Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

Her eyes were barely focused. He repeated some of his little speech and added that Wallace and Murray were pleased with their success in forcing the English from the north and once pushed south-east from Dundee they would make a more manageable target. Gradually she breathed more evenly and her eyes cleared. He admired how she fought to regain her composure.

‘Forgive my outburst.’ She took the cup in both hands.

James moved over to the fire and fussed with it, giving her some solitude. He congratulated himself on insinuating himself into her life in Perth by calling on her duty to John Balliol, though in truth he doubted that the townsfolk would confide in her. They would be wary of Roger, whose business and whereabouts must have been the subject of much gossip the past year, and of Margaret, too. But he intended to see her once they were up north in order to plant the suggestion that she discover for Balliol whether he was the rightful king in Dame Christiana’s vision.

With a rustle of her skirts, Margaret joined him at the fire.

‘What do you think Uncle Murdoch will do now?’ she asked, her voice not quite down to its customary timbre.

‘I know not his mind,’ James said. ‘Rest a while longer, Margaret. You are not yet at ease.’

‘There will be little ease for me until I am settled in Perth. And even then, what peace might we enjoy?’ She surprised him by slipping a long-fingered hand in his and looking him in the eyes. ‘We shall win back our land, James. God is on our side.’

‘May He watch over you on your journey, Margaret.’ He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it. He could not read her expression as she looked on him for a brief moment, but he saw her blush before she withdrew her hand and turned away. He should not have been so bold. But it was she who offered her hand.

‘I’m able to hear my thoughts now,’ she said, with a weak laugh. ‘God speed, James.’ She hurried out as if devil dogs were snapping at her heels.

James thought it would be interesting to meet with Margaret in Perth and see how she fared. He suspected she would be as much a puzzle to her husband as she was to him.

Margaret found Father Francis sitting outside St Giles, watching children taking turns riding a toy wagon down the steep wynd that led to Cowgate.

‘It’s good to see them playing,’ said the priest, ‘yet I watch and worry that some soldier will find fault with their game and beat them.’ He shook his head and turned to her.

‘Have the soldiers done such a thing?’ she asked.

‘Forgive me — I see you are already troubled, and I am adding to your anguish. What is it, Margaret?’

She watched a cloud’s shadow move slowly across the twin peaks of Arthur’s Seat south-east of Holyrood Abbey as she told Francis of her imminent departure. ‘I am anxious, and a little afraid.’

‘A journey is a perilous undertaking in these times, but you are on the right path, returning to your home in the protection of your husband.’

Margaret thought of the fear that had gripped her in the kirk.

‘Perhaps someone in Perth will help you with your reading and writing,’ Francis said. ‘Is Roger impressed with your letters?’

‘There has been no time to boast,’ she said. ‘In truth, I may keep it a secret for the time being. We may be husband and wife, but I do not share his allegiance.’ Although her reading ability was meagre, a few words from a letter carelessly left out might prove useful. Her stomach fluttered to think of spying on Roger, but she must.

Father Francis nodded solemnly. ‘I had almost forgotten that your husband is Robert Bruce’s man.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘It seems a long while since that morning months ago when I escorted you to the abbey to bid your brother farewell — it disheartened me. I brooded on Father Andrew’s plight for a long while. Too long. It ate into my soul that an abbot should so use one of his own. It left me hollow, despairing.’ The late-afternoon sun gave his bony, hawk-nosed face a rose glow and coloured the shadows beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks a bruised purple. ‘At least Roger is fighting for our people, not for the English tyrant.’

They talked a little more as the afternoon shadows grew long. She spoke of her fears for Andrew, and Father Francis assured her that if he heard anything regarding him he would get word to her. The children had quit their game by the time Margaret bade him farewell and headed down High Street to the tavern.

As she passed beneath the archway connecting the inn’s two buildings she heard unfamiliar voices coming from the house to the right, seemingly from Murdoch’s undercroft. Roger sat across the way, at the foot of the steps to their chamber, apparently asleep, but as soon as he heard her footstep in the yard he rose and, taking her firmly by the arm and pressing a finger to her lips, hurried her up the stairs saying nothing until he had drawn the bolt on the door.

‘The English are searching the undercroft.’ He crossed the room, closed the shutters, lit a lamp.

Murdoch’s respite had been brief.

Roger stood tensed, as if ready to spring at an intruder. It frightened Margaret.

‘Where is Uncle?’

‘He’s down there assisting the English in their search.’

‘Perhaps I should go to him.’

Taking her by the shoulder, Roger bent close. ‘We shall suffer this in silence, give them no reason to notice us.’

‘Why are they here now?’ Margaret whispered, imagining an ear pressed to the door. ‘Could they know about our departure?’

‘I pray God they don’t.’ Roger let her go, sat down beside the lamp.

Margaret put some space between them, settling on the edge of the bed.

‘Your uncle plays dangerous games,’ Roger said in a more normal voice. ‘He did not wake the guard in time for his relief. So now there will be more guards.’

‘What are we to do?’

‘As long as the English leave by the curfew, we can still depart without bloodshed.’

Margaret gasped. ‘You would fight our way out of the town?’

‘If necessary.’

‘Perhaps if we delay they will grow weary of watching an empty tavern.’

Roger seemed a stranger, sitting back, looking at her with an expression she could not decipher. ‘We risk our own people if our plans miscarry now, Maggie.’

‘There are others leaving with us?’

‘Meeting us. To assist us on the way.’

She nodded and studied her hands, embarrassed to have thought they were going quietly, peacefully to leave town with no one the wiser. ‘How long have the English been with Uncle?’

‘Not long.’

‘Where is Celia?’ It was unusual for her not to have checked by now whether Margaret needed anything.

‘In your uncle’s kitchen. What do you know of the night the old man died in the alley?’

‘Why are you asking about that now? What is Celia doing there?’

‘She kindly offered to take Murdoch’s place preparing a meal. I’m curious why the English are so bothered by the old man’s death.’

‘I have wondered that too, but I can’t think why they are.’

Noises from the yard brought them both to their feet.

‘I believe it’s Bonny and the wagon,’ Margaret said. ‘They wouldn’t take Murdoch’s donkey, would they?’

‘They might do whatever they please,’ Roger said. ‘Slip out on to the landing, see whether it’s as you say.’

Pulling back the bolt, she stole out, through the suddenly menacing entryway. She began to crouch down to look over the railing, but if someone were to look up she would attract far more attention in such a posture than merely leaning out, innocently curious about what was happening. There were several armed men in the yard, surrounding a wagon. Roger’s horse was harnessed in front, and Aylmer’s was tethered behind. Several men appeared in the undercroft doorway, carrying barrels. They had obviously found items that they considered suspicious or too good for a Scot. Margaret hurried back to the room, fearful what Roger would do and yet knowing how precious the horses were.