Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

‘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.