Perfectly Content
For endless hours Vincent had been working on a new map for the council chamber above. A ring of candles on the table had burned down: from the flickering stubs he judged that it was dawn. Though such a concept had no meaning in the dungeon, he tried to keep the same hours of day and night as his kinsmen. He was so engrossed in his work that he did not hear a step outside the door of his chamber. When he looked up, Lord Alistair, resplendent in black and gold, stood in the arch. Vincent's eyes raked him and then returned to his task.
Lord Alistair assumed a bluff and hearty tone of voice. "Well, this is comfortable. You have made yourself quite a home here. I recognize the table, from the council chamber. I don't believe I've visited you here since you knocked the side walls down."
He wandered into the pantry and called, "Jacobus does well by you, I see. No wonder there is never any wild berry conserve for my bread."
He sauntered out of the pantry and brushed a hand over the striped bed coverlet. A shelf above the bed held candles and a wooden mode of a Viking ship. "You seem to have set yourself up with everything anyone could possibly want, but you know of course that if you ever need any particular something, merely send word to me."
"There is something you can do," said Vincent. His voice was expressionless.
The smile of Lord Alistair stiffened, but he said, "Name it."
"Last night I circled the shoreline of the island, as I do nearly every night. There is a strange ship moored alongside the Viking longship. It is a merchant vessel, and the sail carries the design of a red bull. Sir Wallis has tracked Lady Catherine here. You must learn what he is seeking."
"Her ladyship, no doubt," said Lord Alistair with a shrug. "But as she will be my wife in a matter of days, he will be forced to sail home without her. In fact, I believe she is being fitted for her wedding gown at this very moment."
Vincent turned the map on the table so that Lord Alistair could see it. "He has landed men-at-arms. The Norsemen are not objecting. They have struck an agreement of some sort and it does not bode well for Raven's Rock."
Lord Alistair scanned the map carelessly. "I wonder if it is indeed the well-being of the clansfolk that causes you such anxiety."
For the first time, Vincent's eyes turned toward Lord Alistair. They had an arctic stillness.
Lord Alistair went on, speaking lightly. "She is concerned about you. She cornered me yesterday about finding some way of bringing you above. I paid you this visit so that I may reassure her that you are quite content here. Incidentally I must also thank you for conveying her ladyship safely to the Heathery Isle. My initial reluctance was unfounded. Although pale poetry runs in your veins rather than red blood, you judged her rightly. A woman is not worth playing with unless she is too dangerous for play, and by heaven, I believe I've met my match at last."
Vincent didn't answer: he was intent on drawing the arrows of a compass on the map. He looked so gray and haggard that even Lord Alistair noticed it, and ventured a pleasantry. "You've been looking peaked since you returned from the mainland. No more sea journeys for you."
The jest fell flat; on an impulse he put a hand on Vincent's shoulder. "I rescind that remark about poetry. We share the same blood, though old Jacobus has tried for years to turn you into a pallid cleric like himself. Can we not be friends? It is not my fault that you were tossed into a snowbank. I was not even born. Blame God."
"I have, at times," Vincent said quietly. He concentrated on tracing arrows: North, with its pole star, and South. Like himself, Lord Alistair was trapped; not by walls of stone but by a web of lies. The weaving had begun with a tale of a still-born child, and after thirty years neither man could disentangle himself.
Vincent pushed a candlestick farther away: his eyes with their bruises of tiredness were hurt by the flickering light. Over and over he told himself that resentment was pointless. To bring about a marriage between Lord Alistair and Lady Catherine had been the whole purpose of his journey. He had brought them together so that her dreams of love could come true: he had no right to be bitter.
"You came down here today to reassure yourself that I will not betray you. I have said that you may keep your secret and live and die as the Lord of the Heathery Isle, on the condition that you give Lady Catherine all the happiness that a life can hold." The pen snapped in his grip. "And you may tell her -- that I am -- content."
Lord Alistair removed his cap and smoothed three eagle feathers fastened in a circular brooch. Humility was not a virtue he practiced -- it didn't suit his temperament -- but at the moment he couldn't help feeling a little ashamed. "She thinks very highly of you. If circumstances were different, I might be jealous."
"But they are not."
"She won't have any complaints about me. I'm in love with her, you know."
Vincent said shortly, "Good."
He continued to stroke the feathers, the badge of a chieftain. "Do you hate me?"
Vincent pushed away the map and rubbed his tired eyes for a moment before he spoke. "You're my brother. Sometimes as a boy you would elude your tutors and masters-of-arms and visit me here. We carved that wooden Viking ship together, and stole out to the beach one night to see if she would float."
"She did more than float, she sailed," said Lord Alistair, and his smile was genuine. "So proudly and swiftly we had to dive in to recapture her. After that we planned to stow away on a merchant ship and sail to London."
"Byzantium," Vincent amended.
"Yes, I believe you're right. Byzantium, to see the golden throne of the emperor that rises up from under the floor, and the metal tree of singing birds." The smile of Lord Alistair faded as he replaced the cap on his dark mane. "I never got there either."
Vincent pulled a quill from its holder and began to whittle the end to a point. "You broke your ankle jumping off a cliff at low tide and I had to carry you back. You had daring enough for any venture. I only saw you cry once, when Jacobus explained the reasons why your visits below were dangerous for me. No I don't hate you. But don't push me."
On the way out the door, Lord Alistair paused. He glanced back at Vincent and just for a moment the resemblance was striking. "For what it's worth... God is not the only one to blame. You're a better man than I am, Vincent." His footsteps echoed down the passageway and faded.
For a long time, Vincent sat staring into vacancy. He was so wearied by constant heartache and by the strain of controlling every action, word, and thought, he could not help regretting that his life would drag on for years and years. But as Jacobus always said, 'Years come to us in days, and the day's burden is always bearable.'
Impatiently he pushed himself back from the table. "Nothing is more revolting than self-pity. I said that I am content, now I must see it's not a lie." He pushed through a wall-curtain into an adjoining chamber. Cupboards held his boyhood collections of rocks, shells, and birds' eggs; a chess set was ranged along another. He and Jacobus had carved and painted the pieces from driftwood when he was ten. Jacobus often brought his prayer books below, to read under the light of an iron wheel of candles that hung from the ceiling.
Rough planks scattered the floor -- a half-finished trestle table. Vincent grabbed up a plane and began to smooth the splintery wood with long sweeps of his arm. Brooding was worse than useless, and hours remained until sunset. The way to keep from feeling like a dead man sealed in a tomb was to create something solid, as he had created his own life, his own world from the materials around him.
It would be a beautiful table.
***
Sewing women kept Lady Catherine standing on a stool all morning while they hemmed two linen skirts, one long, one short. The sweeping inner tunic was inset with dainty bands of smocking, while the knee-length outer tunic was beautifully embroidered with silver roses. A pearl would be swen into each flower. The double flowing sleeves would make her look like an angel, they assured her.
At midday she finally escaped from their jabbing pins and gossip and advice. Solitude was all she wanted, but to her irritation, as she was hurrying through a crooked passageway she was halted and cornered by Jacobus.
"Your ladyship, you have been avoiding me and there are delicate matters that must be spoken of before you embark on your new life."
She was in no mood to listen to a sermon, and spoke curtly. "Embark on the stormy seas of life in a leaky boat of matrimony, you mean."
He disliked intimate revelations as much as she did -- or more -- but he would not shirk his duty. "To receive the sacrament of marriage you should be in a state of grace. Have you anything to confess?"
"Nothing whatsoever, especially not in a hallway," she said through her teeth.
He shook a finger at her and frowned. "My daughter, you should not approach matrimony in a spirit of levity. It is a serious and irrevocable step you are taking. You will be required to obey your husband and relinquish your own will. A sheltered and pure-minded maiden who becomes a wife may find it degrading to submit to her husband's demands."
She shut her lips to hold back a rude remark: Speak of something you know about -- bachelors in black robes -- and leave the marriage advice to someone who knows one end of a woman from the other. He wiped perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve, and Lady Catherine took pity on his unease. He meant well, though he knew as little of the subject as she did herself.
Kindly she said, "Have no fears for me, I understand my duty. I had dreams once, but they have been outgrown."
Jacobus grimaced, longing in vain for peacefully Iona, where scruples and lack of fervor were the only sins, and Vikings the only peril. "It is said that holy love smooths a wife's path through married life, which women in confession tell me is very stony indeed. I hope that the devotion you feel for his lordship will make your way easier. All of us above and below have come to have affection for you, and we would take it hard if things went wrong for you."
Tears that she could neither explain nor justify welled up and filled her eyes. Her lips trembled and she spoke from the heart, revealing more than she knew. "Before it's too late, is there any way to break the chains I have so carefully forged for myself?"
Jacobus stared at her in complete disbelief. "I hardly know what you mean."
Tears choked her voice. "Don't jest with me. Do you know of a convent that would accept me without a dowry?"
He tried hard to understand. "You don't wish to become the Lady of the island? Our customs are strange to you, but you will understand them in time. Or do you miss your kinfolk across the border?" Surely she could not be reluctant to marry Lord Alistair, who had women falling about his feet like autumn leaves. The idea that she might care for Vincent flickered through his mind and vanished; the notion was absurd; his lad had told him so.
Against her own principles, Lady Catherine found herself pleading. "I beg you. Find a map of the mainland for me and mark on it any places I might find shelter. Don't let Phemie suspect -- I would not drag her into danger a second time."
Slowly Jacobus shook his head. "You mustn't think of such foolishness. I feel it is my duty to counsel you as strongly as I can to put aside waywardness and caprice and accept the position that God has ordained for you. This castle is your only haven. If I were to take you seriously, I would be forced to reveal your plans to his lordship, for the sake of your safety. You will laugh at these notions when the wedding is past, and you are a happy wife."
Lady Catherine swallowed a moan. "Is there no escape, then?"
"My lady. No one lives the life they plan at the start. Dreams fade with the morning, and we must make do with the light of common day, or waste our lives in useless regret. When we are young, all our sorrow is despair, but it does not kill us, and we live to be consoled. You will have many interests, many ties, many occupations; and as well as your husband, your sons and daughters will be dear to you, in time."
She spoke in a tone peculiarly calm, like that of one talking in sleep. "Then there is no help for me."
A despair so lifeless frightened Jacobus. "In any way I can help I will," he promised. "Both of us below will do everything in our power. I hope that our prayers are of some use."
Lady Catherine couldn't blame him for his weak attempts at consolation, when she hardly knew herself what sort of help she needed. She had the look of a prisoner condemned to be walled up alive as she said "When next you go below, lie to him just this once, for he would grieve to hear I'm grieving. Tell him -- tell him I am content." Impulsively she threw her arms around Jacobus' neck and hugged him hard, then whirled away down the steps leaving him gasping.
"Oh Lord. What now?"
***
During a long afternoon of painful meditation Lady Catherine walked through the kitchen garden, which was a walled enclosure that brimmed with sunlight like a cup. Honeysuckle vines and old man's beard found chinks in the gray stone walls, lusty weeds grew in the corners -- milkweed and thistle, wild carrot and shepherd's purse that the gardeners battled but could not destroy.
Past beds of rue and rosemary she wandered, hands linked behind her back: up and down between poles that dangled with the last of the season's beans and peas. The sunshine did not warm her; the heady scents of summer's bounty could not raise her spirits. Black-currant bushes ran riot behind a small orchard of cherry and pear trees, but she had no appetite for berries now. The fitting of the wedding gown and the sermon of Jacobus had almost maddened her with frustration. She had always prided herself on her clarity of mind, and yet emotions she could not keep under control were muddling her thoughts. She found herself looking for a sign that would guide her from confusion into certainty.
Lady Catherine wasn't sure if she were praying to God or to her own heart: "My life hangs in the balance. Please. Please! Don't let me make a mistake!"
Two women came out of the kitchen, carrying baskets. One was Ealasaid, the goat-keeper, wearing a shawl that concealed her crooked back. The other was Malai, a kitchen wench; hugely fat, with a cheerful face as rosy as an apple. The pockets of her apron bulged with tidbits from the larder.
"A good day to you both," said Lady Catherine, glad to be distracted from her painful reverie.
"Thank ye, my lady, an' glad we are to see ye lookin' so well yerself." Ealasaid was being polite: violet shadows hollowed Lady Catherine's eyes, and tension tightened her lips. Bridal shyness, Ealasaid decided; very proper in a gently-bred maiden. She bent awkwardly and began to fill her basket with peas.
"Are you both of Clann Eóghain?" Lady Catherine had often wondered if everyone was related on the island.
Malai answered with a rumbling laugh. "Aye, yer ladyship. There are the Craignish Eóghains, ant the Lochfyne Eóghains, an' the Eóghains o' Galloway. I am no dead certie which we belong to, but we must belong to one or another an' they are all the descendants o' lords an' ladies."
Ealasaid jerked a thumb toward her companion and said drily, "She'll be one o' the Eóghains from Achnatra, they're all kind o' droll in the mind, but harmless."
Lady Catherine gently took the basket from Ealasaid and began to fill it for her, allowing the crippled woman to straighten as best she could.
Malai ignored the thorns to grab handfuls of black-currants. Some went in her basket but every other handful went in her mouth.
Ealasaid, who saw everything, called out to her sharply. "Whatever's this now?"
In explanation, Malai said, "Us women ha' nothin' but our strength to go on, an' if we don't keep up our strength now an then, where are we?"
Lady Catherine laughed a little and asked the kitchen wench a question. "Have you ever been married?"
"Nay, yer ladyship, but I've been betrothed."
"That's almost as good."
"It's better," Malai insisted, and grinned, showing the berry stains on her teeth.
A heartfelt sigh broke from Lady Catherine: she was becoming deeply afraid that Malai might be right.
To love and married life Ealasaid was an onlooker. In spite of that -- or perhaps because of it -- her shrewd eyes missed nothing. However commendable virgin modesty might be, it must not be allowed to delay the festivities. It was high time his lordship married and provided the island with a castle full of wee Eóghains. "A fine spirited lad is Lord Alistair, I'm tellin' ye, the right sort, an' no mistake."
Malai chuckled until she bounced like jelly. "An' a wild fellow for the women. Once as a small lad he was ailin', an' Ealasaid had to make him swallow a tonic. Tell her ladyship what he said to ye."
Laughing was painful to Ealasaid, but she let out one snort. "The rascal! He said 'Treasure o' all the women o' the world, I will take whatever ye will gi' me an' eat it wi' a relish if ye will only look at me while I'm at it.' That was afore they set the tutors on him like hounds on a fox. He speaks like a book now. Education changes a lad if he takes it when he's young."
Malai broke in, speaking with her mouth full. "It's true what she is tellin' ye."
Ealasaid went on, "Ye'll be a happy woman, yer ladyship, wi' such a gallant gentleman to keep ye company. An' this is the fairest spot on the green earth. Every bill has a story. It's wee, but it's bonnie, an' close packed! Ye canna set yer foot on the soil o' the Isle but yer eye lights on some place o' history."
"I'm sure you're right," said Lady Catherine. She smiled faintly, though her heart was sinking. It was possible to be happy here -- other people were -- and everyone envied her good luck. Perhaps Lord Alistair was her destiny after all, and it was only the approach of the wedding day -- or wedding night -- that made her so uncertain. He had been very considerate lately, she had to admit that; only kissing her hand gallantly when they met in the corridors or in the great hall for meals.
The two women curtsied to Lady Catherine and made their way back past tables of humming beehives to the kitchen door. As she hobbled along, Ealasaid scolded her friend. "There's somethin' got to be done about ye, eatin' his lordship out o' house an' home. I'm fair jagged out wi' yer ways."
Malai agreed with everyone: it was more comfortable than arguing. "Well, I daresay that's true. Aye, it's a fact, I quite agree wi' ye. Indeed, ye're right there."
Despite her good intentions, she couldn't be repentant for long. As she waddled through the door she pulled a bottle from her pocket and lifted it to Lady Catherine in salute. "I raise my glass to ye, an' may the wee mousie never leave yer meal chest wi' a tear in his eye." The door slammed, leaving Lady Catherine bereft.
"I wanted a sign," she said to herself. Now it had come, and there was no hope of escape. As she walked up and down she reminded herself of her good fortune.
"Handsome, gallant, and wild to marry me. And there is no other place of safety for me in this world. So it's settled. I'm going to marry him, and be thankful."
She leaned back against the trunk of a pear tree and stared up through the leaves.
The decision did not bring the peace that she had hoped for. All she felt was loss -- loss and grief that made her sway against the tree in sheer agony. "All my life I have waited for this. I must love him, I would be a fool if I did not. He is being very thoughtful these days. Why am I not more grateful? Tell me, why does it feel as if someone has reached a hand inside my body and torn out my heart?"
She put one hand on her breast, as if the wound were actually bleeding. "This indecision is killing me. There is only one person I can trust to help me know what to do. I'm going to have to ask Vincent."