Page 89 of The Forest Bride
Forest bride, Thomas had said. She remembered dreaming years ago of Duncan as a grown knight, herself as a lady. Just the old hopes returning.
Yet the rest was new, clear and swift images. Something had changed. The visions seemed to be more often, even using the little faery stones from the waterfall’s pool.
Looking through the stone again, she saw a rainy sky, a dreary hill. Just that. An inconstant gift—but a gift. She caught her breath, grateful, hopeful, a little alarmed.
She set her hand to the pendant at her throat, always there and sometimes forgotten, its small pinkish crystal cool to her fingers, quickly warming. She remembered Thomas’s words.Where thou will it, the arrow will fly.
Did he mean the pendant would help her direct an arrow? That seemed absurd. She simply had a good eye and a knack for hitting targets. Yet Duncan had once pointed out her habit of touching the pendant before she shot the bow. She had thought she did it for luck.
Then she took in a breath, struck by a thought. The day she shot Menteith accidentally, she had desperately wished something would delay the man from leaving the area if he had Lilias. Soon after, she had taken her shot, touching her pendant first for luck. But the arrow had not gone straight and true as she expected.
It had curved to hit Menteith, almost as if it had will of its own.Where thou will it, the arrow will fly.
A knock sounded at the door. She jumped.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Margaret stood hastily,smoothing her skirts, and dropped the stone back into the bowl. Opening the door, she saw Effie and Agatha waiting there.
“My lady!” Effie was holding two folded woolen blankets. “We are short of beds and rooms just now, so I was hoping you might be willing to share your chamber with Dame Agatha.”
“Of course! Come in.” She stepped back.
“Thank you, Margaret,” Agatha murmured. “Effie, let me take those.” She reached out for the blankets.
“My lady, and Dame Prioress, thank you. I must get back to the kitchen with meals to prepare and such.”
“I can come help you soon,” Margaret said.
“Och, you have kin and friends here. Enjoy your time with them.” She smiled and stepped away. Closing the door, Margaret turned to Agatha with a smile.
“The bed is small but comfortable enough and will hold two of us, or I can sleep on the floor if you like. I was just napping a bit when you came, and—reading a book of prayers.” The dream and the visions in the stone had left her feeling still a bit dazed.
“This? What a lovely wee book.” Agatha picked up the book on the table.
“Please sit. It is so nice to have you here.” Margaret poured watered ale into two cups and handed one to her friend. Even in the simple nun’s habit of dark gray wool and a white veil, Agatha Seton was lovely. The white woolen veil wrapped over her headand under the chin, topped by a black veil that draped over her back. Under the veils, Margaret knew Agatha’s dark, curly hair would be cropped short. The stark black and white framed her delicate face and large hazel eyes lashed in black beneath black, expressive brows. Her skin was cream and rose, touched with a dimple on one side of her mouth.
Years ago, Margaret had ceased to notice the puckered scar that carved through the left eyebrow and down to tuck in one corner of her smile and dent her chin a little. It was a mark of courage and strength that added depth to her beauty and gentle character.
“I am so relieved to find you well and safe—and with Duncan Campbell!” Agatha said. “I insisted on traveling with Liam when he visited Lincluden and told me your escort had gone missing and that he and Henry were off to find out what happened. And to be honest, I needed a reason to leave the abbey for a while and get back out into the world. Sometimes it can be helpful.”
Margaret tipped her head. “Are you still troubled by the incident months ago?” She remembered her sister Tamsin describing the nun’s encounter with a former suitor.
Agatha shook her head. “Not that. But something is on my mind. I am thinking of leaving the order.”
“Have you made a decision?” Margaret’s heart leapt at the word; she had come to a decision of her own just that day.
“Nearly. The angels have provided me a little help, for Bishop Murray is here, and I asked him if he would talk with me later. I would like his advice. Perhaps his blessing.”
“The bishop is here just when you need counsel—sometimes heaven works diligently on our behalf. Not always,” she laughed. “There are always trials and troubles to face.”
“And face them we have, my friend, both of us. Look at you here, how many years later, with Duncan Campbell, the one who broke your heart in a thousand pieces. And you thought himdead, and made the poor man all but Saint George himself. No one could say anything against him, and no other man would compare.”
“No one could. Finding him alive after all—has given me much to think about.”
“Very much alive, apparently.” The sparkle in Agatha’s eyes did not belong to a prioress. “I have seen the way you look at him, and how he returns it.”
“What do you mean?”
