The Devil of Jedburgh (37 page)

She wasn’t going anywhere, not with Arran’s babe in her belly. Still, she decided the full truth wouldn’t hurt. “Janet followed you to Ferniehirst after that day we visited her cottage. If she does leave, it’s because you never bothered to ask her to stay.”

Broderick’s head snapped forward and stayed there until he reached the iron gate built into the perimeter wall. He dismounted and came to assist her. “The abbot will want to know how long you plan to visit.”

“I was under the impression there is a convent attached to the abbey.” How much had Allison Crawley invented in her head?

“A small cloister of sisters,” Broderick confirmed, indicating to a narrow path that disappeared around a bend in the stone wall. “They have their own grounds and a separate entrance. The accommodations are unsuitable for guests.”

Breghan had only intended to get answers, but now the prospect of lingering awhile was a balm to her frittered nerves. She needed the calm and tranquillity and Arran needed time. He would know where to find her when he was ready. “I’ll be content with a straw bed on the floor.”

Broderick gave her a hard stare, the kind of stare reserved for someone who was being purposely difficult. “The sisters keep only two donkeys and have no stables for your mare.”

“Then take Angel back with you.” She handed over the reins with a terse smile.

The glint in his stare melted. “Jesu, you intend to join the sisterhood?”

“No,” she assured him softly, “I want far too much from life.”

He stared a moment longer, then released a heavy breath and went to tie both horses to a nearby tree. “I intend to inform the laird of your whereabouts the minute I return.”

“I’m aware of that.”

He took her by the arm and led her along the path, pushing brambles out of her way and steadying her when she stepped awkwardly on an exposed root. “Arran will come after you, he’ll never keep away.”

“I hope so too.” She glanced up at him, smiled when she found his frowning gaze on her. She doubted this was the start of a long-lasting friendship, but she was grateful for an arm to lean on right now, even if it belonged to Broderick.

The convent entrance was an arched wooden door. Broderick tugged on the weathered rope and a short while later a trepid voice asked their direction.

“The Laird of Ferniehirst’s wife seeks shelter,” was all Broderick needed to say to get the bolts rapidly sliding back.

Breghan raised a brow at him. “Is there no place where the Devil of Jedburgh doesn’t strike fear in every heart?”

“’Tis no fear of Arran that gains you entry today,” he said. “The abbey depends on the protection Ferniehirst provides against the more fanatical followers of Knox who are hell-bent on razing every Catholic institution to the ground.”

The irony wasn’t lost on her as she said a quick farewell to Broderick and slipped inside the walled garden. The only part of the nun not covered in black robes was her face, but her blue eyes held traces of soft humour and her smile was kind. She asked no probing questions, although she did comment in a lilting voice, “You brought no belongings.”

“I—I didn’t expect to be here long.” She hadn’t even brought a cloak with her. “I’m afraid I didn’t plan very well.”

“Few who come to us ever do,” the woman said in her kind, smiling voice. “I am Sister Mary.”

They’d passed through a low door and down two roughly hewn steps into a dimly lit hall, but Breghan didn’t need a closer look. The Mary she sought would be at least middle-aged, if she were still here at all. The room was long and only wide enough for a single row of trestle tables along one side. Five black-robed nuns were seated at one table, heads bowed and fingers busily at work on the large tapestry between them. As she walked by, they glanced up, only for a moment before lowering their eyes again. The silence was like a tangible voice, ordering her to quieten even the soft tread of her slippers on stone.

Once they were in the short passage beyond the hall, Sister Mary said, “We’re a small, informal order and don’t have a Mother Superior. Sister Agatha is in charge and I will inform her of your presence as soon as she’s finished with her prayers.” She opened a door leading into a communal bed chamber. “Our queen visits often at the abbey, you would be far more comfortable there. Sister Agatha could arrange accommodations, if you wish.”

Breghan thanked her but declined. “In truth, I’m looking for a woman by the name of Mary who might be here.”

“We have five Sister Marys,” she said with a warm smile.

“This Mary would have first come here ten or so years ago. Oh, and she was a midwife.”

“Ah, you must mean Mary from the infirmary.” Sister Mary put her hands together, nodding. “I don’t know how long she has been here, long before I joined. Mary isn’t a sister, she has never taken her vows, but she lives here as one of us.” She turned to go, saying, “I’ll let her know you wish to speak with her.”

Breghan sank down onto the closest pallet, suddenly light-headed and boneless. As if the onslaught of the day’s emotions had steadily been grinding away at her body and now, finally, there was nothing left. She sat, taking shallow breaths and watching the play of light on a ray of sunshine beaming in through the only window in the room, until a faint click jerked her gaze to the door.

The woman who entered clearly wasn’t a harbinger of good tidings. Her face was sharp, deeply haggard, her brown eyes narrowed with a permanent scowl line buried between them. Her silver hair was bound into a tight braid that fell to her waist. She wasted no time on greetings. “So, you are married to Arran Kerr.”

“We are handfasted.” Breghan pushed to her feet on unsteady legs, her hands resting protectively on the slight swell of her belly. “I am with child.”

If at all possible, the woman’s severe expression tightened. “I trust the laird is pleased.”

“Arran is distraught,” Breghan said, fortified with a rush of anger that this woman, this stranger who knew Arran’s darkest secrets, might think otherwise. “Do you recall that night at Ferniehirst when Elizabeth died in childbirth?” The woman looked at her in silence for so long, Breghan was at once unsure. “You are the midwife Mary who attended at Ferniehirst that night, aren’t you?”

“I’ve spent ten years trying to forget,” Mary said at last.

“Please, I need to know. Tell me everything about Elizabeth, everything that happened.”

“There are times when the past is best left behind.”

“This particular past is bleeding into the present.” Breghan walked up to her, pleading, “Arran told me I’m condemned by his hand. Do you understand? He honestly believes I’m already dead by mere fact of being with child.” Her breath thinned out and her voice went hoarse. “He said I’d made a murderer out of him again and I need to know why.”

“Dear Lord in heaven.” Mary sank to the floor, her face ashen. “I never imagined he’d still be carrying this burden.” She shook her head on a deep breath. “She’d been in labour for two days before I was called in. Arran hadn’t even known she was pregnant with his child.”

Breghan went down on the cold stone before her. “She never told him?”

“Elizabeth served in a tavern in town. Arran was just about seventeen then, heir to Ferniehirst. I would imagine she was scared, assumed no help would be forthcoming, tried to hide her pregnancy as long as possible…” Mary gave a small shrug. “By the time she grew desperate enough, the old laird and Arran were away, first on border patrol and then up to spend some months at court in Edinburgh.”

“Was she a—” Breghan couldn’t say the word. She’d sat by Elizabeth’s grave, her heart had reached out to the dead mother and child. Whatever else Elizabeth might have been paled in comparison. “You do think it was Arran’s babe?”

“I believe Elizabeth kept herself to herself. Serving lasses who serve more than ale and whiskey quickly earn a reputation,” Mary answered. “The old laird was overcome with joy and Arran, though in some daze from everything that was happening, never once questioned Elizabeth or denied her claim.”

Mary went on to tell of how Elizabeth had slowly faded away with each passing day, of how Arran sat by her side through the screams and the slow loss of her life’s blood from her tortured body. She grew silent for many minutes, the pulled out of her story to say, “My father often travelled to France to further his studies in medicine. After one such trip, he described how he’d worked alongside a surgeon who’d cut a baby from the mother’s womb and both had lived. The same procedure, he told me, used to separate mother and child after death so they may be laid each in their own grave.”

A sheet of ice spread over Breghan’s skin, from head to toe like an incoming tide. “You did cut the babe from Elizabeth’s belly.”

“Elizabeth had been falling in and out of consciousness for days, delirious with fever.” Mary wrung her hands together, her voice hoarse. “I explained to Arran that the baby was too big, Elizabeth’s body too small and fragile to push the babe out. There was naught to do but try and save the babe. She was so close to dead, I thought she already was… She came to, screaming as I sliced through her womb. I shoved the baby in his arms so I could take care of Elizabeth, but that scream was her last… Arran froze stiff in shock. Then the door burst open and he lost his mind, shouting curses about women and the devil.”

“He was only seventeen,” Breghan whispered, her heart tearing open at the seams. “How could you do that to him?”

“The birthing cord was wrapped around the babe’s throat, had probably been so for days… All hope was already lost. I was desperate to save at least one life in that room.”

“All these years he’s lived with that.” Her voice shook, her throat raw with unshed tears. “All this time, all that pain, tortured with the picture of his baby needing to be ripped out of the womb. You ran away, fled to the safety of the abbey.” She looked at Mary, unable to draw upon a single thread of sympathy for the woman’s ashen face. “You should have stayed to explain to him, again and again until he understood. How could you do that to him? How—how could you…? He was just a boy.”

She tried to stand, couldn’t, had to crawl to the pallet where she curled up into a ball and wrapped her arms around her stomach. She lay there, shivering, her mind blanked with the horror of what Mary had done, her heart weeping for Arran.

Chapter Twenty-Three

A full two days passed before Arran came.

Breghan was taken through terraced gardens flown with summer colours to the highest level by one of the Augustinian monks, who left her at the door to the abbey church. Above the full length of the centre aisle, an arch of lead windows filtered in the daylight to warm the sandstone walls. As if sensing her presence, Arran turned, rising slowly from his pew in front of the choir circle to watch her approach.

His jaw was covered with two days of beard, his eyes sunken deep in their sockets. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept, eaten or had a sane minute in days. His Kerr plaid and fine linen shirt did nothing to tame the wild beast riding just beneath the surface. The grim line of his mouth didn’t soften as she drew close. “You are well and safe, in spite of my abhorrent behaviour. Forgive me, Breghan.” His voice was a thick burr, his gaze dark and searching. “I canna expect your forgiveness, but I’ll ask nevertheless. Forgive me.”

She wanted to throw herself into his arms. He held his shoulders so rigid, his arms so firmly crossed over his chest, she curled her fingers into tight fists at her side instead. She wanted to cry out that there was nothing to forgive, but that wasn’t the redemption he sought. She wanted to tell him she’d spoken to Mary, that she knew and understood everything now, but the anguish buried deep inside him wouldn’t be dug out with words.

She uncurled her fists and spread her fingers over her belly, deliberately drawing his attention there as she spoke, her voice firm, her conviction strong enough to protect all three of them. “I’m not going to die.”

His eyes came up, filled with tears that refused to fall. His jaw moved a few times, struggling with the words, before he could say, “You are not going to die. I willna allow it.”

Breghan released a long, weightless sigh. Her gaze landed on the pew and the lumpy parcel wrapped and bound in thin leather.

“I wanted you to have some of your belongings around you,” Arran said. “Janet helped me pack.”

“So, you didn’t come here hell-bent on strapping me to your horse and dragging me home?” she asked with a smile.

“Bree…” He started to shrug, then shook his head on the ghost of a grin instead. “Not back to Ferniehirst, no, but I would have dragged you into this church if you hadn’t come willingly.” He closed the distance between them in two strides and pulled her into his arms. One hand slid beneath her hair to cradle the back of her head and the other settled at the small of her back. Holding her to him, his head bowed over hers, his heart thudding against her cheek. “The priest is on his way, darling, our child willna be born a bastard.”

Not
our child willna die a bastard.
Hope swelled in her heart and spilled from her lips as a soft, gurgling laugh against his chest.

Three months later, Breghan was far too testy to remember that warm, cosy joy. “When he said he wouldn’t allow me to die,” she told Janet crossly, “he actually meant he wouldn’t allow me to walk, eat, talk or breathe.”

Janet raised a brow at her from where she stood by the window.

“He’s suffocating me,” she complained.

“He’s worried.”

“Last night he carried me to bed and then pulled a chair up so he could keep watch while I slept.”

“He’s mad,” giggled Janet. She turned back to look outside with a sigh. “They all are.”

“What’s he done now?”

“He’s building us a home.”

“He’s what?” Breghan moved to the window and peered over her shoulder. Broderick was bent over double, knee-deep in a trench he was digging along the East perimeter wall.

“First he insisted we be betrothed for three months, which I accepted. Now he says we can’t get married until we have a place to live.”

“Well, it won’t take him that long to build a cottage, will it?”