The Fire In The Flint (Margaret Kerr Mysteries 2)

by Candace Robb

  He climbed the steps slowly so that he need not expand his lungs to breathe. At Christiana’s door, he hesitated. She and Marion would yet sleep, and he would frighten them with a knock. But to wait when so near would be agony. He might sneak in and slip into Christiana’s bed. From long memory her body would welcome him. And by the time she woke … Malcolm groaned at the thought of such pleasure, but rejected the idea. Such a dishonourable act was not the way to win her back. Taking a seat on the bench without, he listened for sounds of awakening.

  A sweet-faced sister woke Margaret, who found that the exertions of the previous day had brought stiffness throughout her body. She sat up more slowly than usual and glanced over to see that Roger still slept.

  ‘You have had a difficult time,’ said the sister.

  She handed Margaret a mazer of honeyed almond milk. It did little to fill the emptiness of her stomach, but Margaret savoured it.

  The nun settled on a stool beside Margaret, her hands already moving along her paternoster beads.

  ‘You are not the sister who dressed my husband’s wounds last night, I think,’ said Margaret.

  ‘No, I have no such gift. That would have been Dame Eleanor. I am Dame Bethag, and I’ve come to ask a favour. I hope you will break your fast with your mother this morning.’

  ‘I thought to eat here, with the others. I would see how James fares this morning.’

  ‘The one disguised as a friar?’ asked Bethag.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He is yet asleep. Only your father is awake. And gone to your mother, which will anger the prioress.’

  Margaret was not surprised. She had guessed he had come to beg Christiana one more time to leave with him. Yet it did not explain the presence of Roger and Aylmer. ‘Do you wish me to fetch my father away?’

  Bethag shook her head. ‘I would not be so bold. My concern is your mother’s grief over the man killed on Kinnoull Hill, and the ones taken. She blames herself overmuch and has neither eaten nor slept since she learned of it. She will not be comforted, not even by our chaplain. But the vision came to her as she stood before the English captain. It was not quite the vision she had composed at Dame Agnes’s request. Surely God inspired her.’

  ‘The prioress requested a vision?’

  Dame Bethag explained the purpose.

  Margaret was incensed. ‘What right had Dame Agnes to so use my mother?’ she cried then, remembering where she was, she checked that Roger still slept.

  ‘The scheme was ill-advised,’ said Bethag, ‘but the Lord used it for His own mysterious purpose.’

  Margaret did not know what to think. ‘I came here to speak to Mother of the tragedy her words caused, not to comfort her, but … You say she is neither eating nor sleeping?’

  ‘She is inconsolable.’ Bethag regarded Margaret. ‘You blame her for delivering God’s message to the English captain.’

  ‘Do you believe this vision came from God?’

  ‘If not, whence comes such knowledge?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Margaret confessed. ‘I’ve feared that her visions were from the devil. Or that pagan spirits possess her.’

  Dame Bethag leaned over and patted Margaret’s hand, smiling kindly. ‘You need not worry, I have seen the light of God’s grace in Dame Christiana’s eyes.’ She sat back. ‘But you must do as your conscience tells you, as well as your daughterly intuition of your mother’s needs.’

  Margaret did not know whether the nun’s assurances were comforting or disturbing.

  Roger stirred.

  ‘I’ll break my fast here,’ said Margaret, ‘then go to Ma.’

  Bethag took the mazer from Margaret and, with a whispered blessing, departed.

  ‘Don’t listen to her,’ Roger said weakly from his pallet across the way.

  Margaret went to him. He looked exceedingly pale and the veins in his forehead pulsed angrily.

  ‘I would help you drink, but I am afraid to put my arm beneath your chest to help you sit.’

  ‘Slip another pillow beneath this one,’ he suggested.

  She did so, and though he gasped at the pain he thanked her. She held a cup of watered wine to his lips. His breath was foul with suffering.

  ‘Why were you by the river?’ she asked.

  ‘I ask you the same. Did you come from Murray or Wallace?’

  ‘James Comyn brought me here, and for his pains he was injured.’ She thought it sufficient information.

  ‘Him?’ Roger coughed. ‘He would be with them for certain.’

  She sat carefully on the pallet. ‘He is a good friend from Edinburgh.’

  ‘No doubt. He followed you here?’

  ‘I have questions for you, Roger.’

  He closed his eyes and took a few breaths.

  ‘I don’t like the sound in your chest,’ she said. The questions must wait. ‘Will you try another pillow?’

  ‘Why are you attending me? You brought Comyn here to have his wound tended.’

  ‘His was not so …’

  ‘Mortal?’

  ‘Disabling. You will live, Roger. The sister who dressed your wounds seemed skilled.’

  ‘What would she know of battle wounds?’

  ‘She was confident in her ministrations. No one is truly cloistered while Edward Longshanks’s army is on our land.’

  Margaret slipped another pillow beneath the others.

  ‘Holy Mother!’ Roger groaned, a hand hovering over his dressing.

  ‘I’ll fetch Dame Eleanor.’

  Roger caught Margaret’s hand. ‘Not yet. I mean to tell you all in case …’ He paused for breath. ‘I do not share your confidence in a cloistered nun’s skill with sword wounds.’

  ‘Roger, I pray you—’

  ‘That night in Murdoch’s undercroft,’ he said, ‘Old Will discovered us. I saw his state of drunkenness and guessed he merely sought a place to lie down out of the cold. But Aylmer would not hear of it. Before I could reach the old man, the deed was done. Once he was mortally wounded, there was nothing I could do for him.’

  ‘Aylmer,’ Margaret whispered. She had no difficulty accepting his guilt. ‘Did he take Old Will back to his rooms?’

  ‘I insisted.’

  ‘How kind.’

  ‘Maggie.’

  ‘You might have spoken out against Aylmer.’

  ‘You know who he is, Maggie.’

  ‘I do. Did his violence not cause you to question your allegiance to his kinsman? Is your conscience no longer your own?’

  ‘Maggie, Aylmer was right. The old man had seen us, and we could not risk his recalling what he’d seen, revealing our presence before we chose to appear. I can’t expect you to understand, Maggie, but it is the way in war.’

  In her mind’s eye she saw again the two caskets, her father’s with a broken lock, Roger’s merely left unfastened, the lid closed sloppily on some documents. How easily she’d been misled. And how smoothly he’d continued to lie to her. Here was what she had feared, a chasm too wide to be bridged. ‘I doubt anyone would have believed Old Will over you. And he was innocent.’

  ‘No, Maggie. He was spying for the English. They’d paid him well.’

  ‘Old Will?’ So that was the source of the money for the shoes and the ale – and why the English took action upon his death when they had not after all the others. ‘That is why the English searched his lodgings,’ she said. ‘They wanted the siller for another spy.’

  ‘But Mary Brewster was there first, and they’ll never retrieve the siller from her clutches.’ Roger smiled wanly. ‘That is the only satisfaction in the story.’

  Satisfaction. God help him in his blindness. ‘Can even Mary Brewster be safe from the English garrison?’

  ‘Her daughter Belle ensures that, Maggie. The men would not wish to lose her.’ Roger was quiet a moment, breathing shallowly.

  Margaret leaned down and kissed him on the forehead, then smoothed his hair from his fevered brow. ‘I’ll leave you to rest,’ she said.

&n
bsp; ‘To go to James Comyn?’ Roger’s eyes shone unhealthily. ‘How is it he had not discovered the truth about Old Will’s spying?’

  ‘Perhaps you are more clever than he is.’ Margaret attempted a smile though she did not like the direction their conversation was taking.

  ‘And yet you love him.’

  Jealous. She would have cried with joy had he exhibited jealousy a year ago. ‘I did not say that, Roger. I loved you. I still do.’ She said it with far more certainty than she felt. Worry softened her feelings for him, but he’d lied to her from the moment he reappeared in Edinburgh.

  ‘You have doubts, Maggie. I see it in your eyes.’

  His insistence frightened her a little. She prayed James did not read her confusion in the same way. ‘You’ve chosen the worst time to pay heed to my feelings.’ She felt tears coming and busied herself soaking a cloth in a bowl of water as she said, ‘We are so far apart.’ For it worked both ways – she had kept much from him.

  ‘Are we so divided? We both hate Edward Longshanks.’

  ‘Do we? I’ve seen no proof that Robert Bruce hates him.’

  ‘What can he do to convince you?’

  ‘I don’t know, Roger.’ She placed the cool cloth on his forehead, then kissed him on the cheek. ‘You are in good hands here.’

  Roger caught the neck of her gown and prevented her from rising. ‘You’d leave before I’m recovered?’

  He was too weak to hold her, but she did not move away.

  ‘There is no trust between us. I must fight for every morsel of truth I wring from you.’

  ‘So you leave me now, when I am helpless to stop you?’

  Someone knocked.

  Margaret took Roger’s hand from her gown, resting it gently on his chest. ‘I am leaving. If the Bruce rewards you richly for your service, you might spend some of the siller to free yourself from me, to buy an annulment.’

  ‘Never. Maggie!’

  She walked to the door on trembling legs.

  Roger struggled to sit up.

  ‘Be still!’ Margaret cried, but resisted the urge to return to his side.

  ‘If you can forgive your mother for her betrayal, you must forgive me.’

  ‘I do, Roger, I do. But it’s not enough.’ She opened the door to Dame Eleanor. ‘I’ll leave you with my husband. He fusses too much when I’m here.’ She stepped out and shut the door behind her.

  The morning was cruelly beautiful with drops of dew glistening like gems of many colours on the gallery posts and the air sweet with late summer flowers. Margaret sank down on her haunches, wrapped her arms around her legs, and pressed her forehead into her knees. She shivered with the terrors of the previous night that she had pushed aside in order to nurse Roger. James might have been killed by the arrow loosed so casually, the arrow that had been shot from the riverfront of Perth, her home. And Roger’s wounds – the de Arrochs were vicious in their guardianship of the nuns; he, too, might have died, and might still. The world had become a terrible place without sanctuary.

  The thought of leaving Roger, of opening wide the rift and pulling free to drift alone in this bleeding land terrified her. She was nothing without him, an unmarried woman dependent on her family once more, and yet she could hardly depend on her parents, both of them adrift in nightmares of their own making. Celia, her staunchest friend, was a servant with nothing. She did have Ada, and James was her ally, but only in regard to her work for his kinsman. And she must tread carefully with him; he must not misconstrue her motivation. A long while Margaret crouched there shivering, letting go her pent up-tears, sobbing for all that she’d lost.

  But as the waves of emotion subsided she discovered a flicker of confidence. Over the past months she had proven herself significant in her own right. She had remade her life in Edinburgh, worked for the return of her rightful king, and discovered the truth of Old Will’s murder as well as the intrusions in Perth and here at the priory. These were no small accomplishments. She was not without resources. She pushed herself up, wiped her eyes, and took great gulps of the cool morning air. When she felt steadier, she descended to the hall.

  James stood near the hearth circle, his left arm bound to keep the shoulder immobile. He looked up at Margaret’s approach. She was suddenly aware of her borrowed gown’s short sleeves and skirt and she irritated herself by fussing with it.

  ‘You’ve been weeping,’ James said, stepping closer. ‘Is Sinclair …’ He hesitated. ‘How goes your husband?’

  ‘He has wearied himself with talk, but it is a good sign. Dame Eleanor has some skill, I think.’

  James glanced down at his shoulder. ‘She does, to have made me as comfortable as she has.’

  ‘He lost much blood from the chest wound, but it is the slash behind his knee that he will remember. You are not in pain?’

  She had never seen James so unkempt and hollow-eyed.

  ‘None of this need have happened,’ he said. ‘There must have been a way to prevent this.’

  Margaret shook her head. ‘What good are such thoughts? We cannot return to the past and undo it.’ She sank down in a chair and accepted a cup of ale from a servant. ‘But I know, I know.’

  James sat down beside her. ‘How far back would you go if you could?’

  ‘Would I undo my marriage? Is that what you ask?’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘It would have spared me much suffering. But there have been moments—’ She stopped. This was not something she meant to share with James. ‘I wish I had seen Jonet’s dissatisfaction. I wish Ma had gone to Bruges where she might have done no harm. But things are as they are and I must live with them.’

  She stopped, noticing that Aylmer had awakened and was listening from his pallet.

  ‘You,’ she said, rising and moving towards his pallet, her anger growing with every step. ‘You’re naught but a coward, murdering an old man when he was too drunk to defend himself, then leaving him on the floor of his chamber to die.’

  With a curse, Aylmer began to rise. ‘I listen to no woman’s babble,’ he growled.

  Margaret shoved him back down with her foot.

  ‘Margaret!’ James pulled her back just as Aylmer grabbed for her foot with his uninjured hand. ‘This serves no one.’

  ‘My mother can neither eat nor sleep for sorrow about the deaths she caused and you – I saw how dead your eyes were after you killed the soldiers at the bridge below Stirling. You have no soul.’ Woman’s babble. She would not be so dismissed. She shook James off and withdrew, but not before hearing Aylmer grunt from a blow. Cursed man, cursed master.

  Malcolm woke to sunrise and Marion crouching in front of him with a cup of ale. By St Rule, he was an old man to fall asleep at such an important juncture in his marriage. He drank down the ale and rose.

  ‘You cannot see Dame Christiana,’ said the handmaid.

  ‘Stop me,’ he said, pushing her aside and entering the chamber.

  Marion fluttered behind, making anxious noises. Malcolm was accustomed to her and paid her no heed. But the room confused him. Pieces of his married life littered the place – chairs, tables, tapestries, chests, lamps – crowding it so that he wondered how the two women fitted within. This room belonged in a market place, not a priory.

  ‘Does she move all this out on to the gallery to entertain?’ he asked.

  ‘My mistress leads a quiet life here,’ said Marion.

  Malcolm walked up to Christiana’s favourite carved screen and beyond it discovered her still abed, buried beneath cushions and bedding in disarray as was her custom. He was increasingly disappointed. He had imagined an ascetic life, with Christiana rising before dawn to kneel on the bare earth in prayer.

  Marion dutifully set a cushioned chair beside her mistress’s bed. ‘I’ll bring more ale, sir,’ she said. ‘But you mustn’t wake her. It’s the first time she’s slept since …’ She crossed herself and withdrew.

  Malcolm leaned closer and called out his wife’s name. The bedclothes shifted a
little. He tried again.

  Christiana’s head emerged from the blankets, her hair wild, her eyes wilder, with huge black pupils.

  Malcolm’s heart sank. He knew this look, and he knew it was true she had not slept, and that she still could not.

  ‘Women in cages,’ she keened in the otherworldly voice of her most terrible visions, ‘hanging over castle yards, open to the leering crowds.’ The covers slipped further and she sat up, scooting back against the cushions, an arm thrown up to protect her. ‘The bridge beneath the castle is slippery with blood, the marsh grass is red with it.’

  ‘God help us,’ Margaret whispered behind him.

  He turned and took his daughter in his arms despite the pain. ‘Oh, Maggie, Maggie. Was ever a family so cursed?’

  Prioress Agnes kindly gave Margaret another gown that fitted her passably.

  ‘Dame Bethag is devoted to your mother,’ she assured Margaret. ‘She will sit with her as much as possible until she recovers.’

  Margaret was not as optimistic as the prioress regarding her mother’s recovery. She had never seen her so ravaged. But as long as the prioress had hope she would see to Christiana’s care. ‘Dame Bethag seems a patient woman,’ said Margaret. ‘I’ll remember her in all my prayers. And Dame Eleanor as well.’

  ‘Your husband is strong. He will recover completely, God willing, and then you shall have him home again.’

  Margaret could not form the words to enlighten the prioress. ‘We’ll be leaving in a little while,’ she said. James waited for her at the guest house.

  ‘But you will come to see your mother from time to time?’

  ‘If Edward Longshanks permits,’ Margaret said.

  The prioress gave her a puzzled look, then said, ‘Ah. Yes, that is so. My kinsmen say he is not finished with us.’

  She would spend a quiet day or two with Ada, Margaret had decided. She did not want to be alone. She was riddled with doubt, remorse, and she knew she would agonise over whether to go to Roger once more though she knew it would be pointless. Now he needed her, and he was jealous. But the moment he was well enough to continue his service for the Bruce he would be gone again, particularly if he discovered that Margaret actively supported King John. If she were in her own home Fergus would wish to speak of things she did not wish to think of for a few days.