Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

Margaret lifted her chin and smiled. ‘A blessed breeze.’ A welcome coolness kissed her hot forehead.

Roger glanced back. ‘Do you forgive me?’

‘I think I must.’ Margaret caught up with Roger and slipped her hand in his. ‘I cannot fault your intention.’

She led him to a warm rock on which they sat arm in arm. In time they turned to one another and kissed long and passionately, and then, agreeing that they were too exposed in a countryside full of spies, they retreated from the sun-baked rock to make love in its shadow. They whiled away the afternoon talking and lovemaking.

‘Tell me of the west country where you fought for the Bruce,’ Margaret said.

‘Much of it is very like the countryside around Perth, with good pasture as well as bogs — it is rainier than here, and a braw wind blows all the day. The coast is rocky and treacherous though the bays are inviting.’

‘What of the Bruce? Does he look like a king?’

Roger shrugged. ‘He looks a noble, with high forehead and long, narrow nose, sharp-boned of cheek and chin. He has a pleasant voice and a ready laugh.’

Margaret spoke of Dunfermline and the altar cloth she’d worked on with his mother, trying to speak of pleasant activities and not her constant worry. They lingered there until Margaret remembered the long walk back to the town.

‘I’d thought of that,’ said Roger. ‘I told Aylmer to meet us out here this even.’

Margaret felt a twinge of alarm. ‘You said nothing of this. I never would have agreed. I must help Celia.’

‘No. We’ll call attention to ourselves. It is enough that our servants must sneak past guards tonight. You must understand, Maggie.’

She could, but she didn’t like it. ‘You might have explained that back in town.’

‘You cannot mean that you haven’t enjoyed our afternoon together, eh?’ He reached over, gently stroking her cheek. ‘My bonny Maggie.’ His eyes were soft with love.

‘I’ve had much joy in you here,’ Margaret admitted. Yet she was uneasy. ‘Why did you not tell me we were not returning to town?’

‘I feared you would refuse me,’ said Roger.

She felt queasy to have been tricked and changed the subject to lighter things.

James’s servant returned with the news of Margaret and Roger’s early departure.

‘Their servants will follow tonight, like pack horses,’ he said.

‘Who told you this?’

‘Celia, Dame Margaret’s maid. She is troubled about her mistress going on ahead. She distrusts the master, I think.’

James, too, was troubled. ‘Was she given any reason for the change of plan?’

‘An opportunity for husband and wife to spend a day alone.’ The servant waggled his thick eyebrows.

‘What of the loss of horses?’

‘She’s been reassured she won’t need to carry the packs all the journey, but knows not what it means.’

James was certain now that Sinclair was manipulating Margaret. But he could only conjecture why.

Celia was uneasy. Proud of her abilities as a lady’s maid, she had little fear she would forget anything that she and her mistress would need. What she disliked was Roger’s power over Margaret, or his use of it. A husband was the master of his household, but a good one sought his wife’s willing cooperation. It did not bode well. And she dreaded breaking the news of Margaret’s early departure to Hal. She dreaded no less beginning the journey alone with Aylmer.

To distract herself, she took some time to visit Mary Brewster, knowing that Margaret had hoped to learn more about Old Will’s tragedy. If there was anyone in Edinburgh who knew Old Will, it was Mary.

The elderly woman stood defensively in her doorway, as if expecting Celia to force her aside and enter the house. ‘I’ve had naught but trouble about Will since I found him lying in his own blood,’ Mary said. ‘I’ll speak no more of him.’

Her daughter Belle reached past Mary and closed the door firmly in Celia’s face.

Cursing her, Celia headed towards St Giles, thinking Father Francis might tell her more. But it occurred to her that there was scant point in any of this as they were about to depart Edinburgh and, conscious of her responsibility, Celia returned to the inn to complete the preparations. She expected Aylmer to complain about the three packs she had him carry down from Margaret’s bedchamber, but he had already engaged Geordie and Hal to help them as far as the horses which would await them somewhere to the south of town. At least she had been spared the task of telling Hal about the change in plans. It was small consolation.

As evening settled over the valley and the fading sun no longer warmed her, Margaret asked where they were to wait for the others.

‘In a house nearby.’ Roger rose, then offered her a hand to help her up. ‘We’ll find food there. I made sure of it.’

He embraced her and gave her a lingering kiss. ‘I love you, Maggie. Never doubt it.’

Margaret hated to let go of him, fearing that the moment they resumed their journey the magic of the afternoon would dissipate and only her misgivings would remain.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to linger so long we’ll not be able to see the path.’

He led Margaret around the loch to the south end, and off the main path on to one less travelled. They had not gone far when a noise in the brush behind them made both stop. Roger pressed down on her shoulder and she crouched. He stepped between her and the sound, shielding her, watching the brush. At last a raven hopped out of the underbrush, cocking an eye at them.

Margaret crossed herself and rose, grateful for Roger’s protective stance, and for the outcome. And yet a raven cocking an eye at them seemed a dark omen. The peace of the past hours had been shattered and she walked now in wariness, reminded that she accompanied a man who had hidden from her in Edinburgh last spring so she would not be troubled by the English.

‘How is it you were able to come to me openly now, when you couldn’t in spring?’ she asked.

‘The beard, and sufficient time and trouble between then and now. Others have become greater threats than me.’

‘Does your side consider the supporters of King John your enemies?’

‘You mean Wallace’s and Murray’s men?’ Roger took a few more steps before going on, seeming to search the trees at the edge of the wooded area they were approaching. ‘We might brawl after too much drink. The worst we might do is steal their supplies and horse.’ He put an arm round her. ‘So many questions, Maggie. When did you become so curious?’

‘I was ever so.’ She left it at that. She was hungry, tired, and discouraged to think they would journey through the night.

Still he searched the tree line.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I don’t see the escort who was to await us.’

A rustle in the bracken reminded her of the raven, and she crouched before Roger told her to.

Quietly he said, ‘Who goes there?’

A lad rose from the scrub three strides from them, holding up a rabbit. ‘’Tis only me, sir, come to lead you. And this beast happened to join me in my hiding place.’ He was a dirty, skinny boy no more than twelve, Margaret guessed, barefoot and dressed in tatters.

‘Then lead on, Daniel.’

As they followed the boy, Margaret commented to Roger, ‘He wears rags. Do you pay your guides nothing?’

‘This is his disguise. If you had come upon him accidentally, would you not have believed he was just a starving lad hunting?’

‘I would,’ Margaret said, comforted and yet perversely uneasy about Roger’s thorough planning.

They wound their way in amongst the trees, over decaying stumps and thick, twisted roots, Roger always there with a supporting hand or arm whenever Margaret felt unsteady. Although he’d required an escort, he seemed to have far less trouble following in the lad’s footsteps than did Margaret. In the midst of the tangled wood a tiny house appeared. It seemed almost an illusion it blended so with the trees, built of logs with a roof spread with the mulch of leaves and moss. Within, a small hearth fire burned and a meal was already spread for more than two.