A Cruel Courtship

3

The afternoon sun was softened by a humid haze rising up from the river. Margaret stepped from her mother’s chamber and stood leaning out over the rail that bordered the gallery hoping for a brisk wind to cleanse her of fear and sorrow. She was disappointed to find the air still and warm.

There was so much she wanted to ask about the Sight, but her mother, so frail in body and spirit, was not the one to ask. Though her mother felt cursed by the Sight she seemed never to have questioned it or tried to understand it despite her aunt’s urging. Margaret regretted not having known her Great-Aunt Euphemia, although she had never wished to learn about the Sight until now.

Margaret did not blame her mother for her incurious way; her heart overflowed with sorrow for her mother’s suffering, and she understood her fear.

She bowed her head to pray for her mother’s malaise to pass, but her father chose that moment to join her. Margaret tried to hide her tearful eyes but of course he caught her gesture.

He raked his age-spotted hands through what was left of his hair. ‘I’m not much of a praying man, Maggie, but I’ve been on my knees ever since coming to this godforsaken place and to what end, I ask myself, for the Lord has turned deaf ears on me. I cannot think why He’s so cursed our family. I’ve done nothing to deserve such suffering, I’m sure of it. I’ve offered myself, asked Him to take me and give my Christiana back her wits and her health. And even that He’s not accepted. What am I to do? Sacrifice one of my children, as Abraham was told to do?’

‘I will speak with Dame Eleanor the infirmarian about Ma,’ Margaret offered. ‘She might find a way to convince Ma to take a physic for strength.’

‘Did your mother say anything to give you hope that she wishes to get well?’

‘She said she has suffered no visions since the one for which she performs penance,’ Margaret said. ‘She seemed grateful for that.’ It was not a lie, for her mother claimed it to be so.

Malcolm crossed himself, his expression lightening. ‘That is promising.’ He hugged her. ‘You’ve given me hope, Maggie.’ He glanced at the door to Christiana’s room. ‘I’ll go to see her now.’

Margaret did not want to detain him long, for she yearned to be alone to think — but she felt compelled to ask one question. ‘Ma is weaving a border of owls, Da. What do they signify to her?’

‘Owls?’ He repeated absently, and then he rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. ‘That border. Why must she work on such a darksome thing, I ask you? She’s weaving it for Euphemia, her aunt.’

‘Great-Aunt Euphemia is still alive? But she must be so old. Is it possible?’

Malcolm nodded. ‘Like the prophets of the Old Testament she lives and lives. Owls signify the power of the woman and the moon, she says. Blasphemy, I say. But Christiana hopes to honour her aunt with a mantle bordered with those unholy birds of the night. Perhaps she believes Euphemia has caused the Sight to leave her?’ He threw up his hands in frustration. ‘I do not understand Christiana’s reasoning.’

Margaret did not know what to make of her mother suddenly wishing to gift Euphemia with a mantle. ‘But Euphemia bides far away, doesn’t she?’

‘Aye, in Kilmartin now, cursed place at the edge of the land. Loch Long is where she belongs, among her kin.’

She remembered her mother’s descriptions of a great glen far to the west filled with monuments to the ancestors. ‘How is Ma to present her with it?’

Malcolm’s momentary buoyancy was gone and he slumped in defeat. ‘Your mother does not fret over practical matters, lass.’

When Christiana had first shown signs of having Second Sight her mother sent her to her sister Euphemia for training; although she was not the only living MacFarlane with the gift, Euphemia had embraced it as her purpose in life and had sought out the most respected seers with whom to study, so the family deemed her the most knowledgeable regarding the gift. Margaret had only half listened to her mother’s stories of her time with Euphemia because she’d considered her mother’s gift a curse. So she had not known that her great aunt held owls in special regard — learning the significance of the bird that had wakened her in the night added to Margaret’s already considerable anxiety about that event.

She found herself thinking of Hal, her uncle’s groom in Edinburgh, who knew much about animals. She imagined he would know the lore of owls, and he would be so easy to talk to. She missed his companionship, how she could go to him when troubled and know that he would listen without ever judging her, and often surprise her with an insight that helped her see things more clearly. They were close in age and both still wondering what life had in store for them. She’d never guessed for her it would be the Sight.

Taking her leave from her father, Margaret withdrew towards the nunnery kirk, walking slowly in the hazy sunshine, the humid air weighting her steps. She loved her father, but did not much like him. He’d had little to do with them as children, and he’d resented Christiana for the hostility and fear her visions provoked, cursing her for causing rifts with colleagues that took great efforts to close. He’d been relieved when she had suggested retiring to Elcho after Margaret’s marriage, and as soon as the troubles with Edward Longshanks began he’d fled to Bruges. In his loyalties he supported what was lucrative for him, most recently dangerously offering his ships to King Edward while cheating him out of mint fees by carrying silver on those same ships to have minted in the Low Countries. His original reason for returning a month ago was to collect more of his wealth while Edward was busy in the Low Countries. Margaret thought his sudden need for Christiana had arisen after his ship had been boarded by the English and he’d realised the danger he was in.

As Margaret approached the kirk she heard a voice lifted in song and was disappointed, having expected to find solitude there at this hour. At the door she hesitated. But the devotion with which the woman sang touched Margaret’s heart and the beauty of the sister’s voice drew her; on easing open the side door she found Dame Bethag standing alone before the altar with arms outspread, her face lit from an invisible source as she sang. She was not a young woman, yet she looked fresh and untouched by time, her white wimple framing her glowing face and her dark habit graceful and rich with mystery. This sister had befriended Christiana and spent much time in her apartment. Margaret believed it was because many in the community believed her to be a mystic, a seer like Christiana.

The beauty of Bethag’s singing brought Margaret to her knees, and lifting her eyes to the nun’s radiant face she let the angelic voice fill her heart. From her eyes spilled tears of joy, and her throat tightened with emotion. The chapel brightened and grew comfortingly warm, and hearing the name ‘Maria’ as Bethag sang, Margaret sensed the Blessed Mother as the source of the warmth as she shone the light of her love on them. She felt as if she knelt on air, and Bethag’s song echoed as if she’d been joined by the angelic choir.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, guide me to use myself in your service. If I have been given the Sight, if it is not blasphemy, help me to use it for the good of my people.

She sensed the Virgin Mary smiling down on her and was filled with ease.

But her joy faded, and her mind eventually returned to her worries as tears slipped down her face. She had struggled to accept the travails God sent her way, but they multiplied too quickly, and just as she overcame one she would feel another clutch at her heels, pulling her down into despair. It was sinful to despair, but God gave her no peace. She did not pretend to being an innocent, but surely there were many far worse than she. She stopped herself, realising she was puling like her father and she begged the Blessed Mother’s patience.

It was all the worse because she had allowed herself to hope that she might find some joy in James Comyn after the humiliation of her marriage with Roger. James had been attentive and affectionate of late, and she’d found it comforting to have a man concerned for her, gifting her with food in short supply — a little meat, a small barrel of ale — advising her on problems, and praising her accomplishments. They had grown close. He’d brought the Welshman to give her news of her brother — that was the third time James had brought her word of Andrew since Abbot Adam had condemned him. With what seemed immense patience James had worn down her initial distrust of his kindness, and she had come to think that although he might be using her for his own ends as had Roger, he had been a good friend to her. It did not hurt his cause that he also had a face and manner that Margaret found pleasing. Yet now she felt alone again. Her mother was wasting away, Roger was in danger, James was long away at his meeting with Wallace and Murray. She closed her eyes, praying for some good news, and found herself lingering over a memory of their last parting. James had pulled her into his arms and kissed her, a kiss so sweet, so welcome that she thought she might love him.

As she knelt at her devotion she felt the now familiar chill, so unlike the Virgin’s warmth, and the floor opened beneath her. She gasped to find herself falling. Dame Bethag’s song had slowed and softened, but now it was drowned out by a rushing sound all around Margaret. She fought to open her eyes, frightened by the sensation of freely falling through the air, but her eyes would not open. Her stomach heaved at the weightlessness.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun her fall ended, and her body was shot through with a pain that left her breathless, her ears assailed by a terrible roar of agony. She thought she screamed, but could not hear herself for the roar. The moment she collapsed, unable to bear any more, the pain and the terrible noise withdrew. She felt her feet touching the ground. She did not trust her legs after her terrifying fall, but she stood without effort and opened her eyes with ease. She was no longer in the kirk but standing at the foot of a rock outcrop, in a dusty pre-dawn light, and someone lay at her feet, his breath rattling piteously. She crouched down and to her dismay found it was Roger. He lay sprawled on the ground with his head at a frightening angle against a stone. The rattling ceased.

‘Christ have mercy!’ she cried. She attempted to arrange his head and limbs in a more natural order telling herself that he might recover if his humours could flow more easily. But his skin was cold and his body was already stiffening. ‘Roger, stay with me, I pray you, breathe!’ She felt herself pulled away, lifted off her feet, and she floated away, hand in hand with a warm, shining companion. ‘No! I cannot do this — I cannot leave him.’

‘Be at peace, Dame Margaret.’

Bethag’s voice called her from the dream. Her arm about Margaret’s trembling shoulders was warm and reassuring. Bethag gently touched her cheek. Margaret opened her eyes. Bethag’s eyes were wells of light.

‘What vision did the Lord bring you, young Margaret?’

‘I pray that it was no vision, but a dream.’ It was her recurring dream, yet different this time, experiencing Roger’s fall, and seeing him as he lay dying. Margaret crossed herself. ‘Your song made me think of those I love, those I am worried about.’ If it had been real she would not have abandoned him though dead. She would have sought a way to protect Roger from scavengers.

The nun’s focus was turned inward. Excited, she said, as if to herself, ‘My song inspired a vision. I have heard of this happening.’

‘But your song was joyous and the vision was filled with pain.’ Margaret struggled for breath and found it difficult to keep her eyes focused. She was being pulled down into the sleep of exhaustion.

‘Rest a while,’ Bethag whispered, stroking Margaret’s forehead as she drifted off.

Margaret woke with a start, confused by the high ceiling and the rattle of beads near her ear. Moving her head she discovered it was resting in Bethag’s lap and the nun was praying, her paternoster beads rattling as she fingered them.

‘I must have slept,’ said Margaret, her voice cracking a little.

‘Are you thirsty?’ asked Bethag. She set the beads aside and helped Margaret sit up, then handed her a cup of water.

Only then did Margaret notice the servant kneeling a few paces from them, her expression one of rapt wonder. She was about to ask whether the woman had been there earlier, but Bethag answered the question before she asked.

‘Mary came to change the flowers on the altar and found us here. She brought water for you.’ Bethag smiled. ‘Your colour has returned.’

‘How long have I been here?’

Bethag laughed as she stood up and took a few uneven paces, rubbing her right thigh. ‘Long enough for my right leg to lose all feeling, but at my age that does not take so long as it did in my youth.’

It took all Margaret’s strength to struggle up on to her feet. She felt shaky, as she often did after falling asleep during the day, but also as if all the light in her life had been smothered.

Dame Bethag saw her anguish. ‘Do not be afraid. God spoke through me to you.’

Owls and mystics — Margaret wondered why God would speak to her through others. ‘Why do you think God used you?’ Margaret asked. ‘What did you see while you sang?’

‘The Blessed Mother’s light of grace.’

‘So, too, did I — at first. But afterwards-’ Margaret hesitated, glancing at the servant Mary. ‘Might we talk privately?’

Dame Bethag nodded to the servant, who shyly rose and departed. The nun withdrew to a bench to one side of the altar. Margaret joined her, still feeling almost as if she were walking in her sleep so tentative did her movements feel to her.

Bethag smoothed Margaret’s forehead and then took up one of her hands. ‘You are so cold. Tell me what troubles you. As God is my witness I shall not betray your confidences to the other sisters.’

Margaret was loath to call to mind her terrible vision; but she needed guidance, and with the hope that Dame Bethag might be able to help her she described her experience, as well as the recurring dream.

As Margaret spoke, Dame Bethag dropped her head and listened with eyes half-closed. Margaret felt the nun’s hand grow as cold as her own.

‘Oh my dear,’ Bethag said at last, raising a tearful face to Margaret. ‘This is indeed a frightening vision. But the Lord must have cause to show this to you. Give thanks to Him and let it be — in prayer it will come clear to you why you have seen your husband’s death. It may not speak to his actual death at all. It might not even have been Roger Sinclair whom you saw.’

Margaret shook her head. ‘No, I am certain it was my husband.’

‘If he suffers such an end, it is God’s wish.’

That made it no more palatable for Margaret. ‘Have you ever had such a vision of what might come to pass?’

Bethag sighed. ‘I have been graced with no such power, young Margaret. My visions are but expressions of the ecstasy I experience when I touch the divine.’

‘How do I know that this vision is not the devil’s work?’

‘You also saw the Virgin Mary’s grace,’ Bethag said, as if that were all the argument necessary.

She looked so serene and spoke with such confidence that Margaret was tempted to believe her; but Bethag made it all seem too simple. Life was far more complicated.

‘I believe you are gifted with both the Sight and divine grace,’ said Bethag. ‘These are gifts you must honour with prayer and contemplation.’

‘I have work to do out in the world.’

Bethag was nodding.

‘How do I honour these gifts out in the world, in the midst of the fighting in our land?’ Tell me that, Margaret thought, but left it a question, not a challenge.

‘Do not be frightened. You walk in the light of the Lord. He will show you. You must keep your mind open to His guidance. Come.’ Bethag rose and held out her hand. ‘I’ll walk with you to the guest house.’

Bethag helped Margaret rise, and then gently brushed her fingertips across Margaret’s forehead and down one side of her face.

‘You lack all joy, young Margaret. Surely God’s gifts, the most precious one being that of life, are to be treasured and rejoiced in.’ Her expression was one of gentle inquiry as she searched Margaret’s eyes.

Margaret thought of all her worries, but was struck by how self-pitying she would sound if she recited them. She could not imagine Bethag complaining about her lot in life — but then she seemed to enjoy a quiet peace here.

‘I forget to laugh,’ Margaret said, though she had not realised it until she spoke the words. She was embarrassed to have blurted out such a silly worry. ‘You must think me a child, fretting about whether or not I laugh.’

‘No, Margaret,’ said Bethag. ‘I see that you have left your childhood far behind.’

They had moved down the aisle and Margaret now stepped forward to hold open the door for Bethag. As she passed, the nun gave her such a beatific smile that Margaret found herself responding — tentatively, but she did manage a smile. It was such a small gesture, but it shifted something within her. Perhaps God was speaking to her through Bethag. Margaret crossed herself as she let go the door and joined her companion.

They walked slowly through the convent yard. As they approached the guest house the long shadows of early evening already stretched across the garden.

Margaret asked, ‘What did you mean, that I’ve left my childhood far behind?’

Bethag nodded at the question. ‘You carry yourself with a gravity unusual in a young woman. At your age I had been here for almost half my life and my cares were shared by a community of women. With your parents away, and your husband, too, you are responsible for your own well-being. I think I was fortunate in being called to God and to this place where I am not alone.’ She gave Margaret an apologetic smile. ‘I’ve never before considered how selfish we sisters might seem to you, how cockered.’

Margaret wondered whether the nun could read her thoughts. ‘Without your prayers we would be lost. I imagine all those who are cloistered resenting the rest of us for requiring so much prayer.’

They laughed companionably.

At the guest-hall door Dame Bethag paused and, catching Margaret’s smile, mirrored it in her beautiful face. ‘A smile is one of God’s little miracles, young Margaret. It is good to remember that.’ She pressed her hands together and bowed. ‘Now I must return to my cell. God go with you.’

‘And with you, Dame Bethag.’ Margaret wanted to wish her more than that, but she could not think what the woman did not have. She mulled this over as she stepped into the hall, unaware of Ada’s presence until she was swept up in her affectionate embrace.

‘You have been long away, Maggie,’ Ada said as she stood back to hold her at arm’s length and study her face. ‘I see a hint of a smile. Oh, that is so good to see. Your meeting with Christiana must have pleased you.’

As a cloud sweeping past the sun the memory of her mother’s condition swept over Margaret, chilling her. ‘No, it was not Ma who made me smile.’ Her throat tightened. ‘It was Dame Bethag. She was so kind to me.’ Her eyes filled with tears as she remembered how little cause she had to smile, a thought that irritated her, seeming so self-pitying.

‘What have I done?’ Ada steered Margaret towards a chair. ‘I’ve turned your smiles to tears. I pray you, let me make amends. Rest here, and I’ll bring you a cup of wine.’ Her silks rustled as she fussed about Margaret.

For her part, Margaret felt there could be no better person than Ada for her to be with right now, a practical woman whom she could not imagine suffering visions. Margaret was just sipping at the wine when her father arrived. He was not so welcome.

‘Ah, Maggie, I am glad to find you here. What are your plans now? Are you headed straight for Stirling?’

Margaret had said nothing to him of her destination. She glanced with suspicion towards Ada, who had remained in the hall with Malcolm while Margaret was with Christiana. Had she spoken to Malcolm?

Ada shook her head and shrugged.

Then it must have been Christiana who had divulged her destination to Malcolm. It was Margaret’s own fault for having mentioned it to her mother.

‘Give your daughter some peace,’ Ada said. ‘Go rest, Malcolm. You look weary.’

Her father’s indignant expression and Ada’s imperious stance with hands on hips almost made Margaret laugh. But she quickly sobered when Malcolm poured himself a cup of wine and sat down beside her. She knew by his affectionate smile that he wanted something from her.

‘Why would you go to Stirling?’ he asked. ‘You have a fine home in Perth.’

She hoped this was all he was after, to feel informed. ‘My home in Perth holds too many memories of my failed marriage, Da.’

Malcolm placed his other hand over hers and looked her in the eyes. ‘Ah. Well I ken such pain, Maggie. Would you at least heed some advice?’

She hesitated, wary of promising her father anything. ‘What would that be?’

‘Stay here, don’t return to Perth. James will come here when he doesn’t find you at home.’

She tried to withdraw her hand, but her father held it fast. ‘I said nothing of James,’ she said.

‘There was no need, lass. I know you and he have an agreement, and I’m sure it’s James who has you scurrying off to Stirling. Bide here until he comes for you, that’s all I ask.’

‘I’d never planned otherwise, Da,’ she said. ‘I left word for him to meet me here.’

Celia, Margaret’s maid, had been sitting in a quiet corner of the hall listening to the conversation, except for carrying the tray with the wine and cups over after her mistress arrived. She felt comforted that Margaret still intended to wait here for James Comyn. Her companion, Maus, Ada’s maid, had quietly stated her hope that Margaret would decide not to wait for James to escort them, but would carry on to Stirling. She was eager to reach her mistress’s comfortable town house. Celia disapproved of Maus, a young woman who thought only of finery. She was also jealous of her — she had been training to be a lady’s maid like Maus when her former mistress, Margaret’s goodmother, had sent her off with Margaret. Celia loved Margaret now, and was proud of her role in assisting her mistress in her work for James, but she envied Maus her soft hands that did not snag the silk of her mistress’s gowns. At the same time Celia enjoyed having Maus’s companionship and could see that her mistress was easier with Ada close at hand. Perhaps the time in Stirling would be pleasant, something Celia had not expected, as long as her mistress did not take too many risks in teasing out the reason the person carrying messages for James from Stirling had disappeared.

She wished Master Malcolm would leave and she might ask Margaret about the little smile on her face when she’d arrived just now.

But the old man was nothing if not a talker, and he’d now begun on Margaret’s Great-Aunt Euphemia and the cursed mantle her mother was making for the woman. Celia had never met the kinswoman of whom he spoke, but she could see that her mistress found the conversation distressing for she hugged herself as if feeling threatened.

‘Are you cold, Mistress?’ Celia inquired, and was rewarded by Margaret’s expression of gratitude as she rose and, making her excuses, withdrew to their chamber.

‘What was so distressing about a mantle for a kinswoman?’ Celia asked when they were alone, settled on the bed.

Margaret’s face was in shadow, but her hands plucked nervously at her skirt. ‘Euphemia MacFarlane is a great seer. My mother was sent by her parents to live with Euphemia to learn about the Sight.’

‘She does not bide in Perth?’

‘No. She lives far to the west.’ Margaret hugged herself. ‘Ma’s weaving a border for the mantle, a border of owls. They are special to Great-Aunt Euphemia.’

Celia was puzzled. ‘You laughed at my fear the other night.’

‘I know.’

Celia realised her mistress was shivering and she fetched her favourite plaid.

Margaret pulled it around her shoulders and up around her neck despite the warmth of the evening.

‘Ma said she has had no visions since the one of Kinnoull Hill. But while in the chapel — Celia, I felt Roger fall to his death. I thought I was falling, but then I saw him lying dead at the foot of the rock.’ Margaret crossed herself. ‘I was so frightened.’

‘Heaven have mercy on us.’ Celia crossed herself. She had much feared that Margaret was developing the Sight, for she was changing in subtle ways, becoming secretive, praying far more than was her wont. ‘But you were smiling when you returned to the hall.’

‘Dame Bethag had eased my mind.’ Margaret took a deep breath and let it out as a groan. ‘She is right, I carry such a weight. I must put my trust in God and believe that He will guide me. I have waited for the time to tell you, Celia — I-’

A knock on the door brought both of them to their feet.

‘Tell no one,’ Margaret whispered.

‘I swear,’ said Celia, hurt that her mistress felt the need to command her silence and frustrated by the interruption.

Ada entered the room, breaking the tension with a good-natured chuckle. ‘Your father is a difficult man to escape, Maggie. You are blessed with a perceptive handmaid.’ Ada gave Celia a warm smile. ‘I could see that all his talk of Euphemia and her owls distressed you. Oh that man!’

Celia was relieved to hear her mistress laugh.

‘Ada, you do my heart good. And you are right about Celia.’ Margaret shed the plaid. ‘Will Da join us for the evening meal?’

Ada shook her head. ‘He is apparently in the habit of eating with the prioress’s kinsmen and the chaplain. Thanks be to God.’

Andrew no longer cursed David for escaping through the drain. He was grateful that God had spared him and Matthew, for the guards sent through it afterwards were now very ill. He believed Sir Francis and Sir Marmaduke had sent them through to impress upon Longshanks’s royal lieutenant John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, and his treasurer the hated Hugh Cressingham, the seriousness with which they took desertion. It had seemed that David’s disappearance had been forgotten — a week had passed since he’d gone missing — when the administrators paused at Soutra for a night on their way to Stirling with their horse and foot soldiers. It was only then that the search had been ordered.

‘No one is likely to try the drain again,’ said Father Obert after Mass. ‘My flesh crawls to recall the suffering of those two when we took communion to them in the infirmary.’

‘I pray for them,’ said Andrew. The men’s faces and hands had been covered with suppurating sores and they were feverish and weak. Had his loyal servant Matthew not been ill with a rheumy cough, he and Andrew would have been the first through the diseased drain. He had been frustrated when he’d realised how ill Matthew was, and how impossible stealth would be with the young man’s wet cough. But as it turned out, Andrew thanked God for sparing him and Matthew. ‘I doubt David went far before illness felled him.’

‘I expected much rejoicing from the commanders about that,’ said Obert. ‘But they have proven themselves Christians first. One has given money towards Masses for David’s soul.’

‘I’ve wondered about his escape. The hue and cry over it was so delayed. And now Masses for his soul? Is it possible that David deceived us? Might he have been a spy and the commanders staged his “escape” to warn others off, then sent the two guards through?’ To warn himself off, in fact. Andrew now suspected he’d been noticed lingering around the drain — he’d spent some time gauging its width and memorising all that surrounded the entrance since he’d planned to escape by night.

‘I think the commanders are far too busy with battle plans to stage such a ruse. They need only to have posted guards on the entrances to the drain — as they have now.’ Taking up his walking stick, Obert made his way to the door. ‘I should have thought you would understand how a Welshman might open his eyes to the treatment of the Scots and feel ashamed of his doing unto others …’ Breathing strength into his back, Obert straightened a little and hobbled from the sacristy.

Andrew believed that the old priest knew he planned to escape.

Margaret sought out Dame Bethag the following day. As she’d lain awake long into the night she’d wondered whether the nun was right, that Margaret’s visions were holy visions and not the suffering of an accursed state. She hoped that although Bethag had been sheltered most of her life she might still have some helpful insights into visions and how one lived with them. Margaret was frightened; she needed guidance.

She found the nun sitting in the cloister, eyes closed, head tilted up towards the warm sun. Not wishing to disturb her peaceful moment, Margaret sat down a little way from her and looked at the flowers, the bees going about their business, the birds drinking from a bowl-like depression in the sun-warmed stones. The wind sighed in the grass and moaned now and then through the stonework. This and the humming of the bees created a soothing cocoon of sound interrupted at irregular intervals by birdsong. How peaceful it was here. One could forget that armed guards were needed to protect this community. Certainly the birds, the bees, the flowers, the stones had no knowledge of the troubles out beyond the walls of Elcho. The river still ran past, the rain still fell, sun and moon and stars still defined the day and night, the season turned slowly towards autumn. One might be tempted to dismiss Longshanks’s betrayal, for it had changed little here. Except for the guards. And Margaret’s presence here, as well as her father’s.

‘Young Margaret! God has drawn you to a healing spot, has He not?’ Dame Bethag’s smile seemed to emanate from the beauty of the cloister.

‘I did not wish to disturb you.’

‘And you did not.’ The nun resettled beside Margaret, her face turned towards her as she smoothed out her skirts.

Realising Bethag was studying her, Margaret asked her whether what she had experienced the previous day had been a holy vision or the Sight.

Bethag responded without hesitation, ‘Does it matter what you call it?’

Margaret did not reply at once, expecting the nun to continue, but Bethag had turned her attention to the garden, apparently content with her answer.

‘How could it not matter?’ Margaret said. ‘Your visions bring you joy, they are blessings. My mother’s visions have caused so much pain and they’ve destroyed her soul.’

Bethag shook her head. ‘Your mother’s soul is not destroyed, Margaret. She does not understand, that is all. I understand that you want to know what to call what you’ve experienced, and I say what we call a thing does not change it.’

‘But what if it is a foretelling?’ Margaret asked. ‘Does that not mean I have a responsibility to do something with the knowledge? I must know whether my husband is truly in danger, whether such a terrible end is what shall come to pass and whether God is guiding me to do something to prevent it. What if I’m just not wise enough to understand what He is telling me?’

‘Time will show you, young Margaret. More I cannot say. God will show you the way.’

Margaret felt close to tears and could not return the nun’s gentle smile.

Bethag turned away for a moment in the direction of the outer courtyard which had come alive with the clatter of horses. ‘More travellers arriving?’ For once she sounded impatient.

Margaret was glad to see the woman had emotions. ‘You must find visitors distracting. We bring news of the world outside, unfamiliar voices.’

Bethag looked askance at Margaret. ‘Oh, my dear, distractions are something to celebrate here. We begin to gnaw on the slightest irritations when we have no variety. But I do fear that we might soon be crowded with exiles from the troubles.’ She smiled. ‘Though I should be delighted if you chose to bide here awhile.’

How tempting that would be were Margaret not needed in Stirling, and not worried about Roger — though where he might be, how she might reach him, she did not know.

‘Do you ever fear your visions, Dame Bethag?’

‘Why should I fear a gift from God?’

‘Because you are suddenly swept up in such feeling, unable to temper it, completely in the hands of — God.’

‘That is ecstasy, young Margaret.’ Bethag had tears in her eyes. ‘You will see, in time.’

‘You were never frightened?’

Bethag shook her head.

Margaret despaired of learning anything from Bethag. Her attention returned to the sounds in the yard, and she grew curious about the new arrivals.

‘I must see — someone might have brought news of my husband.’

‘God go with you,’ said Bethag, bowing her head.

Margaret almost stumbled over her skirts as she flew from the cloister, suddenly convinced that she would have news of Roger. She arrived at the guest house in time to see James dismount. With him were several other men, but no one she knew. As she hurried forward, her eyes met James’s and she read relief in his countenance.

‘Dame Margaret.’ He made a formal bow for the sake of the others, ‘I looked for you in Perth.’

It was not the friendliest of greetings. She wondered whether he’d received the messages she’d left him.

‘Tom was to tell you where we had gone.’

‘You mean the drunk I found sleeping in your bed? He said not a word.’ James looked both angry and disgusted.

‘Drunk? Tom? Curse him.’ How could he play them so false? ‘But I also left word with Gilbert Ruthven that I had come here.’

‘I have not seen him,’ James said under his breath. ‘I specifically asked you to remain quietly in Perth.’

Margaret saw no point in arguing. ‘You truly found my servant drunk?’

‘I sent him off and closed up the house as best I could.’ James nodded to the other men who were watching him for instructions. ‘Those of you set to ride out soon, drink little ale, eh? The rest of you can sleep off what you drink, for we’ll wait until nightfall to depart.’

‘We are to leave so soon?’ Margaret said.

‘The English are moving more quickly than we had expected.’

As the men moved past, Margaret noticed that one wore some of James’s clothes.

‘He is dressed as your double?’

James gave a curt nod. ‘I am counting on his daylight departure to mislead anyone watching us.’ He glanced round. ‘I presume Dame Ada is also here?’

‘Yes.’ Margaret was put on guard by the abrupt change of subject.

James took her by the elbow. ‘Where might we speak alone?’

Her heart pounded; she was not yet accustomed to his touch. ‘What has happened?’

‘Let us walk in the garden.’ James steered her in the direction from which she had just come and hastened her towards a bench well out of earshot of the others.

‘What is it, Jamie?’

He settled on the bench, but Margaret stood before him so that he could not ignore her.

In a quiet voice he said, ‘God’s blood, Maggie, I don’t know what I would have done had I not found you here.’

She realised now that his anger came from his fear for her. ‘I thought I’d left sufficient word that you would not be so worried.’ She sat down beside him, hoping that he might touch her again.

He glanced round and, seeing no one near, lifted her hand and kissed it, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead. ‘Forgive my temper,’ he said, ‘I was worried. And then to find that sluggard in your chamber-’ he made a noise deep in his throat, much like a growl.

Margaret melted in the warmth of his gaze. ‘I am sorry you worried so.’

James leaned forward and kissed her cheek. His breath tickled her and she could not resist turning towards him, letting her lips brush his. He pulled her closer and with his tongue teased open her lips. Margaret loved the taste of him. She was disappointed when he released her.

‘I forget where I am,’ he said a little breathlessly.

So, too, had Margaret.

They sat quietly for a while.

‘I bring news of your brother Fergus,’ James said in a brisker tone.

Margaret searched his face. ‘Good news, I pray.’ Fergus was younger than she, and despite being quite untested by life had accepted a mission to carry a message for Andrew Murray from Perth to Aberdeen.

‘I trust you’ll think it so. He’s come south with Murray and should be with him now on Abbey Craig. I introduced him to our friend Hal from Edinburgh who I think will be a good influence on him.’

At last some good news. ‘Fergus is safe. God be praised.’

‘Alive and unharmed when last I saw him. I cannot of course promise that all will be well.’

Margaret chose not to dwell on that. ‘I am not surprised that soldiering appealed to him more than being a secretary to Uncle Thomas.’ Their uncle had a shipyard in Aberdeen and had requested that Fergus come to work for him as his secretary. Her brother had intended to take up the position after delivering the message he’d carried north to Murray. She was glad to hear that he would have her good friend Hal as a companion, dependable, capable Hal. ‘Uncle Murdoch must miss Hal sorely.’ Once again she realised how much she missed his counsel and company. ‘How did you find him amidst all the troops?’

‘I brought him with me from Edinburgh.’

‘You hadn’t told me.’

James shrugged and left Margaret to imagine the scene when Hal had announced his departure. Her uncle was very fond of him.

‘Was it your idea or his?’

‘Mine. We need men with his skill with horses, and his courage — that most of all.’

Margaret sensed that there was more to it, but James had already changed the subject.

‘So Ada is here?’ he asked.

‘You sound as if that displeases you,’ Margaret said, sensing his mood shift.

‘I wish to God you had waited in Perth as we’d agreed. I don’t know how we’ll be rid of her now.’

This was an unexpected turn. ‘Rid of her? I’m to stay in her house.’

He looked worried. ‘That might no longer be wise.’

‘Are you mad? It’s part of the plan.’

‘It was she who suggested you bide in her house, was it not?’

‘Yes and no. When I told her about the mission it was with the thought that she might be of help.’

‘What possessed you to involve her?’ he snapped.

‘Don’t talk to me like that. You were delighted that I had. It’s not my fault that you’ve changed your mind.’

‘Christ, Maggie, do you realise-’ he broke off, looking away with an exasperated sigh.

Margaret saw more than anger in his posture. ‘What has happened?’

‘She could not have known beforehand.’ He spoke as if to himself. ‘She would have needed another ruse.’

‘She did not trick me, James. It was you who asked me to go to Stirling, not Ada. For pity’s sake, tell me what has happened! You’re frightening me.’

For the first time she noticed the shadows beneath his blue eyes, the lines about his mouth. He was exhausted and tense. ‘Ada’s lover Simon Montagu is expected in Stirling — at the castle.’ James said it as if blaming her.

‘Former lover,’ Margaret said absently as she strove to comprehend the significance of this news. ‘Her English lover,’ she whispered. ‘Of course I had no idea he would be there. And neither did she.’

‘He will join his son — their son, Peter Fitzsimon.’ James watched her reaction.

Margaret felt her face burning. According to Ada she had not seen Simon in years. But a son? ‘I knew nothing of Peter Fitzsimon.’

‘He was brought up in England. He’s already renowned for his valour.’

But of course he must have been brought up there — Margaret had known Ada all her life, or since she could remember, and there had never been a child in her home. ‘This is an unwelcome piece of news.’ She bit her lip. ‘I see the problem. Our party will attract too much notice — even more so if I play her niece.’ Which had been the plan.

‘That is not my greatest concern,’ said James. ‘I worry about their hold on her, where her loyalty will lie once she knows of their presence.’

‘Her son’s, yes. I doubt she feels much for Montagu — she seldom speaks of him. They did not part friends. I wonder why she did not rear her son here.’

‘He’s a Montagu,’ said James, ‘though by blood, not by name. A Comyn would do the same. Perhaps Simon thought one day to legitimise him in the event he had no other sons.’

They stared at one another for a few moments.

Margaret shook her head. ‘She will not compromise us.’

‘How can you be certain?’

‘I can’t.’ Margaret’s heart was pounding. She could not keep the fear from her voice. ‘But we need her even more now.’ She took a deep breath and said more strongly, ‘We must present the facts to her.’

James rose with a curse.

He moved a little away from her, then turned on his heel and paced past her. There was nothing to do but sit and wait for him to walk out his aggravation. It occurred to Margaret that had she remained in Perth it would still have been necessary to find a way to present Ada with a change of plan, and she could not imagine Ada agreeing to stay in Perth without good cause.

‘I apologise again,’ James said when he’d calmed. ‘My temper is too easily kindled of late.’

‘I understand, Jamie. These are desperate times.’

He straddled the bench, facing Margaret. ‘It is still true that she can provide you with the cover of being a supporter of Longshanks — once her relationship to Montagu is known.’ He pressed one of Margaret’s hands as he studied her. ‘Your life is in her hands if you follow through.’

‘I see that, Jamie.’

‘You are not wavering in your trust of her?’

‘No,’ Margaret said without hesitation. ‘I understand that Montagu is an added risk, but I think our original plan is the best we can do. What of you?’

‘I don’t like this complication, but I see no way out of it.’ James sighed. ‘We are decided then.’ He reached out and cupped Margaret’s head in his hands.

But noticing someone approaching the steps nearby, Margaret drew away and James dropped his hands. It was one of the guest-house servants carrying pillows.

‘Servants are the worst gossips,’ said Margaret. She grew uncomfortable under his blue gaze and shifted to face the garden. The midday sun had dried and cracked the soil and the blooms hung limply, the soil too sandy to hold the morning’s moisture. ‘You said the English are moving quickly?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I don’t like it that a man of Montagu’s standing has arrived. And worse, Warenne and Cressingham have left Berwick and are riding west with troops. The English are invading faster than we’d anticipated. We need news from the castle.’

The royal lieutenant and the treasurer — Margaret understood now why James was in haste. ‘There is still silence from the castle?’

‘Not utter silence, but too little information to be of help. I am almost certain the messenger has been compromised and is being told what to tell us.’

Margaret rose. ‘Then come. We must go to Ada.’

Taking advantage of the light from a south window, Ada was absorbed in needlework. No one else was about. James spoke quickly, as if he feared that at any moment they might be interrupted. His manner was so different from that of a few moments before in the garden that Margaret felt uneasy. She’d noticed this ability of his before, shedding one mood for another, and even, when playing a friar or some other character, trading one accent for another, as well as mannerisms. She realised it was the latter that disturbed her the most. He moved as a noble now as he sat with Ada; in the garden he’d been less grand, simpler.

Her attention returned to Ada, who was quite visibly shaken by the news of her lover and son being in Stirling. She sat stiffly, as if afraid to move. ‘Peter,’ is the only word she’d yet uttered. ‘Peter,’ she repeated, as if growing accustomed to saying it.

‘Are you still willing to take Maggie with you?’ James asked.

Ada shook her head slightly and glanced at James, then Margaret, as if she’d just realised their presence. ‘My son was not yet walking when they took him from me,’ she said softly. ‘I doubt Simon’s told him that his mother is a de la Haye of Perth.’

Margaret took Ada’s hands in hers. ‘How hard it must have been for you.’

‘My family had warned me that I would not keep my children, though of course I had not understood how terrible it would be, how a mother loves her child.’ Ada caught her breath and dropped her chin.

‘Shall we leave you for a while?’ Margaret asked.

Shaking her head, Ada pressed Margaret’s hands and released them to dab at her eyes. She took a deep breath and then faced them both, with chin up despite tears still balanced precariously in the corners of her eyes. ‘It will not be the first time my skills as a player are tested.’

James nodded. ‘They will be tested. I must also warn both of you that the tempers of the townsfolk are brittle, distrust divides them, and as in Perth some are eager to prove themselves trustworthy to the English by betraying their neighbours. If either of you has any doubt of your ability to carry through with your roles, tell me now. It would be better to stand aside here than to fail us in Stirling.’ His eyes searched Margaret’s face, then Ada’s.

Margaret realised she was holding her breath and clenching her hands.

‘When are we to depart?’ Ada asked.

‘Nightfall,’ James said. He turned to Margaret. ‘And you, Maggie, are you still with us?’

The magnitude of what she was about struck her afresh. ‘I am.’ Fear might catch her breath and bring on a sweat, but she would not withdraw. There was no turning back for her.

James nodded to each of them. ‘I’ll find some refreshment for my men while you prepare for the journey.’

As Margaret rose she found her legs unsteady.