The Fire in the Flint (30 page)

‘Perhaps too much,’ Margaret said with a little laugh.

But Roger’s amusement had already faded. ‘Why do I sense secrets behind that smile?’

Margaret reached for his hand. ‘It is the times, my love. We all grow secretive by habit.’ She prayed her father had escaped safely.

The meal ended without incident. After loitering until Roger was out of the house, Margaret walked slowly to St John’s. This time she found James sitting on a bench in a rear corner of the nave.

Joining him, she asked, ‘Have you found my brother a travelling companion?’

James nodded. ‘He will depart in two days.’

‘Two days? Can he not leave sooner?’

‘No.’ James shifted a little on the bench. ‘Fergus is in such a hurry?’

Perhaps she was panicking. She could not in truth predict Fergus’s reaction. She prayed Matilda was kind to him today so that he might choose to linger. ‘He’s angry, but he may calm. Who would this companion be?’

‘One of Murray’s messengers. A trustworthy young man and someone with whom your brother might feel comfortable.’

‘I’ll tell him. When can we talk again?’

‘Ride out into the country with me after Nones. Surely that gives you time enough to discuss this with Fergus. Then you can meet the man.’

‘I’ve told you—’

‘You have. But it is Wallace himself who wishes to meet with you.’

William Wallace. She had seen him once at Inverkeithing, awaiting the ferry across the Firth of Forth. At that time she had thought him a common thief and wondered at the quiet deference of the men who acknowledged him. ‘I have nothing of use to tell him.’

‘He would warn you. He says you are in danger. I believe he has information about your husband’s or your father’s activities.’

Warn her or question her, she wondered. ‘I fear for my father,’ she said. ‘Someone is following him. Is it Wallace’s men?’

‘Among others.’

‘What others?’

‘I’m uncertain – but it seems the English are interested.’

‘Then I am glad he is wise enough to leave Perth.’ She feared he was more like his brother Murdoch than she had known, that perhaps John Smyth was just one of his troubles, and the rest had to do with smuggling.

‘I pray he manages that safely, but he might be wiser to stay now that he is here.’

‘There was the death in his warehouse.’

‘A thief. Even the English understand thieves.’

‘I think he is very frightened.’

‘I’ll watch his house.’

‘So you’ll be in town?’

‘For a while. But first I would take you to Wallace.’

‘Not today, James. What of Roger? Are Wallace’s men watching him?’

‘I am, through you. Why not today? You are concerned about both your father and your husband. I thought Roger and his man were spending their days going through the warehouses and checking the accounts.’

‘They are. I can’t explain. I don’t feel ready. I know too little. I don’t even know my own heart.’
She was momentarily upset with herself for having said that, but it was the closest she could come to an explanation. It seemed enough for James. He agreed to meet her the following morning.

Fergus was relieved when Jonet departed for Maggie’s house – she was upset about the mess he was making of the hall and his father’s bedchamber in his search, and he had spent part of the morning undoing the neat stacks of papers that she had made the past evening without regard to the organisation he had devised when the tenor of his search had changed late the previous afternoon.

A well-dressed stranger had come looking for his father, having heard a rumour of his return to Perth. He claimed Malcolm owed him a bag of coins, which he now needed. Fergus had convinced the man that he knew nothing of the coins. Once the man had gone on his way, Fergus had resumed his search in more earnest, determined to find out where his father was storing money. But searching through the evening and part of the morning he had unearthed nothing of substance – a few coins and a necklace that might be worth a goodly amount if there were anyone in the market for jewels at present.

Fergus had considered making Matilda a gift of the necklace, but decided against buying her affections. Yet he kept returning to the small casket in which he’d found the jewellery, looking
at the delicate jet and silver strands and imagining them encircling Matilda’s neck. He was lost in one of his daydreams when there came a loud knock on the street door. Whoever it was rapped again even more loudly and called out to Fergus’s father.

Expecting the caller of the previous day, Fergus opened the door muttering about patience, but lost his train of thought as he faced yet another well-dressed stranger. This one was larger and appeared angrier than the earlier visitor.

‘Where’s Malcolm Kerr?’ the man demanded, trying to peer beyond Fergus into the hall.

‘In Bruges,’ said Fergus, bracing a hand on either side of the doorway. ‘If you knew my father you would be aware of that.’

‘Make no mistake, I know Kerr,’ the man said as he easily pushed past Fergus. Striding into the hall, he bellowed Malcolm’s name.

Fergus slammed the door. ‘Who do you think you are, barging in here like this?’

The man had a foot on the steps to the solar. ‘He has been seen on the river.’ Crossing to the alcove that opened on to the kitchen yard, he glanced round, then returned to Fergus. ‘He’s keeping the silver to himself, isn’t he? Or he’s handed it over to Longshanks. He’ll be doubly sorry if he has done so. You tell him that Gilbert Ruthven means to retrieve what is his. I’ll return tomorrow – with others he owes.’

A Ruthven, landed and lordly. ‘I’m his factor
but I know nothing of silver owed you or anyone else. Nor of any dealings with the English king.’

As Ruthven looked Fergus in the eyes, his expression softened. ‘Then he is cheating you as well. Look to yourself, young sir, and trust not your greedy master.’ He bowed and departed.

Fergus leaned against the door and began to go over the encounter. He examined it again and again, fanning a fire in his gut. The man had insulted the family honour. Yet, as Fergus calmed a little, he wondered whether there had been some truth in the man’s accusations. It would be no wonder his father was in hiding if he had cheated a Ruthven and who knew how many others. Damn him for leaving Fergus to face his victims. Silver … that might have been what John Smyth was after. Fergus’s anger shifted to his father. He wondered what else his da was hoarding, or trading to Longshanks. By St Columba, if his father proved to be in league with the English invaders Fergus would never speak to him again. To so humiliate his own son. Damn him. He would not see Fergus’s face again, not on this earth. Aberdeen would be his new home.

And where was the stolen silver? Not in the house, that was almost certain. Fergus hid the casket of coins and jewellery in a chest beneath the solar stairs and headed for the warehouse.

The cool mist of early morning had lifted and the day had warmed, though the sun had not yet
broken through the low clouds. Fergus’s clothes clung to him damply and he slowed his stride in an effort to cool himself. But his mind could not let go of Ruthven’s sympathetic tone, his father’s deceit, and his own humiliation, and the anger heated his blood to a simmer. At the warehouse he jammed the key in the lock at an angle while he swatted at midges and then spent an eternity straightening it. Once within, he cursed to discover the body gone. He’d wanted to search it again, look at the hands.

Resigned to the loss, Fergus set about scouring for clues in the area in which the man had fallen.

After meeting with the prioress, Christiana had walked for a long while in the water meadow under the wary eyes of Dame Agnes’s kinsman, seeking a tale that would send the English running to Perth for protection. But she was a receiver rather than a creator of visions and her mind kept wandering away from what might sufficiently disturb a soldier. The abrupt cliffs of Kinnoull Hill across the river held her attention. When she had first visited Elcho, the cliffs looming above the opposite bank had filled her with dread. Now, as on the night of the intruders, she thought how vulnerable the water meadow was, how all the low-lying fields, the river, and Friarton Island might be watched from that cliff. The cliffs’ vantage point might make the English uneasy.

Back in the prioress’s parlour she watched
understanding dawn on the faces of Agnes and her kinsman.

‘They would feel far too exposed down here,’ Thomas said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘I am grateful to you, Dame Christiana.’

The prioress smiled benignly and commended Christiana for her clever scheme.

As Margaret made her way home from St John’s Kirk she pondered what it would take to know her own heart, and it seemed to her that she must decide whether or not she trusted Roger. There was Aylmer as well – she no longer considered him insolent, but rather unaware that there was more to playing a servant than being called one. He was not the actor that James was. If he was so unprepared for the role she might learn much from his belongings. She would search them.

Celia was sitting in the doorway to the yard, using the daylight to mend a tear in one of Margaret’s worn gowns. ‘You’ll be thirsty,’ she said, moving to set aside her work.

Margaret shook her head. ‘I’m going to search Aylmer’s chamber. If anyone appears, come for me.’

Celia bowed her head. ‘Have a care, Mistress.’

Margaret nodded and went within, hurrying up to her chamber for her tools. Back down in the hall she lit a piece of kindling from the hearth fire, and then crossed to the small chamber in the rear in
which Jack and Fergus had worked on accounts and letters. Lifting the hide that covered the doorway, she lit the lamp on the shelf just within and looked around. She found Aylmer’s travelling casket and pack beneath the small work-table. Lifting the casket to the table, she set to work picking the lock. Her trembling hands slowed her but the simple lock was soon opened.

Within were daggers, a small cache of coins, a jewelled belt, and a wallet like the one she had found in Roger’s casket, filled with rolled documents. She sat back on her heels and examined the rolls in the wallet. All but one were sealed; the opened one bore Roger’s name as well as what she thought might be a form of the name Bruce. She stared at the casket, willing it to reveal more. And in a little while it did, for she realised that the casket was not as deep within as it was from without. But there were no legs, nor was there a bottom compartment. She set to prodding and poking what must be a false bottom. With persistence she shifted it enough to insert a finger and pop it out. Beneath were more coins and several documents with broken seals – English royal seals. Setting those aside, she replaced the false bottom with care and then repacked the casket.

She would take these and the two from Roger’s casket to Ada, who read as well as any priest. In fact she would do it now. She gathered the
documents and went out into the town with them hidden beneath a cloth in her market basket.

At the Northgate crossing, she spied Fergus talking to an acquaintance a few doors from Matilda’s. She nodded to him as he noticed her and was surprised when he quit the man and hurried towards her. His face was livid.

‘We were close to starving and all the while he was hoarding coin!’ he blurted.

Margaret glanced about uneasily. ‘Who?’ she asked softly. ‘What coin?’ She listened with increasing perplexity as he told her of his visitors. ‘Does it not mean that Ruthven wants to recover a debt, rather than that Da is hoarding?’ she asked. ‘Has he paper to prove it?’

‘Two men, Maggie, two days in a row, and Ruthven said others would accompany him tomorrow.’ Fergus shook his head. ‘Da is up to no good, you can be sure.’

Thinking of the royal seals on the documents she carried in her market basket, and her father’s name in the text, she said, ‘I’m on an errand that might prove enlightening. Be patient, I pray you. And I have found a travelling companion for you.’

He had resumed his complaints but her last comment caught his attention. ‘How soon does he leave?’

‘In a few days.’

Fergus cursed. ‘More waiting. Who is this companion?’

‘We really should not talk of such things out here in the street.’

‘The body’s gone from the warehouse. Did Roger take it?’

Margaret hushed him. ‘Come to the house first thing in the morning, after Roger departs. I hope to have much to tell you.’

‘I mean to be gone by the time Ruthven returns.’

‘Lock up Da’s house and bide with us.’

Fergus hunched his shoulders. ‘You tell me nothing.’

‘I’ll tell you all I know. I pray you, be patient.’

He wagged his head, a gesture that could mean many things. ‘I’m expected at Matilda’s.’

‘Will you come to me in the morning?’ Margaret asked, uneasy about his mood.

‘If you have much to tell me I’d be a fool not to, eh?’ He forced a smile, but his eyes were sullen as he left her.

Puzzling over how she might have better handled her brother, Margaret continued on to Ada’s. But she was met with frustration. Ada had gone out with her niece and the child to visit an ailing friend. Margaret told the servant that she would return in the morning.