The Fire in the Flint (39 page)

‘I am fine.’

‘Your eyes disagree.’

While Ada disappeared into the kitchen, Celia exchanged pleasantries with the woman’s niece and admired the healthy baby.

‘I pray she grows up in a peaceful world,’ said the young mother. ‘It is difficult to hope, but sinful to despair, so says my mother.’

‘And what does your aunt say?’

The niece smiled shyly. ‘That I must teach her to be strong and able to fend for herself.’

‘You have a most wise aunt,’ said Celia. ‘For I’ve seen no great outpouring of Christian charity of late.’

‘Amen,’ said Ada from the doorway. She preceded a maid who carried a tray of cups to a small table and set a pair of cushioned chairs on either side.

Celia eased into the chair with a sigh of pleasure. Two chairs – and cushions. Dame Ada’s lover must have been a great lord.

‘Come now,’ said the hostess, ‘sit and sip your mistress’s favourite tisane while I tell you of Dame Christiana’s most unfortunate vision. Knowing her as long as I have, I pray for her, for I know she meant no harm.’

When Ada had recounted the deed for which the English soldiers were grateful, Celia sat with her hands in her lap, her head hanging, and prayed for her mistress, that she would hear of this from a friend who might soften the blow, and that God would protect her from her family’s diabolical selfishness.

Having guessed the identity of the friar at the door, Malcolm had no doubt that Maggie, wherever she had been, was headed for Wallace’s camp north of the town, and he was not about to betray his daughter to his unsatisfactory son-in-law. Sinclair had left it late to worry about his wife’s safety. Malcolm must think of a distraction, something to waste their time until Maggie returned. If she did so.

Roger stood at the street door staring out into the sunny afternoon.

Aylmer sat near Malcolm, drinking watered wine and in general behaving like no servant a man would tolerate. ‘I heard a whispering on Northgate as I waited without Dame Ada’s house,’ he said. ‘Your good wife, Dame Christiana, warned the English of Wallace’s watchers on the cliffs above the Tay. Kinnoull Hill?’ He shook his head, uncertain of the name.

Roger drew closer. ‘Were our countrymen caught?’

Aylmer nodded. ‘So they were saying.’

‘Are you certain you heard aright?’ Malcolm asked. ‘There are other women with the name Christiana in the town.’

‘Not with the Sight,’ said Roger. ‘That damned woman.’

Malcolm felt ill. He’d always felt so when hearing of Christiana’s misspeaking, but this … ‘I’ll not have you cursing my wife,’ he said, though his heart was not in the words. ‘By the Rood, it is that prioress, Agnes de Arroch, who has ruined her, I’m sure of it. That bitch thinks only of the wealth and renown pilgrims will bring to Elcho.’

‘Her own kinsmen guard the priory from the English,’ Roger said. ‘I do not think Prioress Agnes would encourage Christiana to support the invaders.’

‘She would if she saw profit in it,’ Malcolm growled. But Aylmer had given him an idea. ‘No doubt Maggie’s heard the rumour and has gone to learn the truth of it,’ he said. ‘Oh, Christ, my foolish wife may have bought our family’s safety with those men’s lives. But Maggie will never forgive her.’ An idea was dawning even as he spoke. If Christiana had been coerced into something so cruel by her prioress, she might be ready to abandon her cloister. ‘We must go to her. Maggie will be there, I’m certain of it.’

Roger looked incredulous. ‘Walk through the English saying sweetly that we’re kinsmen to their visionary?’

‘We’ll go in the dark,’ Malcolm said. ‘So I’ve done many a time.’

Christiana could not warm her hands though she curled them around a warm cup of mulled wine. And yet her face felt as if it were on fire. Marion assured her that her forehead was quite cool to the touch and wrapped her in a plaid. Still Christiana shivered and her face burned.

‘You are so shrouded in plaid on this summer day?’ Dame Bethag exclaimed upon seeing her. ‘Are you unwell, Dame Christiana?’

‘My soul is encased in ice, Dame Bethag. I must confess to you.’

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.

20

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.’