His Captive, His Conquest by Ashe Barker

Chapter Eleven

Roxburghe Castle, Scottish Borders

October 1490

Flora shivered. A biting autumn chill shimmered in the air, and it would only get colder as the season advanced. Wind whistled through shutters which struggled valiantly to keep out the worst of the weather, and it would not greatly surprise her were the first wisps of snow to flutter over the upper slopes of the hills before nightfall. It was cold enough, certainly.

Her chamber, though, was as warm as any at Roxburghe, so she should not complain. A fire crackled in the grate, and the steam rising from her bathwater promised the luxury of a long, hot soak before she need go down to the hall to oversee the day’s tasks. She had had the servants drag the tub close to the hearth before carrying in the buckets of hot water they were obliged to haul up two flights of spiral stairs.

“Shall I attend you, my lady?” Elspeth, one of the Roxburghe maidservants, hovered about the chamber, busying herself with laying out clothes for Flora to wear. It was one of the woman’s usual duties to assist the earl’s daughter in and out of the bath and to see that sufficient warm towels were at hand.

“No. I shall manage, thank you.”

“Are you quite certain, my lady?”

“I am. If you could just make sure some of that lavender soap is left out for me, the one I purchased at the Stirling fair.”

“Of course. It is here. Shall I just—?”

“No. Please, leave me. I shall bathe and dress myself this morning, thank you.”

As she had each and every morning for the past three weeks.

Elspeth gave her a bemused look but asked no more questions. The woman slipped from the chamber, no doubt heading for the kitchens where she would exchange gossip with the other servants regarding their mistress’s erratic behaviour of late.

Flora waited until the door closed behind Elspeth, then she slid from the bed. At least she was no longer obliged to rush for the bucket in the corner of her chamber. The awful morning nausea had abated at last, but in its stead, she was obliged to face the inevitable and increasingly obvious thickening of her waist. Were any of the servants to see her unclothed, her secret would be out at once.

There had been a time when she might have felt able to predict her father’s reaction to such a predicament. He would be angry, she had no doubt of that, and with reason. A marriageable daughter of a respected clan was a valuable commodity. He would probably demand compensation from the English marquis for despoiling his daughter. He might even, as Stephen had suggested, seek a hasty marriage between them.

Such a match would not be too uneven. There could be a strategic advantage, she was sure, in an alliance which straddled the border. James of Scotland would see the merits, and perhaps Henry of England, also. After all, the security of his northern shires troubled the Tudor greatly. Had he not said as much in his letter to Stephen? He might welcome a marriage treaty.

But it was too late now. Stephen and Katherine would have been wed for months already, and in any case, she had told Stephen that she could not possibly be carrying his child. It had seemed the most expedient thing to say in the heat of the moment.

Of late, though, her father’s moods were erratic, unpredictable. She really had no idea how he would take this news once her condition became obvious. The earl’s hold on reality grew more tenuous by the day. He was confused most of the time, and, Flora knew, frightened by the unfamiliar chaos which was now his life. He understood very little of what happened about him, and as a result was irritable and spiteful, lashing out at those closest to him. Flora took the brunt of his ill-temper.

Flora realised the earl’s vicious disposition was the result of his illness. The stern but generally jovial father was gone forever, crushed by this pitiless disease. She felt for him, for all that her father had lost, but she feared for them all, especially now that Rob was once more away from Roxburghe.

King James had sent a messenger from Holyrood Palace with instructions that Robert MacKinnon was required to lead a delegation to the French court on a matter of some urgency. Robbie had been reluctant to leave, given the deteriorating state of his father’s health, but could not defy a direct command from his monarch. He had sailed for Calais a fortnight ago and was unlikely to return within the year.

I should have told him, before he left…

It had all happened so fast. The missive from Holyrood, the king’s insistence that there could be no delay. He needed Robbie to leave at once, taking vital messages to Anne of France and her husband, the Duke of Bourbon. The pair were acting as regents to Anne’s brother, young King Charles, the eighth of that name.

Robbie had left within hours, and there had been no opportunity for his younger sister to confide in him that she faced the most agonising dilemma and desperately needed his help and support.

Now, she was on her own. And it was only a matter of time before her condition could no longer be hidden.

“Where is Margaret?” The Earl of Roxburghe slammed his mug on the heavy oak table, splashing those on either side of him with a generous helping of ale. “Where has the woman got to? She is never about when I need her.”

“Father…” Flora laid her hand on the earl’s elbow. “Mother is… not here.”

She did not add that Lady Margaret, Countess of Roxburghe, had been dead this past dozen or so years. Flora had reminded her father of that fact on a number of occasions, and each time had been rewarded by a string of expletives and even accusations that she was trying to poison him.

“Go find her, then,” the earl snapped. “I need her to dress the wound on my knee. She is the only one with a gentle enough touch.”

“I believe your knee is quite healed, Papa, but—”

“What do you know of it? Who are you, anyway? Do I know you?”

“I am Flora. Your daughter. I can bandage your knee if you like.” The injury he referred to had occurred fifteen years previously when he was thrown from his horse. Flora vaguely recalled the incident, though she had been just four or five summers at the time. “Come, I will help you back to your chamber.”

He peered at her, suspiciously, eying her up and down. “Daughter, ye say? Aye, I remember now. I have a daughter. A good girl, though. Not a light-skirted harlot like you.”

“Papa, please…” Already, others in the hall were turning to stare. These outbursts were not uncommon, but Flora still preferred that they not be played out before their entire household. “Shall we go upstairs?”

He sighed, his mood shifting in an instant. “Aye, if we must. Is Margaret upstairs?”

“She might be. Shall we go and see?”

Flora assisted her father to his feet, and the pair of them set off across the stone-flagged hall. The earl stooped as he walked, his feet shuffling along the floor. Suddenly, he came to an abrupt halt. He grabbed her arm and glared into her face, then at her slightly swollen abdomen.

“You are Flora,” he accused. “My girl.”

“Yes, Papa. I am Flora.”

He shook his head. “You are lying. My Flora is but a wee lassie.”

“I am grown now, and—”

“Harlot” He shook her hand from his arm. “Do not touch me.”

“Papa, what is wrong? I just—”

He pointed at her belly. “Whose is that? Who has dared to defile my daughter, my little Flora?”

“Shall we talk upstairs? Please…”

“It is his. That English bastard. I knew it.”

“Papa, you are upsetting yourself.” Flora reached for him. “There is no need to become agitated. All will be well, and…”

“You said he never touched you. Robbie told me.”

“Who?” she asked, though she knew what he would say. For once, her father was perfectly lucid, if not entirely rational.

“Otterburn,” her father spat. “The English cur sent by Henry Tudor to guard Elborne. He had you, at his keep.”

“Yes, but—”

“Harlot! Vile strumpet. You spread your thighs for an English yaldson, and now ye’re back here, with a belly full of arms and legs to show for it.”

“No, it was not like that. I—”

“Did he force you?”

She shook her head and prayed silently for his delirium to return. Her father would forget this conversation in a few moments if she could just keep him calm.

“Then ye went willingly to his bed.”

“I…”

“Did ye, or did ye not?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I did.”

For several moments the only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire in the massive hearth. Flora glanced about her. Servants stood, open-mouthed. A handful of guards lounged by the doors, all equally fascinated by the unfolding drama. She heaved in a ragged breath.

“Papa, I think we should—”

The earl raised his fist, and for a moment Flora believe he would strike her. She cowered away from him, the first time she had ever done so.

“I shall not have it here,” the earl screamed, spittle spraying from his mouth. “There’ll be no English bastard at my hearth, eating at my table.”

“My child will be Scottish, too,” Flora protested. “Your grandchild.”

“It’ll be none o’ mine. I’ll not be setting eyes on the brat, nor you either. I want ye gone from here.”

Flora backed away. If she could just reach the sanctuary of her chamber, remain out of his sight for a while, it was likely that within the next few minutes, all of this would be lost in the swirling mists of her father’s vaporous memories. The servants would be another matter, but as long as she was mistress here, they would treat her with respect.

The storm would pass. All would be well, when Robbie came back.

“Take the harlot from my hall. I do not want her here.”

The guards came forward, but Flora waved to them to remain where they were. “It is all right. I shall go. There need be no trouble.”

“Seize her. Take her to St Mary’s.” The earl’s face was puce, his eyes bloodshot. He was quite incandescent with rage. “Tell the holy sisters to lock her up until the brat is born, then to drown it.”

“Papa, no!” Flora reached for him, ready to beg if she had to.

“Ye’re no daughter to me. No girl of mine would let herself be ploughed by an English yaldon, let his spawn take root inside her and think to pass the whelp off as a decent, God-fearing Scot.”

“I will leave. I will go to Byrness, or… or to…”

“And bandy your shame throughout the clan? Have all laughing at me because my daughter is a common strumpet who spreads her legs for the first man to ask her? I’ll not have it.”

“No one would think that. They know me, they know you, and—”

“Enough. You, there, take her. Take her to St Mary’s Abbey.”

The guards approached, with obvious reluctance. But their laird had spoken, and they were accustomed to obeying. “Come, now, lady. Best not to upset him any further,” advised the most senior among them. His features betrayed his sympathy, but he was powerless to help.

“Aye, Go. Get out.” The earl was shaking now, bellowing at her, at all of them. “Once the brat is gone, you can join the cloister if they’ll have you. I never want to see you here again. You are dead to me, you and that English spawn you carry.”

January 1491

St Mary’s Abbey, Scottish Borders

Flora huddled beneath the thin blanket in her cell. The room allotted to her was just four paces in length and two in width. Her accommodation was the same as all the other women here, no better, no less. But they had chosen this life.

They had chosen to spend their lives in seclusion, on their knees, shivering as bitter winter storms swirled both outside and within the abbey walls. Any passing nod to keeping out the worst of the draughts had been cursory at best, and Flora marvelled that any of them survived more than a year or two in this desolate place.

She started at a loud banging on the door of her cell.

“Hurry. ’Tis five o’clock already, and you should be at prayer.” The disembodied voice carried the same message she had heard repeated countless times in the months since she had been brought unceremoniously to this barren place and dumped like an unwanted bag of rags at the door. The general gist of it was that if she spent the rest of her miserable existence praying for forgiveness for her wickedness, lamenting her vile fornication and lewd conduct, she might yet avoid eternal damnation in the next life.

“Yes, I know.” Flora huddled beneath the meagre blanket. In her opinion, she had prayed quite enough for one lifetime. If the Almighty was listening, he would have heard her by now.

Another frigid, joyless day stretched ahead, each one as bleak and dispiriting as the one before. And cold. Always, everywhere, cold.

The first half hour or so of the day would be spent, were the holy sisters to have their way, in silent meditation and prayer, followed by a sparse breakfast of thin porridge or dry bread. Flora had long since abandoned the former since she was alone in her cell and unobserved, and only participated in the latter because her stomach needed to be filled with something, however unappetising. At six o’clock, Flora would trudge along with the rest of the Sisters of the Blessed Saint Mary to the chapel where vigils would take place, the first formal prayers of the day. This was followed an hour later by lauds, yet more prayers, yet another opportunity to prostrate herself before a so-called merciful God and beg for forgiveness and absolution.

The time between lauds and the next round of prayers at midday was usually spent in what the holy sisters liked to call ‘honest toil’. Flora had never been afraid of hard work and did not mind the endless sweeping, mopping, scrubbing, and polishing required to maintain the crumbling old abbey in some semblance of good order. Of late, though, as her pregnancy advanced, she found it difficult to work on her hands and knees. She had asked to be permitted to work in the kitchens, but Mother Immaculata, the abbess at St Mary’s, absolutely forbade it.

“You are with us to atone for your lechery and weakness of character. Hard work will help to cleanse your soul. Let it never be said that we were derelict in our duty to restore you to the Lord’s grace through hard labour and penance. Your struggles are the Lord’s way of punishing you, and you should embrace His justice with willingness and humility.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother.” Flora did not ask again for gentler treatment.

Lunch would be an equally frugal and joyless affair. The nuns lived off such vegetables as might be had from the abbey gardens, occasionally supplemented with bread or cheese. It was always consumed in silence, in the refectory, whilst one of their number read aloud from the Bible.

The afternoon would see more ‘honest toil’, followed by vespers at five o’clock, then a further episode of solitary contemplation. Flora welcomed the hour or so when she was permitted to return to her cell, away from the judgemental, unforgiving gaze of the rest of the community at St Mary’s. This respite would be short-lived, though, as the supper hour required her to once more join the others in the refectory for the main meal of the day. This would consist of more of the homegrown produce, which in truth was often quite enjoyable despite the plainness of the preparation, but with perhaps a sliver of meat or fish and a hunk of bread.

The day would end, as every day ended, on her knees in the chapel, singing the compline or night prayer. Once their devotions were concluded, the sisters would file out to return to their cells, where they remained in absolute silence until the dreary routine began all over again several hours before dawn the next day.

How much longer must I endure this?

Surely, her father would relent. Or forget about the unwanted pregnancy entirely and wonder where she had gone. Or, and this was the more likely, Robert would return and deliver her from this misery.

She had only to hold out, to wait until something, anything, happened to release her. She would be free once more, she knew it.

In the meantime, though…

The bell sounded to summon the holy sisters to congregate for vigils. She could put it off no longer. Flora dragged herself from her narrow cot and reached for the drab but serviceable novice’s habit which she had been given on the day she had arrived. Mother Immaculata considered the garb a constant reminder of the godliness to which her reluctant guest must aspire. As far as Flora was concerned, the habit was ugly and the sacking from which it was made was coarse, but it kept out some of the cold.

Other holy sisters were already moving through the convent when she left her cell, all heading for the small chapel which was reached by braving the elements and crossing the central courtyard. Flora joined the flow, her head down and her hands tucked inside her clothing. She found the narrow stairways more difficult these days but did not wish to attract yet more hostile attention to her swelling belly by clutching at the walls or slowing her pace.

She reached the chapel, glad to be inside again and protected to some degree from the biting wind, and dropped to her knees in the middle of the third row of bowed heads. There she remained for the next hour, chanting her responses as required but otherwise allowing her mind to drift. It was her only escape, and she was quite convinced the merciful God she believed in would entirely understand.

Her stomach growled as she shuffled from the chapel towards the refectory. She winced and almost stumbled at the sharp kick from within. The child had become lively of late, a good sign, surely. He would be strong and sturdy, she knew it. Just like his father.

The breaking of their communal fast was interrupted by a commotion in the hallway outside. Voices, whispering, then footsteps as Sister Gabriel, the nun whose duties usually included attending to the main door and dealing with the few visitors who might approach these bleak walls, hurried the length of the refectory to lean over and murmur in Mother Immaculata’s ear.

The abbess listened for a few moments, then glared directly at Flora. She said something to Sister Gabriel, then got to her feet.

Sister Gabriel hurried off, while the abbess made her way along the row of seated nuns at a more sedate pace. When she reached Flora, she halted.

“Come with me.” The terse command issued, the abbess moved on.

Dutifully, Flora rose and followed Mother Immaculata. At the door to the abbess’s private chambers, she was commanded to ‘wait here’. The abbess disappeared inside.

Flora remained where she was, listening to the voices on the other side of the door. One was raised, that of the abbess, and another, quieter tone replied. Before long the door was flung open again and the abbess beckoned Flora to enter.

“Mattie!”

Flora could scarcely believe that the abbess’s visitor was none other than the friend she had last seen at Byrness over year ago. She rushed forward to hug the other woman.

“What are you doing here? Have you news of my father? Is he well?”

Matilda enfolded Flora in her arms. “All will be well now, I swear it. I am here to care for you.”

“I am so pleased to see you.” Flora almost wept with joy. “How long can you stay?”

“That remains to be seen,” the sour-faced abbess declared. “Go, now, the pair of you. I shall not have you chattering in here like a pair of hens.”

“Go? But…” Flora was confused. Was it not the hour for vigils?

The abbess sniffed, her disapproval writ across her bony features. “You may take your… guest to your cell and remain there. I shall not permit either of you to mingle with the rest of the sisters. This is a house of God, of quiet prayer and worship. I expect you to respect that.”

“I do not understand. I thought—”

“Yes, Lady Abbess.” Matilda bowed her head to the mother superior and grabbed Flora by the elbow. “We shall not disrupt the house, you have my word.”

Flora allowed herself to be bundled from the abbess’s chamber, then rounded on her friend. “What is going on? Has my father sent for me?”

“I shall explain. Come, let us go somewhere private.”

Once back in her tiny cell, Flora demanded to know what had happened.

“How did you come to be here? And why has the abbess permitted us to be alone? She is usually so… so unyielding.”

“Charles brought me. They would not allow him to enter, but he gave me a letter to hand to the abbess. It conveys your father’s wish that you be allowed the companionship of a female relative. Me. And that you be afforded the comforts and privileges associated with your station.”

“A letter from my father?’ Flora was at once delighted and affronted. “Why did he not write to me? I have longed to hear from him.”

Matilda cleared her throat and shuffled her feet. “The letter was not actually penned by the earl, though I may have omitted to mention that to the Lady Abbess. It merely conveyed his wishes, or what we are quite certain would have been his wishes, were he in his right mind.”

“Then, who wrote it?”

“My husband.”

“Charles? But why would he…?”

“We were horrified by your father’s treatment of you. Regardless of the circumstances, whatever you may have done, such harshness is unwarranted. Charles thinks as I do, and he has made many attempts to intercede with the earl, to persuade him to relent. Half the time your father appears to have no recollection of the situation at all, and on the other occasions he rants and denounces you with every vile word he can bring to mind. There is no reasoning with him. Meanwhile, it is no secret that the Lady Abbess at St Mary’s harbours certain strongly held beliefs regarding the proper management of those she considers to have fallen from grace. We were concerned for you, worried that you may not receive the proper care, especially as your time draws closer.”

“You were right regarding the life here. It is hard, unforgiving. I could not ask you to share it.”

“And I shall not. It is your father’s ‘wish’, as explained in the letter I gave to Mother Immaculata, that you are to have your own private rooms, sufficient accommodation for both of us to live in comfort. There is to be warmth, good food, and ample opportunity for you to rest. I am to remain with you. If the fare here is inadequate, and I have no doubt that it is, food will be prepared and sent in for us. I am to come and go as I please, so there will be no problem in acquiring the necessities to make our stay bearable. Clothing, for example.” She regarded Flora’s habit with undisguised loathing. “I have brought a chest of your possessions from Roxburghe.”

“Mattie, you are an angel. I cannot believe that you would do this. And Charles, also. How can I ever thank you?”

“Thanks are not necessary.”

“But, what of your own baby? Little Charlie needs you.”

“I could have brought him with me, but we felt he would be better left with his family in Byrness. His father and his aunt will see to him while I am away.”

“I cannot ask this of you. It is too much.”

“You are my friend. You are kin.”

“I will never forget your kindness.” Flora had no words with which to express her gratitude. “You are taking a great risk, helping me.”

Matilda shrugged. “Perhaps not. When Robert returns, all will be set right in any case. He would not countenance any of this, and he is the only one who can overrule the earl. The clan will listen to him, they will obey Robbie MacKinnon. As for the time until then, sadly, your father is ever more deranged with each day that passes. Angus is leading the clan, as best he can, but as we both know he is not much of a chief. He has, though, on Charles’ advice, confined the earl to his chamber so all is relatively quiet at Roxburghe.”

“Oh, dear Lord. I should be there, caring for him. He needs me.”

“Yes, but that is not possible. Unfortunately, Angus is of similar mind to the earl on the matter of your condition. If the child were that of a Scot, he might be more sanguine and allow you to return home. But do not forget, the Marquis of Otterburn held Angus for almost half a year in his dungeons before the ransom was paid. He loathes the Englishman, and since this is rumoured to be his child…” Matilda paused, one eyebrow raised.

Flora nodded. “The marquis is the father.”

“Angus can only rant that whilst he languished in an English dungeon, you were busy cavorting with the man who put him there. He has taken all of this exceptionally personally.”

“I see.” Flora’s heart sank yet further. Would there be no end to her incarceration?

“But, if Otterburn is the father,” Matilda continued, “perhaps we could appeal to him for aid.”

Flora shook her head. “There is no point. He is wed to another by now. And he will not believe that the child is his. I told him…”

“Whatever you might have said to him, it is plain and obvious to anyone who can count months when this child was conceived.”

Flora was adamant. “He will not help. I cannot ask him.”

Matilda sighed. “Very well. In that case, we shall make the best of things and await your brother’s return.”