Candace Robb: The Fire In The Flint

She left him then, moving stiffly away, her irritation tightening every muscle so that each step took effort to execute without a jerk. In the stable Hal was humming as he brushed down the finest of the two horses.

‘What can you tell me about him?’ Margaret asked.

Without pausing in the long, smooth strokes, Hal said, ‘In Edinburgh, only the Comyn’s horse is so fine. They are well cared for, though they have been ridden hard of late. The riders should be praying that the English have not noticed them.’

‘They came far?’

Hal nodded.

‘What of the rider?’ Margaret asked.

‘Aylmer speaks with a fineness. His master must be very grand to have such a servant.’

‘Is he lying?’

Hal shrugged. ‘I have not the gift to judge, Dame Margaret.’

‘Might he be English?’

Hal met her eyes for a heartbeat. ‘I pray he is not.’

‘I pray so, too. I am grateful for your observations, Hal.’

‘Shall I stable these beasts?’

‘Of course. They need care.’ She left him, deep in thought about what might bring noblemen to Edinburgh, and to this inn. Such people usually sought the hospitality of Holyrood Abbey. What worried her was their timing, just after a murder and a search, or burglary. And the possibility that they were English, come to spy on the tavern.

The rooms that shared the upper storey of the inn with her room were the most comfortable, but she would wait to meet the other man before committing to that. She might not turn them away — indeed, if they were from south of the Tweed she would not dare — but she did not need them near if she liked the master as little as she did the servant. She paused at the foot of the steps leading up to her chamber, deciding instead to check the rooms above the undercroft in case she chose to put the men there. She had one foot on the steps up to that when Celia came hurrying across the yard towards her.

‘Mistress, you have a visitor.’ Celia looked close to tears and her voice trembled.

‘What is wrong, Celia?’

‘He’s up above, Mistress. He insisted I let him wait for you in your chamber.’

‘God’s blood, who does he think he is.’ Margaret lifted her skirts and turned to follow Celia. ‘This is a customer I will turn away.’

‘You don’t understand, Mistress. It’s the master — your husband.’

Margaret stopped in mid-stride. ‘Roger?’ She turned back. ‘Are you certain?’

‘I was his mother’s maid for many a year. It is he.’

‘Dear Heaven.’ Margaret pressed her arms to her stomach, feeling as if she had been hit squarely and lost all her breath.

‘What can I do?’ Celia asked.

Margaret shook her head. ‘How goes he? Is he well?’

‘He looks weary, but much the same otherwise.’

‘Does he come in friendship?’ Margaret heard herself ask the question and wished she could suck it back inside.

‘He was sharp with me.’

Hence the tearful face, the trembling voice.

‘I must attend him. He is my husband.’ With a deep breath to steady herself, Margaret headed towards the tavern. But seeing the man Aylmer, she returned to Celia. ‘We have guests tonight. The man by the tavern door is the servant, Aylmer, and I have yet to meet the master, but I think he must be a nobleman, perhaps English, for so fine a servant. With Roger here-’ Her mind went blank.

‘Were you seeing to a room for the strangers?’ Celia suggested.

‘Yes. Hal is stabling their horses.’ When Margaret turned again, Aylmer was gone. She was relieved. She needed no audience as she climbed to confront her long-absent husband.

Celia had noticed the stranger watching Margaret and her as they spoke and had felt an urge to shoo him away. He must have sensed that he was unwelcome for he was gone now, and Celia alone witnessed Margaret pausing at the foot of the steps, squaring her shoulders and continuing up.

Often in the past months Celia had wondered how Margaret would behave when or if Roger returned. To have left his wife of only two years for such a long while during such frightening times had been reprehensible. But he’d compounded the offence as if he never considered Margaret’s feelings: in the sole letter he’d written to Margaret he’d promised to return at Yuletide but then did not appear, and sent neither an explanation nor an apology; when at last Margaret had caught sight of him in Edinburgh he had run from her; shortly thereafter he had sent word ordering her home to Perth but provided no escort; and perhaps the most humiliating discovery for her mistress was that he had spent the time arranging safe passage to Carlisle for a wealthy Englishwoman who had stayed in the very room Margaret now occupied and he’d been a frequent visitor in the room. Although Murdoch had denied they were lovers, Margaret’s brother had assumed they were and so must most of the townsfolk.

All this being so, as time passed Celia had imagined Roger less and less welcome. She herself had never wed, nor even bedded — her former mistress having run a strict household — so she could only guess at the emotion of such a reunion as was now commencing. But having heard her mistress weeping many a night, watched her search crowds for a sign of her long-absent husband, and noted her listening for his name when the Bruce was mentioned, Celia had grown to hate her former mistress’s son and presumed Margaret felt much the same.

Dame Katherine had impetuously loaned Celia to her gooddaughter Margaret for the journey to Edinburgh to seek the murderer of Jack Sinclair, Roger’s factor, and to trace Roger’s own whereabouts. He had by then been gone months longer than he had originally planned. Oblivious to the danger of travel and the tension in English-occupied Edinburgh, Celia, eager to please the mistress who was training her to be a lady’s maid, had gone without protest. She had not understood the sacrifice she had unwittingly undertaken until they arrived at Murdoch Kerr’s tavern. The rawness and the filth had first frightened, then disgusted her. She knew that Margaret had regretted bringing her along, considering her desire to be a lady’s maid ludicrous in the midst of war. But that very war had forced them to abide together long enough that they came to appreciate each other’s virtues. Margaret had begun to confide in Celia, who did everything she could to help her new mistress’s cause. Even now only Celia and Hal knew of Margaret’s spying work for James Comyn, and Celia had grown accustomed to evading questions about her mistress’s whereabouts.

But since the murder of Old Will, Celia had wondered whether their subterfuge was as successful as she had thought. She feared that someone else had learned of Margaret’s work for Comyn and had searched the undercroft for information.

‘If you’ve naught better to do, you might help me in the tavern,’ Sim barked, badly startling Celia.

She wondered how the weasel had managed to creep up behind her. ‘I’ve rooms to ready,’ she snapped, thinking Sim her prime suspect.

‘Where’s the mistress?’

‘Busy.’ Celia picked up her skirts and hurried up the stairs before he could ask any more.

Margaret’s feet felt weighted down and her heart pounded so hard she feared she might faint before she reached the landing. So many times she had imagined this moment, but nothing had prepared her for the jolt of hearing it had finally come. At the top of the stairs she found herself irritated by the need to deal with her estranged husband on the night that a nobleman was to lodge here. The mundane practicality steadied her. This was all part of her life, her own familiar life. Roger was her husband after all, not a stranger. She smoothed her apron as she crossed the landing to her chamber door. Reaching for the latch, she wondered whether Roger would be pacing or sitting. Upon opening the door she was startled to find him standing just within, blocking what little light came through the shutters.