Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

She wondered whether that was true, and whether Roger would stay there with her. He might merely wish her away from Edinburgh. Perhaps he knew of some trouble from which he wished to remove her. Or despite her efforts to conceal her loyalty, guessed it and meant to interfere.

‘Margaret?’

She pulled herself from her thoughts.

Father Francis looked concerned. ‘How stands it between you and your husband?’

She could not find it in herself to lie to her confessor. ‘Awkward. I pray that will pass.’

‘Of course it must be difficult.’

Difficult? That was the best she could say of it. ‘I am ashamed of myself, Father,’ she burst out. ‘My husband has returned — it is what I prayed for — and yet all I notice are his faults.’ But that was not true. She had wanted him last night. ‘I do love him.’

‘He has given you much pain. You cannot expect to forgive him completely as soon as he reappears. Be patient, Margaret. God’s grace is more easily gained in times of peace.’

‘Do you not have that backwards?’

‘Troublous times test one’s vows.’

She wondered whether that last part referred to James, how closely they had knelt together on the prie-dieu. But if she denied being James’s lover, Father Francis might think she protested out of guilt.

‘Roger is your husband before God,’ Francis continued. ‘You must forgive his past transgressions and pray that he forgives yours.’ He blessed her again. ‘God go with you, my child.’ He continued down the nave.

Margaret felt cheated out of an absolution that she had not realised she wished for. Platitudes, that is all the priest had offered her. Yet it was true that she and Roger had taken their marriage vows before God.

By the time she reached the tavern it was early afternoon. Weary of searching her soul, she sought out her uncle. She was stiff-kneed with tension as the English guard watched her crossing and recrossing the yard. She found her uncle kneading dough in his kitchen while he watched the soldier through a knothole in one of the boards that blocked an unused window. Margaret had not noticed the hole before and wondered whether it was as natural as it looked. In fact it was precisely at the level of her uncle’s eyes when he bent over the table to his work, sprinkling some water on the dough. She doubted nature had been so cooperative. On noticing her presence, he straightened.

‘God is not smiling on me this day,’ he said, his voice gravelly.

‘The damp night has gone to your chest,’ said Margaret.

‘It’s shouting at that devil’s spawn of a captain all morning that has stolen my voice.’ Murdoch bent his knees to peer out of the hole at the guard by the tavern. ‘I’ve a mind to go to the castle and shout some more, but I must needs wait until my pipes are healed.’ He straightened and nodded for her to sit down. ‘Ale?’

She nodded. ‘Are you going to tell me about moving your treasures last night?’

He poured and handed her the tankard. ‘No need — I ken you’ve already been told. Your man Hal, was it?’

‘Celia saw you.’

Murdoch frowned down at his hands. ‘By St Vigean, I grow too old for this life if I’ve become so careless.’

‘Where did you move them?’

‘I’ll not tell you. It’s best that way.’

‘Have the English searched the undercroft?’

‘Not yet. But they’ll do it soon, I’ll warrant.’ He returned to the bread dough. ‘So Roger has come for you?’ he asked, not looking at her.

‘He is here, yes, Uncle.’

‘And he means to remove you to Perth, eh?’ Still he did not make eye contact, but instead picked up the dough, turned it upside down and slapped it back on the table.

‘He has mentioned it, and with the tavern closed-’

‘Och, it’s better that you leave now.’ He punched the dough. ‘You’ve no work here and you’re better off away from the soldiers.’ His thick fingers sank into the sticky mound. ‘But Perth, Maggie — if Wallace is there, you’d be safer with James.’

‘You and James have marked that. But Roger is my husband.’

‘When it suits him.’

She did not know what to say. To admit that she trusted James more than she did her husband seemed tantamount to breaking her vows. ‘I have made no decision.’

‘Humph. You were looking for an escort just the other day. Women. Never ken their own minds.’ He kneaded energetically. ‘I’ve asked Roy to help me with a welcoming supper for Roger. And that servant of his. Celia could use a good meal, too.’

‘How long do you think the inn will be closed?’

‘For ever, if they win.’ He almost choked on the words.

She had feared that. ‘What will become of Roy and Geordie now?’

‘They have homes to go to. Sim, too. I’ve no use for them. Hal can manage anything that arises.’

‘The close will be so quiet,’ Margaret said.

Her uncle straightened and looked at her with a mournful expression. ‘It’s a great loss to me, the tavern. Angus’s tales, the fiddling, the gossip, and of course the trade.’ He sighed and punched the dough half-heartedly. ‘Damn Longshanks to hell.’

When they had retired to Margaret’s bedchamber that evening, Roger brought up the journey to Perth again.

‘Are you keen to be home?’ she asked, keeping her head averted as if more interested in folding the linen than in the conversation.

‘It is you I am thinking about,’ said Roger.

‘It would ease my mind to go to my brother. But are you not just as concerned, hearing that your belongings were searched?’ She plunged ahead. ‘Or do you know what someone is looking for?’

‘By now many know I’m the Bruce’s man. Balliol’s men, the English, any of them might want to find something to use against me. Or perhaps it’s just a common thief, hoping I left something of value.’

‘You left precious little of value.’

‘I did not mean to cause you pain, Maggie.’

She caught her breath, feeling unprepared for this conversation. ‘A common thief would not move on from Perth to Edinburgh to search your belongings. Nor would he have passed over the goods stored in the same room as your casket was here.’

Roger crossed over, took the linen from her and set it aside, then drew her into his arms. She kept her own stiffly down by her sides.

‘Maggie, Maggie,’ Roger whispered, kissing her neck, her ear.

‘You did not think of the pain you would cause me,’ she whispered. ‘You had little thought for me.’

He straightened, looked at her from arm’s length, and she cursed herself for pushing him away. His kisses had been sweet. But she could not push away the questions that plagued her, such as the fact that the Brankston story did not explain Roger’s connection with Edwina of Carlisle. She knew from others that Roger had brought the woman to Murdoch’s tavern before returning to Perth the previous summer, before he knew of the Brankston tragedy. But she did not yet know how to broach it.

‘Why are you here, Roger? How is it that after all this time you appear a day after someone has gone through the documents stored here, both yours and Da’s?’

She stopped, shaking with fear, as if expecting him to hit her again, though last night’s slap was the first time he’d ever struck her. But there was something so changed in him, she saw it in the sudden tightening of his face, and the equally quick change of expression to one of wounded affection.

‘Oh Maggie, I did not wish to frighten you. Of course I’m concerned about someone searching here, and in Perth. That is why I’m keen to go home. Come now.’ He opened his arms once more, and she stepped into them. ‘You are shivering. Let’s go to bed.’