The Fire in the Flint (27 page)

If this was so, and she strongly felt that it was, she must not see Malcolm again, for he weakened her. She would tell Dame Katrina that she could no longer accept visits from the old gardener. It was a sad and frightening resolve.

She rose to tell Marion not to bother going to the cloister, but her maid had already departed.

When she retired for the night Margaret paused by her mother’s tapestry, pleased by how it livened
the bedchamber. ‘Is it not lovely?’ she asked Roger, who stood in the middle of the room.

He lifted his hands as if conceding an argument, a soft smile on his lips. ‘The colours do improve the room, Maggie. And now I think the bed needs curtains that add to the warmth. One small tapestry cannot do all the work.’

‘Do you mean it?’

He stepped closer and gently smoothed her unbound hair. ‘I do,’ he said, his voice softening as his eyes and hands caressed her hair, her shoulders. ‘I could not see it before. Is Celia skilled in such things?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Margaret, fighting the desire to lift her mouth up towards his. She felt wanton desiring him despite all her doubts. ‘She and I might do much, and quickly, with some cloth.’

‘Tomorrow morning I’ll go to the warehouse and see what we have that might suit, eh?’ Roger ended on a soft sigh, lifting her chin, his mouth so close she felt his breath on her eyelashes.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, kissing him, wrapping her arms around him. Perhaps he truly meant to work on their marriage.

He carried her to the bed, the cold, uncurtained bed.

After their lovemaking Roger fell asleep, with one arm wrapped around Margaret’s waist. His breath stirred her hair, his body warmed her down the length of her back and legs. Life seemed so
simple here, in this bed, their bodies pressed together in quiet comfort. When they desired one another the past was erased. Now was all that mattered. Would that were enough.

Marion returned to Christiana quite late, apologising for staying to pray with the sisters in the kirk. ‘It was a small party of English soldiers, riding ahead of a larger force.’

Christiana noticed that Marion crossed herself despite all the prayers she must have already said.

‘The prioress’s kinsmen refused the soldiers’ request to stay here the night,’ Marion continued. ‘Trouble will come of this.’

Marion’s news was nothing to Christiana at first. She had fallen into a most comforting state of calm, returning in spirit to a great glen with burial chambers, a stone circle, and whispering shadows that her Aunt Euphemia had told her was one of the oldest sacred places in the land. Once again she had heard the sea birds aloft, the sighing winds, the music – rattles, drums, flutes, horns – and then the great voice in the cave. It was said that St Patrick had preached in such a voice. She had no idea where the glen lay. It had taken several days to journey there from Loch Long, where she had been biding with her aunt while learning about the Sight, for it was Aunt Euphemia and not her mother who had carried the gift. Tonight had been a joyous return to the
glen for Christiana, the first time her spirit had journeyed there since before her marriage. The memory had lain forgotten in her cluttered mind, buried by marriage, childbirth, and her endless failed efforts at mothering her three children and her husband.

Now she tried to rise, but having knelt a long while she needed Marion’s assistance. She asked for warmed wine and a heated stone for her bed.

As she grew warmer and the spell of the glen receded, she grew anxious about the news. ‘Are the English headed for Perth?’

Marion, who had settled on to her cot at the foot of Christiana’s bed, rose on her elbow. ‘They are, and more follow.’

‘My children, have a care,’ Christiana whispered.

‘What, Mistress?’

‘Nothing, Marion. I’ll sleep now.’ Christiana blew out the lamp beside her bed and sat in the dark, holding the wine to warm her hands as in her mind’s eye she followed the sacred glen to the sea, seeking wisdom. She might help her daughter if she could trust her visions, and the glen was where they had grown clear to her.

Margaret woke early and slipped from the bed before Roger woke. Sun blessed the morning and she lingered on her way to the privy in the backland, smiling as she passed the kitchen where
Jonet hummed as she ground oats on the quern stone. For this moment Margaret pretended that she and Roger could settle into a comfortable life, bairns would come, and the house would fill with love. This morning such a future did not seem impossible.

As she stepped out of the privy she noticed Fergus’s dog in the yard and then Fergus himself in the doorway of the stable. He looked surprised to see her – unhappily surprised, she thought, as she drew closer.

‘You are up early,’ he remarked.

‘It is a warm morning for boots,’ she said, nodding at his.

‘I’m riding out to see to some matters regarding the business. Da might be back, but he’s not seeing to things.’

‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Aye.’

‘Are you going out to search for him?’

Fergus muttered an oath. ‘I don’t care to find him, no. There’s naught to admire in him. All he’s worried about is whether John Smyth had anything about him that would connect Da to the man’s death.’

‘He said that?’

Fergus repeated their father’s quite specific question.

If Smyth were a thief he might indeed have items about him that he’d stolen from her father. It
would seem to Margaret to prove his motive, and thus should not worry her father. It is so little, Margaret thought. It might mean nothing. But it suggested to her a guilty conscience. ‘Perhaps you put too much weight in what he said,’ she suggested, as if she might convince herself.

‘Whether or not I’m right is no matter.’

She sensed there was something more significant on her brother’s mind. ‘You’ll laugh to hear it,’ she said, ‘but despite my recent journey I would enjoy riding out with you on such a day as this. Especially if your route is to the north.’

Fergus shook his head. ‘Go break your fast and enjoy your home while you may. There is a rumour on the river that the English are returning.’

And they would hear of the body in the warehouse. She sensed great tension in her brother and imagined he feared likewise. ‘I worry what will happen when the English hear of John Smyth’s death,’ she said.

‘Aye, it will go badly for us.’

Margaret knew her brother well and did not think by his response that she had touched on the primary cause of his anxiety. She moved past him into the stable, unsurprised when he grabbed her elbow and prevented her from going further. ‘So what is it, Fergus?’ She noticed a pack near one of the stalls and a clean saddle atop it. Looking into her brother’s eyes, she saw a jumble of emotions. ‘Are you leaving?’

He let go her arm and withdrew into the shadows.

She dreaded losing her best friend and ally in Perth, and so quickly. ‘Where are you going? Were you not going to tell me?’ He said nothing, and she could not see whether he had nodded or shrugged. ‘Fergus, would you leave without a farewell for me?’ Her voice broke on the last words.

‘Oh, Maggie.’ He came to her and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I was afraid, and so would you be if you were me.’ His young face was so earnest, so solemn. She realised how much he had changed while she was away, how seldom he laughed, how infrequent were his silly tales. ‘The family wants me here so that no one else need stay,’ he said. ‘My life is not my own.’

‘You’re but seventeen, Fergus.’

‘Eighteen by Christmas.’

‘I’m older than you and my life isn’t my own.’

‘You’re a woman, Maggie. But even you’ve had an adventure.’

‘Och, I have, and you would have been welcome to it.’

He put an arm around her. ‘I know you’ve suffered, Maggie. I did not mean you hadn’t.’

‘You must have hated it here all alone.’

He rested his chin on her head with a sigh. ‘I’m going to Aberdeen to take up my work as Uncle Thomas’s secretary.’

Her head against his chest, Margaret both felt
and heard his words, and how his heart raced to say them. She stepped back and saw the resolution in his eyes. ‘But I need you here,’ she moaned. ‘What if Roger leaves me again?’

‘You see? I’m to stop my life so that you or your husband may come and go as you please. No, Maggie, I’m for Aberdeen. I’ll not stay here another day, not among townsfolk eager to sell their neighbours in exchange for the protection of Edward Longshanks’s army.’

Margaret wished she had considered her objection more carefully. ‘I shamed myself to speak so to you. Of course you should go to Aberdeen. We’ll devise a plan – you’ll need to find others travelling north.’

‘I’ll go alone.’

Now she was frightened. ‘Fergus, there are armed men in the countryside, not only the English and the Scots who are fighting for them, but our own men quick to take offence and practise their fighting skills, and the outlaws are bolder now that there is no rule in the land. You cannot make such a long journey alone.’

‘When Longshanks’s men hear of Smyth’s death they will watch us so closely I’ll never get out, Maggie. And how am I to find someone riding to Aberdeen before the English arrive in the town?’

She thought of James. ‘I might be able to find someone. Please, let me try.’

‘The longer I delay the more likely someone will find a way to prevent my leaving.’

‘I won’t let them, I promise.’ Margaret did not like the way he avoided her eyes. ‘You will not leave without saying farewell?’

Fergus put his arms around her and kissed her forehead. ‘You know I love you, and I’m grateful for your being both mother and sister to me. If I might have a companion for the journey, that would ease both our minds.’

Margaret sensed that his words were meant solely to appease her. She must act in haste.

In the stable, Fergus removed his boots and his travelling clothes and packed them, then hid his pack and saddle. Maggie’s plea was not the cause of his delay – he expected her efforts to come to nothing. He had been invited to dine with Matilda and her family this afternoon and would not miss the opportunity to see her. Though he could not bid her farewell without revealing his plan, he could feast his eyes on her one more time. Meanwhile, he planned to rummage through his father’s house for anything that might be useful for the journey or in his new post.

It was the least his parents could do for him, selfish couple that they were. He did not think they would give his disappearance a second thought, considering how neither seemed concerned about Andrew’s terrible exile to Soutra
Hospital or Maggie’s troubled marriage. He might as well lighten them of something, particularly coin. His father must have some hidden in the house.

Roger was attentive as he and Margaret broke their fast together early in the morning. In a secretive tone he said, ‘Aylmer and I buried Smyth.’

Margaret was puzzled. ‘You cannot have known Aylmer for long, yet you have great trust in him.’ It was something she found contrary to his subtler behaviour with the man.

‘We have perforce trusted one another with our lives.’ Roger caught her hand as she reached for the pitcher of ale. ‘You need not worry about Smyth.’

‘It was not Smyth who worried me. I fear what might happen when the town gossips tell the English about his death in Da’s warehouse.’

‘The gossips are a concern,’ Roger admitted. ‘You have had much troubling you this past year, and you rightly fault me for that. I lay awake last night wondering how you had managed the household. I’m glad you went to my mother. I have been a glaikit husband to you, Maggie.’

She did not protest, for he had indeed been thoughtless. ‘Dame Katherine is a kind, loving goodmother to me.’

‘What do you know of Old Will’s life?’ he asked, leaning towards her with a disarming earnestness.

‘I can think of nothing new to tell you,’ she said with a little laugh. ‘What do you hope to learn about him?’

Roger looked puzzled that she needed to ask about his motivation. ‘Are you not bothered by the English reaction to his murder – searching his rooms, closing the tavern, taking Murdoch’s goods?’

She had been, of course, and said so. ‘But you ken all that I do about the man now. I’ve no more to reveal. Except that Mary Brewster would not speak of it afterwards. Such a gossip as Mary. That seemed strange to me.’

‘It would have been of more use if we knew why,’ said Roger.

Margaret shrugged. ‘Are you not off to the warehouse today?’

‘I’ve tired you.’ Roger looked towards the window. ‘And it grows late.’ He took one of her hands in his, kissed it, then leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. ‘You’ve great courage, Maggie.’

She touched her cheek after he left the hall and was startled by the iciness of her hands. Roger’s affectionate behaviour did not warm her.

A cramp in his side forced James to ease out of his elderly stoop while warming himself in St John’s kirk yard. He had spent several hours in the kirk, most of the time bent into his elderly friar posture,
for the worshippers had appeared in a steady stream this morning. From their murmurings, he ascertained that most prayed for protection from the English. Even their cooperation with Longshanks’s men did not make them feel safe. They were more aware of the treachery of the English than they seemed.