Chapter Sixteen
Haddington Priory, Scottish Borderlands
June 1152
Davina found herself humming as she carefully extracted the invading weeds from the herb garden. She didn’t know what had brought the tune to mind. It had been ages since she’d heard anything but the monophonic chants taught by the church. She missed the livelier music she’d known as a child. As she continued to hum, she realized it was the same Highland melody that her mother used to sing to her—and the same tune that Domnall had been whistling the very first day they’d met.
The realization jarred her. She wished she could just put him out of her mind, but thoughts of him still came unbidden at random times. Though she’d tried to bury her old memories with her old life, the ghosts of the past still had a tendency to haunt her.
It had been more than three years since the king had sent her to the nunnery. She’d been reluctant to take her vows, stalling for the first two years. She’d held faith then in Domnall’s promises but, over time, she’d given up hope.
The uncertainty was the worst part of it—not knowing if Domnall lived or died. The reports of his escape from hanging had enraged the king but after a few months, he had seemingly forgotten Domnall with the escalating crisis in Cumberland.
Davina was glad of that. She hoped Domnall was somewhere safe, although she feared otherwise. Surely if he lived, she would have heard something from him in all this time. Or were all his promises and professions of love just empty words?
Davina looked down at her little plot of earth with a feeling of satisfaction. She did meaningful work at the priory, and the gardens had become her primary responsibility. She still missed her old life at Haddington Palace, but she had learned to be content at the priory—at least that’s what she told herself. Davina of Crailing was dead. She was now sister Mary Malachy. Her new name was supposed to have signified the beginning of a new life. But deep down, she still longed for something more.
“Sister Mary Malachy!” The abbess of Haddington Priory entered the gardens with a worried expression that signified something was very wrong. The abbess was rarely ruffled. “There are ill tidings from the palace,” the abbess said. “The prince and princess are both gravely ill.”
“Both of them?” Davina jumped to her feet and hastily wiped her dirty hands on the apron she wore to protect her habit. Although she was no longer directly connected to the family, the prince and princess had always dealt kindly with her. They attended worship services and the older girls came twice a sennight for lessons. Moreover, they provided the lion’s share of the convent’s support.
“Aye. ’Tis grave enough that the king sent his personal physician,” the abbess said.
The news was greatly troubling. Illness in itself was always a bad thing, but the princess was breeding again and very near her confinement period.
“Does he ken what ails them?” Davina asked.
“’Twas thought in the beginning to be merely ague, but it has worsened even with medicaments and bleedings.” The abbess’ brows drew together in a deep frown. “While I am reluctant to give credence to rumors, there are whispers of poisoning.”
“Poisoning! The princess is carrying another child! Who would do such a thing? What of the children?” Davina asked. “Have they also taken ill?”
“They have been spared, thus far, thanks be to God.” The abbess looked heavenward and crossed herself.
“Is there nae cure?” Davina asked. She scanned the newly-weeded plot. Many of the herbs she grew had medicinal properties but she knew no cure for poison.
The abbess shook her head sadly. “They have already tried herbs and St. Pauls’ potion. ’Tis beyond the help of medicaments and bleeding seems equally ineffective. ’Tis feared that only a miracle of God can heal them. ’Tis why the princess sends for you.”
“They expect a miracle from me?” Davina wondered why anyone would imagine her capable of such a thing.
The abbess nodded. “’Tis because you bear the name of St. Malachy.”
“I dinna understand this,” Davina said.
“Long ago, when he was a young lad, Prince Henry was beset with a fever that all but drained the life from him. When ’twas believed he was at death’s door, Saint Malachy came to him and prayed the night long at the prince’s bedside. In the morning, he declared that God had spared the prince’s life. That very day the prince was cured.”
The abbess continued, “Because you have taken the surname of the saint who saved the prince’s life, the princess perceives this as a sign from God. You must go at once to the sickbed and pray for the miracle she seeks.”
“I will pray most earnestly, but what if there is still nae cure?”
Davina feared that if she failed to deliver a healing miracle, the prince’s death might well fall on her shoulders. She already had personal experience with the king’s wrath. How much greater would it be if he lost his only son and heir to the kingdom?
“You must have faith if he is to be healed,” the abbess chided. “Remember you, Sister, the words of our Lord, ‘verily I say unto ye, If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto ye.’”
“Of course,” Davina murmured. But with so many prayers in her life unanswered, her faith was much smaller than a mustard seed and unlikely to move anything the size of a mountain.
They walked briskly to the palace, barely a mile from the priory. When they arrived, the castle was eerily silent. Davina and the abbess entered the keep to discover no servants in sight. Davina’s stomach knotted. The prince and princess had a plethora of servants and the keep was rarely quiet with so many young children in residence.
Davina’s steps quickened. Darting up the stairs, she nearly collided with a maid. “The princess!” Davina asked. “Where is she?”
The maid’s reply was drowned out by a long, ear-piercing scream.
Was it the princess? Surely it was too soon for the birth! Fearing for both the princess and her unborn child, Davina raced up the staircase toward Princess Adaline’s bedchamber, leaving both the abbess and propriety behind.
Her sense of dread deepened the moment she arrived at the chamber. The door was thrown open with maids scurrying frantically to and fro, weeping and wringing their hands. Princess Adaline lay in her bed, her face as white as the tangled sheets upon which she lay, while her longtime servant, Berthe, stood at her side with a swaddled bundle in her arms.
Berthe looked up at Davina with profound sorrow in her red-rimmed eyes. “If you have come to pray, Sister, you have come too late. The babe is stillborn and Prince Henry is dead.”