Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

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.