Chapter Twenty-One
Dunfermline Palace,
Fife, Scotland
It had been only a few years since Davina had seen the king, but he had aged at least twenty. Thin and frail with a sallow complexion and hollow cheeks, his body appeared wasted. The only thing that had not diminished was his air of absolute authority, uniquely possessed only by those born to rule.
Even from his sickbed, the king governed Dunfermline with an iron fist, demanding stringent adherence to worship. To her surprise he required not just the monks, but all who resided under his royal roof to observe the seven Canonical hours of prayer. Although Davina had personal reasons to doubt the pureness of the monarch’s heart, he outwardly conducted his religious practices with the discipline of a priest.
The routine at Dunfermline Palace was very much like her life at Haddington Priory. The main difference being the presence of monks, rather than nuns. Although Davina had expected to attend the princess and help with the children, much as she had done before, she also found herself with much time on her hands. At the priory, Davina had kept herself busy from before sunrise until the last hour of prayer, mainly because idleness gave her too much opportunity to think… and thinking too much only led to self-pity and discontent.
The princess, accustomed to being the queen of her own domain, with total freedom of movement, felt like a captive. She and the younger children were confined to private apartments located far from the king and their lives were controlled by a strictly regimented schedule. The king’s advisors had taken a very personal interest in their education. Each had been taken under the tutelage of the monastery, which left the princess with little say in anything regarding her offspring.
“’Tis intolerable here!” the princess complained. “I am kept almost as a prisoner, only allowed out of my rooms for prayer and only permitted to see my own children at supper.”
Although the king had emerged from his sickbed, he had not granted any private audience to the princess. Davina’s heart went out to the princess, though it came as little surprise. As Prince Malcolm’s mother, she would be viewed as a threat by those who wished to control the kingdom. But being pushed to the side only made the grieving widow increasingly prone to fits of temper.
“Change of any kind is always difficult, my lady, particularly in times of sorrow. Perhaps it would help to find some useful occupation to keep yer mind busy?” Davina suggested. “I used to tend the herbary at the priory. It soothed my spirit greatly when I was most distressed.”
“Are you oft distressed, Sister?” the princess asked.
They stood by Saint Margaret’s reflecting pool in the abbey courtyard. Davina glanced down at her reflection in the water, and suddenly felt as if a stranger gazed back at her. She suddenly felt restless and trapped as if she were living someone else’s life, instead of her own. Why had she come to this melancholy place? What was her purpose here? Was it only to serve the princess or was there a greater plan for her?
“Only when I think of the past, my lady,” Davina confessed with a sad smile. “But I have learned to find comfort and happiness in serving others.”
“I enjoy needlework,” the princess said. “But I miss my rose garden. I enjoyed walking in it, cutting the blooms and even weeding it. Henry loved the garden as well…” She finished with a quiet sniff.
“Mayhap ye should inquire of the king if ye could plant a small, private garden here at Dunfermline… in memory of Prince Henry?” Davina suggested. “’Twould be good for ye to have a quiet retreat for reflection and prayer when yer soul is troubled.”
“’Twould indeed,” the princess agreed. “I will speak with the king. As for you, I think ’twas selfish of me to take you from the priory. Now that the children are under the monks’ tutelage, there is little left to occupy you, other than keeping me company. Perhaps you might inquire of the abbot if there is some small way in which you might serve the abbey?”
Her suggestion took Davina by surprise. While rarely unkind, the princess was not generally empathetic to those outside of her own family. It wasn’t entirely her fault. She had been raised to place her own needs first.
“Ye wouldna mind?” Davina asked.
“On the contrary, if you seek to employ yourself in the abbey, you are bound to hear things I am not privy to. I wish you to report to me anything that you hear.”
Davina suddenly understood. The princess’ suggestion was not so much for Davina’s benefit as it was to her own. “Ye wish me to spy for ye?”
“I am new to this court and the intrigues here,” the princess said. “But I refuse to be kept in the dark, which is why you must be my eyes and my ears. I need you to help me protect my son.” She clasped Davina’s hands in her own. There was a fervent fever in her gaze. “Will you do this, Sister Mary Malachy?”
Davina considered what she would do were she in the princess’ position. Of course, the king’s men would try to drive a wedge between the prince and his mother. She was in a powerless position, but knowledge was, in itself, a form of power.
“Aye, Highness,” Davina said. “I will help ye.”
*
It was only a few days later that the princess arranged a meeting between Davina and the Abbot of Dunfermline. As she entered his office, Davina was struck by the contrast of his luxuriously appointed chambers compared to the humble rooms of the abbess of Haddington. His office was lit with beeswax tapers, rather than rushlights, and an elaborately woven tapestry depicting the Virgin Mother stared benignly down on them from the wall.
“The princess says you seek to employ yerself in the abbey, Sister Mary Malachy?” The abbot was a supercilious man who seemed more than happy to curry the favor of the king’s daughter-in-law.
“Aye,” Davina said. “I dinna wish to return to Haddington Priory while the princess is still mourning, but I do wish to find some small way to minister to others here at Dunfermline.”
He steepled his fingers under his double chin and studied her in a long silence. “Do you have something particular in mind?”
“At the priory, I tended the gardens and was responsible for the herbary,” Davina said.
The abbot shook his head. “I’m afraid Brother Hebert would not willingly give up even a small plot in the abbey gardens. Even if he could be persuaded, we have a strict policy prohibiting fraternization between the sexes.” He released a long sigh. “I’m afraid it will be exceedingly difficult to find anything for you here.”
“Do ye minister to the poor and needy?” she asked.
“We feed the poor at the abbey,” Father Abbot said. “For nigh sixty years since her passing, we have carried on the ministry of Queen Margaret,” he proudly declared. “We would not exist were it not for King Malcolm and Queen Margaret.”
At the nunnery, Davina had heard many stories of King Malcolm and Queen Margaret. Malcolm was a brutal and bloodthirsty tyrant, whose chief weaknesses were his hunger for English lands, and his passion for his saintly wife. Margaret, renowned for her devotion, spent the first half of each day on her knees in prayer and the rest feeding the poor and washing their feet. Perhaps King Malcolm believed his queen’s piety compensated for his owns sins?
The current king, their youngest son, David, had followed both of his parents’ examples, making merciless war on his enemies while spending enormous sums on building monasteries and cathedrals. Did he also act out of fear for his own immortal soul? Could God’s favor truly be won by such works if there was no true love of humanity in one’s heart?
“What of the sinners?” she suddenly asked. “Do ye also minister to them?”
The abbot regarded her with a condescending look. “Are we not all sinners, Sister Mary Malachy?”
Davina flushed. “I meant those who have been convicted of their sins in the courts of law. Do ye care for the criminals who have been imprisoned?”
His gaze hardened. “The prisoners are tended well enough. They receive gruel twice daily from the abbey. We take it to the guardhouse prison and the captain ensures they are fed.”
They provided such a meager sustenance? Yet, Dunfermline was said to be the largest and the richest abbey in the entire kingdom.
“Only gruel?” Davina remarked.
“Man does not live by bread alone,” he shrugged.
“But surely they canna thrive on so little,” Davina insisted.
“Thrive?” he repeated with a chuckle. “Prison is not a place to thrive, Sister. Prison is a place for penitence.”
“Penitence? Then ye provide spiritual food to them?” she asked.
The abbot looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Many are beyond saving,” he said, “And the rest do not live long enough to repent.”
She was bitterly reminded of the time she visited Domnall in the king’s prison and the wretchedness of his condition. Some were surely guilty of their crimes, but she had little faith in the king’s justice. How many others were unjustly condemned and left to rot?
“Surely there are some who are innocent of their crimes,” Davina said. “Many are incarcerated in the guardhouse jail before their guilt has even been proven.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you disparage the king’s justice, Sister?”
She shook her head. “’Tis nae my place to judge, nor disparage, but it is my place to serve those in need. And by yer leave, I wish to tend the prisoners.”
“You wish to spend your days in that filthy Godforsaken place?”
“Aye,” she replied, suddenly certain.
Father Abbot regarded her with a slow shake of his head. “You are a strange creature, Sister Mary Malachy, but far be it for me to deny you. If this is truly what you desire, I will take your request before the Chief Justiciar.”
“It is what I desire,” she said with a nod.
Davina didn’t understand how it had come about, but instead of spending a few hours a week with her hands in the dirt in a sunlit garden, she had now committed herself to tending forgotten wretches in the dank, dark confines of the jails. Yet, she knew in her heart of hearts that this was her Divine calling.
*
“The prison?” The princess looked shocked and appalled. “Why would you wish to go there?”
“Even sinners are deserving of compassion, Highness,” Davina said. “I dinna understand why, but I ken that this is my calling.”
The princess threw her hands in the air. “But you promised to help me!”
“I will, Highness, perhaps in ways ye and I couldna imagine. I will now have access to the kitchens as well as the most heavily-protected area of the palace. Servants ken far more than we realize and cooks and prison guards are wont to chinwag. I will report back to ye anything of note.”
“Be certain to check yourself for lice after you go there,” the princess advised with a shudder.
Davina began her new routine the very next day. First, she went to the palace kitchens and introduced herself to the cooks, who regarded her with similar looks of revulsion when she requested scraps of food for the prisoners.
“They get gruel twice daily,” the head cook replied, hands on her well-rounded hips.
“Would ye only give gruel were it yer husband or son in the prison?” Davina asked.
The cook glowered. “’Tis all the king allows.”
“Yet ye feed scraps to the pigs and dogs,” Davina countered. “Surely ye can spare a few crusts of bread?”
The cook’s eyes flickered to a table of half a dozen neatly stacked, hollowed-out loaves. “Those are two days old. They were to be used as trenchers. Take them and be gone with you!”
Stifling a chuckle, Davina scooped the bread into her basket and departed the kitchens bound for the guardhouse where she was met by a young man-at-arms who clearly resented his new assignment. Ignoring his grumbling, Davina descended the narrow, winding stone staircase to the prison below.
Davina had seen a prison once before when Domnall was held at Carlisle but even that experience couldn’t fully prepare her for the stench and squalor. Hands reached out to her through iron bars. Faces with hollow eyes rife with desperation and despair filled her vision.
Davina reached into her basket and broke off pieces from the almost rock hard loaves but the supply of bread was soon depleted, leaving Davina feeling as empty as her basket. It wasn’t enough! What more could she do?
While the captives in all the other cells were crammed together like chickens in a coop, Davina was surprised to find the last cell in the jail, watched by two men, had but a single occupant. When she peered inside, she understood why. It was little better than an oubliette, not even large enough for its occupant to lie down and sleep. He was also chained to the wall. What was this man’s crime that he would be so treated?
“Who is this?” Davina asked the sentries.
“He is a traitor to the crown,” the first man answered.
Davina wondered if he was a criminal after all, or just an unfortunate fool who had displeased the king. “Does this traitor have a name?” she asked, once more peering inside.
“MacAedh, Thane of Kilmuir,” the first guard answered.
Kilmuir? She had heard of this place before. She was certain of it.
The prisoner’s head abruptly jerked up at the sound of his name. “J’ai soif,” he croaked in little more than a whisper. I’m thirsty.
But she had nothing left. “He needs water,” she said.
“He gets nothing until the morn,” the same man replied.
“Nothing?” she repeated aghast.
“Une tasse d’eau s’il vous plait?” The prisoner spoke again begging for a cup of water. His French was stilted and heavily-accented. She was certain he was a Highlander… from Kilmuir. Her pulse began to race. Could he be a kinsman to Domnall? Would he have knowledge of him?
As she struggled to figure out how to help him, Davina noticed the wineskins each of the sentries carried on their belts. Eyeing the skin, she licked her lips. “I am also parched.”
Guessing her thoughts, the first guard hesitated.
“Would ye deny a drink to a servant of the Lord?” she asked.
The sentry promptly removed the skin from his belt and handed it to her.
“Open the door,” she commanded.
“No one is permitted to enter his cell, save the captain,” the second guard said.
“I am here by the authority of the Chief Justiciar,” she replied in perfect imitation of the princess at her most imperious. “If ye will nae open it for me, send for the captain!”
The two men once more exchanged questioning looks.
“If we let you in, the door must be locked behind you,” the first guard replied.
“Then lock it,” Davina said. “Do ye truly believe I would be endangered by him? The man is chained hand and foot.”
The first guard shrugged and the second released a sigh of surrender. He sorted through the keys on the chain about his waist. A moment later, he opened the door into the cell.
Kneeling in the dirty straw, Davina offered the wineskin to the prisoner’s cracked lips. His hands shook as he grasped the skin and began to drink. Eagerness and trembling hands led to wine dribbling down his face.
“Slowly,” she warned, speaking now in Gaelic. “Ye dinna want to waste any.”
His eyes jerked up to hers. “Who are ye?” he inquired in his native tongue.
“I am Sister Mary Malachy of Haddington Priory.” Her gaze searched his.
His eyes were not the same color as Domnall’s, yet, there was something familiar in his face. “I was once Davina of Crailing,” she offered her former name, hoping for any glimmer of recognition. Her heart sank when she found none. “I once kent a lad from Kilmuir, when I was at Carlisle Castle. Perhaps ye ken him?” It was, perhaps, reckless to allude to Domnall, with guards undoubtedly listening, but she spoke in Gaelic and made a point not to say his name.
This time his eyes flickered. “My nephew was taken to Carlisle when he was a lad.”
“Yer nephew?” she asked, barely able to take a breath for the fierce thumping inside her chest. Could this man be Domnall’s uncle?
“He was the son of a man called Fitz Duncan.”
Davina’s pounding heart nearly seized. “Was the son?”
“Aye. Fitz Duncan is dead,” MacAedh said.
Davina swallowed hard. Willing her voice to remain steady, she asked the question that had tortured her for way too long. “And his son? Is he also dead?”
“Nae.” He shook his head. “He is verra much alive…” He added with a hint of a grin, “And a great thorn in my side.”
She shut her eyes as a rush of relief escaped her lungs. Domnall lived!
But the news overwhelmed her. Davina turned her face away with a stifled sob. Was it joy or despair she felt? She hardly knew, but there was no doubt in her mind that the hand of Providence had led her to the jail.
After a few long breaths, she managed to compose herself. “I am glad to ken it,” she replied, struggling to keep emotion from her tone, lest the sentries become suspicious.
“I am in this cage because I refused to renounce my allegiance to my nephew and swear fealty to Prince Malcolm.”
“The king fears greatly for his grandson’s succession,” Davina said.
“Aye. He has threatened to kill me as a traitor.”
“Does yer nephew ken of yer imprisonment?” she asked. Surely Domnall would do something to help his kinsman.
“Nae. He kens naught of it,” MacAedh replied.
“What will ye do?” Davina asked.
“I will either put my head in the noose or my neck on the block,” he replied dryly.
“That isna what I meant,” Davina chided.
“There is naught I can do,” he replied with a shrug that softly rattled his chains. “My first allegiance is sworn to God and then my own kin.”
“Surely there must be someone who could carry a message to him,” she insisted.
He regarded her with a wary look, as if uncertain whether he could trust her. “There is a monk who arrived with me,” MacAedh finally said. “His name is Alexander. Do ye ken aught of him?”
“Nae,” she shook her head. “I am newly arrived myself. I came with Princess Adaline.”
His eyes flickered in recognition of the name. “Henry’s widow?”
“Aye,” Davina said. “I served his family for many years before the king sent me to the priory. I serve her even now.”
His guarded look returned.
“Ye can trust me,” Davina said. “I swear on the Virgin’s name that I will nae betray yer confidences. Do ye wish me to take a message to this Brother Alexander?”
He was thoughtful for a long moment. “’Tis too risky,” he said at last. “I will nae have ye endanger yerself.”
He suddenly reverted back to French and handed her the now empty wineskin. “Thank ye, Sister. May ye be blessed for yer kindness.”
Davina also reverted back to French. “’Tis my mission to tend all of the prisoners. I will come each day that I am able. Is there aught else ye need when I return?” she asked.
“My freedom?” he suggested wryly.
Her heart squeezed with compassion. “I regret I canna give it to ye, but I can bring ye ale on the morrow, and I can pray with ye if ’twould ease yer suffering.”
“Thank ye again, Sister,” he replied with an attempt at a smile. “Ye have, indeed, lessened my misery this day.”