Epilogue
One Month Later
It seemed appropriate to celebrate the end of the war at the convent itself. The doors were thrown open. No luxury was promised, but there was food and drink and beds for those who needed them, and the library, the glorious library, was open to whoever wanted to see it.
Senga walked past the open library door, peering inside to see Kyla leading yet another group of fascinated women through the stacks of books.
Men were interested in the fabulous St. Deborah’s library too, but there always seemed to be more women than men.
Men, after all, weren’t forbidden to learn in many clans.
That was changing. The lairds loyal to Laird Dickson had mostly fled or been disposed of by their own people, and the new lairds were willing to look to clans Grahame and Kenneth as an example. And yes, to the convent. They were willing to listen.
That was the best start, wasn’t it? Being willing to listen. That was the best start.
Senga poked her head into the library, catching Kyla’s eye.
“Food will be served soon,” she called. “Will ye be ready?”
Kyla smiled, nodding. “Aye, I’ll be ready.”
Thomas stood behind her, of course. He’d scarcely left her side after the battle, after she’d come so close to being murdered in the convent by Dickson soldiers.
Senga smiled back and moved away from the library. She peered into the infirmary as she went, which had finally discharged the last of its injured, men and women who’d been hurt badly in the last battle.
It is the last battle, though, she reminded herself, biting back a smile. We did it.
Oh, there was leftover sadness, of course there was.
Struan had killed his own father, even though Laird Dickson was a vile man who would have killed his own children.
It would take time for Struan to forgive himself, but in the meantime, he had Una to take care of him.
She’d asked Una once what she and Struan planned to do when the battle was over.
“Well,” Una had responded, shrugging faintly, “Clan Dickson needs help, doesn’t it? Kyla and Thomas are too wrapped up in their books. I suppose Struan and I will have to manage it.”
That was a fair point. Senga was deeply relieved that she would not be expected to be laird or lady of her own clan.
Clan Murray, small as it was, had been divided up between other clans, and that seemed to be the best solution for everybody.
Laird Murray would live out his days in the dungeons he’d promised to his daughter.
For me, at least, Senga thought wryly.
She passed Sister Abigail in the hall, her arms full of medical supplies.
Sister Abigail caught her eye, nodded, and smiled.
There was a sort of solidarity between them now, the two women who’d been chosen to survive and tell the story.
Sister Abigail had been attacked by Murray men, Senga knew now, and had fled.
She’d made it all the way to Keep Kenneth before she heard that the battle was won.
I would never have made it if the battle had gone poorly, Senga thought. It would have been Sister Abigail who carried our story off that battlefield. The Abbess chose well.
A familiar tightness closed around her chest at the memory of the Abbess but she put it aside. Now was a time to rejoice. This was a celebration.
Senga walked on, hearing the noise and laughter of the feasting hall just ahead.
The heat washed over her the moment she stepped inside, and Senga found herself smiling at all the merriment.
The table was piled high with food. Roast chicken, duck, pork and sides of beef, all served on trenchers of bread, with plenty of ale and wine kept in overflowing jugs all along the table.
There were vegetables too, huge bowls of fluffy boiled potatoes smothered in butter, and bowls of carrots, parsnips, onions, and turnips from the gardens, tossed in butter, mint, and oil.
There were tureens of soup that Senga could not identify but which smelled truly delicious.
“Senga!” Brendan cried, rising to his feet and holding up a foaming mug of ale. “To yer good health!”
There was a roar of agreement at this, and at least a hundred mugs were lifted her way. Everybody drank deeply, some choking and spluttering before bursting into laughter. Biting back laughter, Senga slipped along the side of the room, searching the benches for her husband.
She spotted Freya, just as drunk as her husband, leaning up against him and whispering something in his ear.
Kai and Astrid were there too, of course, confident in the knowledge that their Kenneth archers had helped win the battle.
Sister Rosemary sat with a huddle of her friends, talking and laughing and eating, their faces lit up with happiness.
Ah. There he was.
Senga spotted Noah, and her chest warmed. He grinned at her, shuffling up on the wooden bench to make room for her.
“There ye are,” he whispered. “I waited to get drunk before ye got here.”
She snorted. “Ye are kindness itself.”
“I thought so. Now. Ale?”
“Aye, I’ll have ale.”
She took a sip, leaning against his shoulder and closing her eyes.
“What are ye thinking?” Noah murmured, his voice soft and his breath warm against her ear.
“I was just wondering what we’ll do with our time now that there’s no Clan Murray.
After the celebrations are over and life is back to normal.
I couldn’t decide myself,” she confessed.
Senga thought it over for a long moment.
“We could travel,” she said at last. “The Highlands are beautiful, but the world is wide. There’s a lot to see. ”
Noah gave a slow smile. “Aye, I like that idea. And I like yer way of looking at it. The world is wide. I’ve never even left Scotland. We could go to England?”
She pulled a face. “We might as well. It’s a good place to start, but we’ll go further afield, aye? Go across the sea. What do ye think of that?”
“I think that it’s a grand plan for a woman who once never thought of leaving her convent,” Noah teased, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pressing a kiss to her head.
Senga chuckled, closing her ears. The warmth and pleasant noise of the feasting room caught her, lulling her almost to sleep.
Of course, sleep was never going to come at a time like this, in a place like this.
“I wish the Abbess could see all of this,” Senga murmured.
Noah snorted. “I am quite sure that she can see. And hear, too.”
“She never did miss a trick.”
Changes had been made in the Highlands. Struan was Laird Dickson now, and Una was Lady Dickson. Kyla was happy enough to release her claim to the title, content with her books, her husband, and her unborn baby.
More and more guests came in, crowding the already full seats with more people. Chatter and laughter filled the air, people jostling for room and leaning across the table to speak to friends and acquaintances.
Senga was happy to stay quiet, leaning against Noah and letting it all wash over her.
Then Brendan rose to his feet again, his fingers laced in his wife’s, and yelled for quiet.
“I think we are all here now,” he said, laughing, “so perhaps it’s time to offer a toast. We have much to be thankful for, but we have a great deal of work to be done. I can think of nobody better than the woman to whom we owe all of our thanks.”
His expression turned serious, and he lifted his goblet towards the end of the table.
All eyes turned towards the end of the table, Senga’s included.
“Abbess,” Brendan murmured, his tone turning reverential, “will ye speak to us?”
A hush fell over the table.
Senga craned her neck, tightening her grip on Noah’s hand.
A slow tap-tap approached the wide-open doors of the feasting room, and a woman came limping into sight.
The Abbess.
She paused in the doorway, then shuffled forward to where a space had been left for her at the head of the table.
She always did love to make an entrance, Senga reminded herself, biting back a smile.
She moved slowly and carefully, leaning on her cane and pressing a hand against her side. The bandages couldn’t be seen under her habit, but Senga knew that they were there. Still, healing wounds hurt, and she had been stabbed twice.
Stabbed twice but alive, Senga thought, with a rush of powerful delight and triumph.
Her healing was slow. She limped now and struggled to rise from a chair and lower herself. The wound would scar, and she would carry its effects for the rest of her life, but the plain fact was that she was alive, and that mattered.
Oh, that mattered so very much.
Senga knew that she had been the one who saved the Abbess, stopping the bleeding before she could be carried down the hill to the convent infirmary.
There were a few moments of silence while the Abbess prepared to speak.
“My friends, my daughters, I did not quite expect to be here at all,” she said at last. “I believed, quite thoroughly for some time, that I would die. But I am not dead.”
A cheer broke out over the table. Senga noticed Sister Rosemary clapping extra hard.
The Abbess chuckled, shaking her head, and gestured for silence.
“This place, my convent, was once built to silence women. It was a place to put away troublesome women. The ones that asked too many questions, the ones who would not do as they were told, the ones that would not fit in. Then, it became a place to protect women. It was not a fine, luxurious place and did not offer wonderful freedom, but any woman who came here would be protected. She could feel safe. And then, most lately, it became a place where women could be heard. A place of learning where women can be free to be who they wish to be. I’m sure that some believe that men should be taught here too, and I agree that male education is important.
But the fact is that men can learn anywhere in the world if they wish, but women cannot. So, this place is for women.”
This was met with a murmur of agreement and scattered applause. Senga did not applaud, though, because she knew that the Abbess was not finished.
“The war—this war that ravaged our country—did not end because men laid down their swords,” she continued, her voice cracking just a little. “It ended because women stood up and refused to kneel again.”
She reached down, lifting a cup with a shaking hand. She lifted it high, high in the air, until everybody’s eyes were fixed on it.
“To the daughters of the fire,” the Abbess announced. “May we carry peace like a blade, knowledge like an arrow, and determination like an axe.”
There was a ripple of laughter at that, and the Abbess’ face creased into a smile, glancing down at them all. She met Senga’s eye, and her smile widened.
“And may we carry love,” she murmured, her voice ringing out in the silence. “May we carry love like a banner the world can never tear down.”
Senga lifted her own cup, adding it to Noah’s, Freya’s, Astrid’s, Kyla’s, and Una’s, all of their cups knocking together, clinking together in unison and agreement.
“Amen!” they chorused.
Amen.
Thank you for reading my story!