The Fire in the Flint (21 page)

‘I ken that feeling. You must have been very frightened.’

‘I admit to that, I do.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I had this thought, later, that the one outside might have been a woman. That one was smaller. A lad, more likely.’ She shook her head as if still trying to understand. ‘But I keep thinking a woman.’

‘What of the guest-house servants? Or Dame Katrina? Did they hear nothing?’

Marion shook her head. ‘I was the one who woke them.’

‘God bless you for this,’ Margaret said. ‘And I’ll say nothing to my mother of this talk.’

‘It might be of help?’

Margaret nodded.

Marion smiled and led the way into the crowded chamber. Hidden behind an ornately carved screen, Margaret’s mother lounged on a bed piled high with cushions. There were dark crescents beneath her eyes, and her colour was uneven, ruddy and pale alternating.

‘Are you unwell?’ Margaret asked, leaning to kiss her mother’s forehead, which felt clammy.

Christiana took one of Margaret’s hands and pressed the back against a cheek, then kissed the palm.

Margaret was deeply moved by the affectionate gesture. ‘I hope I was not the cause of a sleepless night.’

Gently shaking her head, Christiana said, ‘I grow old, Maggie. The old sleep fitfully. It is God’s way of making us desire the long rest in His house.’

This was but the latest of her mother’s theories about her nocturnal restlessness. When they were children Fergus had once suggested that their mother was a cat under a spell, and that she longed to hunt at night. But she did look pale.

‘Marion said you wished to see me before I left,’ said Margaret.

Christiana closed her eyes and nodded. ‘I did. I must warn you, Maggie. Come, bring the stool closer.’ She gestured impatiently.

Margaret did as she requested, her heart racing, thinking God had answered her prayers. ‘Warn me of what?’

Opening her eyes, Christiana studied Margaret for a moment.

‘Ma?’

‘You must not believe anyone who claims to want to help you, Maggie. Everyone has selfish motivations now.’

‘Are you speaking of my husband?’

‘Anyone.’ Christiana sighed back into her pillows.

A silence ensued in which Margaret heard
Marion’s small movements as she shifted the gown she was mending, the gardener’s humming, and her own heart pounding.

‘Is that it?’ Margaret asked when she could no longer keep still. ‘Such a vague warning? Is this all that you wished to tell me?’

Christiana looked sympathetic. ‘You expect too much of my visions, Maggie. I saw you bending over a map, men at arms treating you as one of them. I don’t know the men. Nor do I know the man riding into Edinburgh.’

‘What of the man with me as I hold my daughter?’

‘But of course it was Roger Sinclair. I said it was your husband.’

‘Did you see his face?’

Her mother seemed to be losing interest, then abruptly shook her head. ‘It was a presence with no face. Like the men who— but no, the prioress says these visions are for my eyes only. I must say no more.’

Margaret tried to keep her voice calm. ‘But you called him my husband.’

‘He bent over both of you as a husband would.’ Christiana rolled her head from side to side. ‘You are destroying my peace with your insistence on hearing more.’ Her voice broke.

‘But you sent for me,’ Margaret said.

Christiana closed her eyes.

Swallowing her frustration, Margaret changed
the direction of her questions. ‘Fergus wrote to me about the men who broke in here and in the houses in Perth. Have you any idea what they sought?’

‘Oh, Maggie, you would have wept to see it. They spilled my medicines and some of the costly oils your father brought from France and Italy, they tore veils with their rough hands, stepped on my gowns with their filthy boots.’ Christiana sat up suddenly, upsetting several of the cushions as she leaned towards Margaret. ‘Trust no one.’ She dropped her eyes and seemed to withdraw, whispering something unintelligible.

Margaret wondered at the spilling of medicines and oils. ‘Where were your medicines and oils, Ma?’

Christiana glanced at Margaret as if surprised she was still there. ‘Where? In the lovely casket Malcolm brought from Italy.’

Margaret knew the one – it looked much like the one her father had left with Murdoch.

‘There is one you might trust,’ Christiana said, ‘your brother Andrew.’

Margaret knew that. ‘Yesterday you thought little of him.’

‘I have reconsidered.’ Christiana noticed a loose thread on a cushion and bit it off.

There was much else in the room that could use her attention, but it was like her to be drawn to the insignificant, Margaret thought. At least she had managed to restore Andrew in their mother’s eyes.

‘Would you like to see Roger before we depart?’ Margaret asked.

Christiana was fussing with the cushions that supported her arms. ‘Are you two reconciled?’

‘We are trying,’ said Margaret.

She moved a few cushions to assist her mother, but Christiana pushed her away.

‘I know how they must go,’ she said, shifting things again. At last she rested against them, arms well supported. But she was not still for long as she grasped Margaret’s hand, drawing her near. ‘I do love you, Maggie, though at times that might not seem so.’ She searched Margaret’s eyes.

Margaret kissed her mother’s hand.

Christiana gently touched Margaret’s cheek. ‘And I am sorry if my silence caused you an unhappy marriage.’

Margaret let go her mother’s hand. ‘You did not approve of Roger?’

Christiana wrinkled her nose, lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. ‘He seemed … oh, he was not like your father riding up to Dunkeld to plead for my hand, swearing he could not live without me. I admit that of late I’d come to think it a lie, or that time had dulled Malcolm’s ardour.’

‘I don’t mean to press you to see Roger. But I did wonder why you wished to avoid him.’

‘It is not a matter of avoidance. I’m not good company at present. I wish him well. Tell him that I am glad he has returned with life and limb.’

‘I’ll tell him.’ Margaret rose to take her leave.

But Christiana caught her hand. ‘There is another matter. Your father has returned from Bruges.’ Her face was now truly flushed.

Margaret sank back down, thinking of the searches. She felt ill. ‘You’ve seen him?’

‘I have.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me at once?’

‘Malcolm wishes none in Perth to know that he is in the country – not even Fergus. I think it foolish – he should stay in the comfort of his own house.’

‘And you’d only now decided to confide in me?’ Margaret shook her head, wishing she could quiet the clamour in it. ‘Why is Da hiding?’

‘Some trouble,’ said Christiana, with a wave of her hands. ‘He’s come back because King Edward of England is in Flanders. There is an uprising.’ She shook her head. ‘I ken little of such matters. He thought to collect more of his wealth and do some careful business while English eyes were elsewhere. He was not prepared for things as they are here. But there is more, Maggie.’ Christiana paused and fiddled with one of her sleeves.

Margaret held her breath.

‘He wants me to leave the convent and return with him to Flanders.’

The held breath escaped as incredulous laughter. ‘Even after he agreed that you might
retire here, that he would not demand his rights as a husband?’

‘Do not hate him. He did agree, but he now regrets it.’

He had seemed only too glad to be free of her mother. Margaret wondered whether her father intended never to return to his country. ‘What changed?’

Christiana had sat up at the edge of the bed and was hugging a cushion. ‘He swears he has no joy without me.’

‘Will you go?’ Margaret asked.

Christiana looked abashed. ‘No. I refused him. I have taken a vow of chastity, and dedicated myself to prayer.’

‘I doubt the vow is binding.’

‘The chaplain supports my refusal.’

‘How long ago did Da return?’

‘A week ago? No, he’s been here longer, I think.’

‘Poor Da,’ Margaret whispered absently, her mind on the coincidence of his return and the searches.

‘Poor me.’ Christiana’s tone was flat, as if talking to herself. ‘Malcolm swears he will prevail.’

‘An empty boast,’ said Margaret. ‘He cannot prevail against the Kirk.’

‘It would have been better had he stayed away,’ Christiana whispered. ‘He has unsettled me.’

Margaret and Malcolm were a pair, then. ‘Do
you know where Da landed? Has he been to Edinburgh?’ One of her mother’s intruders might have been her own husband thinking to search for something without being discovered. But her mother’s servant Marion would have recognised his voice. Still, he might have accomplices.

Christiana shrugged. ‘I was not so curious as to ask.’

He’d been gone almost two years now and yet her mother seemed unmoved by his return except as it threatened her comfortable peace. Margaret was not so indifferent; she was furious with him for deserting his family. When Longshanks ordered all land that Scots held in England seized her father took it as a warning and fled to Bruges leaving Fergus and Margaret to fend for themselves. She’d been but four months married with a husband often away. She had felt so alone. And now he returned trailing trouble in his wake, or so it seemed. Her parents were worse than useless.

Roger paced in the guest-house garden, eager to hear of the meeting. Margaret slowed as she drew near, considering what she would divulge.

‘Well? Was she more forthcoming this morning?’

She could see how anxious he was, as if half fearing what she would say.

‘Yes and no. She swears that the faces in her vision were not clear to her, that she knew it was
you from the way you bent towards me and the child.’

‘And the king?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘She saw no faces.’

‘She saw yours.’

‘I wish I had something to tell you, Roger. I’m sorry.’

‘She’s mad.’

‘You would not be the first to think so.’

He shook his head, incredulous. ‘Of what value is a gift that only teases?’

Margaret shrugged. ‘I have always found it a tangle.’

‘So why had she sent for you this morning?’

Margaret caught her breath, offered her rehearsed response. ‘To explain why she would not see you. But I could see the choler strong in her. She is unwell. She told me to say that she is glad you have returned with life and limb.’

‘She might have saved her breath.’ The veins on Roger’s temples had risen with his anger. ‘She said naught else? Had she nothing of use to tell you?’

‘That I should trust no one.’

‘I might have told you that.’

‘I stayed longer than I wished, hoping she might recall something, but I wasted the time.’

Margaret was relieved that the others awaited them to complete the journey. Today they would part ways with Alan and Macrath, who were riding on to Dundee. Or so they said. Margaret still did
not believe Alan was merely a merchant, and she wondered what business Macrath pursued for the Bruce in Dundee.

As Roger helped her mount, Margaret glanced towards Celia, wondering who would assist her.

‘You need not worry,’ Roger said. ‘Macrath is seeing to her.’

Indeed, Celia had mounted and looked at ease in the saddle as Macrath checked all the straps. Now she leaned towards him with her ear cocked, her eyes shining. Margaret heard a snatch of merry song and was glad for Celia. She deserved some cheer. Macrath might be no worse than Roger, a good man seduced by Robert Bruce.

‘Are you eager to see Perth, Maggie?’ Roger asked as he took his reins from Aylmer.

‘I am. I can’t wait to see Fergus’s surprise.’ She laughed to think of it.

‘I haven’t seen you so happy in a long while.’ Roger leaned from his saddle to kiss her. ‘And I fear I’ll now darken your mood, but I trust you’d prefer to have no unpleasant surprises. There’s been more of an English presence in the town since you left in spring, the result of the uprisings here and there. They’ve blocked access to the canal in places where they’re shoring up the town walls. They come and go. They’re gone at present, which is why we are safe to enter. But we might need to depart quickly if things go badly. Do you see?’

She had not expected Perth to be untouched,
but it was alarming that the English were shoring up the town’s defences. They were turning her beloved town into a prison like Edinburgh. Feeling faint, she struggled to breathe deeply and nodded. ‘I do see.’ She tried to think more pragmatically. ‘They think to use Perth as a base from which to secure Scone?’ It was where the Scots crowned their kings.

‘I think they do,’ said Roger.

Perhaps that was why Angus MacLaren had said the folk of Perth welcomed the English. Her joy in coming home was considerably dampened by all this.