Candace Robb: The Fire In The Flint

Margaret knew what he kept back there. ‘You are thinking they were after the casket Da left in your care.’ Malcolm Kerr had left the casket of documents with his brother when he departed for Bruges the previous year.

Murdoch set a barrel upright to clear a path. ‘Or your husband’s. Or both.’ Roger had also entrusted to Murdoch the small document casket that he usually carried behind his saddle when he travelled on business.

‘Have you been expecting this sort of trouble?’

‘I’d be a fool if I hadn’t, lass. It’s no secret that your husband Roger is the Bruce’s man, or that my brother found it too easy to sail for Bruges, perhaps the result of some bargain with the devil himself. I’ve feared someone would tell the English or our own folk that they might find much of interest in here. Not to mention my smuggling spoil.’

‘Da bargaining with Longshanks? You’ve not said that before.’ Such a betrayal would be worse than Roger’s.

‘You didn’t ask and I’ve been gey glad for that. You’re learning that questions are dangerous.’

‘I think it more dangerous not to be aware that both my husband and my father are known to be caught up in all this.’

Murdoch grunted as he crouched by the small chests belonging to the family. Margaret’s father’s casket was closed, but when Murdoch touched the lock it sprang open. ‘Forced open. It’s of no use now.’

Margaret set the lantern on a ledge and joined him as he lifted the lid. Documents had been jammed in with no care.

‘They put these back in haste,’ she said, trying to steady her voice.

‘I agree. My brother Malcolm is tidy; it’s his only virtue. They also searched your husband’s casket.’ Murdoch turned it round to show her how the lid had been forced down on a parchment roll and the lock left unfastened.

Their eyes met. ‘They did not bother tucking anything else back,’ Margaret said.

‘You are right about that, lass. I regret my own honesty. Now I cannot tell whether anything’s missing from either casket. And I don’t like not knowing.’

‘Who do you think was here?’

Murdoch rose and shook out his legs. ‘My partner James comes to mind. He kens I have them here, and he might be spying for his kinsman.’

‘That is toom headed. He’s known all along you’ve chosen no side yet he’s never searched before.’

‘You’ve grown too fond of him, Maggie. I warned you.’

Murdoch did not know about Margaret’s pact with James, but they made no secret of being friends.

‘He would not force locks, toss goods about, spill wine.’

Murdoch grunted. ‘And why not?’

‘Why would he leave signs of a search? As your partner he knows whether you’re about the place and can explore as he pleases in your absence. He has no need for such haste.’

‘You said yourself that he followed Old Will out of the tavern,’ Murdoch reminded her.

‘I have you there,’ said Margaret, triumphant. ‘James was in the tavern at the time you suspect him of having searched the undercroft.’

‘He has many to do his bidding,’ Murdoch said with a little laugh.

Margaret realised her folly. ‘You aren’t serious.’

Murdoch shrugged. ‘You were so eager to defend him.’

‘I merely sought to prevent you from accusing an innocent man.’

‘Innocent is not a word I would use to describe Comyn,’ said Murdoch. ‘But this is not the place to discuss him. My real fear is that the English have been here.’

So he knew he was not invincible. But it seemed to Margaret that her uncle acknowledged it too late. ‘You have perhaps been careless to hide all your goods in one place and let so many know of it.’

‘What I’ve been a fool about is what I stored here.’ Murdoch sighed. ‘Come, let us go out into the sunlight and warm ourselves.’ He handed her father’s casket to her and then took up both the lantern and Roger’s casket. ‘I have a better place for these.’

A while later they sat outside Murdoch’s kitchen drinking ale with Hal, the sandy-haired groom on whom Margaret depended for much of the news gleaned in places where she would be conspicuous. He had little to do of late in the stable with so few coming to stay.

‘They say English soldiers have searched Old Will’s rooms,’ Hal said, his face averted as was his custom when speaking.

‘Searched his rooms?’ Murdoch looked bemused. ‘Couldn’t they see the rags he wore?’

‘He wore a good pair of shoes when I last saw him,’ Hal said.

‘When was that?’ Margaret asked.

‘A few days past.’ Hal looked up, and Margaret saw that he was pleased to have interested her. ‘The shoes fitted him.’

So unless God had guided Old Will to the shoes it was unlikely that he had stolen them. Coin for ale, for shoes. ‘Where did he find the siller?’ Margaret wondered, shading her eyes as she turned into the sun to see her uncle’s face. ‘When were you last in the undercroft?’

Murdoch studied her from beneath his bushy brows for a moment. ‘You’re thinking that it was Old Will hunting for coins in there? And who attacked him? Someone defending my goods out of charity?’

‘He’d been in there before, taken some, and then returned at an unfortunate time?’ Hal suggested, his young face alight with interest.

Murdoch shook his head. ‘I cannot recall at present when I was last in there, but Old Will was no lock picker. Had he been he would have drunk himself to death long ago.’

Margaret reluctantly agreed.

‘I haven’t the head for such things,’ said Hal, rising. ‘I should groom the MacLaren’s horse. He’ll be wanting her soon.’

Margaret took the tankards into the kitchen.

Murdoch followed. ‘I don’t like how keen you are to solve my problems, lass.’

‘It would be unnatural for me not to want answers. My parents, my husband — what is someone looking for, and who is looking for it?’

‘I meant Old Will’s sudden wealth.’

‘He was attacked in your undercroft.’

‘You’d do better to wonder what your father’s doing in Bruges.’

‘Da has never confided in me. I might wonder all I like and never ken the truth of him.’

‘You’re curious enough about others, but not your family?’

‘Are you about to confide in me?’

‘No.’

But he was right, she should concentrate on what her family might possess that someone might want. ‘I should go to Perth,’ she said.

‘What?’ cried Murdoch.

‘I’m no use to you here, we’ve had few people staying of late and there’s little for me to do in the tavern,’ she reasoned.

‘Fickle woman,’ Murdoch growled. ‘In spring you cursed me for saying you should bide at home.’

‘I did, though it was my husband I should have cursed. You were but the messenger. Fergus’s letter has me worried, even more so after seeing the state of the undercroft. I should be with him.’

‘I don’t like it, Maggie. The English will be certain we had a hand in Will’s death if you suddenly run off.’

‘You’re never at a loss to find ways to ease their worries, Uncle.’ His was the only tavern still open in Edinburgh and she knew he traded something with the English in order to prevent their closing such a place where Scots gathered.

‘They grow greedier by the day,’ said Murdoch. ‘I doubt I’ll hold them off much longer.’

Margaret saw that he was serious.

James Comyn sat near the window in the hall of his house on High Street considering the conversation he’d just had with a messenger from William Wallace. He was not at all confident that the young man had understood James’s response. Once before he’d had this feeling, and indeed Wallace had taken offence in his reply and a long, inconvenient silence had ensued. Perhaps it was time James met with Wallace again. The messenger had said Wallace was headed for Kinclaven Castle, east of Dunkeld, to keep watch on the English garrison there.