Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

She feared that her acceptance would end all conversation. That is how it had worked in the past. ‘Your mission south from George Brankston’s house must have brought you past Perth. Why did you not stop to tell me what had happened? I would have known about Edwina.’

Roger rose up with a muttered curse. ‘Will we always be divided by that brave, unfortunate woman?’ There was a harsh edge to his voice, and he faced the window, not Margaret.

It was time to confront him. ‘You brought her here before you came home to Perth last summer. Uncle Murdoch said you’d brought her here before you returned to me. You’re still lying to me, Roger. I don’t know which of your stories to believe — looking for another port from which to ship goods, going to Dundee — you might be lying about those, too. And I’ve never heard you mention the Brankstons.’

‘God’s blood, woman, what must I do?’ he shouted, kicking aside a stool in temper. ‘You said we must listen to each other. Then listen!’

‘I am listening. But I catch you in lies, I sense you holding things back, and I fear that.’ Though God knew she kept much from him, and lied a little.

‘You have nothing to fear from me, I am your husband. If I tell a half truth or hold something back it is for your protection.’

‘I believe that ignorance is dangerous in times such as these. What you call protection does not work now.’

He began to speak, then paused, and dropped his head for a moment. Nodding, he looked up, opening his arms in surrender. ‘I have made mistakes.’

It was a concession, such as he had never made to her before. She feared pushing him further. ‘Then yes, Roger, I shall go home with you.’

They undressed shyly this time, and once in bed merely held one another.

Margaret woke in the night and thought Roger had gone. She sighed and rolled over, then noticed a soft light beyond the bed curtains. Peering through, she found Roger sitting partially clothed, with his head bowed, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped. A lamp flickered beside him on the bench. His posture saddened her, seeming one of defeat.

‘Sleep will not come?’ she whispered.

He jerked up, startled. ‘My candle woke you?’

‘No,’ she said, sitting up, pulling the cover round her. ‘What woke you?’

‘The devil torments me at night with thoughts of what might have been had the Maid of Norway lived, or had Longshanks been honest.’

‘Celia could mix you a sleep draught.’

‘Perhaps tomorrow.’

‘Tell me about where you have been.’

He gave a dispirited laugh. ‘On horseback, on foot, in leaking boats, sleeping on uneven, damp ground beneath shedding trees. This room is far more comfortable than anywhere I have slept in a long while. Perhaps that is why I’m wakeful.’

‘What of Robert Bruce’s household?’

‘I am not of his household, so I cannot say. When I have met with him he has looked a landed man, but not grand.’

‘Did you see battle?’

‘In Ayr it was unavoidable. Percy and Clifford came through in such force that my lords Stewart and Douglas approached them about surrender. Only the Bruce stood firmly against the English. None were great battles. I’ve yet to see thousands of troops marching towards me.’

Margaret crossed herself at the image he conjured. ‘You were willing to die for him?’

‘For us, Maggie. It is all for us,’ he said wearily as he shrugged off his shirt, blew out the candle, and climbed back on to the bed.

Margaret kissed him on the forehead and opened the blanket to pull him into the warmth. It was a beginning.

*

The next few days were filled with chores that cheered Celia. There was much Margaret wished to set to rights before they left. As Celia helped Margaret plan how to accomplish the work, she watched for changes in her mistress’s behaviour, seeking a clue as to whether or not she and Roger were reconciled. Each morning Margaret looked a little more rested, but it was a gradual change. Often Celia heard the murmur of voices when she woke in the night.

After sending a quantity of bedding to the laundress, they began a systematic cleaning and emptying of the guest rooms, Margaret deciding what items should be moved to the undercroft, such as mattresses that would moulder if the rooms were unoccupied for long. The undercroft, lined in stone, was drier.

A few mornings after Roger’s arrival they were working in the room across from the one Celia was occupying.

‘I am sorry you have been displaced,’ said Margaret.

‘Truth to tell, the chamber up here is nicer than the maid’s cottage where I had thought to stay.’

‘Perhaps we can make it even more comfortable.’

‘But we’re leaving.’

‘Surely not for a week or so. There’s much to do to prepare.’ Margaret stepped across to Celia’s room, then returned. ‘Another cruisie, I think. Or several.’

When they were finished upstairs, Margaret suggested that they move on to the maid’s cottage. ‘Janet mentioned that it seems to be in use, that there’s bedding and lamps within. Did you ready it and then change your mind?’

Celia knew her mistress’s tenacity in unravelling mysteries, so she told her of Roy’s meetings with Belle.

Margaret looked embarrassed. ‘I had not guessed. Uncle would be furious to hear that they’ve been meeting in the cottage.’

Celia knew. ‘They’ve been foolish to risk it, but they’ll not continue for long … Roy started quite a row the other day, telling Belle that with the tavern boarded up he has no occupation, and therefore no choice but to choose a side and arm himself.’

It was sadly true, Margaret thought as they went down the steps. There seemed no occupation but the war at present. Longshanks was not only stealing their country but their livelihoods, their lives. She wondered whether she and Roger might have been happier in better times.

They stood now in the cottage doorway, taking in the rumpled bedding, the chairs and a small table with two cups and a flagon.

Margaret cursed beneath her breath. ‘They’ve been bold enough,’ she said. ‘I can’t think how Murdoch has missed them. Why didn’t you tell me of their trespass before?’

‘I thought you had worries enough,’ Celia said.

‘When did you discover it?’

‘The night Master Roger arrived.’

Margaret walked in and picked up the cups and flagon. ‘Strip the mattress,’ she said, ‘and remove the lamps. I’ll speak to Roy.’

‘Do you think they might have heard something the night of Old Will’s death?’ Celia asked.

‘I wish I’d known of their meetings.’

‘What is the harm of allowing them what little time together they might yet have?’ Celia asked.

‘Roy might wish to work here again one day, Celia. Have you thought of that?’

Celia shook her head. She thought it unlikely that Roy would return. She could not imagine a man, once he’d tasted soldiering, wishing to cook again.

Margaret considered sitting out in the yard for a while to enjoy the late-afternoon sun. Since Roger had arrived she’d filled every waking hour with work. But she would just fret about speaking to Roy if she tried to relax before resolving the issue. So she set her shoulders and carried the flagon and cups into the kitchen. She was disappointed to find Geordie alone, looking glum.

‘It didn’t feel right to leave without tidying the kitchen,’ he said.

‘Murdoch has told you to go?’

Geordie nodded, his features pulled down by the weight of his unhappiness with the circumstances.

‘What will you do?’

He shrugged. ‘Ma says I’m not to get myself killed.’

‘Where is Roy?’

‘He’s meeting with someone about going north to join Wallace’s company. He thinks to win Belle’s loyalty by taking up the fight. But he’s a fool. She won’t think of him once he’s out of sight. The English soldiers will suit her just as well as he did.’