Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

She dropped to her knees by the casket Roger had stored in her uncle’s undercroft and another with which he’d arrived in Edinburgh. She ran her hands over them, wondering what they might divulge. There was but one thing to do — search through them. She stepped out to the landing to check that the house was quiet, and considered setting something easily knocked over outside the door so that she might be warned of anyone’s approach. But she discarded the idea on realising that either Jonet or Celia would clear it away, and it might simply call more attention to the door.

From their hiding place, she took the lock-picking tools that her uncle had given her long ago and settled down in front of Roger’s caskets. She felt a twinge of guilt, followed by a far stronger frisson of fear. Despair might be her reward. She might find proof of an affair, a murder, or some other disturbing secret.

May God grant me the strength to go forward with what I must do , she prayed . I would know my husband’s heart. I would know why he cannot tell me the truth about Edwina .

Working slowly and as quietly as possible, she opened the casket that had sat for months in her uncle’s undercroft. A fine pair of gloves lay on top, and a linen shirt that she had made for Roger shortly after their wedding. Beneath the items was a layer of rolled documents, some of the seals broken, some whole. After memorising their order she set them aside. Beneath them was a leather wallet almost the length and width of the casket. Coins jingled as she lifted the wallet, but the soft leather was taut around something. Removing the cord binding the wallet, she found more documents. Suddenly keenly aware that her activity might have masked noise from the landing, she paused and listened, but heard only sounds from the river.

One by one she took the rolled documents from the wallet to check for broken seals, but she found none. The coins were sterlings, enough to keep her household in comfort for a year. Margaret resisted the temptation to pocket them and inconvenience Roger in his work for Robert Bruce. It was not worth the fuss. Returning the wallet to the casket, she sat back on her heels and listened again. The sounds drifting in from the street and the backlands were comfortingly familiar, and for a moment she forgot her task.

Here she had knelt when first married, hesitantly shaking out Roger’s clothes for her first laundry day. The memory was little more than two years old, but she felt she had lived a lifetime since then. She rose and fetched a polished metal mirror to see how much she had aged for her nineteen years. Her skin was still unlined, her hair held no silver strands, but her eyes were different. More alive, she thought, or perhaps more cunning. She smiled at herself and the pain of the past year was forgotten as she considered her courage and maturity.

But shortly she remembered her mission and set aside the mirror. She pressed her ear to the door and then, hearing nothing unusual, returned to the caskets, opening the second one. A pair of daggers lay atop Roger’s old boots. The weapons reminded her of the danger in which she placed herself, spying on her husband. Inside each boot were several documents, all with broken seals. Beneath the boots she found a dark scarf folded as if it had been wrapped around Roger’s head to keep sweat from his eyes, and a long length of rope.

One by one she opened the unsealed documents that had been in the boots, looking for recognisable names. Roger’s name was atop one letter, and the word ‘Rex’, but the Latin hand was too difficult otherwise. Another letter was in a language completely unfamiliar. After the third document she was about to give up, accepting that her rudimentary reading skills were not enough for such a task. But on the fourth she picked out her father’s name, which was curious as the letter was addressed to Roger and held part of what her father had once told her was a royal seal of England. She set that document and the one with Roger’s name and ‘Rex’ aside before she repacked the second casket. Returning to the first, she quickly searched the documents with broken seals, but all were in a foreign tongue. As she began to repack the casket she froze at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, then hurriedly finished and stuffed the documents she’d set aside beneath the mattress.

She was fastening the locks when a knock on the door made her jump. Glancing around and seeing nothing obviously amiss, she called, ‘Come in,’ letting out her breath with relief as Celia stepped into the room.

‘I thought you might wish to know that your father is in the stable.’

Though tempted to ignore it, Margaret wondered what her father wanted. Her feet took her to the yard, where she paused with a sudden memory of Hal in her uncle’s stable sharing his meal with Agrippa. She missed Hal’s quiet companionship. She wondered what he was doing, how Bonny had fared on her night journey back to the town.

‘Mistress?’ Celia said behind her. ‘Are you unwell?’

Margaret started and realised she was hugging herself so tightly it was difficult to breathe. ‘No, just thinking,’ she said quietly over her shoulder as she consciously relaxed. ‘Thank you for coming for me. Now leave us.’ She continued to the stable, stepping in hesitantly.

Her father spoke from one of the stalls. ‘Your handmaiden told you I was about, eh?’ Margaret’s horse whinnied as her father stepped out of its stall into the light. Straw stuck to his clothes, as if he’d been rolling about in it. Without waiting for Margaret’s response to his first question, he said, ‘You’re wise to bring your horses in from without the walls, though they are crowded. The English would have found them.’

Margaret nodded and asked, ‘Are you still in hiding?’ as she eyed his straw-covered clothing.

He looked down, brushed straw from a sleeve. ‘And a good thing I am,’ he said. ‘Have you told Roger I’m here?’

‘No,’ said Margaret with an inadvertent glance back over her shoulder. The yard was empty. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Are you certain?’ Malcolm thrust his jaw forward, challenging her.

‘Of course I’m certain. Do you think I talk in my sleep?’

Her father shrugged. ‘Or said something of it to your nosy handmaiden in his hearing.’

‘You might make such mistakes, but I don’t.’ His low esteem for her was nothing new to her, but it still stung. ‘Do you have cause to think Roger knows?’

‘I’m being followed.’ Her father took a step towards her, looking past her to the yard. ‘Closely.’

‘You’ve been in hiding since you returned. Surely you expected to be sought?’

He shook out his gown. ‘I’m going away. It’s not safe for me in Perth.’

‘Nor is it anywhere in this land, for any of us.’

He sniffed a sleeve. ‘Pah! When did you last clean the straw?’

She imagined clean straw was as dear here as it had been in Edinburgh. ‘What trouble are you in, Da? Is it John Smyth’s death?’

‘I touched him not, Maggie. That is all I can tell you. Fergus can manage my business.’

That might be a problem, she thought, but she would not betray her brother. ‘Are you leaving Fergus to face your enemies?’

Malcolm sniffed. ‘It’s no sacrifice, he’ll inherit all I manage to keep.’

‘Are we in danger, Da?’

‘Your brother is quite able to defend himself.’

‘What if he doesn’t care to fight your battles?’

‘Who said aught about battles?’ Her father patted her arm. ‘Don’t fret, lass. Fergus won’t desert the business. He’ll have nothing if he does.’

‘Nor will you.’

‘Nor any of us, I sometimes fear.’ He dropped his head. When he lifted it, there were tears in his eyes.