Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

She wondered whether that was the source of his dissatisfaction with her. ‘I am not the wife you need, Malcolm. I haven’t the skill to assist you.’

‘You are the wife I love,’ he cried and, taking her hand, he kissed it and then looked deep into her eyes. ‘I am nothing without you. You are my anchor.’

Christiana could feel his need and the force of it frightened her. ‘I was your burden.’

From his scrip he drew a necklace of gold, a thick, solid bar bent into a graceful semi-circle with intricately decorated knobs at the two ends.

‘Your wedding gift to me,’ she whispered.

He had given it to her on their wedding night. It is an old piece, as old as the gift you carry from your kin, as old as the mountains whence they came , he had said, and she had wept with joy that he understood and respected her Sight.

‘You said I forfeited this when I entered Elcho.’

Malcolm bowed his head. ‘I said many ugly things.’

She leaned forward, confused by this change in him, and tried to see his expression. ‘You agreed to my withdrawal from the world. In truth, you seemed glad of it then.’

He lifted his head and she saw that his cheeks were wet. ‘I no longer remember why I encouraged this, Christiana. I beg you to come away with me.’ His voice broke.

This was no clever play-acting. And yet she had seen such moods in him in the past, when he feared he had overstepped the bounds he set for himself. Such moods always passed.

‘I cannot be the wife you want.’

His face reddened. ‘How can you forsake me? We lay together as man and wife so many years. You bore my children. I held you when you wept over those you lost.’

A lump rose in her throat. But the memories he wished to conjure were of long ago. ‘Perhaps this is your purgatory to bear,’ Christiana said. ‘But I promise you it will pass.’

Malcolm rose with clenched fists. ‘I am begging you. Are you not satisfied?’

‘You are breaking my heart,’ she said. ‘You promised that you would not do this to me once it was settled.’

‘Did you never love me?’

She hesitated, frightened by the rapidity of her heartbeat, the upwelling of tears. ‘Do not ask me in that way. You accuse me of having no heart when you ask it so. I did love you. Faith, I do still. But it is not a carnal love. You have my heart always. You are the father of my children. I do remember how you held me. I do.’ She pressed her cold hands to tears on her hot cheeks.

‘God help me, I did not mean to make you cry,’ Malcolm said, his voice catching.

Both must bear this purgatory. They were unhappy apart, unhappy together. What would she do if he deserted her in Bruges? She breathed deeply and prayed until she calmed. By then Malcolm was pacing.

Christiana reached out to him. ‘Come, sit beside me for a moment. Tell me of your troubles.’

He shook his head. ‘I told you I cannot.’

‘And I cannot go with you to Bruges. I seek peace here, Malcolm. You have no idea how I have suffered with such a cruel gift as the Sight.’

‘You’ll have all the peace you wish in the grave.’

‘And with the English king killing our people — I cannot desert our children, Malcolm.’

Malcolm gave a cold laugh. ‘You have never thought of them before.’ He made for the door. ‘So be it, Christiana. Farewell.’ He was out of the door before she could respond.

Her hands were cold. She did not know how she felt. She had not lied to him, it was no excuse. The thought had come to her as if whispered in her ear. She must remain in the land to help her children.

Margaret had Jonet bring wine to the bedchamber and told her that they would dine as usual. She and Roger sipped wine and quietly talked about John Smyth’s death.

‘If the English learn of it, we are in danger,’ said Roger.

Margaret thought of Old Will’s death and the trouble that had brought to her uncle. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Have you a plan?’

Roger shook his head. ‘Fergus says John Smyth had been long absent from Perth, and that he has no kin here. My thought is to take his body without the town and bury him.’

‘Not in sacred ground?’

‘Maggie, Maggie,’ Roger said, shaking his head. ‘Do you really think we might find a village full of strangers who would vow to keep our secret?’

Of course he was right, and she felt childish, behaving just as he expected her to.

‘There is a rumour of Malcolm’s presence in Perth,’ Roger said. ‘Have you heard it?’

Margaret rose and pretended to wipe up spilled wine, keeping her face averted. ‘How odd. But perhaps not. If word of John Smyth’s death in Da’s warehouse is common knowledge, such a rumour is not surprising.’

Roger nodded. ‘What if it were true, that he is here — would he want Smyth dead?’

‘I can think of no cause,’ she said truthfully. ‘I doubt Da has given the man much thought since he turned him out.’ Perhaps that was not quite true.

So she had begun again to deceive Roger. It did not bode well for their marriage.

His skiff hidden in the water meadow near the nunnery landing, James stepped out, stretched his legs, and considered Malcolm Kerr’s careful disguise, his nervous glances at the shore and behind him as he’d rowed downriver. James parted the grasses and took a few steps towards Kerr’s boat, but quickly withdrew as a man rowed past, his eyes on the very boat James was watching. The man seemed familiar, although he was moving away too quickly for James to see his features clearly with the sunlight on the river reflecting on his face. But James thought him one of Wallace’s men. He was disturbed that Wallace had not told him he was watching Malcolm. He must not trust James to keep it from Margaret.

A shout woke Christiana.

Marion was already up, pressing an ear to the door. ‘They sound far away, not inside the priory walls,’ she said. ‘Dame Agnes’s kin are protecting us, praise God.’

Christiana knelt before her altar to the Virgin Mary and tried to quiet her mind to receive grace. Is it Malcolm without? Her heart raced. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for my husband, a sinner, and guide him to the light of God .

‘Shall I go to the cloister to find out what the others know?’ Marion asked, sounding close to tears.

Christiana did not respond, intent on reaching out for the calm she had found under Bethag’s instruction. But her mind filled with the memory of Malcolm’s hands. They had been so warm, strong, and full of life. Prioress Agnes had told her that abstinence from the pleasures of her marriage bed would awaken Christiana’s connection with the divine. But she was still so weak that Malcolm had awakened her desire with but a touch. She had lied to him when she said she no longer loved him in a carnal way. It seemed more than a lie, for that was the only sense in which she had ever truly loved him. It was an impossible love if she was to live with the Sight, and that she must do if her life was to be of any consequence. Her parents had once taken her to St Andrews to seek guidance about her gift and when her flux had begun while there, they had interpreted it as a sign she was to abandon her visions for ever for motherhood. This morning Christiana thought that it had meant she was to set aside this gift while a mother, yet now in these mutinous times she must perforce take it up again in order to protect her children, and perhaps her people.

If this was so, and she strongly felt that it was, she must not see Malcolm again, for he weakened her. She would tell Dame Katrina that she could no longer accept visits from the old gardener. It was a sad and frightening resolve.