Chapter Fifteen

Light streamed through the glass window above, falling over the page where Tamsin sat at a writing table in Holyoak's narrow scriptorium off the abbey's small library. The rain ended but the gloom lingered, and even in daylight she needed golden candlelight spilling over the parchment. She tipped her head, hearing the bells ring. Noon already!

Last night, exhausted, she had slept deeply, emerging from her cottage at mid-morning when Brother Allan brought bacon and more watered ale, and proudly produced the key to the library lent him by Gideon. He unlocked the chain holding a shelf of books and left her there to read part of the French romance epic Huon de Bordeaux, after which she worked on her pages.

Opening the little box that Thomas had given her, the box she treasured, she brought out the little crystal ink pot that he had once said was a gift from the Queen of Faery. She had believed it as a child; now she guessed it might have been made by a glassmaker, perhaps even in faraway Venice. Glass crafted there was said to be near magical in its beauty. She would allow herself that much fancy. Smiling, she worked a little wax plug free and swirled the bottle. The bit of ink inside was still good, a bit thick. Picking up a small cup of water, she let a few drops drip from her finger, then stirred the ink with a little stick, items easily available in this small but well-organized scriptorium.

The ink was a thick black-brown mixture made from oak galls, iron crystals, and precious gum Arabic, which she had prepared herself. Those materials she had been forced to leave behind at Dalrinnie. She sighed, thinking of her little writing desk there, the perfect light, the quiet in that sunny upper room.

Then she took out a sheet of parchment, rolled and wrapped in a protective leather sleeve. She had last worked on the page at Dalrinnie. That seemed a long time ago, somehow—so much had happened since. Spooling it open, she weighed its corners with stones and smoothed it to begin the work.

The page was faintly lined and partially covered in her own handscript. She had been copying over more of Thomas's verses, and would use a little of her time here to add more to the neat page. The words she meticulously wrote were copied from Thomas's jumble of scraps, dozens of small bits of parchment, folded and creased, some of them with worried edges, letters faded and worn, not always legible. She rummaged in the box again to bring out a flat packet, opening it carefully to take out a curled scrap.

She strained to read it in candlelight. On the morrow, before noon, shall blow the greatest wind that ever was heard before in all Scotland, this one began.

Tamsin had copied this text earlier. The prophecy referred to the death of King Alexander years before—the fatal accident that had deprived Scotland of a king and had led to King Edward's fiery determination to dominate Scotland in lieu of a strong Scottish monarch.

Thomas had made many prophecies, some so obscure they made little sense. Line by line, page by page, she created multiple copies of his writings, multiple sets of the same pages, knowing how important it was to have more than one copy. He had entrusted the work to her and she would honor it.

Over a few years, she had created seven copies of pages she compiled from his own words, the brief and longer writings he had given her. Some she understood easily; some notes were barely legible and she had to guess. His handscript was spiky, hurried, often illegible. But she had come to realize that her life's work was to preserve what he had done. Just now, much of the work was locked in a chest at Dalrinnie.

Malise Comyn sat on a treasure trove of Thomas's writings and did not know it. And he must never find out, she told herself.

She would never give up those prophecies. No one knew for certain they existed but Tamsin. She had waited years—would wait longer—to reveal them.

The book that had gone to the bookseller, the book bound and finished with covers, was different. She had copied those pages too—a long epic poem that Thomas had written, an opus that seemed dear to his heart, for it was unlike his ballads or his prophetic verses. The story was a version of the ancient tale of two lovers, Tristan and Iseult, destined by their stars to find each other. But Iseult was married against her will to King Mark, who relentlessly pursued the lovers. The poem was beautifully told, the story poignant, heart-rending, and tragic. But it was not prophesy.

She had made a copy for her family and had given it to the Selkirk bookbinder to make something very special of it. Yet if King Edward got hold of the book, he would find only a love story that could crack even his old, barren heart. Each time Tamsin read the story, she wept for the lovers who ran from a bitter, angry king toward a tragic destiny. She had yearned for their happiness.

For an hour and more, she worked, copying scraps of verses and predictions that were familiar, for she had read them often in her great-grandfather's spiky handscript. Finally, she copied a line she had never quite understood. It was scrawled on a torn piece that did not seem part of his other writings. But it was lovely, and she was glad to include it.

Until luck returns…lady of gold…takes a harp…to hold…

A lady taking up a harp, her music bringing luck to someone. Whatever it meant, she loved the thought of a lady harper. Perhaps someday Liam Seton would show her how to play the harp strings—stop that, she told herself sternly. Likely the line was a scrap of a ballad; as a harper, Thomas had written many songs.

From a dish on the desk, she took a little pinch of sand and blew it gently over the letters to dry them. Setting Thomas's pages away, she decided to compose a quick letter to Henry on the chance that she could reach him by sending a messenger to Carlisle. Perhaps the abbot could help with that.

Though she had hoped to be off to Selkirk that day, she was grateful for the respite and time to work in the scriptorium. Nor could she overlook the good fortune that had brought her to Holyoak—a heaven-sent troupe of handsome warrior angels. She smiled at the thought.

Selkirk could wait a little longer. She could only hope Comyn would not find the bookbinder first. But if he found the pages hidden at Dalrinnie—all would be lost.

Sighing, she dipped a newly sharpened quill tip into the inkpot set in the desk. Brother Allan had produced a pot of fresh charcoal black ink. Though ink made from charcoal paste was thin and faded quickly, it was suitable for letter-writing.

In the silence, her pen scritch-scratched over the parchment sheet again. The letter might not reach Henry, but she had to try.

... I left Dalrinnie in the company of friends, she wrote. They say castles like Thornhill and Kincraig may be threatened, and I worry for our sisters and cousin. I will do my best to go to our sisters and to find you also. Send news of your wellbeing and where you are located, written in a note by your hand, to Holyoak by Saint Mary's Loch. The monks will hold the letter for me. I have an errand in Selkirk but hope to receive your reply—

With luck, Gideon could find a messenger to take the note southward, but she knew a reply might be a miracle. Shaping one letter, then another, making a word, a sentence, a page, she knew she must take her work, and each day, a step at a time.

Inside, her stomach fluttered. A feeling of being hunted, lost, had troubled her. Yet Liam Seton, surprisingly, had influenced that dread—she felt better, somehow, near him, and could not say why.

Truly he was in her thoughts too often; ice-blue eyes that saw into her soul even in ordinary moments; the deep, creamy voice that poured through her body; the height and strength of him, the sureness and presence. She felt drawn to him.

But she shook her head against it. Her concern must be her siblings and her promise to protect the Rhymer's legacy.

She blew sand over the damp ink and folded the letter, then took brown wax from her writing box to melt it in the candle flame and seal the letter. With a small oval brass seal, minutely engraved with the laurel branch of the Keiths and etched with her initials, T and K, she pressed it and set the letter aside.

Taking one more sheet of parchment torn from a larger piece, she smoothed it and began. That page was already prepared, too, ruled with faint lines to guide new text, with a block of space reserved for the rubric, a large initial to be added with fine red scrollwork. Perhaps she could ask for a little vermilion ink to make the initials herself.

For now, she wanted to record what she could remember of the words that had come to her in the rain the day before. At first it seemed a blur. Then it came back.

Fire in the oak, in fair Holyoak, men at the gates and the tolling of the bell...

She gasped as awareness dawned. Fire in the abbey and men attacking the gates could not be ignored. Somehow, she had to warn the monks.

They rode forhours patrolling the hills and the high road, seeing only sheep and goats on hills coated in thick mist, a shepherd with a dog, a farmer driving an ox cart filled with hay. Once, Liam and the others followed the sound of a loud, drunken song to discover an old man guiding a pony cart stacked with ale kegs, an oil lamp swinging from the bench like a star in the foggy firmament. Gilchrist waved him onward, advising him to head home and be quiet.

"Och, aye," the man said. "Soldiers about. Back that way."

Riding in the direction the man indicated, Liam and his brother and cousin traveled as day sank toward dusk. The rain was done but fog sat cupped between slopes near the crescent-shaped loch that hugged a stretch of the Yarrow Water. That route would lead back to the abbey, where the drunken man had insisted soldiers might be found.

Soon a cluster of knights crested the rim of a hill, helmets gleaming dull in the dim light. Two wore red-and-gold tunics and three held lion-emblazoned red shields like strokes of flame in the haze. Liam and his kinsmen cut across the moorland as the leader cantered toward them and raised a gauntleted hand. He was a swarthy man, bearded black, eyes dark, face framed by his chain mail coif.

Gilchrist lifted a hand in greeting. "Sir! What brings you this way?"

The man walked his horse closer. "I am Sir Patrick Siward, come out of Dalrinnie Castle. We are looking for a lady who left the custody of the commander of Dalrinnie. She may be in danger. You are king's men?"

"Aye, ordered to escort this fellow here." Gilchrist gestured toward Liam. "After that we may ride to Dalrinnie. Orders from De Valence."

"Aye then. Comyn would welcome more men at Dalrinnie should you go there. We saw you riding toward the abbey." Siward gestured toward Holyoak in the far distance beyond the loch. "Do you have business with the monks?"

"Not your concern, sir," Finley said.

"Some might disagree." He rested a hand on his dagger hilt. "What is your business there?"

"The abbot is my kinsman," Liam answered.

"And who are you?"

"Sir William Seton, acting as a royal messenger." He had been directed to take a book from the lady, after all. "We stopped at the abbey. My wife was weary and in need of rest." These knights were not the men who had gone to the tavern, but either way, his deliberate message—my wife—would reach Comyn. Either Sir Malise would look elsewhere or act on impulse and go after Liam, not Tamsin. He intended to be ready.

"We heard that king's men were escorting a married pair. But we are looking for a lady who ran away from Dalrinnie. She took something of Comyn's with her."

"She is a thief?" Gilchrist asked.

"She is the commander's betrothed. What she stole belongs to him, but he is more concerned about her safety."

Finley stepped his horse forward. "Who is this lady? What did she steal?"

"Lady Thomasina. Small, fair, if you should see her." Siward shrugged. "Whatever she took and whyever she fled, Comyn is in a fit over it. He thinks she may have gone to the abbey to beg sanctuary."

"No thieving runaway brides at the abbey," Gilchrist said. "You rode all day with no luck? Will you head back to Dalrinnie now?"

"Soon. Two or three patrols are looking. We will find her."

"Your commander sounds a taskmaster," Liam said.

"A lord and knight just doing what his king requires of him."

"A woman alone would be foolish to travel through this area. There are outlaws in the hills and the forest," Liam said.

"Outlaws? Say what you know." He kept a hand on the hilt. The soldiers on the ridge were well armed, Liam noted. He crossed his hands on the saddle pommel, silent, watchful.

"What we all know, sir. The forest is overrun with dangerous rebels," Gilchrist said. "None of us are keen to go there. Would you?"

"Not by choice," the man growled. "Very well. Since you know naught, we will move on. But you say you have king's orders? Who is the message meant for?"

"A private matter, confidential to the king." Liam reached into his surcoat to withdraw the king's order, letting the royal seal and ribbons flap before he put it back.

"Fine. Go on. Though we may stop at Holyoak in case the lady is there."

"Only one woman is there. And she is mine," Liam said. "Look elsewhere for your runaway. Most likely she headed north, not south, to avoid the king's troops."

"Possibly. Good night, sir." Siward gave a curt nod and turned to ride toward the men who waited on the misted ridge.

Liam turned to his kinsmen. "Get back to the abbey and secure the gates. I will watch to be sure they are gone." He rode slowly toward the hill as Comyn's men moved down the opposite slope. Waiting in shadows, he watched them depart.

Seeing the gathering clouds darken with more rain, he could not shake a growing sense of unease as he turned toward the abbey. Again he thought of Lady Tamsin's vision. He would be wise to heed it.

Shivering despite hercloak, Tamsin knelt on the stone floor of the chapel, hands pressed in prayer. A thin draft whispered past. Not long ago, hearing the vesper bells while in the library, she had seen a line of monks departing the chapel after their prayers. Troubled by the unknowns ahead of her—and still haunted by sultry kisses whose comfort she craved but was reluctant to admit—she walked to the empty chapel hoping for elusive serenity. Overhead, the sky was dusky and dreary. She glanced around, realizing she had not seen Liam Seton all day.

Whispering her prayers now, trying to focus, her thoughts veered again toward the man who stirred such longing and confusion in her. If Liam was following Edward's orders, she must be cautious.

Yet where he was concerned, she could not trust herself to tell good intent from bad, truth from lies, a genuine kiss from a false one. She sighed.

Behind her, the chapel door creaked open and shut and a dark hooded figure moved through candlelight. Brother Gideon knelt on the straw-scattered stone floor, crossed himself, and bent his head to his hands.

Tamsin turned away, running her fingers over the smooth paternoster beads in her hands. The wood and ivory prayer strand that she kept in the small pouch at her belt had belonged to her mother, its beads blessedly familiar as she soothed over them in silent plea. Help me know when to speak and when to keep silent, she prayed. Help me to protect the Rhymer's work and find my sisters and brother.

And please,she added fervently, help me to forget William Seton. And if I cannot, help me to understand who he is—and why he is so much on my mind.

Standing, she turned to go, passing the monk wrapped in his prayers. Dabbing her fingers in the shallow basin of holy water, she reached for the iron door latch.

"Allow me," Gideon murmured just behind her as he pulled the door open to allow her to precede him into the iron-gray twilight.

Drawing her cloak close, Tamsin paused. "Brother Gideon, please, a favor." Just that, though she wanted to ask about the Setons of Dalrinnie. More, she wanted desperately to confide her vision and warn him.

"What can I do for you?" A tall shadow under the black hood, he reminded her of his older brother again in appearance, and in that air of deep reserve that spoke of secrets, patience, and the habit of listening to troubles without sharing his own.

She reached into the pocket of her cloak for the folded letter. "I want this to reach my brother, Sir Henry Keith of Kincraig. But I am not sure where he is."

Gideon took the letter. "We can find a messenger for you. Where was he last?"

"Perhaps in Lanercost Abbey, where they say Edward is recovering from illness."

"Messengers come here regularly for Abbot Murdoch, and one may be here in the next few days. If your brother is there with the king, a messenger can try to find him."

"Thank you. And—if you please, I need to travel to Selkirk soon. Could I borrow a horse or cart in the morning?"

He shook his head. "That is unwise for a lady alone, and well you know it. The abbot would not approve it. I believe my brother intends to take you, but if he cannot, I could do so. Let us wait." Cool gray light edged his features as he looked down at her.

Nodding, disappointed, she took a chance. She trusted Gideon, who had been her friend for over two years. "Do you remember that I met a bookseller here at the abbey?"

"The fellow in Selkirk? Ah," he breathed. "You gave him a sheaf of parchments. Those were the Rhymer's pages, and not your own writings?"

"Aye." She wondered if his brother had told him what the king wanted. "That is why I need to get there. I need to get away from—your brother."

"He is no threat to you. We all want you to be safe. I know about Sir Malise and the book. And the marriage, my lady."

She nodded. "So he told you. I am sorry to bring my troubles here."

"My lady," he murmured, "we are invested in the troubles here at Holyoak."

"Do you mean the hospital?" She glanced toward the darkened building with the separate entrance, a separate world, in its way.

"More than that. We find ways here to—aid the cause, as it were. Keep that to yourself. As for my kinsmen, I swear upon the Rood, you can trust all of us."

"You are a friend. But your brother William has orders from the king concerning me."

"Liam is not one to blindly follow orders. If he pursues Edward's wishes, he has reasons of his own. Liam can help you best, I think."

"He confuses me, Gideon. Harper, outlaw, knight—loyal or disloyal?"

"He does what is necessary. As do we all." His thin smile held a touch of sadness, making her wonder if Gideon had done something that had hurt his soul. "Liam has your welfare in mind. Very much so, I think."

"I want to trust him, but—I need to know what is true and what is not."

"Truth means much to my brother."

"When he pretends to be one thing, then another?"

"Honesty is the best road to take with him. You know that better than most, I think, forthright as you are. For now, the monks are gathering in the rectory, and I must join them. I will ask Brother Allan to be sure to bring your supper."

"Aye, but—I have not seen your brothers or your cousin all day. I wondered if I had been left on my own without notice."

"They would never do that. They are riding patrol, making sure all is well, and will return soon. The abbot wants to speak with them before the hour of compline, when we practice silence at Holyoak."

"Ah. Of course. I will be quiet then, too. What if they meet trouble out there? There are only the three." Comyn's men might be looking for her and could accost Liam and the others. She frowned, distressed.

"If they are not back by midnight, I will ride out myself to look for them."

"You care about your kinsmen very much."

"I do." He bowed his head a little and turned.

"Gideon," she said. He turned back with a questioning look. "Sometimes," she said tentatively, "sometimes I have—a sense of foreboding. I know things—that have come to be."

He tipped his head. "The Sight? I cannot say it surprises me."

She wondered if Liam Seton had said something. "You know?"

"You are True Thomas's kin." He smiled, patient and kind, and waited.

"I—had a sort of dream," she said, hesitant to admit to a vision here in this holy place. "That the abbey was attacked. That it was on fire."

Gideon studied her, thoughtful. "Tamsin, my friend," he said quietly, "thank you for telling me. I will make sure we are careful. Does Liam know?"

How curious he would ask. She nodded silently.

"Then he will be watching too. He thinks much of you." He nodded, turned toward the rectory.

A little sob filled her throat at his words. Thinks much of you. In better circumstances, she would cherish such words and feel hopeful. Walking back to the cottage, she glanced at the gate, sealed against the outside world. She felt the chill kiss of a breeze and the call of night birds, but heard no thud of horse hooves, no men's voices. Liam Seton and his kinsmen rode out because she was inside Holyoak. They willingly put themselves at risk because of her—and to protect their own.

Inside the cottage, she lit a candle against the gloom and went to the window. Dread turned inside her. She desperately wanted to see Liam ride through the gate, whole and hearty, with his kinsmen.

But she must leave Holyoak soon. Her presence here brought danger to those she cared about.