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Prologue
Mortain Castle, Scottish Borders, 1472
“Lady Eleanor is here, from Duncleit.”
Roselyn shot her mother a glance but did not answer. There was no need, they both understood clearly enough the implications. Lady Margaret, mistress of Mortain Castle, was dying.
“I wonder how long Lady Eleanor will be staying? Until the end, I daresay…”
Roselyn reached for her mother’s slender hand. Even at just ten summers the child well understood her mama’s sadness at the imminent loss of her lifelong friend. Roselyn, too, would miss the gentle lady with the ready smile and fondness for sweetmeats which she would distribute freely to her smaller guests.
“Shall we see her?” Roselyn harboured mixed feelings on this. Lady Margaret bore little resemblance of late to the gracious chatelaine who used to stride through her domain with such confidence, such quiet authority. Her illness had taken hold swiftly and her descent had been rapid. She had plummeted from rude health to become the shell of a woman who now lay still and fragile in the great master chamber.
The entire episode had terrified Roselyn. Lady Margaret’s rapid decline undermined the child’s previously unshaken belief in the immortality of herself and those around her. Even the death of her own father just two years earlier had not affected Roselyn so deeply, though of course he had been a virtual stranger to his tiny daughter.
Her mother offered her a wan smile. “You may remain downstairs in the hall if you wish. I expect Joan will be here with her mother and she will no doubt be pleased to see you.”
Roselyn hoped so, though she did not share her mother’s certainty. In truth, she barely knew Joan McGregor, daughter of Lady Eleanor. The two girls saw each other rarely since Joan’s home lay far away to the north, in the Highlands of Scotland. Even when Joan did visit Mortain and their paths might cross, Roselyn found it near enough impossible to decipher the other girl’s pronounced Highland brogue. Despite this it would be pleasant, she supposed, to spend time with her, though on balance she wished to say her farewells to Lady Margaret also.
“May I come to Lady Margaret’s chamber with you? Just for a few moments?”
“Of course. You may remain as long as you wish. I believe that I might stay until… Until…”
Lady Eleanor did not finish. There was no need.
“I am glad ye’re here. ‘Tis so gloomy, everyone so sad…”
Roselyn regarded her occasional friend with some surprise. How could Joan expect the mood at Mortain to be otherwise when all here loved the lady who was not expected to survive the night? “I know, but…”
She abandoned her admonition when she saw the tears clouding Joan’s eyes.
“She was always kind tae me.” Joan made no attempt now to conceal her grief. “I shall miss her so,” she sobbed. “I had always imagined that she would be here when… when I…”
“What? When you what?” Roselyn took a fortifying nibble of the dried apple which the Mortain cook had slipped into her hand as the pair scuttled through her kitchen on the way to the rear stairs that led down into the storerooms below. She considered offering a bite to Joan but decided against it and instead wrapped her friend in her small embrace and held her whilst she cried. Only when Joan quieted, her sobs now reduced to hiccupping gulps, did Roselyn resume her questioning.
“When you what, Joan? When did you expect Lady Margaret to be here?”
“When I come tae live i’ this keep. Forever.”
Had she heard correctly? Roselyn was never quite certain with these Scots and their strange form of speech. “You will live here? At Mortain? Why?”
Her friend lifted her chin and adopted a haughty, superior air, her efforts somewhat undermined by her continued gentle weeping. “Why, when I am wed to Edmund, o’ course.”
“To Edmund?” Roselyn gawked, her jaw dropping. Edmund was heir to Mortain, the son of Lady Margaret and her husband, Archibald, the laird. “But you cannot marry Edmund. He is old.”
“He is but a few years older than I,” countered the other girl defensively. “And we shall nae be wed for several years yet. Eight years, in fact, when I am nineteen years old. ‘Twill be a long wait, but my father insists upon it.”
Roselyn considered this news in slack-jawed horror. “You should be thankful for the wait. Surely you cannot wish to marry. It is… It will be…” Roselyn was not entirely certain what marriage would be, but she had no doubt that it was not a state to which any sane female should aspire.
“All women must wed. ‘Tis our duty.”
“I know, but… are you not afraid? You will have babies, and… and…” The precise details escaped Roselyn, but she was convinced that the matter was dire indeed. Babies were a dangerous business for women.
“Edmund is kind tae me. I shall be happy. I ken that I shall.”
Roselyn had no desire to quash the other girl’s optimism though she considered it to be misplaced. Her own experience of the married state was sparse, she would readily acknowledge that, limited to just her own parents whose union was both distant and cold. She harboured the most profound of doubts regarding Joan’s future, but could not find it in herself to dampen her friend’s apparent enthusiasm, especially not on such a dark day.
“We shall be neighbours, after I am wed. Ye must visit here regularly. It will be so good tae have a friend here i’ the borders, especially wi’ Lady Margaret gone.”
