Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

The nun shook her head, her eyes sympathetic. ‘My dear sister, I cannot shrive you. You know that we daughters of Eve have not the strength of spirit to hear confessions.’

‘I pray you, listen,’ said Christiana, trying to calm herself enough to have the breath to speak what she must. ‘Hear my sin and advise me before I commit the even greater sin of despair.’

‘God help you, what has happened?’ Dame Bethag glanced over at Marion for an explanation.

Christiana motioned Marion to withdraw from them.

The maid backed away, though not far.

‘Please hear me, Dame Bethag,’ Christiana said.

‘In urgent need I can hear your confession,’ Bethag said and, bowing her head, she rested her hands in her lap and began to listen.

As she told the holy woman of her crime, Christiana witnessed in her mind’s eye the suffering of the men, the black despair of the one who had leaped to the valley below. The others were being treated as wild beasts, hunted, caught, and then dragged away to be slaughtered. Christiana cried out to them, begging them for forgiveness.

‘Mistress, can you hear me?’

Christiana opened her eyes.

Marion pressed a cup to her lips.

Dame Bethag sat beside her, her hands moving along her paternoster beads.

‘I pray you,’ Christiana said, ‘pronounce a penance for me.’

The nun paused in her prayers and slipped a soft hand over Christiana’s. Her direct gaze was gentle, kind. ‘Be comforted, my sister. You did as God wished. It was He who gave you the vision at the moment you spoke it. You need no penance for that.’

‘I cannot believe that,’ Christiana said, withdrawing her hand.

‘You are weary, Dame Christiana,’ Bethag said. ‘Rest now and know that you will be in all the sisters’ prayers from this day forward. You have won us the protection of the English. God go with you.’

Christiana turned away from the nun and wept.

Celia’s reluctance to go to Ada’s had not surprised Margaret, but her own excitement about the trek to Wallace’s camp did, and once out in the street she expected to have second thoughts — to depart the town so suddenly was not the behaviour of a merchant’s wife. But she continued to feel steady in her resolve to further her commitment by meeting with William Wallace. Margaret’s only regret was that Jonet accompanied them — she would far rather inflict the sullen maid’s presence on her father and her husband. But she understood that the maid might have more to divulge.

James, walking slowly now as the elderly friar, surprised her with news of Andrew: alive, well, and managing to spirit information out from Soutra Hospital. She could think of nothing that might cheer her more and better confirm the rightness of her path.

But her mood was not to last. As they approached the guard at the west gate, Margaret recognised him as a man of Perth and warned James.

‘He has seen us,’ said James. ‘We must continue as if we have nothing to fear.’

The guard straightened at their approach and, raising a hand in greeting, called out, ‘Dame Margaret! Blessings on you and all your kin.’

It was hardly what she expected from a man gone over to the enemy. Her confusion must have been plain to him.

‘You’ve not heard? Your mother, the blessed Dame Christiana, saved our fair town from the thief Wallace this day. She had a vision of Wallace’s men attacking the English guards on Kinnoull Hill — a great slaughter they had begun. She rushed outwith the gates of Elcho and warned the English captain in time to save some of the men. God give them rest who died in defending us.’ He crossed himself, though he still beamed at Margaret, and then bowed to her with respect. ‘I wish you and your companions a safe journey.’

Margaret did not know where to rest her eyes as he spoke, unable to bear his smiling gratitude, fearful of what she would read on James’s face. The guard clearly enjoyed what must have been an embellished account of her mother’s pronouncement. She nodded to him and walked on through the gate, James and Jonet close behind.

Her joy in hearing word of Andrew was as dust. She was gasping as if she were suffocating. Her forearms felt as if insects were crawling on them. Once out of sight of the gate, she left the road and leaned against a tree trying to catch her breath. The leaves seemed to ripple as if floating on water, and the ground undulated beneath her.

‘Margaret?’ James called to her solicitously.

She shook her head and stumbled away, feeling a terrible heat building within. ‘Damn her!’ she cried, then dropped to her knees, doubling over to retch. It was but bile, for she had not eaten since early morning, and she felt weak when the spasms ceased. Sinking back on her heels, she pressed her cold, almost numb hands to her cheeks and whispered Hail Marys until her breathing calmed.

In the quiet aftermath a thought teased her consciousness. It seemed blasphemy to Margaret and she refused it, but its persistence won out.

Was it not God’s betrayal rather than Christiana’s? He had given her a vision in the presence of the English captain. Did that mean His blessing was on the English? She could not accept that. But neither could she accept her mother as betrayer of her people. There was no part of Christiana MacFarlane that was English in sympathy. She had not even spoken their language until her parents thought it might make her more marriageable.

Think , Margaret commanded herself. Wallace had set watchers on Kinnoull Hill, overlooking the river and Elcho on the other side. Might someone in the nunnery have noted the men and asked the English about them? Her mother might be no part of it. Perhaps the English had used her name to prevent a backlash from the townspeople. Surely some of them must support Wallace’s defence of Balliol’s crown.

‘Come, Margaret,’ James said gently. ‘We must not linger on the road.’ He crouched beside her, his eyes sympathetic, yet he still held firmly to Jonet’s arm.

‘How am I to hold my head up after this?’ Margaret moaned. ‘My father, my mother …’ The presence of Jonet angered her and cut short her lament. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly, ‘we must continue.’

As James rose, Jonet tried to slip from his grasp, but received a twist for her troubles.

‘Your parents’ transgressions cannot be laid at your feet,’ James said to Margaret as he reached out his free hand to help her up. ‘You are no longer of their households, you have no control over them.’

‘So you and those close to me understand. But not all people will see it so. I cannot return to the town. And what of the Wallace? He will find it difficult to trust me, or convince others to do so. I am damned.’

‘So must our king feel, Margaret. His former subjects jeer him, calling him “Toom Tabard” — empty coat, a mere English poppet. Can you imagine his humiliation? For surely he hears them, perhaps some even say it to his face.’

Margaret was uncomfortable discussing such things in Jonet’s hearing but the maid seemed unmoved. ‘John Balliol does not deserve such rebuke.’

‘Nor do you, Margaret. Now come,’ James said, ‘Wallace is not such a fool as to blame you, and in following through with your purpose to see him and to work for the return of our rightful king you will prove yourself a woman of honour.’

His words resonated in her heart, and she accepted them. They continued on, a solemn trio, and as if God acknowledged they’d had enough trials this afternoon, He blessed them with an uneventful journey.

A company of men melted out of the brush near the camp, daggers drawn, faces grim until they recognised Friar James. The sight of these fight-hardened men intensified Margaret’s fear. She was certain they bent their black looks on her, knew her as Christiana’s daughter. James handed Jonet on to the men and took Margaret’s arm when she hesitated, urging her forward. She walked with her eyes on the men’s muddy boots as they moved through brush and skirted a marshy lowland, then climbed a steep slope. Looking up to see how far she must climb, she was blinded by sunlight and stumbled. James was there with a firm hand beneath her elbow, coaxing her up to the top. When they reached it, he gently pressed her hand and smiled at her before he let go. His kindness and her exhaustion brought her to tears. Margaret wiped them away with impatience and was grateful that James had already looked away.