Candace Robb: The Fire In The Flint

As James stared out of the window, debating whether to risk such a journey, he watched Margaret Kerr striding up the hill. She wore her everyday gown, which hung from her strong bones of late — life in Edinburgh was more difficult than it had been at her home in Perth or with her goodmother in Dunfermline, and her curly red hair was caught up in a simple white cap. The clothes were not elegant but she carried herself with regal ease. A handsome woman, he thought, by any standards. She was talking to herself, apparently deep in argument. He wondered who was winning. Shortly after she passed out of sight at the front of the house, there came a knock at the door. Waving away the servant who’d rushed in to answer, James opened it himself, inviting Margaret in. He guessed what she wished to discuss — he’d heard about the old boller’s death — but she surprised him by handing him a letter.

‘Father Francis helped me read it,’ she said, explaining the lack of seal. ‘It’s from my brother Fergus. I hoped you might advise me on it. Would you read it?’

‘You trust me with such a personal letter?’

She glanced behind her. ‘Am I not alone? Who else might have placed it in your hand?’

Sometimes James did not know what to make of Margaret’s apparent trust in him. Had someone treated him as he had treated her when she first came to Edinburgh, he would have kept far away. He had bullied her and threatened her for discovering his part in a woman’s terrible death, then made a weak atonement by helping her meet with her brother Andrew on the morning he left for Soutra, where the English troops occupied the great Hospital of the Trinity. James had gone to some bother to arrange the meeting but it hardly made up for his earlier behaviour. On the other hand, he was her uncle’s business partner, and kin to the man she believed the rightful king. Margaret had changed so since the spring, becoming brusquer, more comfortable with him and many of the townsfolk. He liked her new manner, but he wondered how stable it was.

‘I merely thought to give you the opportunity to think again about the contents, embarrassing family secrets-’

‘I’m no fool,’ she said. ‘I’d not make the mistake of showing you such a letter. I pray you, read it and save me the breath.’ She stationed herself a little away from him, hands clasped behind her.

His curiosity roused, James settled back to read. In short order he saw the possible connection to recent events.

As soon as James put down the letter, Margaret said, ‘I’ve no doubt you are fully informed about Old Will, and my family’s caskets being searched in my uncle’s undercroft.’

‘Yes. I take it you think that last night’s search was a continuation of those in Perth.’

‘I cannot help but think so,’ she said with emotion, for a moment allowing him to see her fear.

‘You won’t find me disagreeing. What would you have me do?’

She placed her hands on the table at which he sat and leaned close. ‘My uncle swears he knew nothing of the contents of the caskets, so he cannot tell whether anything was taken. I would go to Perth, talk to Fergus and Mother. By now they might be aware of some missing items.’

James met her frank, almost eager gaze, but did not speak for a moment, wildly wondering whether she could have overheard his conversation with the messenger, for Perth was on the way to Kinclaven.

His silence made Margaret uneasy. She blushed and straightened, moving a little away from him. ‘I should not have left Fergus alone. He is too young.’

James sensed no artifice in Margaret. ‘Of course you are concerned. But such a journey is difficult in the best of times. Now it is difficult and foolhardy, particularly for a woman. The soldiers tire of their camp followers.’

Margaret blushed. ‘I do not suggest this lightly. My family — we must know whence comes this danger.’

‘There is a difference between possible danger and certain danger, Margaret. No one was hurt by the intruders.’

‘Old Will?’ she challenged, her eyes bold.

‘Of course, but none of your kin.’

She sighed with impatience but dropped her gaze. ‘I’d hoped you might escort me, or know of someone who might.’

James wondered whether the messenger had been fool enough to stop at the tavern. He hesitated.

‘I ask too much,’ she said. ‘I have nothing with which to repay you for the risk of such a journey, or the time away from more important matters regarding King John. I pray you, forget my request.’ She began to turn away.

‘Stay,’ said James. ‘What you propose is dangerous, but I understand why you wish to go.’ He did not want to part so uncomfortably. ‘I might find a way to do what you ask.’

Now she blushed for pleasure. Hope lit her eyes and turned up the corners of her mouth. He found himself wanting to agree right now even though he knew he should consider it with care. More than his own life was at stake.

‘God bless you, James. I shall be grateful for any help in this — advice, someone who might be travelling that way, anything.’

‘I’ll do what I can.’

She left him standing in the middle of the room feeling burdened by his duty as the deposed king’s kin.

By the following afternoon Margaret regretted having told her uncle of her wish to return to Perth. He had snarled and glared at her, told her blood-chilling tales of women attacked by English soldiers, ordered her about until she had shouted back at him, and then he had announced he was going to Janet’s and knew not when he might return. She was in charge and she had better not allow anything to happen that would bring the English to investigate.

‘As if I’d murdered Old Will,’ she’d muttered at the last.

‘You’ll be the death of me, and I’ve said that before.’

He had indeed, more than once, and she had begun to think it was her uncle’s perverse way of expressing affection, for most of the time they worked together in concord, each understanding their own limits and the other’s strengths. Perhaps she had been right, but it could be that her talk of leaving had hurt him. The thought cooled her anger, although she still resented her uncle’s announcing his departure in Sim’s hearing. When the tavern servant knew Murdoch was away he slowed so much in his work that Margaret lost her temper, which was exactly what he wanted. Sim would express righteous indignation and storm out, leaving her alone to do all the work. Margaret had complained to her uncle, but he had his own reason for keeping Sim at the tavern. He distrusted him and preferred to have his enemy in sight. Margaret comforted herself with the thought that with Angus MacLaren off to the Trossachs the tavern would empty early.

In late afternoon a tall man in travel-stained clothes came into the yard leading two sweating horses. Hal leapt into action, ever solicitous of animals. The man thanked him courteously and then enquired about a room for himself and his master — Margaret, overhearing, introduced herself.

‘Dame Margaret,’ he said, bowing. A fleeting expression on his moon-round face made her wonder what he had heard about her. ‘I am Aylmer,’ he said. ‘My master will pay you fairly for your best room.’

She could tell that by the quality of this servant’s clothing. Servant — no, she did not believe it. He did not bear himself as a servant. Unless his master was of a class that she never saw in the tavern. And she guessed he was English, for ‘Aylmer’ was not a name she’d heard before. ‘Whom do you serve?’

‘He will be here anon.’

‘You do not wish to answer my question?’

‘He would rather do that himself, I am certain.’

She detected a smirk, barely suppressed. ‘You may wait for him in the tavern. When I have met him, I shall decide where you might be most comfortable.’ She motioned towards the rear door of the tavern.