The Fire In The Flint (Margaret Kerr Mysteries 2)

by Candace Robb

  ‘There will be. I trow we’ll chase those bastards back to the border and our ships will sail once more, with Dundee and Perth making up for our loss of Berwick.’

  ‘I want Maggie.’

  ‘I told you, she left by her chamber window and Sinclair cannot find her. We’re off to Elcho at dark to seek her.’

  ‘What of me?’

  ‘Dame Ada came asking about you. She is sending one of her servants to bide with you the night.’

  ‘Why would Maggie be at Elcho?’

  ‘You don’t need to hear of that now, lad. Rest. I’ll sit by you a while longer.’

  I’ll go to Aberdeen with or without your blessing, Fergus swore silently, his mouth unable to form the words. Not that it mattered. He knew his father would not listen. The bitter herbs pulled him back down into sleep.

  The soft cadence and courtesy of Wallace’s speech and the warmth of the rock had lulled Margaret into a doze. She awoke with a start, her mouth dry. Jonet was nowhere in sight, and another cup of water sat by Margaret. James and Wallace were talking quietly. Loath to call attention to herself, she lifted the cup and drank, thankful again for the soothing coolness. She wondered why James still wore the habit.

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘You’re awake.’

  ‘Where’s Jonet?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘She’s no longer your concern,’ said Wallace. He motioned to her to come closer.

  They made a small circle of three.

  ‘I see by your ease that you understand you are among friends, Dame Margaret,’ said Wallace. ‘I am glad of that, for I count on you to confide in me.’ He smiled kindly when she blushed at the allusion to her nap.

  He was perhaps her brother Andrew’s age, but as so many of her countrymen did now, he had the eyes of an older man who had put aside the conceits and games of youth. Strange that he should so trust James, the devoted play-actor.

  ‘I’ll tell you anything that might be of help to our king, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Be assured that I do not hold you responsible for the activities of your parents,’ he said. ‘James says you have heard about Kinnoull Hill.’

  Margaret glanced at James, who gave her an encouraging nod. ‘I have,’ she said.

  ‘Two more of our men have died from their wounds,’ said Wallace. ‘It is best you hear it from me. Death is expected on such a mission. Our men brought death to theirs. They returned the violence. At the end of every mission I thank God for sparing me this time.’

  Margaret bowed her head, seeing no need for words.

  ‘James has told you of your brother Andrew’s courageous help. Now I want your brother Fergus to carry a message to Murray near Aberdeen. He has a letter of invitation from his uncle the shipbuilder, so he has a good chance of being released if he is caught. His youthfulness will also help – he seems younger than his years.’ Wallace smiled when he said that. ‘Is this acceptable to you?’

  ‘I shall be proud of my brother if he accepts the mission,’ said Margaret, ‘but it is for Fergus to decide.’

  Wallace nodded. ‘Your father and your husband are of interest to me. I doubt that surprises you. Would you tell me what you know of their activities regarding our English troubles?’

  Margaret turned to James. ‘You have not told him what you know?’

  ‘Not what I learned today,’ said James. ‘I thought you would wish to.’

  ‘And Roger?’

  ‘He knows what I do of Roger, but if you know anything more …’

  She had not yet told James of the letters, and she felt unsure about what to say. So she began with her father.

  Wallace listened so unresponsively that Margaret wondered at times whether she had lost his interest. But he interrupted her once to ask if she could describe one of the sterlings, which she could not, and when she had exhausted what she knew he asked a few questions that made it plain he had listened closely.

  He sat back against the rocks, nodding thoughtfully, and gradually a bemused smile spread across his sun-browned face.

  ‘Your father takes bold risks,’ he said.

  ‘Over-bold this time,’ said Margaret.

  ‘He was poorly informed,’ said Wallace.

  James chuckled. ‘You think he might be of use, William?’

  Wallace shifted forward, leaning an elbow on a bent knee, his eyes alight. ‘We need such men. Too many consider the risk and lose heart.’

  Margaret thought him mad, but kept her own counsel. She let them talk a while as she thought about the letters. Aylmer was nothing to her, but Roger – she felt a lingering, perverse loyalty to him. She turned instead to the news that her mother was guilty of two additional deaths. Throughout her childhood Margaret had feared her mother’s visions would come to some horrible disaster, and they finally had.

  ‘God help them,’ she prayed.

  ‘What?’ asked James.

  Margaret realised she must have voiced the thought. ‘I was praying for the men caught on the cliffs.’ She crossed herself. ‘I must go to my mother. She must hear and understand what she has done.’

  ‘The deed is done,’ said James.

  ‘I see your point, Dame Margaret,’ Wallace said.

  She was glad of the great man’s support, and puzzled by the angry look James gave him.

  Shortly it was agreed that James would escort her downriver at deep dusk. Wallace’s goal was not Christiana’s contrition, but rather he hoped that to regain her daughter’s respect she would be willing to explain the visions concerning the true king’s identity.

  Margaret tried not to be disappointed in Wallace’s self-interest, for it provided her the opportunity to confront her mother. Perhaps they would both be satisfied, she thought, and that was a doubly good result.

  Malcolm did not think to use his wife’s new favour with the English to depart the town openly. At the far end of dusk he led Aylmer and Roger through the backlands, slipping through the shadows. He was buoyant with hope, his senses alert, his step confident. He would recover his wife, heedlessly set aside when his head was too full of intrigue to realise how he needed her beside him. He thanked God for this chance to win back his Christiana, the light of his life. He did not let his thoughts rest overlong on the capture of Wallace’s men. Christiana could not have foreseen the damage she would do by recounting her vision. Poor, foolish woman. He would cherish her all the more for her innocence. For that is what it must be, that she was unaware of the evil in men’s hearts.

  Once in the boat they kept close to the weedy bank, and only Aylmer, manning the oars, sat upright.

  ‘Do you really think we’ll get past the de Arroch guards?’ Roger muttered.

  ‘She’s my wife. They have no right to deny me, and I’m bringing you to speak for me.’

  ‘The English will be watching. Thomas de Arroch and his companions will not want to alarm them.’

  ‘It is dark.’

  ‘They’ll have torches.’

  ‘Quiet,’ Aylmer muttered.

  Both withdrew into silence.

  Leaving Jonet at the camp, Margaret and James made their way to the river under escort as dusk lingered into the summer night. Margaret moved too eagerly in James’s opinion. She did not sufficiently understand the danger of this mission.

  ‘You can still change your mind,’ he said, as the men removed a screen of branches and brush from a small boat.

  ‘I must do this,’ Margaret said. ‘The English will hardly report to Ma that two more men died, and she must ken the mortal cost of her loose tongue.’

  ‘You do understand that we might die on the water? The English will be watching the river.’

  ‘Two in a small boat will not alarm them,’ said Margaret, ‘is that not what Wallace said?’

  ‘He said perhaps.’ And he had not wished to dissuade her, damn him.

  Margaret looked out over the river. ‘It’s too dark. They’ll not see us well enough to aim their arrows. But you can still allow me to go alone as I requested.�
�

  ‘No.’ James could not let her face death alone, or whatever lesser danger might befall her. He felt responsible for her involvement in this cause despite her argument that she had chosen it. He had heard the hesitation in her voice as she told Wallace of the documents she had taken to Ada. That Aylmer was the Bruce’s kinsman had made her deed more dangerous than she seemed to realise. She was but a woman, with no training in defending herself.

  By necessity, there would be little conversation once they were on the river. James would use the time to consider how he might teach her what she needed to know, for it was clear she was determined to carry out her mother’s prophecy of mingling with soldiers.

  The three men set down on a stretch of river bank near Elcho with enough brush and small trees to screen them from the guards. While Roger and Aylmer crouched beneath the trees and planned an approach that would not alarm the de Arroch men, Malcolm left them and wandered down closer to the river bank. Though he believed the guards would recognise him soon enough, he would wait a little longer to see whether the two came up with a better plan. He wanted nothing to go wrong. All he wanted was to set sail for Bruges with Christiana and leave this troubled land, and whether it was for a time or for good he did not care.

  He let his mind wander back to their last meeting. Christiana’s words had sent him away, but there had been something in her gestures, her voice, her eyes that hinted at a passion that all her prayers had been unable to still. He might have pleasure of her yet, and he would be gentle with her, slow and patient, attentive to her desire. He grew hard planning the only strategy that interested him now.

  ‘Down!’ James said, pulling the oars out of the water and folding forward. He had guided the boat close to a ship docked just north of Perth, unusually far upstream from the shipyard but fortunate for their stealthy purpose as there were soldiers on the bank beyond.

  Margaret hesitated, not knowing what was more terrifying, looking up at the hulking mass of the ship or crouching blindly in its shadow. She had never been on the river at night, much less with a ship towering above. What by day was a fascinating beehive of activity was now a thing out of her most frightening dreams.

  James reached out and pulled her down.

  He used the paddle just to steer the skiff safely downstream now, so they had slowed to the summer current. Margaret’s heartbeat slowed, too, and she was beginning to believe they would make it to Elcho without incident when she heard the soft singing of an arrow and then James’s groan. She sat up and saw that they had just passed Greyfriars’. James pressed her back down and bent low over her.

  ‘Where is your wound?’ she managed to whisper.

  ‘Left shoulder. I don’t think it’s deep.’

  They huddled so for what seemed an eternity, their shallow breaths mingling. Margaret could hear James’s heart racing.

  Finally James straightened. ‘Cursed luck. One arrow and I caught it. You’ll have to steer, Maggie.’

  She straightened up and, taking the paddle, turned the boat so that she was facing downriver.

  James lifted his habit and used a knife to cut a strip from the shirt he wore beneath. ‘It’s but a flesh wound, I think. I was some idle bastard’s sport, a bored guard shooting at anything moving on the river.’

  But it was bleeding freely, and the cloth he held to it was soon dark. Margaret read in his movements that James was shaken, and she understood. It might have been much worse, so close to his heart.

  She leaned towards him once they were past Friarton Island. ‘We’ve but to show Thomas de Arroch that you are wounded and they’ll let us through.’

  ‘And if they don’t, it’s not my right arm, I can bloody them all. Begin guiding us to shore,’ he said.

  A splash distracted Malcolm. Whatever caused it was still upriver and faint, but it was the first sound he’d noticed on the water. Which in itself was strange. He wondered whether it was a night creature or a vessel on the river. He leaned forward, cocking his best ear towards the Tay, and held his breath.

  Another splash, and yet another. Oars dipping into the water, Malcolm thought. And the irregular rhythm suggested it was drifting towards shore.

  He crept back to his companions and alerted them. Aylmer sprang to his feet, dagger drawn, a conditioned fighter. Though his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Malcolm did not see as well at night as he once had, and he sensed rather than saw Roger’s grim mood. Both men seemed certain they were about to engage in battle.

  ‘It might be but a deer crossing the river,’ Malcolm whispered. He prayed it was so. The men guarding Elcho were trouble enough for one evening, and a confrontation would only delay his reunion with Christiana.

  ‘Draw your weapon and prepare to defend yourself,’ Roger said.

  ‘They’re close now,’ Aylmer murmured.

  21

  MAYHEM

  Resisting the urge to swat at a cluster of midges, Malcolm looked a little to the side and his peripheral vision showed him a dark shape floating towards the bank. Someone was speaking softly – age had not dulled his sharp hearing. As he strained to make out the figures in the boat – for he guessed the one speaking addressed a companion – he heard a branch break behind him and drew his dagger. They were caught between two unknowns.

  ‘Devil take them,’ muttered Roger. ‘They’ve attracted company.’

  ‘Or their companions are coming to meet them,’ said Aylmer, backing away from the water towards the sheltering brush.

  The marshy bank received the boat with a sucking sigh. The paddle thudded on the bottom of the boat, which rocked, the ground complaining wetly, as a man rose and stepped out on to the slippery bank. As the second passenger arose, Malcolm heard the rustle of skirts.

  ‘A woman?’ he murmured.

  Both figures at the boat froze.

  ‘Who goes there?’ came a voice from behind the three watchers. Before anyone could respond, the speaker became aware of the trio in the bush and shouted, ‘Over here!’

  ‘It is Margaret Kerr,’ came the response from the bank. ‘My companion is injured.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ Malcolm cried, ‘what madness is this? Roger, it is your wife.’ Hearing grunts, he turned and found Roger and Aylmer engaged with two of the Elcho guards. ‘Stop!’ Malcolm cried. ‘We are—’

  Roger gave a choked cry.

  Malcolm was grabbed from behind and held in a vice-like grip.

  ‘Roger? Oh, dear God,’ Margaret moaned in the darkness.

  When a torch was shone on the scene Roger was down, bleeding from the chest and the back of one leg, and Aylmer was held firmly like Malcolm, though his captor allowed him to cradle an injured hand. Margaret knelt to Roger, and the friar held a bloody rag to his shoulder as he explained his presence to the torch-bearer. There were six guards in all, more than on the earlier nights.

  Malcolm swore under his breath and was rewarded with sharp pain in his chest as the vice closed even tighter. ‘You’ve broken my ribs, you bastard. I’m Malcolm Kerr, come to see my wife,’ he gasped.

  Had he not heard the agony in Margaret’s cry James might have laughed at the absurdity of the scene despite his useless, bleeding arm. A family gathering of the Kerr clan turned mayhem. From what he’d seen of the family it was fitting.

  But it was far from amusing, the guards talking anxiously about the English on the cliffs across the river. Roger Sinclair was carried to the nunnery on a makeshift litter, Margaret hurrying beside him, her gown stained with his blood.

  They had been taken to the priory guest house, and after much arguing about her own state, Margaret had convinced the sisters that she was able and determined to assist Dame Eleanor with Roger. As she helped the nun cut Roger’s clothes away from the wounds, he stared up at her. She thanked God his eyes were so focused. With the grace of God and the sister’s skill he should recover. When she had heard his groan she had feared the worst, and finding him on the ground, his life’s blood pooling … She choked back a sob and pray
ed silently.

  ‘Why did you come here, Maggie?’ Roger asked, his words slurred from the physick the nun had given him.

  ‘Lie quietly and rest,’ she said, smoothing his damp hair from his forehead.

  ‘What are you doing with a friar?’

  ‘We’ll talk later,’ Margaret said. ‘You’ve lost much blood.’ Her own gown had been so heavy with his blood and damp from the marshy ground on which she’d knelt that the sister had insisted she step out of it before she was permitted to assist.

  ‘Bring the hot water,’ the sister said, ‘and the clean cloths.’

  Roger closed his eyes. By the time his wound was dressed he was asleep.

  Weak with fatigue, Margaret did not join James and the others down below, but crawled on to the pallet the sisters had provided her in Roger’s room and let sleep carry her away.

  A cough roused Malcolm from sleep. Gripping his side in agony, he struggled to sit up and reached in the dark for the watered wine the sisters had left for him. He needed something far stronger, but this would have to do. Draining the cup, he held his breath hoping to keep his rib still while he rose. By the time he stood he was gasping and dizzy. The hearth circle glowed invitingly but his bladder needed emptying before he could enjoy the heat. Outside, the sky and the river were silvered with the coming dawn and the world yet slept. He turned away from the river and considered the guest house. He could see well enough in the odd light and although he had never been permitted to visit Christiana in her chamber, he had watched her come and go there on more than one occasion and he knew the room she now called home was towards the rear. He brushed off his clothes, wincing at the touch of his own hand on his side, and headed back through the quiet yard. On his earlier visits he had not noticed the flowers that carpeted the ground beside the guest-house stairs. The blossoms were closed now, awaiting the sun, but they’d been artfully planted. And there were small trees. It saddened him to see such evidence of comfort. He’d thought of the priory as a drab place, and Christiana’s time here as a waiting, an in-between state, a limbo that she would be eager to escape, loving colour and beauty as she did.