Candace Robb - A Cruel Courtship

‘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.