Candace Robb: The Fire In The Flint

‘Maggie,’ he said softly, reaching out to her.

She backed away. She did not doubt it was him, but she was not ready to walk into his arms. ‘First I would see you, Roger. I must see with my own eyes that you are truly here.’ She felt for the lantern just inside the door and opened the shutter, marvelling at how steady her hands were when she felt so breathless.

Roger tucked his thumbs in his belt and watched her as she studied him. His clothes were unfamiliar. They were well made, but they hung loosely on him. She had never seen him so thin. His face — she had known to expect the four long scars on his cheek, wounds that she had seen in spring, but not the tidy beard that partially hid them. Nor had his hair been so cropped then and sprinkled with grey — he was fifteen years older than she, but he had not looked it before. Strangest of all were his eyes. They had been his least attractive feature, unflinching and, perhaps because they were such a pale blue, icy. She knew they could not have darkened, but they seemed so, darkened with sorrow, pain, suffering, she thought. The changes in him frightened her more than anything had since his cousin Jack’s death.

‘Am I much changed?’ he asked.

She was glad to find his voice familiar, deep and warm.

‘I had not thought what you might have suffered,’ she said. ‘I knew of the wounds on your face, but I had not seen how thin you had become.’

‘I am stronger than I was.’

She could think of nothing else to say. It was as if she had convinced herself that their factor’s murder, Edinburgh’s transformation into a town scarred by fires and bloodshed with the townsfolk terrified by Longshanks’s soldiers who watched every move, her uncle’s dangerous missions, the unexplained disappearances, the corpses, the dread rumours of battles — all the horror of the past months had been but a waking dream and Roger’s changed appearance now proved it real. There was no going back. Her old life no longer existed.

Roger touched her face. ‘You are as bonny as ever.’

The tender gesture closed her throat and brought tears. ‘Roger,’ she sobbed, and stepped into his embrace. He smelled of sweat, wood smoke, horses and leather. His body was harder, his grip tighter than before, and she knew that though he was her husband in name he was yet a stranger. He murmured tenderly how he loved her, had missed her, had worried about her. Although she feared his words false, all the old hopes for their marriage stirred within her. Roger pressed himself against her and she grew warm with desire, her body betraying her.

He lifted her and carried her to the great curtained bed, laid her gently on it. ‘It has been too long, my Maggie.’

She found her resolve and rolled away from him, into the curtained darkness. ‘I cannot erase the months so quickly,’ she said, ‘no matter what you have suffered. When we met for a moment on that cold, rainy day in spring you did not reach out to me, you ran. Why?’

Roger said nothing as he finished pulling off his boots, dropping them on the floor one by one. Then, with his back to her, he said in a quiet, patient voice, ‘I thought I could protect you, Maggie. Some of the English know of my work for the Bruce, and if they had witnessed our meeting they would have followed you, found some reason to question you.’ He unlaced the sides of his tunic, pulled it off, then sat cross-legged on the bed facing her.

She wanted to wrap her arms around him and sink back on to the pillows clutching him tightly. But she was frightened to lose herself in him, to fall into the role of wife as blindly as she had before. ‘And afterwards, when Janet Webster told you why I’d come here, could you not see that you couldn’t protect me in such wise?’

‘I thought you’d gone mad. My young wife, safe in Dunfermline, had suddenly decided to abandon all sense and come here, walking among the English. Don’t you remember that soldier in Perth?’

She knew of whom he spoke, one in Longshanks’s army who had grabbed her as she walked to the kirk. ‘I do, Roger. I remember how you ran from the house to defend me. I count it as one of my best memories of you — I thought at that moment that you loved me, that you had not married me simply for the show of having a young wife.’

‘What? How could you not know how much I love you, Maggie?’ Roger reached for her. ‘Come here.’

Margaret moved beyond his reach. ‘What of Edwina of Carlisle, your comrade in spying? Did you sit here on this bed with her?’

He lay back with a groan. ‘She was also working for the Bruce. You have been told that, and that she is dead.’

‘Did you share her bed?’

‘I am your husband. I have kept my vows to you.’

‘A simple yes or no would suffice.’

Roger propped himself up on an elbow. ‘No.’

‘Then why did you not tell me about her?’

He sat up. ‘God’s blood, for the same reason I didn’t embrace you on the street in spring, wife, for fear of endangering you.’

‘Am I such a simple little thing I cannot be trusted? A lap dog rather than a woman?’

Roger grabbed her shoulders. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, giving her a shake. ‘I love you, Maggie. I have thought over and over of you on High Street, calling out to me. You cannot know what that did to me, seeing you, hearing your voice. You must have seen that I moved towards you, not thinking how I might endanger you. But my companions were sharp and they drew me away, brought me to my senses.’ He pulled her to him and kissed her.

It was a passionate kiss. She wanted so to believe him, wanted to feel safe here in his arms. He was her husband. He was kissing her forehead, her temples, her neck. It was God’s will that they be here in this bed, that they comfort one another. He was so warm, stronger, rougher than she remembered, insistent, his hands everywhere, helping her undress. She shut out her anger and hurt and took pleasure in him, kissing his eyes, his cheeks, his lips. She pulled off his shirt and kissed the hollow of his neck. When he was freed from his leggings she pressed her head to his warm, flat stomach.

Roughly he pulled her up on top of him. His lips closed over her mouth with a new fierceness that felt more like anger than passion. He pressed her lower back against him with such strength she thought her spine would snap, and then rolled so that he was now pressing her down into the bedding. She could barely breathe. Her passion turned to fear. He slipped down to mouth her breasts, kissed her stomach, and then with a groan rolled away and pushed her aside.

Her body ached with desire. Her fear dissolved into an overwhelming sense of bereavement. He could not follow through with the pretence of loving her. She moved away from him, clutching a pillow as if it were someone come to comfort her, and wept.

She did not know how long she lay there, mourning something intangible, before Roger moved close to her, and lying on his side, his head on her pillow, stroked her hair.

‘I have dreamed of you. Your wild locks, so bright, rivalling the sun.’

‘You need not lie to me,’ she whispered.

‘I love you, Maggie.’

She heard a slight catch in his voice and wondered if it could be true. How she had yearned for him. She had hoped for a husband who sought her counsel, shared his thoughts, listened to her; who showed her in simple ways that he cherished her; who knew that she would worry and would find a way to tell her he was safe. Who would not lie to her.

‘I don’t think I understand what you mean by love.’ Her voice, trembling and high, made her words sound peevish. She pushed herself up, clutching the covers to hide her nakedness from the stranger lying beside her.

Roger lay on his back. He ran his hand along her shoulder with a gentle, caressing touch. ‘What happened just now — I have ridden a long way, and I wanted you too much. The heat of my passion — they say it can unman one. But we’ll have many nights, Maggie.’ There seemed a yearning in his voice.