Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

Shivering. Yes, she was. And his embrace did nothing to quiet her fears, for it was plain to her she knew him less than ever.

For a little while, preparing for the celebratory supper, Celia had forgotten about the soldiers in the yard, the crumbling of the life she had begun to enjoy in Edinburgh. Geordie and Hal had set up a trestle table in the largest of the guest rooms in the house beside the tavern and Celia had spent the afternoon cleaning the room, arranging cruisies and candles, and helping Geordie set up. She had been included in the party, as well as Janet Webster and Hal. The seven ate and drank well. Murdoch had conjured three salmon and a large hare for two of the courses. It was more fish and meat than Celia had eaten in any one week, let alone a day, since she’d left Dunfermline. Enjoying herself, she perhaps drank the claret too quickly.

For as the meal wore on she noticed an almost visible, certainly palpable screen of tension around Roger and Margaret, distancing them from the others at the table. They spoke when others addressed them, and ate, laughed and drank, but they seemed truly aware only of one another, reaching for their shared cup at the same time, then awkwardly apologising, trying to spear the same slice of hare and barely missing the other. No one but Celia seemed to mark it.

When the diners rose from the table, Margaret and Roger moved as one to the door. Celia hurried after, offering to help Margaret. Her mistress blushed a little — or was it a flush from the food and wine? — and said it was not necessary, though Celia might leave a tray with wine and cups outside the chamber door. Celia wished she knew whether or not Margaret was happy about Roger’s return, whether she should be reading more into what was said, whether she should be hearing cues to do more than Margaret requested aloud. Certainly the ravages of the previous night visible on her mistress’s face this morning had not boded well. But Celia reminded herself that she was ignorant of the marriage bed, of any bedding with a man.

She felt discarded. Hal and Geordie seemed to sense her mood, for they quietly assisted her in the clean-up. When she could find no more to fuss over, she sought out Murdoch in his kitchen. Janet sat by the door that looked out on the maid’s cottage.

‘Is that where you are biding?’ she asked Celia.

‘No, I thought my mistress might need me, so I’m in a room near hers.’

‘Someone has been spending time in there.’

Not wishing to anger Murdoch by saying in his presence that the cook and the former chambermaid were meeting there, Celia merely requested the wine for Margaret and Roger.

‘What?’ Murdoch said, feigning disbelief. ‘Had they not enough to warm themselves?’

‘Celia has worked long and hard today, Murdoch,’ said Janet, ‘give her what she needs so she might rest.’

‘Humph. You lasses stick together,’ Murdoch complained. But he filled a pitcher and set it on a tray with two wooden cups. ‘I suppose you’ll go with your mistress to Perth.’

‘If she wishes me to,’ said Celia. So it was settled enough that Murdoch knew of the plan.

‘Och, she wishes you to be with her, I’m certain of that,’ said Murdoch. ‘If I allowed it she’d have Hal with her, too.’

Celia would as lief stay in Edinburgh, but not without Margaret. It cheered her a little to know she was not to be cast aside.

Roger had gone out to relieve himself. Margaret sat on the bed, hugging her chest to still the shivering. But she was conscious of a deep sadness. She had swallowed it all these months, drop by drop of poison, swallowed it all the months of her marriage. She had hidden away so much sadness, hidden it from prying eyes, even from herself. Blessed Mother, why was I so misled? She had loved Roger, wanted him, trusted him, and trusted those who had encouraged her with him. But once the wedding was over, they had all withdrawn, leaving her to discover how to exist in a suitable but empty marriage. Even Roger had departed as soon as he could.

The depth of her pain frightened her, as did the knowledge that she had carried this grief unconsciously, convincing herself that she was content, or at least managing to find some contentment in her role. She did not know whether she had ever actually loved him. She was not so innocent as not to know that many women merely tolerated their husbands, but surely she cared for Roger, for she had worried about him all the while he was gone. She must not give in to despair.

Perhaps her benumbed state had been a blessing, a divine gift to help her perform her duties. But then there must be cause for her sudden awakening.

She dropped her hands and took great gulps of air, sucking it deep within, steadying herself. Roger returned with wine and cups.

‘Bless Celia,’ she whispered.

‘She was only doing your bidding,’ Roger said. He handed her a cup and sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed. ‘Wasn’t she my mother’s servant?’

‘Yes. I’ve borrowed her over-long. But I’ve grown to depend on her.’

‘Well, we’ve no need for another servant, nor can we afford one.’

Margaret had not considered parting with Celia. ‘I’ll discuss it with her.’

‘You don’t really believe she’ll work merely for food and a roof over her head when she might be paid?’

‘Your mother paid her until Martinmas. It is only August, so we need not worry until November. And she has gained more by my uncle’s pay.’

‘We can escort her to Dunfermline on our way north.’

‘That would be out of our way. The English control the ferry across the Forth.’

‘Celia is not yours to command.’

Margaret tried to bite her tongue, but the thought of losing her one friend compelled her to speak. ‘Celia is a great aid and comfort to me. Jonet is caring for both our house and Da’s, and she’ll need help once we’re all there.’

‘Celia returns to my mother, Maggie. That is how it must be.’ Roger’s expression made it clear that he considered the case closed.

His tone angered her. What did this matter to him? He had not been there when Dame Katherine suggested that Celia accompany Margaret. He was using this to avoid more unpleasant subjects.

‘Listen to us,’ she said, controlling her anger, ‘arguing about a servant so that we might avoid mention of more painful things. What is to become of us?’

Roger said nothing for a moment, and then rubbed his eyes and dropped his hands to his sides as if weary. ‘Is it possible to begin again?’

‘I don’t know.’ Her face suddenly hot with emotion, Margaret fought tears. ‘I have understood these past months how far outside my ken you have been and it frightened me.’

‘Can man and woman ever understand one another?’

‘God help us if we can’t. Why would He have made us so?’

Roger stared at the floor, saying nothing. His expression was difficult to read in the flickering light. After a long silence, he asked, ‘Why did you remain here after finding Jack’s murderer?’

Margaret had hoped for some words of conciliation. ‘Because this is where you’d seen me last,’ she said, a half truth, though of late not true at all.

‘Why else?’

She must not tell him about her work for James. ‘Until Fergus’s recent letter I dreaded the idea of returning to Perth without you. At least here I was occupied, helping my uncle. The countryside is dangerous as well.’

‘You’ve changed, Maggie.’

‘And you.’

He came to sit on the edge of the bed beside her and took her hand. ‘Will you go home with me to Perth?’

‘Have I not said so?’

‘I am asking you anew. Without expectation.’