted to believe it. ‘And you did not have a vision of Roger’s danger?’

Christiana shook her head. ‘I told you I’d had no need. I could see with my mortal eyes his unsteady gait.’

‘What did Great-Aunt Euphemia teach you about the Sight?’

Christiana idly poked at the tablets in the basket. ‘I pray that I have the strength to complete this soon.’ She sat back and gazed past Margaret’s shoulder. ‘She told me to discipline myself with meditation and long stretches of solitude to provoke the Sight and thus learn how it comes and how I might make use of it.’ She sighed and dropped the basket on to the floor beside her. ‘I have not the patience. Even the holy Dame Bethag despairs of me — though she never says so.’

‘Ma, your fasting is going to provoke visions. Hasn’t Dame Bethag told you that?’

Christiana shrugged, picking at a thread on a cushion.

Margaret said nothing of the fact that Christiana had at long last discovered to her sorrow another way to provoke the Sight — by pretending to have a vision. The Sight was a dangerous gift, requiring careful training, else it was as treacherous as a bird of prey in the hands of an inexperienced master.