by Candace Robb
Aylmer approached, giving the dog a wide berth. ‘May I speak with you, Dame Margaret?’ he asked.
She dropped her arms, stepped away from the line of bedding. ‘What is it?’
He turned his head so that Celia could not see his face. ‘Might we talk alone?’
Judging his expression as one of irritation, Margaret did not fuss but led Aylmer directly to the stable. ‘Is this acceptable?’ she asked, matching his impatience.
He surprised her by pulling off his cap and giving her a little bow. ‘Forgive me for interrupting your work, but I am missing some letters from my travel chest.’
She forced herself to breathe. ‘What has that to do with me?’
‘With your servants, Dame Margaret. Have they been in my room?’
‘As you see, we are airing the linens, so yes, one of them has been in there. But neither of them is a thief.’
‘Are you so sure of them?’
Indignation came easily. ‘Jonet and Celia have been in the service of our family for a long while. Neither would suddenly turn dishonest merely because of your tempting belongings. Nor can they read.’
He was sceptical, and with good reason. With every word Margaret felt herself sinking into a trap that would catch her the moment she let down her guard.
‘If not your servants,’ Aylmer said, looking uncomfortable, ‘perhaps – I would not have thought such a thing but – your father’s sterlings, owed to someone, my papers – might your brother have helped himself to that which isn’t his, and then fled?’
Margaret’s cry of outrage escaped her before she had time to think. Suddenly Roger was beside her. He had appeared so quickly she wondered whether he was spying on her. Or on Aylmer.
‘What is the matter?’ he demanded.
‘A misunderstanding,’ said Aylmer. With a curt bow, he left the stable.
Not meeting Roger’s eyes, Margaret said, ‘The Bruce did you no favour in Aylmer.’
‘He did not attack you?’
‘What? Oh, no, it was nothing so—’ She looked up, blushing. ‘Nothing so terrible, Roger. I find him irritating, that is all. Nothing is to his liking.’ She kissed Roger’s cheek and he walked off, looking uneasy.
Returning to her work, she nervously waited for Roger and Aylmer to leave together and then went within, Celia with her. In a short while she had returned the documents to Aylmer’s casket. Exhausted by the day’s events, she agreed to Celia’s suggestion that she lie down in her chamber with a cool, lavender-scented cloth over her eyes. She woke much later, worrying about Fergus.
Dreams of Kilmartin Glen had filled Christiana’s sleep the previous night, and she spent the day quietly, gathering what she could recall of the dreams and piecing them together. Whether or not she reconstructed them accurately, she sensed that it was the effort that would teach her what she must glean from them. It felt a validation of her new resolve to have such guiding dreams.
Marion helped her dress in one of her finest gowns, a blue that flattered her, and a white silk veil. She was resting when a novice came with Prioress Agnes’s request for her presence in the hall of the guest house. The English had returned. As Christiana rose, Marion smoothed out her skirt and adjusted the veil, then smiled in admiration. She was better than a mirror.
The moment Christiana stepped into the guesthouse garden she was drawn to look up at Kinnoull Hill. The novice was staring at her uncertainly.
‘Let us hasten,’ said Christiana.
The young woman bowed her head and led the way down the yard.
Prioress Agnes and her kinsman Thomas greeted Christiana with pinched faces. Her hands were cold, his odour sour with fear.
‘You have nothing to worry about,’ Christiana assured them. ‘The soldiers will seek the safety of Perth.’
Prioress Agnes crossed herself. ‘We must pray God to make that so.’ She cast her eyes up and down Christiana’s attire. ‘Do you mean to dazzle the soldiers?’
‘The English respect splendour,’ Christiana said.
All three turned towards the sound of horses in the yard.
‘I hope you’re prepared,’ Thomas said.
The captain was travel-worn, dusty and stinking of horse, yet he was clean-shaven, indeed still bled from a nick, and his clothes were well-tailored. He bowed courteously and greeted her with particular respect, saying that he had heard of her great gift. But once he sat he gave his full attention to the prioress as he asked permission to leave some of his men at the priory to watch the river.
‘So it is not your men atop Kinnoull Hill?’ Christiana asked. She meant to say more, but the prioress motioned to her to wait.
Thomas explained the strategic value of the hill, how it would be better to station men there to signal those on the Perth waterfront if anyone approached from downriver.
Agnes nodded. ‘If your men are known to be here, we might be attacked. We ask you to leave us in peace.’
But the captain turned to Christiana. ‘Why do you ask if our men are on the hill, Dame Christiana?’
Her surroundings began to fade and the hill filled her vision. ‘Behind the two on watch there are a handful with weapons drawn.’
‘I have only four men up there,’ said the captain. ‘Have you seen a vision of this?’
‘I have them before me, Captain. They watch your men approach Perth.’
‘What happened to my guards?’
Christiana shook her head. ‘I see only these. Oh no.’ She caught her breath, seeing the flies. ‘Why did they not bury them?’ she moaned.
From far away Thomas’s voice said something to the captain. Christiana was sinking down, down.
The light was fading and the shadows had grown so long that Fergus slowed to be sure of his footing. He could not risk falling and being injured, for someone followed him. Ever since he had turned away from Perth in late afternoon he’d felt eyes on his back, heard sounds behind him as he walked, silenced when he paused to listen. At his easy pace anyone might overcome him, but they stayed behind him. They must want to see where he headed. He shivered with fear and did not know what to do. His present path would return him to the hut on his father’s land at dark. He could not walk into the night. Yet perhaps that is what he should do – he would not sleep anyway, not with eyes watching the hut. He wondered what would happen if he turned back towards Perth. He hesitated, but could not turn himself around. Fear filled his bladder. It was miraculous, for he’d no water left and had not the courage to kneel at a burn and drink, imagining a sword coming down on his neck. He told himself beheading was not the method of stealth, but the image held.
Suddenly a heavy hand clutched his shoulder.
‘Fergus Kerr. On business for your da, are ye?’
Piss ran down Fergus’s leg.
Christiana returned to consciousness to find the prioress watching her with concern. Thomas stood a little away from them, a cup in hand.
‘I should like some wine,’ Christiana said. ‘Is the captain gone?’
The prioress sighed and rose to call for a servant.
Thomas turned to Christiana. ‘He has sent more men to the hill. If what you told him proves true, he will follow our advice and leave here.’ He threw his head back and drained his cup. ‘God help us when he finds his men safe and sound.’
‘He will not,’ said Christiana.
17
MORE CHILD THAN MAN
As Celia assisted Margaret in undressing for the night, she mentioned that Aylmer had not taken his evening meal with her and Jonet, who had moved into the kitchen. ‘I don’t like his disappearing without a word to anyone,’ Celia said. ‘He’s too scheming.’
Margaret liked it no better than Celia. ‘He might perchance be on an errand for Roger. I’ll find out.’ She pressed her temples. Mungo had resumed his barking on being closed in the stable for the night. ‘We’ll none of us sleep if we leave the dog out there.’
‘Shall I bring him in?’ Celia suggested.
‘Oh y
es. He might be quiet in the hall,’ Margaret said. ‘I pray Fergus returns soon.’
After Celia withdrew from the bedchamber, Margaret knelt to pray that God would watch over Fergus if he had departed on his own for Aberdeen.
‘Are you that worried about your brother?’ Roger asked upon finding her on her knees. He tossed his belt on the bed and sat down on a bench to remove his boots. Margaret crossed herself and rose to help him.
‘Fergus is more child than man,’ she said, ‘though he looks a man and will be treated as such by strangers.’
‘Hm.’ Roger put his boots aside and poured himself a cup of wine, turning half towards her. ‘Is he so much a child?’ he asked the air. ‘Can it be mere chance that Aylmer’s papers have disappeared at the same time as your brother?’
She did not yet know how to deal with Aylmer’s having missed the papers she had since returned. ‘Where is Aylmer this evening?’
Roger faced her. ‘At your father’s house. We thought it prudent to set a watch.’
‘For Ruthven?’
‘Or Fergus. Is it possible he has hidden the sterlings that are causing such a fuss?’
‘Roger, you’ve known Fergus for years. Can you really imagine he’d do such a thing?’
Roger seemed absorbed in running a finger around the rim of his cup. ‘A young man keen to strike out on his own might find it tempting,’ he said in a thoughtful tone. ‘And with the English in the town …’
‘They have returned?’
‘Late today.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘Can you be so sure of Fergus?’
His doubts increased Margaret’s anxiety. If Aylmer did not find the papers or the sterlings in Malcolm’s house, Roger might send someone after Fergus, someone who would not be gentle with him. She could not allow her brother to pay for her actions.
‘I know that he is innocent of removing documents from Aylmer’s room,’ Margaret said. ‘And as for the sterlings, if they exist he knows nothing of them. He came to me about Gilbert Ruthven’s first visit and was disappointed when I could tell him nothing.’
Roger had settled back on the bench. ‘How do you know he took nothing from Aylmer?’
Margaret took a deep breath. ‘Because I did it – and returned the documents, but too late.’
Roger’s gaunt cheeks remained slack for a moment, his eyes dull with confusion. ‘You?’ He set the cup aside. ‘You?’ he repeated, the word now loud and angry. He rose and grabbed Margaret’s shoulders too quickly for her to have anticipated the attack. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’ he demanded, his face so close she felt his beard on her forehead as he shook her.
She tried to back away from him, but he dug his fingers into her shoulders.
‘Why does Aylmer have letters to my father in his possession?’ she gasped. ‘What right has he?’
‘So, my sly wife has learned to read?’ Roger shook her hard and shoved her away.
Margaret steadied herself against a bedpost, pressing her hands around her neck which ached from the shaking. Roger’s tenderness towards her was easily shed. ‘I’ve learned some words. But I certainly recognise Da’s name – I have seen it many times.’
‘You think to distract me from the point – why did you search Aylmer’s belongings?’
‘He’s no servant, Roger, I’ve been certain of that from the moment he spoke to me at my uncle’s inn.’ She shifted back to sit at the foot of the bed, her shoulders and neck tender and her breath unsteady. ‘So I set out to find out who he was.’
Roger raked his hands through his hair. ‘What has come over you, Maggie? To search a guest’s room – I never expected such behaviour.’
There was much he had not expected, Margaret thought. ‘So now he’s a guest? Your neglect has taught me to see to myself, Roger, and I mean to do just that.’
‘So it’s my fault. You insult a guest and blame me.’
‘You did not introduce him as a guest, but as a servant in this household. I am the keeper of the keys and I have a right to know whether he can be trusted.’
‘And so you took away some letters.’
‘Letters to which he has no right. Why is he carrying Father’s documents, Roger? Was it Aylmer who broke into Uncle Murdoch’s undercroft and murdered Old Will? Did Aylmer do that to steal Da’s letters?’
‘Oh, Maggie, Maggie.’ Shaking his head and smiling a little, Roger joined her on the bed and took her left hand in his. ‘So that is what you fear. I understand now, but you’ve drawn the wrong conclusions. Aylmer was carrying the papers for me. They concern some of my business deals with Malcolm.’
There should be a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, or he should drop his eyes from hers, but he went on and on in that soothing voice, his eyes locked on hers, reassuring her. How smoothly he lied, she thought, with how little hesitation. It might be the most frightening discovery in this year of discoveries, that Roger had such a gift for deception. James’s use of disguise was overt – he did not expect those who knew him to be fooled up close; but Roger expected her, his wife, his bedmate, to believe his act. She had lost the thread of his monologue and did not wish to pick it up.
‘I care nothing for Aylmer or his fate, whoever he is,’ she said. ‘I’m worried about Fergus, I’m tired, and I’m going to sleep.’
She climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her head. Her heart was pounding, her cheeks hot.
*
After helping Jonet fix a bed for herself in the kitchen, Celia had brought Mungo into the hall and settled down near the fire to comb him. He fussed at first, whining and spooking at every sound, but eventually he relaxed beneath Celia’s long, soothing strokes and her low voice telling him tales of her childhood animals. Despite the hairs collecting on her sleeves where no apron protected her gown she was glad of his company; at night the hall was a place of shadows. Neither did she like being in a room with many entrances after dark. Her imagination conjured all the beasts of legend creeping up behind her. But Mungo kept them at bay, and when he licked her face or shook his head so hard she could hear his ears slapping his neck she laughed and laughed. It had been a long while since she had laughed so much.
When at last Mungo had not stirred for a long while, Celia eased herself up, wondering at the lingering stiffness from riding. Her joints were cold, she decided, noticing how low the fire had burned. She headed up the stairs, but Mungo began to whine just as she reached the landing. Perhaps he, too, feared the shadows. She did not want him to climb the stairs. But if she took him out to the kitchen now she might frighten Jonet. His whining grew louder as he came to stand at the bottom of the steps.
Vowing to speak with Roger and Margaret in the morning about some better arrangement, Celia hurried to the small room in which she slept and gathered her blankets and pillows into a heavy bundle, and awkwardly climbed back down to the hall to bed down with the dog. Stoking the fire in the hope that it would push back the shadows long enough for her to fall asleep, Celia settled down with Mungo, well out of the way of anyone’s path should someone move about in the night.
‘Damned dog,’ Roger muttered.
Margaret, unable to sleep, had heard Celia in the next room. ‘Celia’s gone down to quiet him.’
Rolling on to his back, Roger sighed. ‘What’s the use of a dog like that?’
‘He was a good hunter, but he’s old now. He’s seldom far from Fergus – that’s part of my worry, that Fergus left Mungo at Da’s house with only Jonet there.’
Roger propped his head up on an elbow. ‘I’m sorry you’re so worried about Fergus.’
She did not believe him.
As if he read that in her silence, he asked, ‘Did you search my things, too?’
‘I did,’ she said.
He groaned.
‘I cannot help but wonder what has kept you from me and your responsibilities here all this time,’ she said.
‘But I’ve told you.’
She rose up to face him. ‘Yes. And if we were merely friends, perh
aps even brother and sister, it would be enough. But you share my bed, Roger, and my body, and I can’t go on without knowing your heart. I thought it was enough for me to love and serve you, but all the while you were away I felt so betrayed. I can’t go back.’
He was losing his temper, she could tell it by his breathing.
She rolled over and refused to respond to his angry questions.
Some time in the night Mungo woke Celia with a low growl. A lamp burned dimly by the front door. She tried to calm the dog, stroking him between the ears while she peered into the darkness, staying low. A person was sitting on a bench beside the lamp, pulling off their boots she guessed by the movement and the sound of something dropping. Mungo’s behaviour suggested it was Aylmer. And as he rose and stiffly bent to pick up the boots, then lifted the lamp, Celia saw that it was indeed Aylmer who now moved towards his chamber. He paused as he neared Mungo. The dog growled.
‘Damned dog,’ Aylmer said, ‘you belong in the stable.’
Celia thought she saw a bruise on his face and stains on his shirt, as well as a torn sleeve, although the shadows from the lamp might be tricking her eyes. She must have moved or made some noise to call attention to herself, for now Aylmer saw her.
‘What are you doing in the hall?’ he demanded.
‘I’m trying to keep the dog quiet so my mistress can sleep the night.’
Mungo growled and barked once.
‘Now look what you’ve done.’ Celia held Mungo back. ‘Go off to bed and leave us.’
With a curse, Aylmer stumbled off to his chamber.
Celia’s heart pounded. It was a long while before she slept again.
The crackle of fire and a murmur of men’s voices entered Fergus’s awareness and for a moment he forgot the gripping pain in his belly and tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids stuck together and the effort made him cough. He sank back and waited for the spasm in his throat to stop. When the pain had eased a little he tried again to open his eyes and succeeded, only to be blinded by the light of a campfire. But he fought tears long enough to see that a man sat near him, facing the fire.
