The Long Road

Margarete tossed and turned through the worst night she had known since her mother's death. Her grand scheme had collapsed, fallen in on itself like a child's sand castle. The thought of Lise leaving her side brought breathless panic. In her unfamiliar bed, she shook with fear. A few tears escaped her burning eyes, but she was too distressed to find relief thus. In desperation, she tried to recite the rosary, but even that solace was inaccessible. Finally, she merely continued to repeat in her fevered mind, "Lady, please take this feeling away," over and over again until light finally crept into the hut and she could rise.

At Glasgow, they found refuge in the guest house of an abbey. Falling into the blessedly clean bed, Margarete wondered bleakly how much longer travelers would be able to rely on such comfortable accommodations in religious houses if the reformers had their way.

She was weak and exhausted. Her apatite had flagged badly since the night Lise had declared her intention to leave her. Margarete slept the sleep of exhaustion each night, but woke to a thrill of panic in her belly, and found only minimal relief in movement and prayer.

As they reached Ayre at the western sea coast and turned southwest on the last leg of their journey, all noted the change in climate. Since they had begun to follow the River Clyde, the weather had moderated, growing gradually warmer. As they moved southward, Margarete noted the change in landscape also. The flora grew more lush, softer, more evocative of southern climes. The warmer, softer air was a comfort, almost familiar.

Privately, for they no longer spoke to one another, Margarete and Lise each longed for the very different sea that they'd known in France. Each went through the motions of the days, moved only by dogged determination to complete the journey.

They were not far out of Ayre. As per her custom, Margarete rode near the head of the single file of riders and pack animals. She and Owen had given up trading tunes or telling stories to pass the time. Conversation was sparse, and the only sounds were those made by their animals, and by the occasional stream, or chirping bird. Suddenly, shockingly, came a sound which Margarete could not identify. It was a piercing yet ragged cry which she first took to be that of a wounded animal. As they drew closer to it however, she realized that it came from a human infant. Urging her horse faster, she was the first to perceive its source. A little to the side of the trail rested three people, and a more pitiful and bedraggled group Margarete had never beheld.

The infant was clasped in the arms of a filthy, nearly emaciated young woman in dirty, threadbare clothing. Margarete could see at a glance that the woman sought to nurse her babe, but that she had no milk to give. Seated a few feat away and not looking at them was an equally thin and warn looking man. Young too, Margarete thought that, even in good health, the man would be slight and far from robust. Now, his face wore an expression of such weariness and defeat that Margarete could scarcely bare to look at him, lest the mirror of her own state undo her composure entirely.

Neither the man nor the woman showed surprise or alarm at their approach. The eyes they raised slowly were hollow and resigned. It seemed to Margarete that they were so warn down by hunger and despair that they would have heeded very little.

Obvious questions presented themselves, but the infant's cries superseded all for Margarete. She knelt on the ground beside the woman and peered into its pallid face.

"I haena milk for him," the woman said the note of pain in her voice belying the near vacancy of her eyes.

Margarete gazed at the infant, aching to do something, but at a loss to know what. In desperation, she looked up at Owen who had dismounted behind her, but he gazed back blankly.

Margarete ordered food brought and while they ate, she said "Perhaps with good food, "Your milk will come again. Have you been long without it?"

"Nae, but I dinna ken where we'll find good food after ye depart."

Margarete did not know what to say to this simple statement, so, instead, asked the questions she had earlier suppressed.

"How came you to be in such a state? Have you no one from whom to seek aid?"

In simple words and short sentences, the woman told them.

She came from a small village outside Glasgow. When she came to be with child by a man who could not wed her, her father cast her from their home. He was an influential man in the village, and so no other there would give her charity. She sought refuge in the nearest priory.

She had been taken in by the sisters there, and when her time came, they helped her, being not inexperienced in such matters, and took her babe as a foundling. Moved by their generosity, and having no where else to go, the woman had sought instruction in the religious life, thinking to make a place for herself and her infant. Unfortunately for her, the great tide of change reached even her remote refuge.

The Kirk had been denuded of all Popish ornament, and the inhabitants of the priory turned out to make what way they could in the secular world. Most had had family or connections elsewhere, and had taken their various paths. Lost and without hope, she had befriended the young man who now accompanied her.

As with herself, the refuge he had thought to find in the religious life had been snatched out from under him by the great changes sweeping the country. He too was estranged from his family, (for reasons which were not immediately apparent,) and had nowhere to go. Though patently ill equipped to do so, he had tried bravely to take the woman and her babe under his protection.

They had agreed to travel together posing as husband and wife. Scraping together their meager resources, they had purposed to travel to the sea coast, and take passage to Ireland, where they hoped to find sanctuary in the religious houses of a country whose loyalty to Rome would not waver. The guileless young man had bargained for their passage, and given all of their money to an unscrupulous harbor-dweller. When they went to the pre-arranged place to board his vessel, they discovered his duplicity. He was gone, with all their pitiful resources. With no other idea for their future, they had begun walking towards Whithorn. Not knowing what else to do, they had decided to entrust themselves to God, and the saints who were revered at the renowned pilgrimage site.

A long silence followed this tragic tale. Margarete's eyes were round with pity and dismay.

"We've nae had food for so long that I could walk nae further," the woman finished simply. "Wee Robert was fretting so! We stopped here and I tried to feed him, but I had nae milk left."

The woman, whose name was Anne, let her eyes rest on her sleeping child, and was silent. Margarete's gaze drifted to Kenneth, the man who had been posing as Anne's husband and Colin's father. His expression was defeated. Margarete knew a private disapproval that he had been unable to provide for this vulnerable woman and her child, but pity kept this feeling from showing on her face. Indeed, as she looked from one to another of this sorry group, it seemed to her that they were all children. The man and woman were very young, and looked wholly unequal to caring for themselves, to say nothing of a baby.

Kneeling there in the dirt and leaves, Margarete was suddenly conscious of her own youth. She wondered how old the pair was, but decided it was irrelevant. She was Lady of a prosperous castle with a strong and capable husband, and many servants. She had never known a day of hunger in her life, nor wanted for any comfort. These two young people were alone, adrift in a dangerous world, patently ill equipped to fend for themselves or the infant.

"God has heard your prayers," she said, laying a hand on the woman's arm. "Remain here, I will be back presently."

She rose and went to where Owen waited, beckoning him away from the guardsmen to where they could speak privately.

"We must take these three with us. Can they ride on two of the pack horses?"

Owen's eyes snapped wide at her words.

"What do you mean take them with us?"

"What more simple words can I use?"

"You mean we will see them safe to Whithorn."

Margarete frowned. She was feeling her way, and, despite her tone of authority, she hadn't really thought further than seeing this pitiful trio well fed and safely mounted, carried away from their desperate plight.

"I mean we will take them to Whithorn, then back home with us."

"Owen's generally easy-going expression was frankly skeptical.

"That is a rash plan. You know nothing of them, and Colin will hardly welcome religious refugees, Papists, when he has gone to such lengths to make his allegiance to the reformers clear. If your heart moves you to do so, give them some silver from the purse we carry. They can purchase passage to Ireland as they intended."

"It is nearly Sowane. We are committed to reach Whithorn by that day. I will not delay to see them Safely back to Ayre, and I will not send them there alone. Even on our return, I like not to leave them to such a voyage alone. What might happen to them upon reaching Ireland. There's was a plan born of childish desperation. Anyone can see that they are incapable of tending to their own safety. If I can see that, surely any unscrupulous person will spot them likewise. They have suffered enough. I will take them under my protection."

Owen's voice was hard with frustration. "And what of Colin when you return with three penniless suppliants, and Papist's no less?"

Margarete gave a short, exasperated sigh and said with some heat, "That will be for me to deal with. I have made my decision and will not debate it with you. See to the rearrangement of the goods so that they might ride with us."

She turned on her heel and strode away from him back to the pitiful group on the ground. She knelt once more at Anne's side. Laying her hand again on the woman's arm, and including Kenneth with her glance, she said kindly but firmly, "You will all ride with us. Owen, our company's leader, is rearranging the disposition of our goods on the pack horses so that two mounts will be ready for you. You will ride with us to Whithorn, then accompany us back to the home of my husband, the Lord Colin McLean in Perthshire. There, dwelling and protection will be provided for you, and work will be found that is suited to your abilities. Your trials have ended. All will be well."

Despite her lack of certainty on this point, it pleased Margarete to speak these words, to make a decision that would so profoundly affect the lives of others, that would dispel the look of hopelessness on Anne's face. Indeed, Anne's relief and gratitude were so deep that Margarete found them a little overwhelming. The woman burst into tears and told Margarete that she was surely sent by God in answer to Anne's prayers. While this distinction was disorienting for Margarete, Anne's words gave her an abashed but unmistakable feeling of satisfaction and pleasure. Hopeless though she had felt for days, still, she yet possessed the ability to alleviate the suffering of these three unfortunates; to change their lives.

At Whithorn, Margarete chose to bypass the famous Candida Casa, the place sacred to St. Ninnian. Instead, taking the advise of Anne and Kenneth, she sought out the Kirk of St. Medan, who was honored on Sowane.

Dissembling no longer being required, Margarete did not try to convince Anne that it was for a fruitful womb that she had embarked on this pilgrimage. Though not specific, she told the young woman that healing was its intent. Anne told her of the great healing powers of St. Medan, of how the waters from her sacred spring had brought balm to many. Anne spoke with reverence and confidence, overlaid with a humble veneration she was rapidly developing for Margarete herself.

They left their horses near the brow of a broad hill which descended towards St Medan's Kirk. Margarete told the party that all could remain there and wait for her. Only those who wished to offer prayer should descend.

Margarete, Anne and Kenneth began a slow walk along the path that wound its way down the hill into the secluded spot where the old Kirk lay. Margarete was not unduly surprised that Owen, and a few of the guardsmen also left the cluster of horses. She was vastly surprised, however, to see Lise following last.

Lise had been quiet, but attentive to Anne and her babe since the trio had joined there company. Though she continued to be silent towards Margarete, Owen privately thought that her posture spoke much less of anger.

Pacing slowly down the hill, one in a quiet procession of pilgrims, Margarete sought to focus her mind on her petitions. She quieted her inner doubts, and thought only of Lise's peace of spirit, of Colin's safety and success.

Along with many others, she knelt for a long time inside the Kirk. When she emerged, Anne at her side, she saw that Lise was moving slowly, almost meditatively around outside.

Anne drew Margarete to the holy spring. She knelt at its verge, crossed herself, cupped her hands, and drank reverently of the water. She looked past Margarete, beckoning Lise with her eyes. Astonished, Margarete saw that Lise came, seemingly without reluctance. Margarete cupped her own hands, and drank also. As Lise joined them almost diffidently, Margarete cupped water in her hands once more, holding them out to Lise. As though they had done this before, Lise held out her own hands, and Margarete poured the water into them. Lise brought her hands to her lips and drank. Mutely, Lise bent her head, and Margarete, again with that sense of actions performed before, collected more water in her hands and poured it delicately over Lise's bent head. When Lise lifted her head, their eyes met, and each saw that the other wept. They knelt there together for a long time, not speaking aloud. When they rose, Margarete and Lise looked away from one another and did not touch, but walked close together back up the hill.

Pacing slowly around outside the Kirk while Margarete prayed inside, Lise had been remembering her life before Margarete had become its centre. Their encounter with Anne, Kenneth and the infant had brought those years irresistibly to her awareness.

Though she often nostalgised what she liked to think of as the days of her freedom, the pitiful sight of Anne sitting on the dirty ground with a hungry baby had brought back the rest of it to Lise.

Unlike Margarete, she had known hunger and want. Though filled with novelty and adventure, her life had often been a precarious one. She had seen hunger and death by illness, mothers unable to provide for their babes, folk turned out with no refuge.

During the miles between Ayre and Whithorn, she had been taking an honest account of Margarete's impact on her life. It had been a long time since she'd had to wonder where her next meal would come from, or whether she would have a roof over her head that night. Seeing Margarete kneeling beside Anne, offering her solace and safety, Lise had been jolted by the memory of a younger, but no less determined Margarete, bravely asserting herself in order that Lise should be spared the dangers of life alone. Margarete could have left her to cope with the consequences of their tumultuous meeting, but she had not done so. Though young, she had brought determination and cunning to bear on the situation. As Margarete had impetuously rescued these three, so she had once rescued Lise, proffering not merely safety and security, but also years of love and devotion.

Walking slowly around the tranquil setting of St. Medan's Kirk, Lise finally set her anger aside, and took an honest toll of her life. Images of their journey came to her, the exhausted, overburdened woman in the stone cottage who was most likely once more with child; the wily and hungry street urchins of Glasgow, the uncertain worried faces of the monks and nuns at the religious house where they had stayed, McNab's comfortable sitting room in Sterling. All of these images haunted her as she watched Margarete emerge from the Kirk, Anne trailing behind her.

Lise was so accustomed to seeing Margarete, and lately so disinclined to see her, that she thought she had forgotten how beautiful Margarete truly was. Her carriage was flawless, her movements graceful, her eyes large and kind.

All of this long and arduous journey had been undertaken by Margarete for Lise's benefit. If deception and high-handedness had been employed, had they not been all for the purpose of bringing Lise back to the realm of those who truly lived?

Lise suddenly saw herself as petty and ungrateful. How many in this world could claim such a loyal and devoted companion whose love had never flagged. Much had been taken from her at Lamas, and before then too, but so much remained to her also.

As they reached the top of the Hill, Owen appeared, having taken a different path. He had sought the Kirk of St. Modron, being more familiar with her from his youth in Wales.

As he reached them, his shrewd eye saw clearly that things were not as they had been. As he reached them, Lise reached out a tentative hand and touched his arm. She did not speak or take his hand, but the touch, tentative and wordless, was eloquent.

The ride back to Ayre was very quiet. The peace of the Kirk of St. Meden stayed with them as they rode and, each for their own reasons, knew gratitude.

They paused in Ayre so that suitable clothing could be purchased for Anne and Kenneth, and so that all could know a solid night's rest in a good bed before beginning the journey to Perthshire.

As per propriety, and their custom, Margarete and Lise shared a chamber at the comfortable inn. Since Whithorn, the silence between them had shifted from one of resentment and fear, to one of shyness and diffidence. Margarete longed for it to end, but knew that it was for Lise to speak.

Upholding the fiction of Anne and Kenneth's marriage, Margarete had arranged that they and the babe should be provided with a small room at the top of the spacious building. Ensuring that all was well there, meant that she entered her own chamber somewhat after Lise. Lise had made her own preparations for sleep, grateful for the brief solitude. When Margarete entered, Lise began to help her to undress in the old way.

While on the road, these ministrations had been first irrelevant, then patently ignored. As Lise's indifference had turned to hostility, she had abandoned the subtle aspects of her role as Attendant. Now, in an increasingly awkward silence, she resumed them.

When she picked up Margarete's hair brush and began gently to brush out Margarete's long hair, the younger woman felt her composure begin to dissolve, and the silence between them became intolerable. The strokes were soothing, incredibly comforting, yet she could not close her eyes and relax as she used to do. Reluctant but feeling impelled, she shifted restlessly under Lise's hands and turned to face her.

They were standing very close together. Lise held out her hands, and Margarete placed her own wordlessly in them. Lise took breath to speak several times, but could not. Margarete squeezed her hands not in encouragement or reassurance, but with the tension of lingering fear. When Lise finally spoke, her words punctuated by many pauses, it was in a low, hoarse voice that stirred many memories in Margarete.

"I have come to regret the words I spoke to you in anger on the road after Sterling. I do not like to be deceived, but when I weigh your deception against all you have given me, all you are to me, I cannot hold onto my anger. You risked much for my sake; I know it; Owen also. Had it not been for your love and care since Lamas," her voice cracked slightly, "I know not whether I would still be alive. Because I could not see what I had yet to live for, you risked this journey and your husband's anger in order to show me. How could I not forgive you?