Dingwall, May 1536
The bedchamber is shuttered when the midwives finally let Alexander in to see Mary. The women are clearly hoping that keeping the room dark will hide the worst of his wife’s condition, and perhaps they are right. Even so, however, it is painfully clear that Mary is fatally weak.
Susan curtsies as she passes him on her way out of the bedchamber. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but she manages to hold herself together enough to whisper to him what no one else dares say.
“Mistress Cavanagh has managed to stop the bleeding, but she hasn’t long left. She’s lost too much blood for that. You’d best hurry, My Lord.”
Alexander swallows past the lump in his throat, nodding in acknowledgement of Susan’s words, before he shuts the door behind her and turns towards the bed. He doesn’t trust himself to do more than that.
Jolted awake by the sound of the door closing, Mary forces herself into a half-sitting position as he approaches, and he rushes forward to catch her in his arms.
“No, darling, don’t! Save your strength, please!”
To his relief, the sapphire eyes she turns on him are lucid, rather than crazed with fever, the way he’d feared they might be.
“I’m cold,” she whispers, and the quiet admission sends an arrow through Alexander’s heart. He’s never heard Mary complain of even the slightest discomfort. Never. For her to do it now, when every word clearly costs her more than she really has to give…
He scrambles on to the high tester bed behind her, and wraps his arms around her, supporting her against his chest. He tightens his hold as she slumps back against him, willing her to leech his heat and strength, to save herself, even at this eleventh hour.
“Have you seen our daughter?”
“Not yet,” he whispers, carding his hand through Mary’s limp blonde curls, “I came straight to you. But I’m sure she’s beautiful. As beautiful as her mother.”
“Name her Katherine. I always wanted to name one of my daughters for my mother.”
Mary’s voice is weakening by the moment. Alexander bends his head and finds her lips with his, tasting the salt of his tears on her skin.
“Mary Katherine,” he manages, knowing his voice is breaking and unable to stop it, even as he fights to be strong for Mary, “Mary Katherine, because you deserve to be honoured and she deserves to be reminded of the woman who loved her so much that she died to bring her life.”
“Mary Katherine of Ross,” Mary’s eyes close, and, for a horrible, sickening, moment, Alexander fears the end has come. But no. With a herculean effort, his wife forces her lids open once more.
“I want you to marry Nora. When I’ve gone, when you’ve mourned me as you should, I want you to marry Nora.”
“Mary, don’t. Don’t talk like that -”
Despite trying to stay positive, Alexander falters, voice cracking, and Mary seizes his wrist in a vice-like grip, desperation clearly lending her strength.
“No, Sawney. Don’t lie. Not now. We both know it’s over. We knew this was coming. We knew this was coming from the moment I got pregnant again, and Nora will make you happy. You’ll make each other happy. Happier than we ever made each other, I’ll wager. So, please, make her your Duchess. Let her be mother to Bobby and Maggie and Mary Katherine. She’ll love them as though they’re her own. She’s promised.”
“You’ve spoken to her about it?” Alexander feels his eyes go wide. He’s always known Mary and Nora consider each other sisters, that they talk about everything, but even so… However, Mary’s last great speech has robbed her of more than she has left to give. It is all she can do to nod slightly against his chest in answer.
“Oh, Mary. Oh, my love.” Alexander bends his head, pressing their foreheads together. He is no longer even trying to restrain his tears and they soak Mary’s clammy fair hair like a waterfall as he concertinas himself over her, counting her breaths like the pearls they are, like the pearl her father always said she was.
“I love you, you know,” he murmurs into the silence, “Whatever else happened, whatever happens between Nora and I, I want you to know that I do love you. You’re my cousin, my wife and my Duchess and I love you. I always have.”
He fancies Mary squeezes his hand in answer, so he says it again, even more gently, “I love you. I always have, my darling.”
He pauses, studying the silence. Something has changed. Without being able to explain how, he
knows, deep in his bones, that something has changed irrevocably in the last few moments.
It takes him several long seconds to realise what.
Mary has stopped struggling for breath.
Surrounded by his warmth and his love, she has slipped from Alexander’s arms and gone to the loving embrace of her Maker.
