Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

Unfortunately there was nothing James could do to hide his cleft short of growing a beard, which would be inappropriate for a friar. Perhaps it was time to change his disguise.

Fergus rose with some effort and the muscles in his neck were taut as if he were struggling to stay upright.

‘You’re in pain,’ said James. ‘You should rest today.’

‘I’m stiff from sleep and sore, but I’ll be so whether I walk or sit in camp.’ Fergus shook out his legs and hurried away to relieve himself.

He was as stubborn as his sister, James thought. And as proud. But he moved more naturally the further he walked, and with reaching Perth before the English watch a concern, James decided to take the young man at his word.

‘How did you meet my sister?’ Fergus asked as they started out.

‘Too much talk and we’ll not only attract attention, but we’ll not hear the noise of a pursuit,’ James said quietly. ‘Your attack last night should make you cautious.’

Fergus peered over his shoulder and said nothing more. They were following a burn south. Where the bank sank almost to water level the path skirted round marshy areas. They had been walking a while when James recognised an occasional wet, sucking sound behind them as that of shoes pulling up out of the marshy spots.

He tapped Fergus and whispered to him to follow as he struck off the path seeking a place to hide. Behind a tree on a wild, brushy hummock they crouched to watch the path. Fergus’s breathing was ragged. Three men eventually appeared, alert and watchful. Two strode on past the point at which James and Fergus had left the path, but the third stopped, studying the path and then the marshy ground between him and the brush in which the two hid. His companions turned back to him.

Fergus caught his breath a little too noisily for James’s comfort. He held his own, praying that no one had heard and that the young fool would now be quiet.

The men discussed something. One of the pair who had continued on lifted a foot and pointed to it. James could not make out their words. With a shrug, the tracker nodded and moved on with the others, casting one glance back before he disappeared into the trees.

James remained immobile for a while, and Fergus, though straightening up, said nothing and stayed in place.

‘You almost gave us away,’ James growled softly when he finally rose.

Fergus raked back his damp hair. ‘I caught myself, didn’t I?’

‘I was grateful for that.’ Remembering the young man’s condition, James asked, ‘Are you in much pain?’

‘That wasn’t why I almost spoke. I know two of them,’ Fergus said. ‘They’re friends of our maid Jonet.’

‘Friends, eh?’ said James. ‘Then she’s befriended Longshanks’s soldiers, for all three are known to me as his men. They’ve been to your house?’

‘Many times over the summer. That bitch. She’s why Mungo didn’t bark.’

‘Mungo?’

‘My dog. It must have been Jonet who stuffed him into a feed bin the afternoon they searched the house. He could have died.’

James almost laughed. The young man had odd priorities — he’d not lost his temper over his beating the previous evening, but now he was livid over his dog’s having been stuffed in a box. ‘God has not blessed you with trustworthy servants — Aylmer, Jonet.’

‘Aylmer is Roger Sinclair’s servant, not mine — What are you doing?’ Fergus hissed as James shoved him back down in the brush.

‘They’ve headed back.’ He’d heard a bird startle in the direction the three men had taken. The tracker must have convinced the others to search. James wondered whether the three were after Fergus or himself. He would soon know — a figure approached on the path, bent almost double and moving hesitantly. Fergus groaned softly beside him. James fingered the dagger on his belt.

But when the man came clearly into sight James realised it wasn’t one of the three at all.

‘Da,’ Fergus whispered. ‘It’s my da.’

‘Here?’

Malcolm Kerr straightened up at the point on the path nearest them and trained his eyes almost precisely on their brushy hideout.

‘Don’t be hasty,’ James said, noting a dagger in the man’s hand.

But Fergus took no heed. He rose and softly hailed his father.

Putting the dagger between his teeth, Malcolm lifted his arms in peace and walked slowly towards them. James thought it extraordinary, the potbellied elderly man picking his way silently and efficiently through the brush along the marshy ground. He was more adventurer than merchant.

‘What are you doing here, Da?’ Fergus hissed.

‘Saving the two of you. You’ve three irritated men waiting for you further on. God was watching over you today, my son, for I’d almost given up my search for you and gone on. I know a way round them. Come!’

James had a new respect for Malcolm Kerr.

Angry with Aylmer and worried about Fergus, Margaret took out her frustrations on the kitchen garden. Despite being neglected since the previous autumn, the patch of earth had managed to bring forth some herbs but the soil was so packed and dry that the weeds snapped off just above ground, and digging for their roots disturbed the plants she wanted to save. It was just the sort of work she needed, and she fell to it with energy. Mungo kept her company, demanding an attentive pat now and then.

Roger returned from the warehouse and nodded curtly as he passed her on his way into the house. She had expected him to say something to her about the arrival of the English troops. But Roger said not a word. She was annoyed by her disappointment — she could not both hate and love him. But hate was too strong a word. She was hurt by his lies and neglect, more sad than angry. She would have preferred anger.

Mungo interrupted her thoughts, barking loudly and spinning several times before dashing away towards Watergate. Margaret set her tools aside and chased after him, stumbling to an abrupt stop as her father and her brother appeared, the latter leaning down awkwardly to pet his excited dog.

‘I thought you’d gone,’ she said to her father, glancing back at the house. ‘Roger’s within.’

‘The lad’s injured, I could not let him limp through the town unaided, and your Comyn thinks he has even more cause than I do to hide from Sinclair.’

Margaret shooed the dog away and took Fergus’s shoulders, searching his eyes. The left one was blackening. She noted that he remained stooped even now that Mungo had moved away.

‘My God, what happened?’

‘Beaten by some English soldiers, then kicked by your husband’s man Aylmer,’ said Malcolm.

‘I’m not dying, Maggie, just sore.’ Fergus flashed her a wan smile.

‘Dying or not, come within,’ said Margaret. ‘Celia and I will attend you.’

Her father accompanied them to the door and appeared ready to enter the house.

‘Have you decided to come along in?’ Margaret asked, wondering at the change in her father’s behaviour.

‘I will, yes, Maggie. I mean to have my say with Sinclair and Jonet.’

‘Jonet?’ Margaret said.

‘Fergus will tell you,’ said Malcolm. ‘Take him up to the solar while I deal with Sinclair.’

‘Why have you chosen to confront Roger now?’ Margaret persisted. ‘With the English in town you are in more danger than before.’

‘I’ll do it and be gone, Maggie. I meant to see my son safe home and have my say with both Sinclair and that false maid, and then I can leave with a clear conscience.’

‘You’ve a slow wit, Da, to fret over Fergus now. You might have spared him this had you agreed to his going to Uncle Thomas in Aberdeen months ago.’

Her father grunted and led the way into the house.

Roger was in the hall sitting at the table that was still littered with documents and tally sticks. He rose as they approached, his eyes moving from Malcolm to Fergus to Margaret, where they lingered accusingly. Margaret noticed ink stains on the fingertips of his right hand. That was more like the Roger she had married.