The Fire In The Flint

10

A sudden summer storm delayed the company, now riding cautiously in daylight. A thrown shoe on another day forced them to stop. It was four days before they reached Elcho, long days and nights in which Margaret fretted about the coming meeting and her growing suspicion that Roger was manipulating her towards his own ends. When she questioned the genesis of his plan he insisted that a stop at the priory had not occurred to him until the evening he had suggested it.

‘I’ve not forgotten your feelings about your mother, Maggie, but we must think of Andrew.’

Was she being selfish? She was partially to blame for Andrew’s trouble, having urged him to do the very thing that his abbot had forbidden, going to Edinburgh Castle to ask for news of Roger.

The conversation left her in a familiar state of self-loathing. Roger had a knack for turning Margaret against herself. During his absence she had gradually shed the habit and resented its return.

She was grateful when her flux began and cooled his ardour. A few days earlier she would have been saddened that she was not with child, but at the moment she welcomed neither Roger’s attentions nor a stronger bond with him. She prayed God to forgive her for such antipathy towards her husband. But he gives me cause, my Lord.

Her anxiety over the reunion with her mother was a lesser matter, but when one worry ebbed, the other flowed. Her mother’s indifference to her family always unsettled Margaret. She felt diminished by her. If her mother did not love her, who else would? And her mother’s lack of compassion made Margaret question the source of her visions — Christ had preached love. It was the devil who was dispassionate. It was this aspect of her mother’s character that made her leery of her prophecies. At present Margaret was even less easy about seeing her mother than usual because if her fears about Roger’s purpose in taking her there were founded on fact, then her mother’s most recent prophecies regarding Margaret were central to her husband’s fresh betrayal.

Arguing that she was most anxious about Fergus, she tried several times to convince Roger to ride on to Perth first, but he stood firm. It strengthened her belief that this was no charitable visit.

On an afternoon of gentle breezes and golden sunlight, the company reached the Tay and continued east towards the nunnery, its tower visible ahead. The familiar countryside and the weather cheered Margaret until a shout up ahead brought the riders to a standstill. Four men, two of them archers with bows drawn, rose up from behind a stone wall.

‘God help us,’ Celia whimpered.

Margaret’s heart pounded. They rode high above the brush in the meadow with nothing to shield them, easy targets. She caught a glimpse of Roger’s grim expression as he rode forward to consult with Macrath.

‘English?’ she heard Macrath ask.

‘Unless they’ve taken the nunnery, no,’ said Roger. ‘The prioress is a Scotswoman of no great family. They would not bother to protect her.’

The two dismounted, handed the reins to the servants, and walked out to meet the four. Margaret crossed herself and prayed. As Roger drew near the four challengers, he called out the name de Arroch, which was the prioress’s family name. Margaret told the others they must be Dame Agnes’s kinsmen.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Alan. ‘I’ve not yet killed a man in the presence of ladies.’

‘Perhaps they are guarding the priory from the English,’ Celia said in a shaky voice.

‘I’ve little doubt that is what Roger will discover,’ said Margaret. But she said another prayer for good measure as Roger returned.

For once her prayers were answered, and Roger, Margaret, and their company were escorted to the priory.

When at last Margaret dismounted in the yard she submitted to Celia’s usual fussing with the grace of one too nervous to argue. Anything was worthwhile that might avert her mother’s frequent criticism. As the maid dabbed at dusty smears on her face, brushed off and tugged at her skirts, and adjusted her veil, Margaret wondered in what mood her mother would receive them. She glanced up at the guest-house windows but caught no one observing them.

On Margaret’s earlier visits to the nunnery the yard had been full of life, chickens strutting about, labourers coming and going, the high voices of the lay staff’s children at play competing with the rush of the river. But today the yard was deserted, despite the fair weather. Not even the chickens were about.

Dame Katrina, the elderly hosteleress, greeted them with wonder. ‘Dame Margaret! We understood you to be in Edinburgh. So said your brother Fergus.’

‘I was, Dame Katrina, and now I’ve come home. This is my husband, Roger Sinclair.’

‘Oh.’ The elderly nun looked aside, as if searching for a memory. ‘There was something …’ She shook her head. ‘Well, it must have been of little importance.’ Her smile took in all the company. ‘You are welcome, come away in, I shall arrange for some refreshments and send word up to Dame Christiana that you are here.’

The hall was of moderate size, chilly after the warmth of the sun.

‘We must light the fire,’ the hosteleress said to a servant. ‘The damp has spread out from the corners.’ Turning to Margaret, she explained, ‘Dame Christiana rarely uses the hall.’

Margaret murmured something reassuring, her mind on the coming reunion. She must not hope for any particular outcome, for her mother was too unpredictable.

The company settled on benches or stood stretching and shaking out their legs.

The plan was that only Margaret and Roger would speak with Dame Christiana. The others would stay in the hall enjoying the hospitality. It was not long before her mother’s servant joined them.

Marion was a rather simple woman of thirty or so, Celia’s age, who had long been her mother’s choice of servant to keep by her. She was devoted to Christiana but had been despondent at the thought of retiring to a nunnery. Margaret was glad to see that Marion had not abandoned her mistress.

The handmaid greeted Margaret and Roger with happy affection. But as both began to follow her out to the steps she halted and, humbly averting her eyes, said, ‘Forgive me, Master Roger, but the mistress said only her daughter and her maid were to come.’

Dame Katrina made a disapproving sound, her hands fluttering ineffectually.

‘Why my maid?’ Margaret asked. ‘My husband wishes to see his goodmother, as I expected she would wish to see him. They have not met in many a day.’

Marion bowed her head. ‘I pray you, Dame Christiana was very clear. You are welcome, and you might bring your maid if you care to choose some items from her trunk to brighten your house.’

Glancing at Celia as she considered this suggestion, Margaret saw the maid’s obvious curiosity. And why not use some of the trappings her mother was hoarding?

‘Come, Celia, we shall accept Ma’s invitation with gratitude.’

‘Am I discarded so lightly?’ Roger protested.

Margaret squeezed his arm, feeling his muscles tensed, and gave him an encouraging smile. ‘You know Ma,’ she said. ‘If we press this, she might banish us all. As you so wisely said, we must think of Andrew.’

Coldly withdrawing his arm from her grasp, Roger bowed his acquiescence, though anger still darkened his countenance. Margaret was too agitated about the coming meeting to have the patience to soothe his feelings. Besides, Christiana had foiled whatever had been his plan, and Margaret regarded that as a favour.

Margaret and Celia followed Marion out into the quiet yard and up the covered steps to the first floor. Her mother’s chamber was down the covered gallery facing away from the yard, looking east. Marion knocked, then opened the door and bowed Celia and Margaret in. A confusion of furnishings alive with coloured patterns crowded the room, distracting Margaret’s attention as if the trappings of her mother’s life shouted at her. As her mother rose, Margaret noted the costly wool of her simple gown, the impeccably white wimple.

‘My child,’ Christiana said, offering her hand. It was that of a lady, soft and white, as Celia had wanted hers to be. As Margaret bent to kiss it, her mother said, ‘I’d had news you were in Edinburgh, Maggie.’

Straightening, Margaret nodded. ‘I’ve come home. With Roger.’

‘Oh yes. I could not see your husband today.’ Hand at her throat, Christiana gazed down at Margaret’s hem. ‘Your gown is travel-worn. Surely the journey from Perth is not so muddy?’

‘I’ve come from Edinburgh, Ma. We have stopped here before continuing on towards home.’

Christiana searched Margaret’s face. ‘What is wrong that you come to me in such haste?’

‘I bring news of Andrew.’

‘Sweet heaven.’ Christiana raised her voice. ‘Marion, refreshments.’ Then she noticed Celia, who stood behind Margaret. ‘Where is your family?’ she asked Celia in Gaelic.

‘I do not understand, Dame Christiana,’ said Celia.

‘She does not speak the tongue, Ma. Celia is Dame Katherine’s maid. She accompanied me to Edinburgh, as was proper, and will now help me reorder my household.’

‘She looks like one of my clan, a MacFarlane with her dark hair, joined brow, and pale skin.’

Marion had arranged a table and two chairs, one cushioned, near a small brazier. Wine and oat cakes and a bowl of berries were set out for them. Margaret’s mother settled in the cushioned chair and motioned Margaret to the other.

‘A maid should not be so tiny,’ said Christiana. ‘How can the MacFarlane carry your things?’

‘Mistress, I am not-’ Celia began.

Margaret interrupted her. ‘Celia has proved her worth over and over, in a most difficult and dangerous time.’ She was angry to be caught up in one of her mother’s tortuous arguments. ‘Do you not wish to hear about Andrew?’

‘He told me what he’d done, Maggie.’ Christiana nodded to Celia. ‘Do you see that trunk in the far corner? Take a lamp and look at the gowns, sleeves, shifts, gloves, veils. See if there is anything that would be of use to your mistress. I have no need of such finery among the sisters.’

Celia bobbed her head and withdrew. She would be content for a long while, handling Christiana’s fine clothes.

‘Your offer is generous, Ma. I thank you,’ said Margaret.

‘See whether you might be of help to my daughter’s maid,’ Christiana said to Marion, then trained her eyes on Margaret with a formidable stare. ‘I am aware that Roger has not provided you with much. He is a disappointment. But you need not suffer.’

Margaret blushed and busied herself pouring wine for both of them. ‘You know what Andrew did for his abbot, but do you know how his abbot rewarded him?’ She handed a cup to her mother.

Christiana took it, but set it down with a clatter and leaned back in her chair.

Margaret saw that her mother’s eyes were unfocused.

‘He will go through fire.’ The vein in Christiana’s left temple pulsed.

‘Andrew has been sent as confessor to the English at Soutra Hill,’ said Margaret.

With a sigh, her mother pressed her throbbing temple, closed her eyes, head tilted, as if listening.

‘As confessor, Andrew is privy to their secrets,’ Margaret continued. ‘The English will fear what he might tell his fellow Scots. They’ll not let him go, Ma. When they return to England …’ She stopped, reluctant to say the words.

‘They’ll either take him with them, or execute him here,’ Christiana finished in a fluting voice quite unlike her normal speaking voice.

Margaret was uncomfortable with her mother in this state. Silence sometimes quieted the spell, so Margaret turned her attention to the room, let her gaze wander over the small caskets, footstools, silk-wrapped cushions. But a flutter of fabric and a clatter of beads drew her attention back to her mother. Christiana was fingering paternoster beads, flying through the decades. Margaret covered her mother’s hands to still them and then slipped the beads from them. Christiana lunged for the beads, but Margaret held them out of her reach.

‘You don’t understand, Maggie. I must say my penance.’

‘For what?’

‘My visions are not to be shared.’ Her mother spoke sharply, almost angrily. ‘God gives the visions to me. No one else.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Margaret had been taught that the Sight was never used for oneself.

‘The prioress says I am wrong to share my visions. It is sinful.’ Christiana spoke in a rush of words, her colour high. ‘God tests me with them.’ She hesitated. ‘No, Dame Agnes did not say that, but it must be so or they would have ceased long ago. I revealed so many, too many. God have mercy on me, a sinner, and forgive my error.’ She crossed herself.

Margaret was familiar with her mother’s agitated state. It often sent her to her bed for days. Margaret tried to draw her mother out of her thoughts.

‘Will you ask the sisters to pray for Andrew’s deliverance?’

Eyes wide, Christiana gave a strangled laugh. ‘What are you thinking? Pray for Andrew? They curse him, Maggie.’

They curse him. It had not occurred to Margaret that the sisters might know of how Andrew had assisted the English in stripping the kirks of Scottish royal documents.

‘He was observing his vow of obedience, Ma. But later he saw how wrong it had been to obey Abbot Adam, and it is because he disobeyed — to help me — that he is in mortal danger.’

‘As are we all with the English in our midst,’ said Christiana, calmer now. ‘But I shall ask them to pray for him if you wish it.’

She should wish it. ‘He is a good man,’ said Margaret, ‘and a brave one. I do wish it.’

Her mother pressed her temples, shook her head. ‘If you say so. But you know he should have been a merchant. Malcolm was so disappointed. First sons do not enter the Kirk.’ She was like any mother now, fussing about how her children came up short of her expectations.

It was useless to argue with her, and besides, while she was calm Margaret wished to learn what detail she could about the visions regarding herself. Whether or not she would share them with Roger she would decide after she heard them, though she doubted she would.

‘At Yuletide you told me about two visions of my future. Do you remember?’ Margaret recounted them, knowing her mother’s absent-mindedness.

Christiana had resumed her prayers, despite her lack of beads, using her fingers to count out a decade.

‘Who are the men in the visions?’ Margaret asked.

‘I should never have told you of the visions.’ Her mother stilled her hands for a moment and looked at Margaret, a deep, long look, that seemed to bore into her soul. ‘You’ve told others, haven’t you? Fie, daughter. You should not have done so. It will bring you only grief.’

Margaret trembled in her mother’s gaze. The telling had caused her grief, that was true. ‘Who is the king of the Scots in the vision?’

Christiana pinched her lips and shook her head. ‘You’ll draw me out no more, Maggie, I’ll not sin for you.’

The prioress had turned her mother against using the Sight for Margaret’s enlightenment. ‘Damn your prioress. She blathers on about things beyond her ken. You know that the Sight is to share with the people. It is not a gift for the selfish.’

‘You will burn in hell for cursing the good prioress, Maggie. I should not have let you grow so close to your Uncle Murdoch, I see it now, too late. He taught you the devil’s ways.’

‘He saved us many a day when you were abed and Da away, Ma.’

Christiana waved away the comment and turned her attention to the maids. ‘Well, Celia,’ she called, ‘have you found anything to your taste?’

Bright with their explorations, Celia and Marion joined them holding several gowns and surcoats.

Examining them, Margaret shook her head. ‘I have little occasion to wear such fine things.’ She said it rather sharply, irritated by her mother’s changing the subject.

‘But where will you get the wool to make anything else?’ Celia asked, her face pinched beneath the dark brows. Apparently she was not enjoying herself as Margaret had thought she would.

Weary of arguing, Margaret said, ‘We’ll accept whatever you feel appropriate, Celia.’ She could always put them away somewhere.

‘And now the tapestries,’ said Christiana. ‘Marion, show Celia those.’ She turned to Margaret. ‘I approve of your little MacFarlane. Your goodmother has made up for the neglect of her son by gifting you with such a clever lady’s maid. I hope you are duly grateful.’

‘I am. Ma, the visions. You’ve already told me of them, so it cannot be a sin to fill in the parts you left out before.’

Her mother rose and wandered over to the maids, pulling out two of the tapestries that Celia had set aside. ‘These will keep out the drafts and cheer the hall. And that small one for the bedchamber. Now gather all this and put it together so that the horses might carry the pack. No doubt Maggie and her husband are eager to reach home.’

‘Send it upriver on a boat, Ma, to our warehouse.’ Margaret was trying to keep her head out of the mists of prophecy by focusing on the figure her mother cut, graceful in her straight carriage, though showing her age in a greater girth round her middle that was not quite hidden by the soft folds of the fabric. She was an ageing woman afraid of dying in sin.

‘So be it,’ sighed Christiana. ‘By boat. But you’ll shiver tonight without the tapestry over your chamber doorway,’ she warned Margaret.

‘We’ll stay here tonight, I think.’

Christiana frowned as she gazed around her crowded room. ‘Here?’

‘In the guest house, but not this room.’

‘Oh yes, you should all be comfortable here, Dame Katrina has borrowed many of my furnishings to improve it.’

‘Why could you not see Roger today?’ Margaret asked.

‘I felt I should not. I felt it keenly.’

‘You were keen to see us wed.’

‘Malcolm assured me that Roger Sinclair was a good match for you.’

Margaret did not doubt her father instigated the match. ‘You will say no more about the visions?’

Christiana shook her head. ‘You must go now, Maggie. I have not the strength for long visits.’

Christiana wished the children would leave her in peace, but she suspected that these visits were not of their doing, but that God sent them to her. Not so long ago He’d tested her when Fergus twice appealed to her for help, and now she must embrace her daughter’s problems. It was frustrating to have tasted contentment, peace, and now have the turmoil of her maternal unhappiness intrude.

She was selfish, that is what God wanted her to face. All three of her children had good cause to seek the solace of their mother’s love. They had a right to expect her to be a fount of comfort and wisdom. But she had not the strength to be the mother they deserved. No one had ever understood her frailty.

She yearned for the quiet of devotion, to repeat the prayers until a white light enfolded her in absolute serenity, withdrawing all pain, physical and spiritual. She knew that this was possible, for she had long watched Dame Bethag, whom all in the convent knew to be a most blessed mystic, at her devotions in Elcho chapel. Christiana had witnessed Bethag’s uplifted face illumined by God’s grace. At other times she had witnessed the nun weeping while from her throat rose a song expressing ineffable joy. Bethag moved about her day with such serenity that all loved to be near her. Even many of the other sisters experienced benedictions, though more modest than Bethag’s. But not once had Christiana’s prayer lifted her into the presence of the divine. Were the nuns of Elcho so much worthier than she?

Maggie’s visit had ripped open the veil of peace Christiana had managed to draw around her. Her daughter was disappointed in her husband, and with cause. Roger had been wrong to worry her so, and to leave her so little money on which to live while away, but he had returned and Maggie must abide with him. Her journey to Edinburgh and her sojourn there with her uncle had been dangerous and unwarranted, and Murdoch’s influence could be seen in her new bold stubbornness. Yet Christiana knew she was also to blame. It was probably her vision of Maggie with soldiers that had filled her daughter’s head with ideas like running off to Edinburgh. That she had no control over her Sight was an agony none comprehended. She must say no more. Prioress Agnes had made that clear.

And yet how satisfying it would be to share what knowledge she had with her daughter. How like herself at that age Maggie looked. It was a pity she had not been given the Sight — she had the courage for it.

The weary travellers ate well, drinking temperately as had been their custom all along the way, and spent some time relaxing around the hall fire before bed. It was a luxuriously large fire and, though it was summer, all seemed drawn to its bright warmth.

Margaret watched Roger talking quietly with the other men. Gone was the proud swagger and calculated elegance of the ambitious merchant. He had hardened and withdrawn to some inner core of which she had been unaware. He watched others closely as they spoke and gestured. He seemed complete in himself, needing no one, not even her.

She turned her attention to Celia, beginning to plan the airing of the house in Perth.

*

Celia climbed wearily to the chamber she was to share with Margaret. After the warmth of the hall, the covered steps and gallery felt cold. It was a pity that the men would have all the benefit of the fire, while she and Margaret had to make do with a tiny brazier. But the chamber above was properly private. Celia feared her mistress’s mood tonight. Margaret surely could not be happy about her mother’s reception.

Nothing Celia had heard about Dame Christiana MacFarlane had prepared her for the depletion of strength in both body and soul that resulted from being in her presence. Margaret’s mother reminded Celia of a holy man she had once seen preaching near her family’s kirk, thundering about the day of judgement with a fervour that was more curse than sermon, staring into the faces of those listening with such intensity that he caused them to shrink into themselves with the horror of their damnation. That such a beautiful woman, with such grace, could cause a similarly frightening despair simply by being in the same room appalled her. She had thought Margaret a complaining daughter, resentful of the things that her mother withheld, as so many daughters were. But now she thought Margaret was to be admired for her strength.

Judging the chamber ready, Celia heated some spiced wine to soothe Margaret to sleep. Soon Margaret appeared and began nervously plucking at the laces at waist and shoulders. Celia put down the cup and hurried to assist her.

‘Marion came down after you left the hall,’ said Margaret. ‘Mother wishes to see me tomorrow morning before we depart.’

‘To apologise for her pathetic welcome?’ Celia muttered, working at the knots that Margaret had tightened with her impatient tugging.

‘What you witnessed was her customary behaviour,’ said Margaret. ‘But perhaps she has relented, and means to explain the visions. I could see Roger hopes so.’

That bitch holed up in luxury and safety in this nunnery while her children are abroad in the world without kin to protect them. Celia bit her tongue and put some valerian from her travel supplies in Margaret’s spiced wine. She seemed to need it.

As James’s small party approached Kinclaven Castle, the long-shadowed evening wood was so quiet that he thought they had come too late, that Wallace and his company had already moved on. When he halted, Angus MacLaren rode up beside him.

‘They’ve gone,’ said James.

MacLaren grunted. ‘And left their fires burning, their horses feeding? You’re too much in the towns, Jamie, your ears and nose are numb.’

Angus moved to the head of the party and led them slowly across a stream, over a small rise, and into a circle of wary-eyed guards with daggers and bows drawn. The encampment was not yet visible, but James now detected the smoke that MacLaren had smelled much further away.

One of the men recognised James. ‘It is James Comyn, kinsman of our king,’ he told the others, ‘and friend of the Wallace.’

When the weapons were lowered, James and the rest of the party dismounted and followed one of the men over another hill and round a bend, where the size of the encampment brought a cry of surprise from Hal.

James fell back to reassure him. ‘You’ll find few of high birth here, my friend. It is the men who work the land and tend the herds who fight for our land under the Wallace.’

‘So many.’

‘Christ, we’d hoped for twice as many — several hundred. But come, we’re all the more critical to our king’s welfare when we count for so goodly a portion.’

James, his servant, Angus MacLaren, Hal, and Will, the messenger, were greeted with good cheer and welcomed at one of the fires. But soon James was called to the fireside of William Wallace.

‘Come along with me, Hal. I promised you would meet the Wallace, and it shall be so.’ Regarding the young man as he rose, James nodded with satisfaction at the fair hair trimmed to reveal the strong-boned features, only slightly hidden by a pale, dusty beard that bespoke their haste in travel. ‘Remember to look the Wallace and all his men in the eyes,’ James said. ‘In this place a man watches his feet only when he has something to hide.’

Hal lifted his chin and then his gaze to James’s. ‘What do I say to such a man?’

‘What you might say to any of your brave comrades. William Wallace expects no more.’

They were guided through the trees to a fire circle like all the others. William Wallace came forward to welcome James. Tall and muscular, he always made James feel like a lad. But James never doubted that the Wallace had need of him. James was the shrewd one with strong ties to the Comyns and Balliols, and other great families of the land. And he had met Longshanks when he was yet a young squire to an English lord.

Wallace nodded towards Hal. ‘Who is this fine young man?’ ‘Hal of Edinburgh, a groom at Murdoch Kerr’s inn whom I’ve known a long while. He has a way with horses and asses, keeps his head in dangerous encounters, and can hold a secret closer to himself than his own skin.’

Hal stepped forward. ‘I am yours to command, my lord.’

Wallace grasped Hal’s arm. ‘I’m no lord, Hal. Just a loyal subject of King John who means to return him to the throne. You are welcome, sir. I have need of you.’

Hal bowed his head, and when he raised his eyes they shone with emotion.

James himself was not unaffected. He cleared his throat and suggested that Hal return to his companions. ‘I must tell our commander all the news. You need not hear it again — what you need is rest.’

Hal nodded and withdrew, the guide joining him to take him back to the others.