The Fire in the Flint (34 page)

She tried to back away from him, but he dug his fingers into her shoulders.

‘Why does Aylmer have letters to my father in
his possession?’ she gasped. ‘What right has he?’

‘So, my sly wife has learned to read?’ Roger shook her hard and shoved her away.

Margaret steadied herself against a bedpost, pressing her hands around her neck which ached from the shaking. Roger’s tenderness towards her was easily shed. ‘I’ve learned some words. But I certainly recognise Da’s name – I have seen it many times.’

‘You think to distract me from the point – why did you search Aylmer’s belongings?’

‘He’s no servant, Roger, I’ve been certain of that from the moment he spoke to me at my uncle’s inn.’ She shifted back to sit at the foot of the bed, her shoulders and neck tender and her breath unsteady. ‘So I set out to find out who he was.’

Roger raked his hands through his hair. ‘What has come over you, Maggie? To search a guest’s room – I never expected such behaviour.’

There was much he had not expected, Margaret thought. ‘So now he’s a guest? Your neglect has taught me to see to myself, Roger, and I mean to do just that.’

‘So it’s my fault. You insult a guest and blame me.’

‘You did not introduce him as a guest, but as a servant in this household. I am the keeper of the keys and I have a right to know whether he can be trusted.’

‘And so you took away some letters.’

‘Letters to which he has no right. Why is he carrying Father’s documents, Roger? Was it Aylmer who broke into Uncle Murdoch’s undercroft and murdered Old Will? Did Aylmer do that to steal Da’s letters?’

‘Oh, Maggie, Maggie.’ Shaking his head and smiling a little, Roger joined her on the bed and took her left hand in his. ‘So
that
is what you fear. I understand now, but you’ve drawn the wrong conclusions. Aylmer was carrying the papers for
me
. They concern some of my business deals with Malcolm.’

There should be a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, or he should drop his eyes from hers, but he went on and on in that soothing voice, his eyes locked on hers, reassuring her. How smoothly he lied, she thought, with how little hesitation. It might be the most frightening discovery in this year of discoveries, that Roger had such a gift for deception. James’s use of disguise was overt – he did not expect those who knew him to be fooled up close; but Roger expected her, his wife, his bedmate, to believe his act. She had lost the thread of his monologue and did not wish to pick it up.

‘I care nothing for Aylmer or his fate, whoever he is,’ she said. ‘I’m worried about Fergus, I’m tired, and I’m going to sleep.’

She climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her head. Her heart was pounding, her cheeks hot.

*

After helping Jonet fix a bed for herself in the kitchen, Celia had brought Mungo into the hall and settled down near the fire to comb him. He fussed at first, whining and spooking at every sound, but eventually he relaxed beneath Celia’s long, soothing strokes and her low voice telling him tales of her childhood animals. Despite the hairs collecting on her sleeves where no apron protected her gown she was glad of his company; at night the hall was a place of shadows. Neither did she like being in a room with many entrances after dark. Her imagination conjured all the beasts of legend creeping up behind her. But Mungo kept them at bay, and when he licked her face or shook his head so hard she could hear his ears slapping his neck she laughed and laughed. It had been a long while since she had laughed so much.

When at last Mungo had not stirred for a long while, Celia eased herself up, wondering at the lingering stiffness from riding. Her joints were cold, she decided, noticing how low the fire had burned. She headed up the stairs, but Mungo began to whine just as she reached the landing. Perhaps he, too, feared the shadows. She did not want him to climb the stairs. But if she took him out to the kitchen now she might frighten Jonet. His whining grew louder as he came to stand at the bottom of the steps.

Vowing to speak with Roger and Margaret in the
morning about some better arrangement, Celia hurried to the small room in which she slept and gathered her blankets and pillows into a heavy bundle, and awkwardly climbed back down to the hall to bed down with the dog. Stoking the fire in the hope that it would push back the shadows long enough for her to fall asleep, Celia settled down with Mungo, well out of the way of anyone’s path should someone move about in the night.

‘Damned dog,’ Roger muttered.

Margaret, unable to sleep, had heard Celia in the next room. ‘Celia’s gone down to quiet him.’

Rolling on to his back, Roger sighed. ‘What’s the use of a dog like that?’

‘He was a good hunter, but he’s old now. He’s seldom far from Fergus – that’s part of my worry, that Fergus left Mungo at Da’s house with only Jonet there.’

Roger propped his head up on an elbow. ‘I’m sorry you’re so worried about Fergus.’

She did not believe him.

As if he read that in her silence, he asked, ‘Did you search my things, too?’

‘I did,’ she said.

He groaned.

‘I cannot help but wonder what has kept you from me and your responsibilities here all this time,’ she said.

‘But I’ve told you.’

She rose up to face him. ‘Yes. And if we were merely friends, perhaps even brother and sister, it would be enough. But you share my bed, Roger, and my body, and I can’t go on without knowing your heart. I thought it was enough for me to love and serve you, but all the while you were away I felt so betrayed. I can’t go back.’

He was losing his temper, she could tell it by his breathing.

She rolled over and refused to respond to his angry questions.

Some time in the night Mungo woke Celia with a low growl. A lamp burned dimly by the front door. She tried to calm the dog, stroking him between the ears while she peered into the darkness, staying low. A person was sitting on a bench beside the lamp, pulling off their boots she guessed by the movement and the sound of something dropping. Mungo’s behaviour suggested it was Aylmer. And as he rose and stiffly bent to pick up the boots, then lifted the lamp, Celia saw that it was indeed Aylmer who now moved towards his chamber. He paused as he neared Mungo. The dog growled.

‘Damned dog,’ Aylmer said, ‘you belong in the stable.’

Celia thought she saw a bruise on his face and stains on his shirt, as well as a torn sleeve, although the shadows from the lamp might be tricking her
eyes. She must have moved or made some noise to call attention to herself, for now Aylmer saw her.

‘What are you doing in the hall?’ he demanded.

‘I’m trying to keep the dog quiet so my mistress can sleep the night.’

Mungo growled and barked once.

‘Now look what you’ve done.’ Celia held Mungo back. ‘Go off to bed and leave us.’

With a curse, Aylmer stumbled off to his chamber.

Celia’s heart pounded. It was a long while before she slept again.

The crackle of fire and a murmur of men’s voices entered Fergus’s awareness and for a moment he forgot the gripping pain in his belly and tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids stuck together and the effort made him cough. He sank back and waited for the spasm in his throat to stop. When the pain had eased a little he tried again to open his eyes and succeeded, only to be blinded by the light of a campfire. But he fought tears long enough to see that a man sat near him, facing the fire.

‘Where am I?’ Fergus asked.

‘In the camp of friends,’ the man said, his deep voice matching Fergus’s fleeting impression of a large man. ‘Are you thirsty?’

Fergus moved his tongue around his mouth, identifying the salty, metallic taste of blood. There was little moisture.

‘I am.’

He struggled to sit up, blinking furiously. His nose began to run. The man assisted him, then held a cup to Fergus’s mouth. Cool water washed over his teeth and tongue, but as it trickled down his throat he began to cough again, and worse, for his stomach joined in the spasms. The man helped him bend over to retch. It felt as if he’d been knifed in the gut. He straightened slowly.

The man still sat beside him. ‘I don’t doubt you’re in pain,’ he said. ‘But you’ve no mortal wounds that I can see.’

‘I remember someone grabbing me by the shoulder and then nothing but pain,’ Fergus said, his stomach cramping as he recalled that the man beside him was a stranger. But he had been too kind to be the one who had beaten him.

‘One of my men came upon a pair of Englishmen hurrying away from a clearing, looking over their shoulders as if they might be followed. He retraced their steps and found you in a faint and your goodbrother’s companion bent over you. Both of you looked beaten up, and he guessed the man was gauging how badly you were hurt. But then he rose, gave you a kick that might have killed an older, weaker man, and departed. What did he seek?’

‘Aylmer?’ Fergus whispered.

‘That’s the name,’ said a new voice. ‘He’s one of the Bruce’s men.’

‘He attacked me?’ Fergus asked. Beside the first man knelt a second, a travel-worn friar with an untidy tonsure. A deep cleft in his chin teased Fergus’s memory.

The friar nodded.

They helped him ease back against a rock, and he found his voice again. ‘He had no cause to search me,’ Fergus said.

The one who had helped him drink was taller than Fergus and broad-shouldered, with large, calloused hands. A warrior, no doubt of it, though by his speech Fergus had first guessed him to be if not English, a well-travelled merchant. But he wore his red hair longer than a merchant, and his beard was rough.

‘Who are you?’ Fergus asked. ‘I must know who to thank for delivering me.’

The friar chuckled. ‘You must be the only young man in these parts who does not recognise William Wallace.’

‘God have mercy,’ Fergus breathed. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, though nothing could make him look presentable or erase his humiliation.

‘I am glad not all know my face,’ said Wallace.

Tongue-tied, Fergus looked away, noticing perhaps a dozen men sitting a little away from the fire, heads together. A few horses neighed. ‘Are we at Kinclaven?’ he asked.

‘Is that where you were headed?’ the friar asked.

Fergus closed his eyes. ‘I had not come nearly so far.’

‘Where were you headed?’ the friar repeated.

‘I couldn’t decide. Aberdeen, Kinclaven, back to Perth …’ He shrugged.

‘Aberdeen,’ Wallace said softly.

‘You see?’ the friar said to Wallace.

Wallace nodded. ‘But not at once.’ He turned back to Fergus. ‘Friar James will escort you home. We’ve none to care for your wounds here.’ Strong brows shadowed his face in the darkness.

Some time after Mungo’s bark in the night sleep claimed Margaret. When she woke, Roger was sitting by the window in his shirt, the shutters opened to a sunny dawn. Rumpled from sleep, his bare legs sticking out of the bottom of his shirt, he looked his age, and weary, yet he sat straight. Both of them had changed in the past year, in many ways for the better. If only there were a way to erase all that had come between them.

Roger noticed her movement and returned to bed, sitting down beside her with his legs bent, outstretched arms propped on his knees. He steepled his hands and seemed to address them.

‘Are we to war with one another from now on?’

Margaret’s heart fluttered at the question so like that in her own mind. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

They said nothing for a while. Margaret searched for something honest she might say to patch the rift.

But it was Roger who spoke first. ‘I regret laying hands on you last night,’ he said.

‘You did not injure me.’

Another silence ensued.

‘Mungo barked in the night,’ Margaret finally said. ‘I wonder whether it was Aylmer returning from his watch at Da’s house.’

‘I didn’t hear the dog after Celia went down,’ Roger said.

‘Why would Aylmer leave his watch in the middle of the night?’

‘We don’t know that he did.’ Roger sighed. ‘Aylmer is not your enemy, Maggie.’

‘He thinks, as you did, that Fergus took the letters. And worse, he believes Fergus has stolen the money that Ruthven and the others are demanding.’

‘That does not make him your enemy.’

Margaret turned to Roger. ‘I fear for my brother with that man searching for him.’

‘Aylmer would not hurt him.’

‘Why not, if he believes him guilty? What is to prevent him? There’s no law now, what would stop him?’

Roger began to speak, but looked away.

‘You lied to me about the letters Aylmer carries,’ Margaret said. ‘My father’s letters. I know what they say, Roger, and I’ll ask you again – what is Aylmer doing with them?’

‘So you
can
read?’

She shook her head. ‘I took them to someone who can. I had to know, Roger. Though it has made it all worse, for now I fear you murdered Old Will.’

‘Why do you go on about that old drunk? I didn’t touch him, Maggie.’