A Cruel Courtship (8 page)

‘I will speak with Dame Eleanor the infirmarian about Ma,’ Margaret offered. ‘She might find a way to convince Ma to take a physic for strength.’

‘Did your mother say anything to give you hope that she wishes to get well?’

‘She said she has suffered no visions since the one for which she performs penance,’ Margaret said. ‘She seemed grateful for that.’ It was not a lie, for her mother claimed it to be so.

Malcolm crossed himself, his expression lightening. ‘That is promising.’ He hugged her. ‘You’ve given me hope, Maggie.’ He glanced at the door to Christiana’s room. ‘I’ll go to see her now.’

Margaret did not want to detain him long, for she
yearned to be alone to think – but she felt compelled to ask one question. ‘Ma is weaving a border of owls, Da. What do they signify to her?’

‘Owls?’ He repeated absently, and then he rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. ‘That border. Why must she work on such a darksome thing, I ask you? She’s weaving it for Euphemia, her aunt.’

‘Great-Aunt Euphemia is still alive? But she must be so old. Is it possible?’

Malcolm nodded. ‘Like the prophets of the Old Testament she lives and lives. Owls signify the power of the woman and the moon, she says. Blasphemy, I say. But Christiana hopes to honour her aunt with a mantle bordered with those unholy birds of the night. Perhaps she believes Euphemia has caused the Sight to leave her?’ He threw up his hands in frustration. ‘I do not understand Christiana’s reasoning.’

Margaret did not know what to make of her mother suddenly wishing to gift Euphemia with a mantle. ‘But Euphemia bides far away, doesn’t she?’

‘Aye, in Kilmartin now, cursed place at the edge of the land. Loch Long is where she belongs, among her kin.’

She remembered her mother’s descriptions of a great glen far to the west filled with monuments to the ancestors. ‘How is Ma to present her with it?’

Malcolm’s momentary buoyancy was gone and he slumped in defeat. ‘Your mother does not fret over practical matters, lass.’

When Christiana had first shown signs of having Second Sight her mother sent her to her sister Euphemia for training; although she was not the only living MacFarlane with the gift, Euphemia had embraced it as her purpose in life and had sought out the most respected seers with whom to study, so the family deemed her the most knowledgeable regarding the gift. Margaret had only half listened to her mother’s stories of her time with Euphemia because she’d considered her mother’s gift a curse. So she had not known that her great aunt held owls in special regard – learning the significance of the bird that had wakened her in the night added to Margaret’s already considerable anxiety about that event.

She found herself thinking of Hal, her uncle’s groom in Edinburgh, who knew much about animals. She imagined he would know the lore of owls, and he would be so easy to talk to. She missed his companionship, how she could go to him when troubled and know that he would listen without ever judging her, and often surprise her with an insight that helped her see things more clearly. They were close in age and both still wondering what life had in store for them. She’d never guessed for her it would be the Sight.

Taking her leave from her father, Margaret withdrew towards the nunnery kirk, walking slowly in the hazy sunshine, the humid air weighting her steps. She loved her father, but did not much like
him. He’d had little to do with them as children, and he’d resented Christiana for the hostility and fear her visions provoked, cursing her for causing rifts with colleagues that took great efforts to close. He’d been relieved when she had suggested retiring to Elcho after Margaret’s marriage, and as soon as the troubles with Edward Longshanks began he’d fled to Bruges. In his loyalties he supported what was lucrative for him, most recently dangerously offering his ships to King Edward while cheating him out of mint fees by carrying silver on those same ships to have minted in the Low Countries. His original reason for returning a month ago was to collect more of his wealth while Edward was busy in the Low Countries. Margaret thought his sudden need for Christiana had arisen after his ship had been boarded by the English and he’d realised the danger he was in.

As Margaret approached the kirk she heard a voice lifted in song and was disappointed, having expected to find solitude there at this hour. At the door she hesitated. But the devotion with which the woman sang touched Margaret’s heart and the beauty of the sister’s voice drew her; on easing open the side door she found Dame Bethag standing alone before the altar with arms outspread, her face lit from an invisible source as she sang. She was not a young woman, yet she looked fresh and untouched by time, her white wimple framing her
glowing face and her dark habit graceful and rich with mystery. This sister had befriended Christiana and spent much time in her apartment. Margaret believed it was because many in the community believed her to be a mystic, a seer like Christiana.

The beauty of Bethag’s singing brought Margaret to her knees, and lifting her eyes to the nun’s radiant face she let the angelic voice fill her heart. From her eyes spilled tears of joy, and her throat tightened with emotion. The chapel brightened and grew comfortingly warm, and hearing the name ‘Maria’ as Bethag sang, Margaret sensed the Blessed Mother as the source of the warmth as she shone the light of her love on them. She felt as if she knelt on air, and Bethag’s song echoed as if she’d been joined by the angelic choir.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, guide me to use myself in your service. If I have been given the Sight, if it is not blasphemy, help me to use it for the good of my people
.

She sensed the Virgin Mary smiling down on her and was filled with ease.

But her joy faded, and her mind eventually returned to her worries as tears slipped down her face. She had struggled to accept the travails God sent her way, but they multiplied too quickly, and just as she overcame one she would feel another clutch at her heels, pulling her down into despair. It was sinful to despair, but God gave her no peace. She did not pretend to being an innocent, but
surely there were many far worse than she. She stopped herself, realising she was puling like her father and she begged the Blessed Mother’s patience.

It was all the worse because she had allowed herself to hope that she might find some joy in James Comyn after the humiliation of her marriage with Roger. James had been attentive and affectionate of late, and she’d found it comforting to have a man concerned for her, gifting her with food in short supply – a little meat, a small barrel of ale – advising her on problems, and praising her accomplishments. They had grown close. He’d brought the Welshman to give her news of her brother – that was the third time James had brought her word of Andrew since Abbot Adam had condemned him. With what seemed immense patience James had worn down her initial distrust of his kindness, and she had come to think that although he might be using her for his own ends as had Roger, he had been a good friend to her. It did not hurt his cause that he also had a face and manner that Margaret found pleasing. Yet now she felt alone again. Her mother was wasting away, Roger was in danger, James was long away at his meeting with Wallace and Murray. She closed her eyes, praying for some good news, and found herself lingering over a memory of their last parting. James had pulled her into his arms and kissed her, a kiss so sweet, so welcome that she thought she might love him.

As she knelt at her devotion she felt the now familiar chill, so unlike the Virgin’s warmth, and the floor opened beneath her. She gasped to find herself falling. Dame Bethag’s song had slowed and softened, but now it was drowned out by a rushing sound all around Margaret. She fought to open her eyes, frightened by the sensation of freely falling through the air, but her eyes would not open. Her stomach heaved at the weightlessness.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun her fall ended, and her body was shot through with a pain that left her breathless, her ears assailed by a terrible roar of agony. She thought she screamed, but could not hear herself for the roar. The moment she collapsed, unable to bear any more, the pain and the terrible noise withdrew. She felt her feet touching the ground. She did not trust her legs after her terrifying fall, but she stood without effort and opened her eyes with ease. She was no longer in the kirk but standing at the foot of a rock outcrop, in a dusty pre-dawn light, and someone lay at her feet, his breath rattling piteously. She crouched down and to her dismay found it was Roger. He lay sprawled on the ground with his head at a frightening angle against a stone. The rattling ceased.

‘Christ have mercy!’ she cried. She attempted to arrange his head and limbs in a more natural order telling herself that he might recover if his humours could flow more easily. But his skin was cold and his
body was already stiffening. ‘Roger, stay with me, I pray you, breathe!’ She felt herself pulled away, lifted off her feet, and she floated away, hand in hand with a warm, shining companion. ‘No! I cannot do this – I cannot leave him.’

‘Be at peace, Dame Margaret.’

Bethag’s voice called her from the dream. Her arm about Margaret’s trembling shoulders was warm and reassuring. Bethag gently touched her cheek. Margaret opened her eyes. Bethag’s eyes were wells of light.

‘What vision did the Lord bring you, young Margaret?’

‘I pray that it was no vision, but a dream.’ It was her recurring dream, yet different this time,
experiencing
Roger’s fall, and seeing him as he lay dying. Margaret crossed herself. ‘Your song made me think of those I love, those I am worried about.’ If it had been real she would not have abandoned him though dead. She would have sought a way to protect Roger from scavengers.

The nun’s focus was turned inward. Excited, she said, as if to herself, ‘My song inspired a vision. I have heard of this happening.’

‘But your song was joyous and the vision was filled with pain.’ Margaret struggled for breath and found it difficult to keep her eyes focused. She was being pulled down into the sleep of exhaustion.

‘Rest a while,’ Bethag whispered, stroking Margaret’s forehead as she drifted off.

Margaret woke with a start, confused by the high ceiling and the rattle of beads near her ear. Moving her head she discovered it was resting in Bethag’s lap and the nun was praying, her paternoster beads rattling as she fingered them.

‘I must have slept,’ said Margaret, her voice cracking a little.

‘Are you thirsty?’ asked Bethag. She set the beads aside and helped Margaret sit up, then handed her a cup of water.

Only then did Margaret notice the servant kneeling a few paces from them, her expression one of rapt wonder. She was about to ask whether the woman had been there earlier, but Bethag answered the question before she asked.

‘Mary came to change the flowers on the altar and found us here. She brought water for you.’ Bethag smiled. ‘Your colour has returned.’

‘How long have I been here?’

Bethag laughed as she stood up and took a few uneven paces, rubbing her right thigh. ‘Long enough for my right leg to lose all feeling, but at my age that does not take so long as it did in my youth.’

It took all Margaret’s strength to struggle up on to her feet. She felt shaky, as she often did after falling asleep during the day, but also as if all the light in her life had been smothered.

Dame Bethag saw her anguish. ‘Do not be afraid. God spoke through me to you.’

Owls and mystics – Margaret wondered why God
would speak to her through others. ‘Why do you think God used you?’ Margaret asked. ‘What did you see while you sang?’

‘The Blessed Mother’s light of grace.’

‘So, too, did I – at first. But afterwards–’ Margaret hesitated, glancing at the servant Mary. ‘Might we talk privately?’

Dame Bethag nodded to the servant, who shyly rose and departed. The nun withdrew to a bench to one side of the altar. Margaret joined her, still feeling almost as if she were walking in her sleep so tentative did her movements feel to her.

Bethag smoothed Margaret’s forehead and then took up one of her hands. ‘You are so cold. Tell me what troubles you. As God is my witness I shall not betray your confidences to the other sisters.’

Margaret was loath to call to mind her terrible vision; but she needed guidance, and with the hope that Dame Bethag might be able to help her she described her experience, as well as the recurring dream.

As Margaret spoke, Dame Bethag dropped her head and listened with eyes half-closed. Margaret felt the nun’s hand grow as cold as her own.

‘Oh my dear,’ Bethag said at last, raising a tearful face to Margaret. ‘This is indeed a frightening vision. But the Lord must have cause to show this to you. Give thanks to Him and let it be – in prayer it will come clear to you why you have seen your husband’s death. It may not speak to his actual
death at all. It might not even have been Roger Sinclair whom you saw.’

Margaret shook her head. ‘No, I am certain it was my husband.’

‘If he suffers such an end, it is God’s wish.’

That made it no more palatable for Margaret. ‘Have you ever had such a vision of what might come to pass?’

Bethag sighed. ‘I have been graced with no such power, young Margaret. My visions are but expressions of the ecstasy I experience when I touch the divine.’

‘How do I know that this vision is not the devil’s work?’

‘You also saw the Virgin Mary’s grace,’ Bethag said, as if that were all the argument necessary.