Legacy (31 page)

“You certainly need something.” Her voice was sharp with worry. “Your imagination has always been an active one, but these delusions are harmful. I’m seriously worried about you.” She stood up. “I want you to come with me now. We’ll wake your father and have a rational discussion.”

I sat, stone-faced, on my chair and didn’t move.

She wilted. “Please, Chris,” she pleaded. “Just come with me to see Dad. That’s all I ask.”

The rebellion drained out me. What had I expected? This was my mother, Susan Donnally Murray, a woman who read nothing but the newspaper and fitness magazines. A more practical, rational person didn’t exist. Nothing would be gained by opposing her. “All right, Mother. If you think I should talk to Dad, I will. Why don’t you go wake him. I’d like to stay here for a while.”

“Promise me you won’t go anywhere.” She hovered anxiously by the door.

I smiled reassuringly. “I’m not crazy, Mom. I promise I won’t leave Traquair House without telling you.”

With an encouraging smile that did not completely erase the worry lines etched in her forehead, she disappeared behind the door. I waited for several minutes. When the sound of her footsteps had faded completely away, I stood and walked to the rosewood mantel. The panel was there, exactly where I’d expected it to be. As if I’d done it every day of my life, I pressed first in the center and then on the far left petal of the rose. On creaking hinges, the door swung open. I took the flashlight from my pocket, flicked it on, and pulled the panel shut behind me.

I was winded before I reached the top of the stairs. The attic room where I’d found the picture of Jeanne Maxwell was exactly as I’d left it. This time, as if someone were whispering instructions to me, I knew what to do.

Setting the flashlight face up on the floor, I pulled Jeanne’s cloth-covered portrait aside. In the semidarkness, the small doorway looked like nothing more than a crack in the wall. I leaned into the right side and pushed with my shoulder. The door opened. Leaving it ajar, I picked up the flashlight and stepped inside. The stairs, narrow and damp, twisted spiral fashion below me. Tentatively, I took one step down and then another and another until I lost track of time. Instinctively I knew that I was below ground level.

Even with the flashlight, the darkness was absolute. My eyes were useless. Senses, instinctive but long subdued by modern efficiency, rose to the occasion. I could smell the dank, mineral-wet essence of the earth. Water dripped from an ancient spring. I felt the cold, roughly hewn walls narrowing on either side of me. Something alive and fur-covered rubbed against my ankle, its whiskers furtively twitching, before scurrying past.

I lost track of time, but still I continued. It was so familiar, this never-ending descent into absolute darkness. Somehow I knew when the missing step was imminent. I stepped over it. I couldn’t see my own feet, but I knew when the ceiling lowered and the tunnel narrowed.

The twisting passageway had been straight for some time now. Was it my imagination or was there a glow in the distance? Heart hammering, I switched off the flashlight. Darkness engulfed me. I waited. There was nothing. Discouraged, I switched on the flashlight. Nothing. I switched it off and then on again. Still nothing. Panic rose in my throat. Whimpering, I leaned against the wall and slapped the metal wand several times against my palm. The darkness pressed in on me.

With trembling fingers I unscrewed the top and lifted out the batteries. Someone once told me that rolling dead batteries in your palm revived them. My perspiration-slick hands shook uncontrollably, but I managed to replace the first battery. Then the unthinkable happened. I lost my grip on the second one. It landed with a dull thud. Frozen with shock, I stood and listened for a long time as it rolled away from me down the gradual descent. There was no possibility of finding it in this suffocating darkness.

Defeated, I turned around to go back the way I came. Icy fingers closed around my shoulders. The breath left my lungs. Paralyzed with fear, I could no more have struggled out of that persistent grasp than I could have sprouted wings and flown up the stairs and out into the light.

Visions swam before my eyes. Mairi’s body crushed and bloodless, David Murray’s face twisted with pain and hate. “No!” I screamed. “Go away. I don’t want you now.” Sobbing, I tore at the terrible weight holding me motionless in the dark corridor. There was nothing to feel, nothing to fight.

Bursts of color flashed through my mind. My head exploded with intensity. I twisted and turned and fought, but there was nothing to hold on to, nothing but the terrible weight pressing down on me. Shock and the accompanying rush of adrenalin were too much for me. I felt the familiar lightness that all diabetics instantly recognize. I craved insulin, and there was none to be had. Sagging against the wall, I slipped into merciful unconsciousness.

The Tower of London

1293

Mairi looked down at the newborn infant suckling at her breast. The child was the image of Edward. Not an ounce of Maxwell blood was evident in her golden skin and piercing blue eyes. Even her hair, wisps of silvery fuzz, reminded Mairi of a Viking baby.

Edward had visited her the day before. He was delighted with his infant daughter. Eleanor had given him sons enough for the succession. This wee bairn was his to indulge. He had already bestowed a duchy upon her.

The child had eaten her fill. Her eyes were closed. Mairi shifted her to one shoulder and rubbed the delicate back. Within seconds a tiny belch exploded against her ear. A fierce surge of protectiveness flooded through her. This was her daughter, her firstborn.

The door opened, and her servant stepped inside. “There is someone to see you, m’lady,” she said tentatively.

Mairi frowned. Anne was more friend than servant. It wasn’t like her to be so nervous. “Who is it?” she asked.

Anne looked down at her feet and shook her head. “I dare not say.”

“Very well.” Mairi’s eyes were the gray of tempered steel. “I shall refuse to see him.”

“Oh no, m’lady,” Anne gasped. “Please do not ask me to take back such a message.”

Mairi laid the sleeping baby beside her on the bed and tucked the blanket around her. The task took over a minute. Finally, she folded her hands across her flattened stomach and looked across the room at the cowering woman. “Close the door,” she said quietly.

Anne obeyed.

“Are you afraid of me, Anne?” Mairi asked gently.

Anne flushed, refusing to meet her mistress’s eyes. “No.”

“Are you afraid of my visitor?”

“Aye,” the woman admitted.

“Whom do you serve?”

“You, m’lady.”

Mairi inspected the fringe on her bedcover. “You are not serving me now. Perhaps I have been too lenient with you.”

Anne lifted miserable eyes to Mairi’s face. “Please do not turn me off, m’lady. I would serve you until I die, but this time I cannot. A higher authority commands me. I dare not disobey.”

Mairi was no longer listening. There were only two people in all of England with authority over Mairi of Shiels. “Thank you, Anne,” she said quietly. “You may tell the queen to come in.”

With a frightened moan, Anne curtseyed and disappeared behind the door.

Careful not to disturb the child, Mairi straightened her pillows. She did not want to face Edward’s wife lying flat on her back.

Eleanor did not keep her waiting. Before Mairi could begin to wonder at the reason for this unprecedented visit, the queen had already entered the room and closed the door behind her.

The two women took each other’s measure. They had never before engaged in conversation. Mairi waited for Eleanor to speak. “I come from the king’s estate in Nottingham to see the child,” she said at last.

Mairi gasped. “Why?”

“My own daughter did not live past a se’enight.”

Mairi’s heart ached for her. “I’m truly sorry, Your Grace.”

The queen glanced at her curiously. “I believe you mean that.” She walked over to the bed and looked down at Mairi’s daughter. A look of relief crossed her face. “It is just as I thought. She is all Edward.”

Mairi’s arm curled protectively around her child. “What do you want of me, Your Grace?”

Eleanor frowned. “Are your countrymen always so blunt, Mairi of Shiels, or is it only you who is lacking in manners?”

“My manners are my concern,” retorted Mairi. “Tell me the reason for your visit.”

The queen’s hands clenched into fists, but her tone remained unchanged. “I had hoped to strike a bargain with you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Be careful, Mairi. I can be a formidable enemy when I choose.”

Mairi nodded. “I’m sure you can, but there is still Edward.”

The queen smiled contemptuously. “Despite your years, you really are a child, my dear. Edward will tire of you. He is a man, after all. Where will your child be then when he has found someone younger and the sight of you is an embarrassment?”

It was a question Mairi had asked herself more than once. Bitter tears had wet her pillow for many a night when she learned that Eleanor was again with child. The queen had already given her lord three healthy sons. There was no excuse for Edward to return to his wife’s bed, no excuse except lust. Looking at her rival’s pale, gilt-colored beauty was like a knife thrust deep into Mairi’s heart. “What is the nature of your bargain?” she asked.

Eleanor pulled a stool close to the bed and sat down. “Your daughter is beautiful,” she began. “She should be a princess. I have only sons. Give me your daughter, Mairi, and return to Scotland. Wed with a man of your own race and give him sons and daughters of his line. I shall raise Edward’s daughter as my own. No one will know she is bastard born.”

Mairi’s face paled to the color of polished marble. “You would take my child?” she whispered. The horror of such a possibility had not yet become clear to her. “How could you manage such a deception? Everyone will know.”

Eleanor shook her head. “No one, not even Edward, knows of my child’s death. The midwife is discreet. She will tell no tales.”

“Dear God,” Mairi moaned. “You actually mean to do this.”

Leaning closer, Eleanor spoke clearly and carefully. “Think on it, Mairi. Your daughter will be raised in the royal house of England’s king. I shall betroth her to France or Spain. She will be a queen. What would she have with you but the shame of her birth? Where will she find a husband? Mark my words. Edward will not always be king. One day my son will reign.” She ran a gentle finger down the baby’s rose-petal cheek. “With me she will have everything.”

“What of love?” Mairi’s voice cracked with the memory of her own motherless years. “What of a mother’s love?”

Eleanor’s lip trembled. Her eyes were overly bright. Her gaze moved over the beautiful, thin-boned face of the woman her husband loved. “Never fear, Mairi of Shiels. She will have a mother’s love. I was prepared to take her even if she resembled you. It is almost as if God Himself had a hand in this. Why else would he give you a child who is the image of Edward?”

Mairi opened her mouth to speak, but Eleanor held up her hand. “Do not decide before you see Edward. He leaves for Falkirk within the week to fight the Wallace. I’m sure he will visit you before he undertakes the journey.”

Bile rose in Mairi’s throat. The news had shocked her into silence. William Wallace was the hope of Scotland, her country’s last desperate cry for independence. She stared at Eleanor with wide, accusing eyes.

Slowly Eleanor nodded. “You are not stupid after all,” she said. “There is no reward for you, Mairi, no matter who is the victor at Falkirk. Do not condemn your daughter to such a life.”

Mairi found her voice. “Edward will know. He has already seen the child.”

Eleanor laughed bitterly. Edward had not yet bothered to visit his legitimate daughter. “You little fool,” she whispered. “How innocent you are. Surely you know that Edward’s bastards litter the countryside. Tell him the child died. He’ll not recognize her when I return to London and present her as his legitimate daughter. Think carefully, Mairi. Timing is most important.” She took one last look at the baby before leaving the room.

“I’ll not do it,” whispered Mairi to the walls. “No matter that she is the queen. She cannot make me give up my daughter.” Leaning back against the pillows, she closed her eyes and thought.

If Edward died, she would return to Traquair and raise the bairn alone. No, that wouldn’t do. The daughter of Edward the Hammer would not be safe in Scotland. Why not remain here and live quietly on the estates Edward had given his daughter? Perhaps they would be safe there. Mairi’s heart sank as she thought it through. Eleanor would rule as regent. There would be no peace in England for her husband’s mistress. With growing desperation, Mairi discarded one flawed solution after another. Was there no help for her? Had she brought forth life only to have it taken away before it was truly hers? Of course, Edward might be victorious. He had never before known defeat. But for Mairi, the risk was too great. If he died in battle, her life and the life of her child would be forfeit. For three tormented hours, she wept and prayed and argued with herself. When, at last, she came to her decision, there was no more room for tears.

Tenderly, she picked up the bairn and cradled her against her heart. “You will have a good life,
m’eudail
,” she murmured, burying her face in the baby’s neck and inhaling the sweet milky smell of her. Slowly, so as not to wake her, Mairi lay the child across her lap and unwrapped the swaddling blanket. She was so small, so delicate. Lovingly, she caressed the tiny arms, the rounded belly, the dimpled knees. She worked her finger into the center of the tightly clenched fist. The child’s grip was strong. Mairi smiled. “You are a bonny lass, my love. Someday, perhaps when you are grown, our paths will cross again.”

There was a knock on the door. “Enter,” she called out.

Anne brought a tray of food. Mairi waved it away. “Bring me paper and ink,” she ordered. “I wish to send two messages, one to the king and the other to the queen.”

***

He found her on the knoll, watching the sunset, a slight, solitary figure outlined against the brilliant sky.

“I’m so sorry, lass.” Edward’s eyes were dark with misery. “I came as soon as I heard.” His large hands reached out to clasp her shoulders. “Sometimes it happens. There will be other bairns.”

“No, there will not.” Mairi’s voice was low and filled with something he had never heard before. “I am going home, Edward, to Traquair House. I can no longer live like this.”

“I’ve no objection to your visiting Traquair,” said Edward reasonably. “When this business with Wallace is over, I’ll join you.”

“It won’t be a visit. I wish to go home…permanently.”

Edward frowned. “Mairi,” he began and stopped. She was upset over the child. He would not cause her further pain. “You may go wherever you wish, my love,” he said gently. “But I ask you to wait until Wallace has been defeated. ’Tis too dangerous for a woman.”

She turned to face him, and he was shocked at the anger in her eyes. “I am a Scot, Edward. Have you forgotten that? How should I behave when you speak of skewering the hero of my country?”

“You know nothing of it. William Wallace is a traitor.”

“No, Your Grace. Wallace is a patriot. John Balliol was the traitor until he was convinced otherwise. You’ll not hold Wallace in your dungeon. He’ll die before he submits and half the clans in Scotland will die with him.”

Edward’s eyes were as cold and hard as splintered glass. “You are overset. I’ll not listen to this.” He turned to leave her.

Her words stopped him. “I leave on the morrow, Edward. Whatever was between us is over. David Murray rides with Wallace as do the Maxwells of Shiels and Traquair. My heart is with them.”

Slowly, he turned around and came toward her, his face a carved bronze mask beneath the winter-gold hair. One hand reached behind her neck, the blunt fingers tangling in her hair. The other closed over her throat, holding her immobile. He spoke through set teeth. “You are mine, Mairi of Shiels. No man will claim you but me.” His mouth was close to her own. “Tell me you no longer love me.”

She remained silent.

He laughed triumphantly. “You cannot lie, my love. There is no one else for you.”

“How fortunate that I do not demand the same from you, my lord.”

“Explain yourself,” he demanded.

Tears of shame prevented Mairi from answering.

All at once Edward understood. “I cannot ignore her completely, Mairi,” he said gently. “She is my wife. The insult would be too great.”

“I, too, wish to be a wife.”

Edward dropped his hands, shaken at the anguish in her plea. This was a Mairi he had never seen before. His Mairi was strong and proud, without the needs of ordinary women. “You ask for something I cannot give. God knows I would do it differently if I could begin again. Please believe that.”

Mairi lifted her head and looked directly at him. “I do believe you, Edward. But you must also believe me. At first light, I leave for Traquair. David Murray wishes to marry me. I’ve decided to accept him.”

Shock rendered him speechless. There were few men who would risk crossing words with Edward I of England. For a woman to set herself against him was unthinkable. He recognized the roaring in his ears. It was the sound that came to him with the first exhilarating rush into battle, when swords engaged and the raging blood lust against the enemy filled his soul with hate and fury.

His hands snaked out across the distance that separated them and caught both of her arms in a punishing grip. The rage in his heart consumed all rational thought. He stood over her, dominating her, bending her back over his arm. It no longer mattered that she’d given birth less than a week before. The memories disappeared, the nights they’d shared, the slow sweet burn of her touch, the softness of her lips, the heartbreaking glory of her smile, they were gone, replaced by a fever of red so complete and so dangerous that time and place meant nothing.

His hands closed around her throat. Mairi refused to close her eyes. “Kill me,” she whispered, “and be done with it. My life is worth little enough. End it now.”

He stared down at her face. Slowly, the rage receded. His fingers around her throat relaxed. “I shall kill you, Mairi.” His voice wasn’t entirely steady. “The day you climb into David Murray’s bed your fate is sealed.” Abruptly he released her and, without looking back, strode down the knoll.

Mairi walked back to her chamber on shaking legs. Anne’s gasp of horror confused her until she looked into the glass. Fiery red welts, the shape of fingers, marked her throat.

She touched the bruises. “Bring water and salve or else they’ll show purple in the morning.”

“But, my lady,” Anne protested, “who did this to you?”

Mairi ignored her. “I leave for Scotland on the morrow, Anne. Is there another in the castle you would willingly serve?”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Surely you will return.”