Page 54 of The Scottish Bride
Leaving the gate and palisade behind, he thought of Lady Tamsin’s odd episode, a vision, she had called it, of fire at the abbey. Such things happened too easily with hearths and candle flames a common necessity, but the monks were cautious. Yet she had mentioned men at the gate, as if in attack. Puzzling though they were, her words stayed on his mind.
Heading over empty moorland in misted moonlight, he saw no one about. Peace ruled, at least for now.
Chapter Fifteen
Light streamed throughthe 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 epicHuon 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 tornpiece 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 yourhand, 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.
