Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

‘God help us,’ Margaret whispered behind him.

He turned and took his daughter in his arms despite the pain. ‘Oh, Maggie, Maggie. Was ever a family so cursed?’

Prioress Agnes kindly gave Margaret another gown that fitted her passably.

‘Dame Bethag is devoted to your mother,’ she assured Margaret. ‘She will sit with her as much as possible until she recovers.’

Margaret was not as optimistic as the prioress regarding her mother’s recovery. She had never seen her so ravaged. But as long as the prioress had hope she would see to Christiana’s care. ‘Dame Bethag seems a patient woman,’ said Margaret. ‘I’ll remember her in all my prayers. And Dame Eleanor as well.’

‘Your husband is strong. He will recover completely, God willing, and then you shall have him home again.’

Margaret could not form the words to enlighten the prioress. ‘We’ll be leaving in a little while,’ she said. James waited for her at the guest house.

‘But you will come to see your mother from time to time?’

‘If Edward Longshanks permits,’ Margaret said.

The prioress gave her a puzzled look, then said, ‘Ah. Yes, that is so. My kinsmen say he is not finished with us.’

She would spend a quiet day or two with Ada, Margaret had decided. She did not want to be alone. She was riddled with doubt, remorse, and she knew she would agonise over whether to go to Roger once more though she knew it would be pointless. Now he needed her, and he was jealous. But the moment he was well enough to continue his service for the Bruce he would be gone again, particularly if he discovered that Margaret actively supported King John. If she were in her own home Fergus would wish to speak of things she did not wish to think of for a few days.

She had told her father and James what she’d learned from Roger about Old Will’s work for the English, his murder, Mary Brewster and Belle.

‘Well, at least that crime is solved, God curse him,’ said Malcolm. ‘We must annul your marriage. Searching for items to use against me — he’s not for you, Maggie.’

‘We have neither the influence nor the wealth to annul a marriage, Da,’ said Margaret. ‘Now give me some peace.’

James courteously lagged behind, but she guessed he’d heard and she did not want to know his reaction.

‘Your mother will recover as she ever has done,’ Malcolm went on, ‘and then I’ll return to take her to Bruges. But what will you do, Maggie?’

‘I don’t know, Pa, except that I mean to keep my pledge to work for the return of King John.’

‘If he cares to return.’ Malcolm had paused and looked Margaret in the eyes. ‘The Bruce is here, fighting with his men. Balliol is far away.’

‘He has been exiled, Pa.’

Although he did not look convinced, Malcolm had nodded. ‘Perhaps he’d be here if he could, I’ll grant you that possibility.’ He’d put a small pouch in her hands. ‘You’re a brave woman, Maggie. And perhaps Roger is a fool to back a Bruce — that family has always played with the devil.’

James had overtaken them and disappeared inside.

Margaret opened the pouch now, as she walked towards the guest house. Sterlings. Enough perhaps to buy the annulment herself. Her stomach fluttered and she went cold. The prospect terrified her. With every step she moved further away from the rules by which she’d lived her life and into a future in which she depended on herself to survive. But there was no going back. The flint had been struck and the flame burned within her. She had a purpose, and what she did from now on would matter to her people though they would never know her part. There would come a time, she prayed that it would be in her lifetime, when the streets and the riverfront of Perth were bustling with commerce, and a trip down the Tay could be taken openly and without worry. A time when her brother Andrew was free. That would be more satisfying than making do with a heartbroken marriage.

James was glad when Celia took her mistress in hand at Ada’s, preparing a hot bath, dosing her with some herbs to help her rest. Margaret had been so distracted on the journey back to the town he suspected that she had confronted Roger. Or perhaps she did not believe he would survive. In either case, she needed comforting. He’d been tempted to take her in his arms and assure her that all would be well, but he’d caught himself before making such an empty gesture. All would almost certainly not be well. It was not the way of things.

As he returned to Margaret’s house to make plans with Fergus, James wondered what she would choose to do now, what use she would make of the sterlings he felt quite sure weighted that pouch. She had such fierce loyalties, and there was such anger in her that he did not imagine for a moment she would stop here. Wallace and Murray were crowding the English, and a great battle was brewing, he could feel it. In the meantime he did not lack for tasks for Margaret. He felt guilty for using her, and a little apprehensive. She was no one’s but her own, and would therefore remain unpredictable unless he could find a way to understand her heart. If she had not been a married woman he might have wed her to keep her loyal to him. But that had not worked for Roger. He must befriend her, become necessary to her. He must think how.

A drizzle began as Margaret and Fergus left Sunday Mass. Despite the weather they walked slowly. He carried a small pack and kept Mungo by him with a cord attached to a collar he’d fashioned from a belt — the dog had worried it at first, but once he’d understood that he was to walk beside his master he seemed calm enough. He’d slept at Fergus’s feet in the kirk.

They were headed to the north gate, where Fergus would meet his companion for the journey. James was bringing him. Margaret worked to hide her agitation from her brother. He was going so far away that she feared she would not see him again. Her only consolation was his joy in finally embarking on an adventure.

‘Ada is teaching me more words,’ she said as they drew near the gate. ‘You might find someone coming this way who could carry a letter. Would you write to me?’

‘I’ll be busy, Maggie,’ said Fergus. ‘I cannot promise.’

‘I know,’ she said.

They had reached the gate. Still treated with special courtesy by the English guard, Margaret was free to walk out through the gate with Fergus.

‘I’ll not come far,’ she said. ‘I would just like to see your companion, so I can imagine the three of you.’ She leaned over to pet Mungo.

Fergus sighed, and when Margaret rose he caught her in a strong embrace.

‘I’ll write, Maggie, and you do, too.’

She felt how stiffly he held himself and understood that he, too, worked to hide his agitation.

‘I will, Fergus. Be happy in your work with Uncle Thomas. I’ll pray for you every day.’

And then James was there, in his own garb, greeting Mungo with a pat.

A compact, homely young man accompanied him. He eyed Fergus up and down and nodded. ‘You look untried. Good. And the dog is good.’ He bobbed his head at Fergus and Margaret. ‘I am Duncan,’ he said. ‘We’ll be journeying together.’ He, too, crouched to greet Mungo, who sniffed him and seemed to approve.

Margaret stepped back and watched as Fergus introduced himself and fell into conversation with his travelling companion. James joined her.

‘It’s a good match, I think,’ he said. ‘Duncan knows the way, and he’s silent and fast with a dagger.’

Margaret took a deep breath. ‘We should go back. I only embarrass him.’

James took her hand and squeezed it once. ‘And they must depart.’

She dared not reach down once more to Mungo. ‘Godspeed, both of you,’ she said with false cheer. She raised her hand in farewell and then turned back towards Perth.