Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

‘Shall I bring him in?’ Celia suggested.

‘Oh yes. He might be quiet in the hall,’ Margaret said. ‘I pray Fergus returns soon.’

After Celia withdrew from the bedchamber, Margaret knelt to pray that God would watch over Fergus if he had departed on his own for Aberdeen.

‘Are you that worried about your brother?’ Roger asked upon finding her on her knees. He tossed his belt on the bed and sat down on a bench to remove his boots. Margaret crossed herself and rose to help him.

‘Fergus is more child than man,’ she said, ‘though he looks a man and will be treated as such by strangers.’

‘Hm.’ Roger put his boots aside and poured himself a cup of wine, turning half towards her. ‘Is he so much a child?’ he asked the air. ‘Can it be mere chance that Aylmer’s papers have disappeared at the same time as your brother?’

She did not yet know how to deal with Aylmer’s having missed the papers she had since returned. ‘Where is Aylmer this evening?’

Roger faced her. ‘At your father’s house. We thought it prudent to set a watch.’

‘For Ruthven?’

‘Or Fergus. Is it possible he has hidden the sterlings that are causing such a fuss?’

‘Roger, you’ve known Fergus for years. Can you really imagine he’d do such a thing?’

Roger seemed absorbed in running a finger around the rim of his cup. ‘A young man keen to strike out on his own might find it tempting,’ he said in a thoughtful tone. ‘And with the English in the town …’

‘They have returned?’

‘Late today.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘Can you be so sure of Fergus?’

His doubts increased Margaret’s anxiety. If Aylmer did not find the papers or the sterlings in Malcolm’s house, Roger might send someone after Fergus, someone who would not be gentle with him. She could not allow her brother to pay for her actions.

‘I know that he is innocent of removing documents from Aylmer’s room,’ Margaret said. ‘And as for the sterlings, if they exist he knows nothing of them. He came to me about Gilbert Ruthven’s first visit and was disappointed when I could tell him nothing.’

Roger had settled back on the bench. ‘How do you know he took nothing from Aylmer?’

Margaret took a deep breath. ‘Because I did it — and returned the documents, but too late.’

Roger’s gaunt cheeks remained slack for a moment, his eyes dull with confusion. ‘You?’ He set the cup aside. ‘You?’ he repeated, the word now loud and angry. He rose and grabbed Margaret’s shoulders too quickly for her to have anticipated the attack. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’ he demanded, his face so close she felt his beard on her forehead as he shook her.

She tried to back away from him, but he dug his fingers into her shoulders.

‘Why does Aylmer have letters to my father in his possession?’ she gasped. ‘What right has he?’

‘So, my sly wife has learned to read?’ Roger shook her hard and shoved her away.

Margaret steadied herself against a bedpost, pressing her hands around her neck which ached from the shaking. Roger’s tenderness towards her was easily shed. ‘I’ve learned some words. But I certainly recognise Da’s name — I have seen it many times.’

‘You think to distract me from the point — why did you search Aylmer’s belongings?’

‘He’s no servant, Roger, I’ve been certain of that from the moment he spoke to me at my uncle’s inn.’ She shifted back to sit at the foot of the bed, her shoulders and neck tender and her breath unsteady. ‘So I set out to find out who he was.’

Roger raked his hands through his hair. ‘What has come over you, Maggie? To search a guest’s room — I never expected such behaviour.’

There was much he had not expected, Margaret thought. ‘So now he’s a guest? Your neglect has taught me to see to myself, Roger, and I mean to do just that.’

‘So it’s my fault. You insult a guest and blame me.’

‘You did not introduce him as a guest, but as a servant in this household. I am the keeper of the keys and I have a right to know whether he can be trusted.’

‘And so you took away some letters.’

‘Letters to which he has no right. Why is he carrying Father’s documents, Roger? Was it Aylmer who broke into Uncle Murdoch’s undercroft and murdered Old Will? Did Aylmer do that to steal Da’s letters?’

‘Oh, Maggie, Maggie.’ Shaking his head and smiling a little, Roger joined her on the bed and took her left hand in his. ‘So that is what you fear. I understand now, but you’ve drawn the wrong conclusions. Aylmer was carrying the papers for me . They concern some of my business deals with Malcolm.’

There should be a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, or he should drop his eyes from hers, but he went on and on in that soothing voice, his eyes locked on hers, reassuring her. How smoothly he lied, she thought, with how little hesitation. It might be the most frightening discovery in this year of discoveries, that Roger had such a gift for deception. James’s use of disguise was overt — he did not expect those who knew him to be fooled up close; but Roger expected her, his wife, his bedmate, to believe his act. She had lost the thread of his monologue and did not wish to pick it up.

‘I care nothing for Aylmer or his fate, whoever he is,’ she said. ‘I’m worried about Fergus, I’m tired, and I’m going to sleep.’

She climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her head. Her heart was pounding, her cheeks hot.

*

After helping Jonet fix a bed for herself in the kitchen, Celia had brought Mungo into the hall and settled down near the fire to comb him. He fussed at first, whining and spooking at every sound, but eventually he relaxed beneath Celia’s long, soothing strokes and her low voice telling him tales of her childhood animals. Despite the hairs collecting on her sleeves where no apron protected her gown she was glad of his company; at night the hall was a place of shadows. Neither did she like being in a room with many entrances after dark. Her imagination conjured all the beasts of legend creeping up behind her. But Mungo kept them at bay, and when he licked her face or shook his head so hard she could hear his ears slapping his neck she laughed and laughed. It had been a long while since she had laughed so much.

When at last Mungo had not stirred for a long while, Celia eased herself up, wondering at the lingering stiffness from riding. Her joints were cold, she decided, noticing how low the fire had burned. She headed up the stairs, but Mungo began to whine just as she reached the landing. Perhaps he, too, feared the shadows. She did not want him to climb the stairs. But if she took him out to the kitchen now she might frighten Jonet. His whining grew louder as he came to stand at the bottom of the steps.

Vowing to speak with Roger and Margaret in the morning about some better arrangement, Celia hurried to the small room in which she slept and gathered her blankets and pillows into a heavy bundle, and awkwardly climbed back down to the hall to bed down with the dog. Stoking the fire in the hope that it would push back the shadows long enough for her to fall asleep, Celia settled down with Mungo, well out of the way of anyone’s path should someone move about in the night.

‘Damned dog,’ Roger muttered.

Margaret, unable to sleep, had heard Celia in the next room. ‘Celia’s gone down to quiet him.’

Rolling on to his back, Roger sighed. ‘What’s the use of a dog like that?’

‘He was a good hunter, but he’s old now. He’s seldom far from Fergus — that’s part of my worry, that Fergus left Mungo at Da’s house with only Jonet there.’

Roger propped his head up on an elbow. ‘I’m sorry you’re so worried about Fergus.’