The Fire In The Flint (Margaret Kerr Mysteries 2)

by Candace Robb

  ‘Benedicite, Dame Margaret,’ a man whispered.

  She regarded a crook-backed friar. It was not James after all. ‘Benedicite’ she said. ‘You sent for me, sir?’

  He bowed. ‘I did.’

  ‘How did you recognise me?’

  ‘Might we walk out into the kirk yard? I have missed too much of this glorious day.’ He shaped his words with softened sounds as had a Welshman her father had once hired.

  ‘Yes.’ She preferred to be in the daylight with a stranger.

  ‘Bless you, my child.’

  She rose and followed him out of the side door, matching her pace to his halting gait. He chose a bench, half shaded by a yew, half in the sun.

  ‘I pray you, forgive my leaving you the chilly side,’ he said as he settled on the sunny half. ‘Old bones need warmth.’

  ‘I am happy with the shade,’ Margaret assured him. ‘Who sent you to me?’

  ‘No one.’

  She turned to him. He lifted his face to the light. The cleft in his chin was unmistakable. ‘James!’

  He wore a self-satisfied smirk. ‘You truly did not know me at first.’

  ‘No. I did not know you were a player.’

  Even now he kept the posture of the aged friar, and the Welsh accent. ‘Had my kin less need of my diplomatic skills I might have found joy in a troop of players.’ He grew serious. ‘Will you be missed?’

  ‘I shall, and soon.’ She could not think how she would manage to tell him all without the risk that Roger might grow impatient and come seeking her.

  ‘Then I’ll be quick. How goes your mother?’

  ‘My—’ Margaret felt her face grow hot despite the shade. ‘You, too? Is all the world awaiting a sign from my mother?’ Her anger surprised her.

  James coolly absorbed her outburst, not even straightening his back. ‘She was difficult?’

  ‘Did you follow us?’

  His brows came together in puzzlement. ‘We have eyes everywhere. You are well aware that yours are not the only pair assisting us.’

  Of course she knew that. He had chosen not to answer her question. But his reluctance betrayed him. ‘Have a care, you’re sounding more English than Welsh,’ she noted, glad to prick him in return.

  ‘Roger wanted her to explain her visions of you, didn’t he?’

  Naked to the world, that is how she felt, her situation exposed. ‘He did. But he came away unsatisfied.’

  ‘She would not see him?’

  She detected pleasure in James’s eyes.

  ‘No. Nor would she enlighten me. Damnable woman, what good has she ever done me? All my life, her—’ She stopped herself, embarrassed by the outburst.

  ‘Forgive me for pressing you, my friend,’ James said, his Welsh accent returned. He cocked his head, then stiffly rose. ‘I must go, but I’ll come again. Look out for me.’

  She heard approaching footsteps and bowed her head in prayer. James disappeared around the kirk, as quickly as an elderly friar could manage, and was almost out of sight when Roger stepped out of the kirk, hesitated, then approached her.

  Margaret lifted her head.

  ‘Maggie. I grew worried, not finding you within.’ Roger held out his hands to her. His eyes searched her face.

  She accepted his help in rising. ‘I wanted some air.’

  ‘I did not know the journey so distressed you – to rush to the kirk at once as you did.’

  ‘The truth of it is that I give thanks for your return, not so much for the safe journey, although I am grateful that it passed without injury to any of us.’

  Roger pulled her into his arms. ‘I, too, have given thanks for our reunion.’

  Despite everything, she felt safe in his arms, so safe. Why, then, did she doubt him?

  They left the kirk yard arm in arm, walking slowly. But by the time they arrived at the house they were arguing about Fergus’s improvements.

  ‘He did us no good deed with such fussing,’ Roger said. ‘The English will take it all when they return.’

  ‘Now it’s the English. Before, our house was bare because you needed the coin to build up your trade, or you wanted to wait until you found just the right items abroad. It was a cold house, Roger, a house with no heart.’

  ‘You never said so.’

  ‘I did. You did not wish to hear.’

  Roger paused at the door. ‘We must not invite the interest of the English.’

  ‘What cause would they have to enter our home?’

  Roger shook his head, as if baffled by Margaret’s resistance. ‘We’ll not argue in front of the others.’ His voice was cold.

  ‘Of course not,’ Margaret said, angry that he had said it first, that they had fallen back into the old pattern, he ordering, she obeying. And yet she had stood her ground.

  They shared no tenderness that night.

  It had been a strained trio at the dinner table, Roger, Margaret, and Fergus. Aylmer and Celia had eaten earlier so that the three might enjoy a private reunion. It proved to be no favour. In the morning, Margaret could bear Fergus’s round-shouldered petulance no longer and invited him to walk with her along the river, hoping to make amends with him.

  ‘I’m sorry I rushed away with no explanation yesterday,’ she began as they turned on to Northgate.

  ‘You’re shoving me aside like the rest of them.’

  ‘No, Fergus, never. I won’t do that to you. There was just no time to explain.’

  He brightened at that, and pointed to Matilda’s father’s leather shop. ‘I’m often invited to sup with the family,’ he said, his smile wide and smug.

  Ah, Matilda, the beauty of Perth, raven hair and blue eyes. Margaret could well imagine how grand Fergus must feel.

  ‘So what’s the truth of your black friar, eh?’ he asked. ‘He’s not your leman, is he?’

  Margaret gave a startled laugh. ‘I was wondering where to begin, but you’ve decided for me. You must swear that you’ll keep whatever I say to yourself.’

  He glanced at her with a conspiratorial grin.

  ‘For the good of our people,’ she added.

  He grew serious. ‘I swear, Maggie. I can be trusted.’

  She told him of James Comyn, and her vow to do what she could to help their king return.

  Fergus had paused as they reached the river and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘God’s blood, Maggie, you’re the brave one!’

  He was a head taller than she, and when they stood so she found it difficult to remember that she was his elder.

  ‘Do you think so?’ she asked, not certain herself. ‘Many are doing what they can.’

  Fergus glanced around and then leaned closer. ‘If you plan to help King John Balliol in Perth, you tread a dangerous path, Maggie. The folk are allied to the English, at least outwardly. There was much nasty talk when the kin of Dame Agnes of Elcho went to guard the nunnery, no matter that it was because of the men who assaulted Marion and searched Ma’s chamber.’

  Margaret recalled what Marion had said of one of the intruders’ accents. ‘Perhaps they know something of the event.’ She told Fergus what Marion had said about one with a southern accent.

  ‘Marion told me none of that!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Did you ask her?’

  He sighed. ‘No. Fool that I am, I asked only Ma.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself. We are ever hopeful that Ma will care to help us, though she’s never given us cause to expect it.’

  ‘She told you naught?’

  Margaret began to shake her head, then checked herself. ‘Nothing of that night, but something that might pertain to it. Da is in Perth. Hiding. Doing some secret trading, she thinks.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘And he means to take Ma back to Bruges when he sails.’

  Fergus snorted. ‘And what’s she say to that?’

  ‘It won’t happen, so she says. And the priory’s confessor supports her refusal.’

  ‘But Da wanted her locked away. He said he’d had enough of
her Sight.’

  ‘His passion has betrayed his wit?’

  They both laughed, and turning south along the river bank, arm in arm, they talked about past summers for a while. Margaret felt comforted by the familiarity of the waterfront, the warehouses, the tarry scents, the children playing along the bank. Giving Fergus only half her attention, she was not disappointed when he grew silent. She pointed out the changes she noticed.

  Suddenly Fergus blurted, ‘Da didn’t even trust me enough to let me know he was here. Or was it Da who went through the houses, searching for something, never mind the bother he caused not telling me? Is someone looking for him, do you think?’

  It came out such a jumble that Margaret realised she had almost missed how much their father’s secrecy hurt Fergus. ‘Ma thought he might be hiding from an unhappy rival in trade. You know he thinks as little about us as she does.’

  Fergus was silent for a few steps. ‘What news of our brother?’

  This was the most difficult to tell Fergus, that Andrew was confessor to the English at Soutra. She explained his danger.

  ‘St Columba watch over him,’ Fergus said in an unsteady voice as he crossed himself.

  They had turned at the shipyard and were walking back up the bank when Dame Ada drew near.

  ‘She’s on your tail everywhere you go,’ Fergus muttered.

  Margaret had not told him of her meeting with Ada the previous day. She stopped. ‘What do you mean? Did you follow me to the kirk yesterday?’

  The blush that dulled his freckles was his confession.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You none of you tell me anything.’

  ‘Fergus.’

  He hung his head. ‘I was feeling sorry for myself. Now I’m sorry I believed you’d tell me naught.’

  ‘We must trust one another,’ Margaret said, ‘you and Andrew and me. We’ve no other Kerrs to trust.’

  ‘Uncle Murdoch?’

  ‘Oh, there’s much to tell you about him. But Dame Ada is upon us.’ Margaret lifted her head. ‘So you could not stay within on such a day either?’

  Dame Ada glanced from Fergus to Margaret. ‘I can see I’m interrupting confidences. You’ve much to say to one another.’

  ‘And much time to say it in,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Sinclair will be wanting to go over the accounts,’ said Fergus. ‘I’ll take my leave of you, Sister. God speed, Dame Ada.’ He strode off up the bank.

  In too much haste, Margaret thought, wondering whether Ada sensed Fergus’s aversion to her.

  ‘Is this a good day to meet your niece?’ Margaret asked.

  Ada beamed. ‘It is, Maggie. Come along. Do not mind your brother.’

  But of course she knew how Fergus felt – he’d been jealous of their close friendship ever since the brief time in her childhood that Margaret entertained the fantasy that Ada was her true mother and that she was the daughter of a great lord.

  Being in Ada’s home was a balm to Margaret’s bruised and conflicted heart. She left Ada’s in mid-afternoon, relaxed and in good spirits. Ada’s niece and child were a happy, self-contained pair, and Margaret had heard much of the news of the town from her friend.

  She heard raised voices as she returned home – Roger’s deep voice, Fergus’s slightly higher one, both angry. She found them standing just out of reach of one another, Roger attacking, Fergus defending. Aylmer sat on a bench behind Roger, watching Fergus intently. The voices echoed in the almost unfurnished hall.

  ‘They can hear you on Northgate,’ Margaret said loudly. The exaggeration silenced them long enough for her to ask what was the matter.

  Roger shook his head and turned away from her, then back. ‘Stay out of this.’

  ‘He says I didn’t lock the warehouse last night,’ said Fergus. ‘But I did. I’m sure of it.’ He clenched his hands as if ready to defend his honour with a good punch.

  When Roger resumed his accusations, Fergus withdrew into his hundredth review of his departure from his father’s warehouse the previous day. He remembered checking twice that he’d blown out any lamps, not knowing how soon he would return, with Maggie apparently arriving any moment according to the friar. While securing the door he had thought of his sister’s skill in picking locks and wondered whether Uncle Murdoch had taught her anything new. But as sure as he was that he had locked the warehouse, there was no denying the body he’d seen lying in it a little while ago.

  When Fergus had parted from Margaret and returned to the house he’d found Aylmer waiting for him. ‘Master Roger sent me to fetch you to the Kerr warehouse.’ His grim expression had chilled Fergus.

  ‘What’s amiss?’

  ‘You’ll see soon enough.’

  Fergus was pulled from his recollection of the summons by Maggie’s voice asking what they’d found in the warehouse.

  ‘John Smyth,’ Fergus said.

  Maggie frowned and shook her head. ‘Should I know that name?’

  ‘He was Da’s clerk. When Da fired him for thieving Smyth swore he’d avenge his honour.’ Fergus nodded at Maggie’s nod. ‘I see you remember now.’

  She had gone pale. ‘Tell me what you saw, Fergus. Everything.’

  Roger stepped between them. ‘Maggie, this is not your concern.’

  She stepped around him. ‘Fergus.’

  ‘It looked as if he’d been climbing atop barrels stacked on their sides and they rolled out beneath him and over him. Heavy barrels. His neck was broken.’

  Maggie crossed herself. ‘Holy Mary Mother of God.’

  ‘If Fergus had locked the door—’ Roger began.

  ‘Be quiet!’ Maggie shouted.

  Fergus was much surprised. His sister was livid.

  ‘What is it?’ Roger said in a quieter, but nastier tone. ‘You can’t believe your brother is so irresponsible? That such an accident could happen when he was in charge?’

  Fergus jumped in. ‘How am I to ensure that no accidents happen in the warehouses?’

  ‘By locking the doors,’ Roger shouted.

  ‘I did.’

  Roger was nodding. ‘Perhaps you did. Where do you keep the keys?’

  At that, Margaret withdrew to her chamber and flung herself on the bed, muttering prayers for her father’s soul. She believed Fergus, and she would have stayed to defend him but for the trembling that had begun when Fergus had reminded her of the dead man’s connection with their father.

  ‘Shall I fetch you some wine?’ Celia asked quietly.

  Margaret rolled on to her side and contemplated the slight figure with the strong chin and level brows. ‘I’m so frightened, Celia,’ she said, feeling the need to tell someone her suspicions.

  Celia perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Is it what they’re shouting about down below? The man with the broken neck?’

  Margaret sat up. ‘He hated my da for calling him a thief. I fear … oh, dear Lord forgive him.’ She was unable to form the accusing words.

  ‘Even if he’s an unrepentant thief, the Lord will forgive him.’

  ‘I meant my father. I don’t believe Smyth was just thieving.’ Margaret breathed deeply. With enough breath she might get it out. ‘I think he was spying on my father, hoping to learn something in the warehouse.’

  Celia sighed, smoothed the coverlet. ‘With all respect, you are not thinking clearly, Dame Margaret. It does not matter what he was intending, he’s dead. Struck down by his own trespass. So what can you possibly have to fear from him?’

  ‘My father is in Perth, Celia. Hiding. Ma has seen him.’

  ‘Oh.’ The small word, not a word at all really, expressed far more concern than Celia allowed in her expression.

  ‘I very much fear that he might also have been in Edinburgh, that he caught Old Will in the undercroft, or Will caught him.’

  Celia sniffed. ‘Well, you’ve decided all this in a very short time, Mistress. You must need a glass of wine to refresh yourself after so much thinking.’ She rose and withdrew.

  Margaret sank b
ack down on to her stomach and tried to convince herself that Celia was right, that she was making too much out of a coincidence. But she could not quiet her mind.

  And how would it come to pass that Master Malcolm was in Edinburgh the very night that Old Will searched his trunk? Celia might have asked, but she’d kept her peace, thinking Margaret was already too interested. As she descended to the hall she happened on Jonet standing over the bundles brought upriver from Elcho. Jonet swung round as Celia cleared her throat.

  ‘Och, but you gave me a fright,’ said Jonet, pressing her chest. She was slightly younger than Celia, sturdily built. Her fluttery behaviour did not fit her appearance.

  Celia explained what was in the bundles.

  ‘That will bring Dame Margaret some cheer. She’s been so sad in this house.’

  ‘Servants should not gossip about their employers,’ Celia snapped.

  Jonet pressed her lips together. ‘I wish the mistress well, she knows that I do.’

  ‘I’ll help you with those in a little while,’ Celia said. ‘Where is Master Roger?’

  ‘He and his servant went off to the warehouse with Master Fergus,’ Jonet said, crossing herself.

  So she probably knew about the body. Celia thanked her and hurried out towards the kitchen, distressed that in such a family as this a servant like Jonet might not have the sense to keep her own counsel. Celia had imagined Margaret had come from a comfortable family of a wealthy merchant. But the truth was not so lovely. Madwomen and murderers. She sighed to herself, pouring a cup of wine for Margaret.

  ‘I’ve no need of that,’ Margaret said, startling Celia so she almost dropped the cup. She had not noticed Margaret entering the kitchen. ‘I’m going to walk out into the fields. I need air.’

  ‘I’ll go with you then,’ Celia insisted, not liking the nervousness in her mistress’s carriage. She was like a cat with its ears back, looking for an escape.

  Margaret suddenly dropped on to a bench. ‘Where is Roger?’