The Fire In The Flint

11

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 already 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.

Margaret held her breath.

‘He wants me to leave the convent and return with him to Flanders.’

The held breath escaped as incredulous laughter. ‘Even after he agreed that you might retire here, that he would not demand his rights as a husband?’

‘Do not hate him. He did agree, but he now regrets it.’

He had seemed only too glad to be free of her mother. Margaret wondered whether her father intended never to return to his country. ‘What changed?’

Christiana had sat up at the edge of the bed and was hugging a cushion. ‘He swears he has no joy without me.’

‘Will you go?’ Margaret asked.

Christiana looked abashed. ‘No. I refused him. I have taken a vow of chastity, and dedicated myself to prayer.’

‘I doubt the vow is binding.’

‘The chaplain supports my refusal.’

‘How long ago did Da return?’

‘A week ago? No, he’s been here longer, I think.’

‘Poor Da,’ Margaret whispered absently, her mind on the coincidence of his return and the searches.

‘Poor me.’ Christiana’s tone was flat, as if talking to herself. ‘Malcolm swears he will prevail.’

‘An empty boast,’ said Margaret. ‘He cannot prevail against the Kirk.’

‘It would have been better had he stayed away,’ Christiana whispered. ‘He has unsettled me.’

Margaret and Malcolm were a pair, then. ‘Do you know where Da landed? Has he been to Edinburgh?’ One of her mother’s intruders might have been her own husband thinking to search for something without being discovered. But her mother’s servant Marion would have recognised his voice. Still, he might have accomplices.

Christiana shrugged. ‘I was not so curious as to ask.’

He’d been gone almost two years now and yet her mother seemed unmoved by his return except as it threatened her comfortable peace. Margaret was not so indifferent; she was furious with him for deserting his family. When Longshanks ordered all land that Scots held in England seized her father took it as a warning and fled to Bruges leaving Fergus and Margaret to fend for themselves. She’d been but four months married with a husband often away. She had felt so alone. And now he returned trailing trouble in his wake, or so it seemed. Her parents were worse than useless.

Roger paced in the guest-house garden, eager to hear of the meeting. Margaret slowed as she drew near, considering what she would divulge.

‘Well? Was she more forthcoming this morning?’

She could see how anxious he was, as if half fearing what she would say.

‘Yes and no. She swears that the faces in her vision were not clear to her, that she knew it was you from the way you bent towards me and the child.’

‘And the king?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘She saw no faces.’

‘She saw yours.’

‘I wish I had something to tell you, Roger. I’m sorry.’

‘She’s mad.’

‘You would not be the first to think so.’

He shook his head, incredulous. ‘Of what value is a gift that only teases?’

Margaret shrugged. ‘I have always found it a tangle.’

‘So why had she sent for you this morning?’

Margaret caught her breath, offered her rehearsed response. ‘To explain why she would not see you. But I could see the choler strong in her. She is unwell. She told me to say that she is glad you have returned with life and limb.’

‘She might have saved her breath.’ The veins on Roger’s temples had risen with his anger. ‘She said naught else? Had she nothing of use to tell you?’

‘That I should trust no one.’

‘I might have told you that.’

‘I stayed longer than I wished, hoping she might recall something, but I wasted the time.’

Margaret was relieved that the others awaited them to complete the journey. Today they would part ways with Alan and Macrath, who were riding on to Dundee. Or so they said. Margaret still did not believe Alan was merely a merchant, and she wondered what business Macrath pursued for the Bruce in Dundee.

As Roger helped her mount, Margaret glanced towards Celia, wondering who would assist her.

‘You need not worry,’ Roger said. ‘Macrath is seeing to her.’

Indeed, Celia had mounted and looked at ease in the saddle as Macrath checked all the straps. Now she leaned towards him with her ear cocked, her eyes shining. Margaret heard a snatch of merry song and was glad for Celia. She deserved some cheer. Macrath might be no worse than Roger, a good man seduced by Robert Bruce.

‘Are you eager to see Perth, Maggie?’ Roger asked as he took his reins from Aylmer.

‘I am. I can’t wait to see Fergus’s surprise.’ She laughed to think of it.

‘I haven’t seen you so happy in a long while.’ Roger leaned from his saddle to kiss her. ‘And I fear I’ll now darken your mood, but I trust you’d prefer to have no unpleasant surprises. There’s been more of an English presence in the town since you left in spring, the result of the uprisings here and there. They’ve blocked access to the canal in places where they’re shoring up the town walls. They come and go. They’re gone at present, which is why we are safe to enter. But we might need to depart quickly if things go badly. Do you see?’

She had not expected Perth to be untouched, but it was alarming that the English were shoring up the town’s defences. They were turning her beloved town into a prison like Edinburgh. Feeling faint, she struggled to breathe deeply and nodded. ‘I do see.’ She tried to think more pragmatically. ‘They think to use Perth as a base from which to secure Scone?’ It was where the Scots crowned their kings.

‘I think they do,’ said Roger.

Perhaps that was why Angus MacLaren had said the folk of Perth welcomed the English. Her joy in coming home was considerably dampened by all this.

Still, the beauty of the water meadows reflecting the blue sky, the flowering brush languid in the warmth, and the smells and sounds of home lifted her spirits once more as they neared the town. Her heart quickened as she caught sight of the Greyfriars’ Monk Tower. Roger recommended they dismount and enter the town on foot, stabling the horses at the friary. Their own stable was too small.

Celia looked anxiously at the tower, the new bits of wall. Margaret told her what Roger had said.

‘I pray we are not trapped here,’ said Celia, ‘walled within.’

‘We’ll not be so shortsighted,’ Margaret assured her.

Watergate looked much as it had when Margaret had gone, modest wattle and daub houses gradually giving way to finer homes nearer the Northgate crossing, a few with stone foundations. Their house stood proudly one short of the crossing. Margaret approached it with mixed feelings, happy to be returning with Roger, anxious that they not fall back into their old, separate ways.

And yet she already kept so much from him. She began to see that she was as much to blame for their being strangers as he was.

As they walked down Watergate, Margaret saw a neighbour hurry down the alley between houses, to share the news of their arrival with someone on Kirkgate, she guessed. Folk watched from their doorways, a few calling out to them, welcoming them home.

‘It is a fine town,’ said Celia, her eyes busily soaking in the houses, the ships on the river, the size of St John’s on the next street.

‘There is our house,’ Margaret said, pointing to their left. ‘And Fergus in the doorway!’ She picked up her skirts and ran to him.

‘St Columba, it’s Maggie!’ Fergus cried, his face alight, his long arms pulling her in for a crushing embrace. ‘And Roger? You found your man?’ He stepped back, shaking his head at her. ‘Christ, I sometimes feared I’d not see you again. Where’d you find him?’

‘He appeared in my bed chamber when I’d given up all expectations,’ Margaret said.

‘Come in, Maggie, Celia!’ Fergus cried, stepping aside to let them precede him into the house.

Roger bowed to Fergus. ‘By the Rood, it’s good to be home.’

Margaret glanced back to watch the meeting of her husband and her brother.

‘Roger, my goodbrother, I am more glad to see you than you can know,’ Fergus said.

‘I feel the same,’ said Roger. He casually put a hand on Fergus’s shoulder and stepped aside, nodding towards the man behind him. ‘This is Aylmer, my manservant.’

‘You are welcome,’ said Fergus hurriedly, eager to join Margaret.

She looked around the hall in wonder. A tapestry hung on one wall, a cupboard held some fine pottery.

‘What do you think?’ Fergus asked.

‘Who did you rob? I own none of these pieces.’ She lifted a carved stool.

‘Da’s warehouse, things that none were taking. I was looking for records and found hoards of little treasures. I say use them.’

Bribes for their mother’s affections, Margaret imagined, glancing over at Roger as if he could hear her thoughts. ‘You’ve made a warmer home for us, Fergus. I cannot thank you enough.’

Roger’s expression was unreadable to Margaret.

Fergus noted Maggie’s furtive glance and cursed Roger for making her even think to look to him for approval. Left her to an empty house, he had, the swine. Fergus took the first opportunity to wrest his sister away from the others. ‘Come see the kitchen, Maggie. I found some things for that, too.’

In the yard, between the buildings, he turned to her. ‘So? What’s his story for all his time away?’

‘You must keep this close to you,’ she whispered.

Christ, but she looked tired and drawn. She’d lost much flesh since Jack’s funeral. He was glad Jonet had called in a lad to help her with the cooking today.

‘Do you swear to silence?’ Maggie had levelled her eyes at him.

‘I do. And I can guess — marching right down Watergate for all eyes to see — he’s gone to the English, hasn’t he?’

She looked a little surprised. ‘Only the supporters of the English walk boldly here?’

‘It seems so when they are here.’

‘He’s Robert Bruce’s man. He says the Bruce will save our people from Longshanks.’

Fergus had heard of the Bruce’s growing following. ‘So you wed a fool, Maggie. What are you to do now?’

‘We might find it possible to ignore such matters.’

She turned towards the kitchen, but he’d seen her troubled look, and the resignation in her voice saddened him.

‘How is Jonet?’ she asked.

He ignored her attempt to change the subject. ‘The town is loyal to the English for the most part, Maggie. I doubt the matter of the king can be ignored for long.’

‘I suppose not,’ she said, not turning her head. ‘We’ll talk more of this later, Fergus. For now, let me rejoice in my home, let me rest.’

‘Will Celia lord it over Jonet?’ Fergus asked. He had come to rely on the maid. He did not want her pushed around by the bossy Celia.

‘She has changed, Fergus. You’ll find her a most agreeable woman, and so will Jonet.’

He doubted it. But certainly Maggie seemed changed. He felt she’d leapt ahead in years compared with him. That was a benefit of travel.

That reminded him of the travel-worn visitor he’d had. He’d wondered about him all day, and because of him Fergus had not been entirely surprised by Maggie’s arrival, as she would see when she stepped into the kitchen and saw the preparations for a welcoming meal. ‘A black friar came early today, with a message for you, to come to St John’s Kirk as soon as you might. He awaits you there.’

Maggie stiffened and Fergus watched her confusion give way to unease. ‘A black friar? How would he know of our passage?’

‘Perhaps travellers brought news to Elcho and Ma is sending word to you?’ he suggested.

She shook her head. ‘We’ve just come from there. Did he say anything else?’

‘No. He would not even say how he knew of your coming, or with whom you travelled.’

She was studying the ground now, then turned to the kitchen, back to him. Her eyes were lit with purpose. ‘Perhaps I should go now, before I am missed. Stay a little in the kitchen, Fergus, and if anyone asks, say I went to the kirk to thank the Lord for our safe arrival.’

‘You’re not feared Roger will come for you?’

‘He’d see but a black friar. It should not alarm him as long as he knows nothing more. Do you understand, Brother?’

He nodded. Whatever she was about, it was nothing innocent. He decided to follow her.