Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

Margaret had made excuses to Roger and climbed High Street to St Giles Kirk, where she might have some peace in which to think. Her warring feelings confused her too much to make sense of anything at the moment.

In different circumstances she might have been unconditionally delighted by Roger’s suggestion that they set out for Perth together. Only yesterday she had sought an escort for a homeward journey — but she had perhaps already found one, and there was the rub. She should be glad to have a commitment from him — James had said only that he would consider it. Even more, she should prefer travelling with her husband to their home. It was what she had come to Edinburgh to do, to find him, to coax him home. Not that she had expected to succeed in drawing him back to Perth, but that had been the end for which she had prayed most fervently. Clearly she had lost the habit of counting on Roger. Indeed she was working against him in the matter of the king; she did not even trust him with the truth of her allegiance. She felt prickly and unable to think clearly.

Lifting her head, she found herself already past the quiet market place and in the shadow of St Giles. Slipping into the nave, she had a moment of panic such as she had never experienced before in God’s house. The high arching ceilings, the empty vastness that the candles and windows illuminated in such a way as to make the unlit spaces seem darker than the night-time streets, the chill of the stones not kissed by sunlight since placed there, all conspired to disorient her as to season, time of day, even whether she were still on earth or had stepped off its face into another, dark and sinister world. She bowed her head and prayed for the terror to pass, for God to forgive her for whatever trespass had earned her such fear in His house.

A man and woman brushed past her, moving towards a chapel in the north aisle, arguing in hushed voices that were louder than their normal voices. ‘I did not call you a liar, it’s your brother who tells the tales.’

The touch of humanity broke the terrifying spell. Was that her sin, the tension between her and Roger? Margaret crossed herself and sought Mary’s altar, kneeling before it with pathetic relief. Feeling like a child who looked to an adult to make everything better, she prayed to the Virgin Mary for peace and joy in her marriage, then amended her prayer to a request for guidance in restoring her marriage. Even as she whispered the words Margaret knew her duty was to go with her husband, to make an effort to heal their rift. Roger’s temporary desertion did not free her from her vows. Her promise to assist James had not been made in the sanctity of a sacrament, but her marriage vows had been. The clarity with which she now saw her duty must be the Blessed Mother’s inspiration, and she was ashamed by the resentment in her heart. She pulled her paternoster beads from the embroidered scrip at her waist and began a rosary for her soul, praying that she might find the strength to follow the Blessed Mother’s advice. Gradually, with the repetition of prayers, her eyes grew heavy and her mind numbed. She must have dozed, for she started with a sudden awareness of James kneeling beside her on the wide prie-dieu. His nearness — they almost touched elbows — was disturbing and yet comforting.

‘It is strange to find you here,’ she whispered.

‘I wondered whether you are still in need of an escort to Perth,’ said James, ‘or whether your husband’s presence has changed your plans.’

How quickly he’d learned of Roger’s return. ‘Is there anything you don’t know?’

‘What you’ve done to inspire such loyalty in your maid.’ His voice teased.

‘She refused to answer prying questions?’

‘Not only that, she lied about the identity of Aylmer’s master.’

Margaret smiled down at her folded hands. Celia was a trustworthy friend.

‘None of my servants would do so much for me,’ James added.

‘Roger has suggested we go home to Perth,’ Margaret said, answering his original query.

‘Ah.’ James nodded. ‘Do you ken his purpose in coming to Edinburgh? Is it for the Bruce?’

‘He says he missed me.’ Margaret shoved her beads into her scrip.

‘I did not mean to doubt that he has missed you.’

Margaret felt herself blush. ‘I did not take it so.’

‘I am glad of that.’ He sounded sincere. ‘You are a brave and honourable woman, and I am sure that only the demands of his lord have kept your husband away so long.’

Margaret did not wish to discuss her marital situation with James. ‘I’ll find a way to help our king regain the throne, no matter where I am. He is the rightful king, no matter what Robert Bruce thinks.’

James turned slightly towards her with a puzzled expression. ‘I am glad of that, though I did not mean to suggest you would not be true. I am concerned about your being near the king’s troops in the company of the Bruce’s men. I assume that Aylmer shares your husband’s loyalties.’

‘I know nothing of him. I’m glad I’ll have Celia to attend me.’

‘Have you spoken to Roger of your allegiance to the king?’

‘No. Nor do I plan to.’

James cocked his head. ‘So that is how it is to be.’

‘Yes.’ She peered upwards, fearing the return of the terror to warn her against even this rift in her marriage, but the nave appeared as usual.

‘Then I am glad Celia will be with you,’ James was saying. ‘It is good to have someone you trust watching your back. God keep you.’ He rose, genuflected, and withdrew.

With his departure, Margaret felt small and alone in the cavernous nave, though the feeling was nothing like her earlier terror. Footsteps behind her made her turn in their direction with dread, but she was relieved to see a tall, gaunt, black-gowned figure emerge from the shadow of a pillar.

‘Benedicite , Margaret,’ Father Francis said, making the sign of the cross in the air before her. ‘Our supplicants are fewer with each new horror. I rejoice to see you seeking grace to fortify your soul against the darkness.’

Rising to meet him, she greeted him a little breathlessly.

‘I expected you last evening for your reading lesson,’ Francis said.

She had forgotten. ‘Forgive me. My husband — Roger returned last night.’

Francis pressed his hands to his heart. ‘What good news! Oh, my child, I rejoice for you.’

‘Yes, yes of course it is good news.’

The priest tilted his head to one side. ‘What is wrong?’

She needed practice in hiding her emotions. ‘It is difficult to believe that Roger is back. I had given up hope.’ Not wishing to explain more, she hurried on with the news of the sheriff’s order closing the tavern.

‘It seems to me Sir Walter Huntercombe is making much of an old man’s death,’ said Francis. ‘What is one violent death among so many? I would not have expected him to notice.’ He studied the floor for a moment. ‘It is said that when Sir Walter was told that Mary Brewster had found the old man, he ordered her brought to the castle for a long questioning.’

‘Poor Mary.’

‘It did not happen. Her screams and foul language dissuaded the soldiers from following orders. An instance of a vile trait protecting the wicked from greater evil.’

‘I am glad she saved herself. Why do you call her wicked?’

‘I cannot say. Forgive me,’ said Francis. ‘I did not mean to trouble you, not when you have such glad tidings. How goes your husband?’

She must put aside her doubts. ‘He says he is well, though he has lost much flesh. He speaks of returning to Perth.’

Francis sighed. ‘Soon only the English and the clergy will remain in Edinburgh. You will be missed, Margaret. But Perth may be a safer place for you.’