The Fire In The Flint (Margaret Kerr Mysteries 2)

by Candace Robb

  James, his servant, Angus MacLaren, Hal, and Will, the messenger, were greeted with good cheer and welcomed at one of the fires. But soon James was called to the fireside of William Wallace.

  ‘Come along with me, Hal. I promised you would meet the Wallace, and it shall be so.’ Regarding the young man as he rose, James nodded with satisfaction at the fair hair trimmed to reveal the strong-boned features, only slightly hidden by a pale, dusty beard that bespoke their haste in travel. ‘Remember to look the Wallace and all his men in the eyes,’ James said. ‘In this place a man watches his feet only when he has something to hide.’

  Hal lifted his chin and then his gaze to James’s. ‘What do I say to such a man?’

  ‘What you might say to any of your brave comrades. William Wallace expects no more.’

  They were guided through the trees to a fire circle like all the others. William Wallace came forward to welcome James. Tall and muscular, he always made James feel like a lad. But James never doubted that the Wallace had need of him. James was the shrewd one with strong ties to the Comyns and Balliols, and other great families of the land. And he had met Longshanks when he was yet a young squire to an English lord.

  Wallace nodded towards Hal. ‘Who is this fine young man?’ ‘Hal of Edinburgh, a groom at Murdoch Kerr’s inn whom I’ve known a long while. He has a way with horses and asses, keeps his head in dangerous encounters, and can hold a secret closer to himself than his own skin.’

  Hal stepped forward. ‘I am yours to command, my lord.’

  Wallace grasped Hal’s arm. ‘I’m no lord, Hal. Just a loyal subject of King John who means to return him to the throne. You are welcome, sir. I have need of you.’

  Hal bowed his head, and when he raised his eyes they shone with emotion.

  James himself was not unaffected. He cleared his throat and suggested that Hal return to his companions. ‘I must tell our commander all the news. You need not hear it again – what you need is rest.’

  Hal nodded and withdrew, the guide joining him to take him back to the others.

  11

  TREACHEROUS SANDS

  Wallace motioned James to a log spread with a skin, then eased down on a similar seat at an angle.

  ‘You have not brought the woman of whom you spoke – Margaret Kerr?’ Wallace asked.

  ‘I could not.’ James explained the unfortunate timing of her wayward husband’s return.

  Elbows on knees, Wallace opened his hands, studying his dirt-encrusted palms. Someone added a log to the fire and the light flared, revealing new lines on Wallace’s face.

  ‘Unfortunate or canny, I wonder.’ He looked enquiringly at James.

  That was the question. ‘Either is possible,’ said James. ‘She does not believe her husband knows that her allegiance lies not with Robert Bruce, but it is clear that she is poorly acquainted with Roger Sinclair.’ James spoke slowly, choosing his words with care, keenly aware of his own ambivalent relationship with Margaret. Though some ineffable quality in her convinced him that she was solidly loyal to Balliol, her marital situation gave him pause. Yet he had recommended her to Wallace as a spy.

  ‘Let us put her aside for now,’ Wallace said. His face had angles James did not remember from previous meetings, but he had grown brown in the summer sun, so it was difficult to judge. ‘Longshanks’s mission to Flanders is much on my mind. What is he up to?’

  ‘I can but guess,’ James said. ‘King Philip of France convinced Edward that he would honour a secret agreement between them, then publicly revealed the agreement as Edward’s treachery. Longshanks has lost what he gave up in the feigned agreement and gained not a whit, nothing that he’d been led to expect. The worst of it is the public humiliation. Edward of England will not rest until his reputation is restored, until all fear him once more. I pity the Flemish.’

  ‘Damn the Flemish with their duke who is so easily bought,’ Wallace growled. ‘Pity us if Longshanks arrives in Flanders to find the rebellion over.’ He ran his hands through his thick red hair and stretched out his legs with a groan. ‘We must strike before Edward comes west to Scotland again. Murray and I are agreed in that.’

  ‘I’ve heard something of your plan. A sudden rush southwards to recapture Stirling Bridge.’

  Wallace tossed a stick into the fire with wrist-snapping energy. ‘God’s blood, can no Scot keep a secret?’ he shouted, hauling in his legs and rising. ‘We’ve no chance if we cannot stand together.’

  Men at the far end of the fire looked their way, one rising and drawing his dagger.

  James hastened to reassure Wallace. ‘My cousin had it from you, my friend, he knew he could trust me with the information.’

  Wallace grunted and turned to those on alert. ‘It is nothing,’ he said to them. ‘Rest easy.’

  The dagger disappeared, but the men were more attentive now.

  Wallace had dropped his head and now sat very still. He seemed able to withdraw in company, turn inward and study his thoughts in quiet. James believed it was this ability even more than his fierce energy in battle that made Wallace a consummate warrior. Any ploughman might fight with wild abandon for a cause he believed in. But when necessary Wallace could shut out the clamour of men in order to consider his moves. James did not always agree with Wallace’s conclusions, but he was confident they were well considered.

  In a while, Wallace raised his head. ‘We traverse treacherous sands, James. They blind us and threaten to swallow us. But temper must be saved for the battle. Tell me the rest of your news.’

  ‘Some of our wealthier merchants living in Bruges are back among us, anxious to avoid Longshanks. They talk of growing discontent amongst the townspeople, a rebellion brewing against the Duke of Flanders.’

  ‘We must move before Longshanks returns.’

  ‘You know about the discontent among his nobles.’

  ‘And here as well. All this works for us, but only if we can convince the arrogant that our only hope is union.’

  ‘Tell that to the Bruce.’

  ‘He’s the worst of them,’ said Wallace. He flung another twig at the fire.

  In the morning Margaret attended Mass in Elcho’s chapel before returning to her mother’s chamber. Kneeling on a cushion borrowed from Dame Katrina, she said countless rounds on her beads, praying for her mother’s cooperation and for guidance in her feelings about Roger. About the latter, she was increasingly confused. When love-making, and when talking of their lives, truly anything that did not touch on the Bruce, King John, or Longshanks, she believed herself still in love with him. And yet when the issues concerning the kingship were in play, she distanced herself from him. Last night, Marion’s appearance in the hall had excited her, affording a chance to speak with the maid about the intruders who had come upon her in Christiana’s chamber. But before Margaret had a chance to ask the maid anything, Roger had joined them. Margaret had swallowed the questions and merely listened to Marion’s message and assured her that she would attend her mother in the morning. Afterwards, she felt shaken, as if Roger had almost caught her in the act of something forbidden. Was she afraid of him, or did she distrust him, or both? Until recently one of her dearest hopes had been to bear Roger’s children. She still wished for them, but it frightened her to think how much more dependent on Roger she would be as a mother. She had hoped to gain some insight into her doubts through prayer; but God was silent on the matter this day. Margaret hoped He would at least encourage her mother to help her. If He spoke to her through her mother, Margaret would willingly embrace her mother’s visions.

  Celia had accompanied Margaret to the kirk, and afterwards offered to accompany her to her mother’s chamber.

  ‘Today I’ll go alone,’ Margaret said. ‘Perhaps she will be more open if I am alone.’

  She could see from the maid’s raised eyebrow that she doubted it would make a difference, but Celia said only, ‘I’ll make certain that all is ready for our day’s ride.’

  The morning was bright and al
ready warm, and as Margaret crossed the dusty yard she was cheered by the prospect of the brief ride north, and then stabling the horses in Perth and biding at home for a good long while. She was even hopeful that with her mother’s gifts and Celia’s help she might succeed in making her house in Perth feel like a home.

  A manservant bent over the roses in the guesthouse garden, snipping the spent blossoms as he hummed off-key. A cat was stretched beneath a sapling, a paw shielding its eyes. This morning the priory seemed a friendlier place than it had yesterday.

  Marion leaned over the gallery railing outside Christiana’s door, face up to the sun. Margaret put a finger to her lips when the maid noticed her, and beckoned to her to come away down the gallery. It was a chance to talk a moment in peace. Marion’s long, homely face was tense as she reached Margaret.

  ‘What is it, Dame Margaret?’

  ‘I beg a small favour. I know you were accosted when my mother’s chamber was searched, and I hoped you might tell me about it.’

  Marion glanced back nervously, though her mistress would not be able to see them from her window. ‘Your mother does not like me to speak of it.’

  ‘Yes, it is her way, but it would be helpful to me to hear what you remember.’

  ‘It all happened so quickly.’ Marion shook her head.

  ‘Any little detail might be helpful. I might ken from it whether or not we are still in danger.’ She reminded the maid of the related occurrences.

  Marion’s face relaxed. ‘I see. Yes, I do see.’ She tilted her head and squeezed shut her eyes. ‘I woke as they kicked in the door. I opened the shutter on the lantern and one of them rushed over and closed it. He pulled me out of bed and told me I must go without. Rough he was, but I managed to pull a blanket round me before he pushed me away from the bed.’

  ‘In that moment of light, what did you see of him?’

  ‘Dark hair, dark clothes, not shabby. His speech was like an Englishman, a southerner.’

  Many a Scot sounded so, from the lowlands – clerics, the high born, some merchants. Not the usual thief. ‘How many were there?’

  ‘Three. One stood by the door and warned me not to run for help. His speech was more like Master Roger’s. I saw him only by moonlight, and I cannot say much, but that he stank like a man who had been long on the road. The third kept me by him without. He said nothing to me and wore a head covering that hid his face and his hair. The blade of his knife kept me silent until they departed.’ Only now did Marion open her eyes, blinking against the sun.

  ‘Could you tell whether they left with anything?’

  Marion looked apologetic. ‘I confess I did not look for fear they’d kill me.’

  ‘I ken that feeling. You must have been very frightened.’

  ‘I admit to that, I do.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I had this thought, later, that the one outside might have been a woman. That one was smaller. A lad, more likely.’ She shook her head as if still trying to understand. ‘But I keep thinking a woman.’

  ‘What of the guest-house servants? Or Dame Katrina? Did they hear nothing?’

  Marion shook her head. ‘I was the one who woke them.’

  ‘God bless you for this,’ Margaret said. ‘And I’ll say nothing to my mother of this talk.’

  ‘It might be of help?’

  Margaret nodded.

  Marion smiled and led the way into the crowded chamber. Hidden behind an ornately carved screen, Margaret’s mother lounged on a bed piled high with cushions. There were dark crescents beneath her eyes, and her colour was uneven, ruddy and pale alternating.

  ‘Are you unwell?’ Margaret asked, leaning to kiss her mother’s forehead, which felt clammy.

  Christiana took one of Margaret’s hands and pressed the back against a cheek, then kissed the palm.

  Margaret was deeply moved by the affectionate gesture. ‘I hope I was not the cause of a sleepless night.’

  Gently shaking her head, Christiana said, ‘I grow old, Maggie. The old sleep fitfully. It is God’s way of making us desire the long rest in His house.’

  This was but the latest of her mother’s theories about her nocturnal restlessness. When they were children Fergus had once suggested that their mother was a cat under a spell, and that she longed to hunt at night. But she did look pale.

  ‘Marion said you wished to see me before I left,’ said Margaret.

  Christiana closed her eyes and nodded. ‘I did. I must warn you, Maggie. Come, bring the stool closer.’ She gestured impatiently.

  Margaret did as she requested, her heart racing, thinking God had answered her prayers. ‘Warn me of what?’

  Opening her eyes, Christiana studied Margaret for a moment.

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘You must not believe anyone who claims to want to help you, Maggie. Everyone has selfish motivations now.’

  ‘Are you speaking of my husband?’

  ‘Anyone.’ Christiana sighed back into her pillows.

  A silence ensued in which Margaret heard Marion’s small movements as she shifted the gown she was mending, the gardener’s humming, and her own heart pounding.

  ‘Is that it?’ Margaret asked when she could no longer keep still. ‘Such a vague warning? Is this all that you wished to tell me?’

  Christiana looked sympathetic. ‘You expect too much of my visions, Maggie. I saw you bending over a map, men at arms treating you as one of them. I don’t know the men. Nor do I know the man riding into Edinburgh.’

  ‘What of the man with me as I hold my daughter?’

  ‘But of course it was Roger Sinclair. I said it was your husband.’

  ‘Did you see his face?’

  Her mother seemed to be losing interest, then abruptly shook her head. ‘It was a presence with no face. Like the men who— but no, the prioress says these visions are for my eyes only. I must say no more.’

  Margaret tried to keep her voice calm. ‘But you called him my husband.’

  ‘He bent over both of you as a husband would.’ Christiana rolled her head from side to side. ‘You are destroying my peace with your insistence on hearing more.’ Her voice broke.

  ‘But you sent for me,’ Margaret said.

  Christiana closed her eyes.

  Swallowing her frustration, Margaret changed the direction of her questions. ‘Fergus wrote to me about the men who broke in here and in the houses in Perth. Have you any idea what they sought?’

  ‘Oh, Maggie, you would have wept to see it. They spilled my medicines and some of the costly oils your father brought from France and Italy, they tore veils with their rough hands, stepped on my gowns with their filthy boots.’ Christiana sat up suddenly, upsetting several of the cushions as she leaned towards Margaret. ‘Trust no one.’ She dropped her eyes and seemed to withdraw, whispering something unintelligible.

  Margaret wondered at the spilling of medicines and oils. ‘Where were your medicines and oils, Ma?’

  Christiana glanced at Margaret as if surprised she was still there. ‘Where? In the lovely casket Malcolm brought from Italy.’

  Margaret knew the one – it looked much like the one her father had left with Murdoch.

  ‘There is one you might trust,’ Christiana said, ‘your brother Andrew.’

  Margaret knew that. ‘Yesterday you thought little of him.’

  ‘I have reconsidered.’ Christiana noticed a loose thread on a cushion and bit it off.

  There was much else in the room that could use her attention, but it was like her to be drawn to the insignificant, Margaret thought. At least she had managed to restore Andrew in their mother’s eyes.

  ‘Would you like to see Roger before we depart?’ Margaret asked.

  Christiana was fussing with the cushions that supported her arms. ‘Are you two reconciled?’

  ‘We are trying,’ said Margaret.

  She moved a few cushions to assist her mother, but Christiana pushed her away.

  ‘I know how they must go,’ she
said, shifting things again. At last she rested against them, arms well supported. But she was not still for long as she grasped Margaret’s hand, drawing her near. ‘I do love you, Maggie, though at times that might not seem so.’ She searched Margaret’s eyes.

  Margaret kissed her mother’s hand.

  Christiana gently touched Margaret’s cheek. ‘And I am sorry if my silence caused you an unhappy marriage.’

  Margaret let go her mother’s hand. ‘You did not approve of Roger?’

  Christiana wrinkled her nose, lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. ‘He seemed … oh, he was not like your father riding up to Dunkeld to plead for my hand, swearing he could not live without me. I admit that of late I’d come to think it a lie, or that time had dulled Malcolm’s ardour.’

  ‘I don’t mean to press you to see Roger. But I did wonder why you wished to avoid him.’

  ‘It is not a matter of avoidance. I’m not good company at present. I wish him well. Tell him that I am glad he has returned with life and limb.’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’ Margaret rose to take her leave.

  But Christiana caught her hand. ‘There is another matter. Your father has returned from Bruges.’ Her face was now truly flushed.

  Margaret sank back down, thinking of the searches. She felt ill. ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me at once?’

  ‘Malcolm wishes none in Perth to know that he is in the country – not even Fergus. I think it foolish – he should stay in the comfort of his own house.’

  ‘And you’d only now decided to confide in me?’ Margaret shook her head, wishing she could quiet the clamour in it. ‘Why is Da hiding?’

  ‘Some trouble,’ said Christiana, with a wave of her hands. ‘He’s come back because King Edward of England is in Flanders. There is an uprising.’ She shook her head. ‘I ken little of such matters. He thought to collect more of his wealth and do some careful business while English eyes were elsewhere. He was not prepared for things as they are here. But there is more, Maggie.’ Christiana paused and fiddled with one of her sleeves.