The Fire In The Flint

13

Malcolm retreated from Margaret’s grasp. ‘It would be unwise for me to go within, Maggie.’

He looked well. As ever, his long nose, dark eyes, and bushy brows gave him the air of a predator. She noticed that as they’d aged, her father and his brother Murdoch had grown more alike in appearance, their red hair thinning and growing pale, their fair complexions spotted, their girths settling in their middles. But her father had neither her uncle’s rolling gait nor his scars. He had lived more comfortably and moderately. At the moment he was glancing nervously towards the street.

‘There are only the two servants and me,’ she said. ‘You’ll be safer within.’ News of the death in his warehouse would soon spread through the town, and whatever his reason for hiding had been, he might risk his life if he were seen now.

‘Two servants — that’s bad enough.’

‘Anyone passing along Watergate can see you here,’ she said. ‘Come within, into the kitchen.’

‘No. In there we cannot hear whether someone enters the house.’

‘Do you ken what happened to John Smyth?’ She tried to keep her tone even. Now that she was face to face with him she could not believe her father a murderer.

But Malcolm searched her eyes and saddened. ‘Even you, lass. How are those without our tie to believe in my innocence if you don’t?’

‘I did not accuse you. Come into the hall, do.’ She moved towards it, heard him following.

He stopped just inside the door that opened out towards the kitchen, where it was shielded from the hall by a tall wooden screen. ‘This is far enough.’

Margaret pulled out a bench and they sat straddling it, facing each other. He smelled of spices.

‘Why are you here, Da?’

Again he looked taken aback. ‘How can you ask that, Maggie? I worried when I arrived and heard of Roger’s abandonment.’

‘I mean back in the country.’

He shook his head in sympathy. ‘You are hardened by all your troubles, I understand.’ He paused, as if expecting her to protest, but shrugged when she did not shift her level look. ‘I am here because King Edward is in the Low Countries. It seemed an opportunity to retrieve more of my goods. I’d not heard that so many troops were biding here, and that Wallace and Murray had stirred up the people so. I’d not have come had I kenned the mood of the land.’

Margaret relaxed a little, believing he told the truth — as far as he cared to. ‘I did not see your ship on the river.’

‘No, and I’ll not tell you where it is.’

‘I was not about to ask.’

Her father grunted and drummed his fingers on the bench for a few moments, staring out at the yard. ‘Edward of England has arrived too late in Flanders. They’ve no need of him. His ambition outruns his wit. I did not wish to be there when he needed a dog to kick, eh, lass?’

Margaret did not feel obliged to offer sympathy. ‘Where are you biding, Da?’

‘Best you ken nothing of my activities.’

‘You sound like Uncle Murdoch and Roger. But Fergus and I have a right to know, having the care of your warehouse. He will surely be questioned.’

‘And neither of you will have aught to say.’

‘The English won’t believe that.’

‘They are not here at present,’ her father reminded her.

She would not be so easily dismissed. ‘Why was John Smyth in your warehouse?’

Pressing a hand to the back of his seamed neck, her father tilted his head back and sighed. ‘That man has been my bane since … What was I thinking when I gave him work? Och, Maggie, the mistakes we make in the name of charity.’ He pressed his temples as if just thinking of John Smyth made his head ache. ‘What did Roger see in the warehouse? Can he tell what befell the thieving sneak?’

Margaret could not assess whether or not her father was faking innocence. ‘I’ve not been to the warehouse. Fergus is there now. You might learn more from him.’

Her father sighed with impatience. ‘I cannot risk being seen there, Maggie.’ He grew quiet.

‘Was it a difficult crossing?’ she asked, finding herself reluctant to part with him, though her feelings for him were a confusing mix of suspicion and love.

‘We had good weather, God be thanked, but we were twice boarded by the English.’

‘You did not lose your ship?’

‘No, no. They were satisfied that we were a merchant ship, nothing more.’

She guessed by his guarded expression that there was more to the tale than he wished to tell her.

‘You mentioned my brother,’ he said suddenly. ‘So it is true that you’ve been to Edinburgh seeking news of your husband, that you thought Roger had deserted you?’

‘You are well informed. He was away for a long while, and things being as they are, and having no word of him …’ She trailed off, tired of making excuses for Roger. ‘Yes, Da. I thought he had.’

‘Pray God he intends to do his duty by you. I’d begun to regret your marrying him.’

The words stung her. What was his regret in comparison to hers?

‘I never thought he would prove so intractable,’ Malcolm continued. ‘I am much grieved by his behaviour. And Jack’s murder — ’ he palmed his eyes, then dropped his hands, a wounded look on his face — ‘I cannot think why God so punishes us.’

His professed grief did not move Margaret. ‘You chose him, Da.’

She was about to say more, but Jonet and Celia’s conversation in the hall about the placement of the tapestries was interrupted by Celia’s loud comment, ‘Here come the men. They can assist us.’

Her father swung his leg over the bench, and with a nod to Margaret, slipped away, crossing the yard behind the kitchen. Pushing the bench back against the wall, Margaret smoothed her skirts, took a deep breath, and stepped out from behind the screen just as Roger entered.

‘I wish to go to Da’s warehouse,’ she said.

Roger glanced at the maids and, taking Margaret’s arm, led her back to where she had just sat with her father.

‘I want to see the body,’ she continued.

‘You’re not to pry into matters that are not your concern, Maggie, not here in Perth. You have your name to uphold.’

‘Your name, you mean.’ She had a wild thought that she did not voice, frightened by both the appeal of it and the finality. Roger might annul their marriage — they had no children, it was done all the time — and then be free of the Kerrs, whom he found so inconvenient. And she would be free. But an annulment was costly, and unless he had hidden money from her, which would be no surprise, he could not afford one.

Furious at Roger’s treatment and embarrassed by how ill he’d felt in the presence of the corpse, Fergus did not return to the hall but found occupation in the stable. While cleaning a saddle, he began to plan his departure for Aberdeen. Now that Roger and Maggie were back he would be free to go. It was a good season for travel, and he would have time to learn some of the workings of the shipyard before it was idled by winter storms.

‘You’re looking gladsome, Son.’

He turned towards his father’s voice with surprise. ‘I hope I’ve no cause to be otherwise. When did you return?’

Malcolm settled down on a grooming stool with a sigh. ‘You have done a man’s work here since I left.’

‘That should be no cause for wonder, considering I am a man.’

Malcolm dropped his head and nodded. ‘So you are. So you are.’

Fergus crossed his arms and studied his father, deciding that he looked well but uncomfortable, perhaps worried.

Malcolm squinted at Fergus as if trying to read his mind. ‘Maggie tells me you’ve seen the body in my warehouse.’

Fergus nodded. ‘That is why you’ve come, I’ll warrant.’

‘So? What did you see?’

Fergus told him.

Malcolm listened impatiently. ‘Anything else? Was there anything in his hands? Anything near him that looked out of place?’

‘Not that I noticed. Why?’

Malcolm scratched his forehead. ‘No matter.’

It was hardly no matter, the way he had asked it.

‘I see your goodbrother is here,’ Malcolm said. ‘What’s Sinclair doing in Perth?’

‘Coming home with his wife — what else would he be doing here?’ Fergus noted the use of Roger’s surname, which was not how his father had been wont to refer to him.

‘Who’s the man with him?’

‘His servant. Aylmer.’

‘Indeed?’ Malcolm worked his neck as if it were stiff. ‘So fine a servant, Sinclair must have managed to increase his wealth while away. What has he been doing?’

Fergus had thought his father curious about Roger’s loyalties. He was disappointed that he cared only about how Roger had afforded Aylmer. ‘Why ask me? I care nothing for costly servants, and Roger has offered no explanation. We have never been confidants.’

Roger and Margaret stood silently brooding on each other’s shoes.

‘You are my wife,’ Roger said, breaking the silence in a full voice that snapped Margaret back from her fantasy of freedom. ‘What you do reflects on me.’ He looked like the angry prophet from the Old Testament she had once seen on a wall mural.

‘If you’re so concerned about your name,’ she said, ‘perhaps we should carry on this discussion in our bedchamber rather than before an audience. When you raise your voice you can be heard beyond the screen.’

Without waiting for his response, she went to tell Celia and Jonet that she needed nothing, and then climbed the steps to the solar. Roger followed, pausing to say something under his breath to Aylmer, and then continuing up the steps behind her. The grim set of his face caused Margaret a confusing pang of regret that she had alienated him. And yet she had just thought how good it might be to be free of him. She was unravelling.

Roger propped one foot up on a stool and rested an elbow on the bent leg. ‘Much of your behaviour has displeased me of late: leaving the safety of my mother’s house for Edinburgh, serving in your uncle’s tavern, taking it upon yourself to find my cousin’s murderer.’ He looked disgusted.

It was as if he’d heard nothing she’d said to him. ‘Can’t you understand how I feared for you? Are you made of stone?’ She turned away, afraid to say more.

‘You were safe at home,’ he said. ‘Or in Dunfermline with my mother.’

‘Oh Roger, Roger, we’ve already argued about this.’

‘You cannot go to the warehouse. You must behave as befits a wife.’

She rounded on him. ‘I believe you forfeited any expectation of that when you abandoned me.’

‘What? I cannot believe my ears. Is this Maggie speaking, or some devil taken up her body? I forfeited nothing for I did not desert you. I’m here now, wife, and I expect you to obey. And what’s more, the laws of both God and man are on my side.’

‘How fortunate for you.’ She almost spat out the words. ‘But by God’s law you were to love and protect me.’

‘I do-’

‘What was I to think when you ran from me in Edinburgh, Roger? What would you have thought had I run from you? Was it to protect me that you fought for Robert Bruce? And now, now you order me about with steel in your eyes and ice in your heart. I sometimes think Jack loved me more than you do.’

Roger’s anger seemed to cool and he looked round as if searching for something.

Margaret held her breath, fearing she had gone too far, that she had unwittingly followed on from her thought of annulment.

‘I should not have said such things, Maggie.’

Roger’s sudden apology confused Margaret.

‘Nor I,’ she whispered.

Roger sat down heavily and stared at the floor for a long while.

Margaret did not know whether to join him on the bench or leave him to his thoughts. Her heart still pounded. Her fear at the thought of losing Roger was a revelation to her.

Suddenly Roger rose and, stretching, grasped the beam above, then dropped his arms to his sides as if they were dead weights. ‘What suffering Longshanks has wrought.’ He took Margaret’s hands in his. ‘All I meant was that we must avoid calling attention to ourselves. And as it is not your custom to go to Malcolm’s warehouse, people might make note of your doing so. Do you see?’

Margaret sighed. ‘I do, Roger. I do see.’

‘It is such a small request,’ said Malcolm. ‘Engage Sinclair in talk of the English presence in Perth. See how he responds. Ask what he thinks of all this.’

At least his father’s mind was now on the fighting, but Fergus felt the heat rising in him. He was once again being treated as the family toady. ‘Come within and ask him yourself. Be a man, not a sneaking coward.’

‘You little-’ Malcolm slapped him on the cheek.

Fergus grabbed his father by the collar and was about to punch him, but reason stayed his hand. He was not only an elderly man but, more significantly, Fergus’s father, and to strike him might create a permanent rift. Fergus’s pride was not worth the risk.

Malcolm stepped back to adjust his tunic, forcing a chuckle. ‘Well, you’ve learned a great deal about fighting since I left.’

‘I saw a need for it.’ Fergus was breathing hard and trembling with the audacity of what he’d almost done. It was no triumph. Twice since Maggie’s return he’d behaved in a way he’d afterwards regretted. ‘I don’t understand why you don’t talk to Roger yourself. You liked him well enough when you wed him to Maggie.’

His father did not answer at once, examining an imperfection in the saddle Fergus had been oiling, tinkering with a buckle that had a crooked tongue. ‘It was a good match for her, or so I thought.’

‘You might have done better to let her choose,’ said Fergus.

Malcolm laughed. ‘You might have learned to fight, but you’ve still much to learn of life, son. I’ll come again. Surely you can glean something of Sinclair’s mind without betraying your high moral code — or me. I don’t want him to know I’m here. It’s as simple as that.’ He peered out of the stable, then slipped away.

Fergus had no intention of biding in Perth long enough to learn anything for his father.

James walked through the camp, observing archery practice, sword drills, wrestling. Wallace’s men ranged in age from a little younger than Hal to greybeards. Some proudly carried battle scars, others were skilled in one or another of the martial arts but as yet untried, and many were learning the arts for the first time. What was characteristic of the great majority of them was their common status. As James wandered among them he wondered where his fine kin were hiding while these simpler men fought for them.

A young man caught up to him by a stream. ‘The Wallace has sent me to fetch you, sir.’

James followed him to the crest of a hill on which several others were gathered. Wallace was talking to a sweaty, dusty messenger, but sent him off for food and drink when James joined them.

Wallace shaded his eyes from the sun. ‘I must talk to the Kerr woman,’ he said, as if he were concluding an argument and would not entertain further debate.

‘I have explained the difficulty-’ James began.

Wallace waved him quiet. ‘You ken not the danger she is in, James. Her father, her husband — they are both sought by the English — her father because of his return from Bruges, her husband because he is known to be escorting people and money back and forth across the border for Robert Bruce. And with a company of English soldiers approaching Perth …’

So attempting to get Edwina across the border had not been an unusual mission for Roger. And this was news about Margaret’s father. ‘Malcolm Kerr has returned?’

Wallace nodded. ‘He is in Perth.’

‘Why would he return now?’

‘I share with the English a keen wish to know that very thing.’

‘Are Sinclair and Kerr the reasons the English are headed for Perth?’

‘We don’t know. But there is rumour of a death in Malcolm Kerr’s warehouse. The English will surely hear of it from the traitors in the town. I want to meet Dame Margaret before fear silences her.’

James wondered whether it was too late already. He was glad he had told Margaret nothing of import regarding their dealings in the north. She was still too untried to trust completely. But he must see to her safety.

Christiana knelt beside Dame Bethag in the small nunnery kirk, seeking serenity. The ever smiling, ever calm nun had suggested that Prioress Agnes would be a more appropriate tutor, but Christiana found nothing she wished to emulate in the beauty with the chilly voice and pinched expression who sighed impatiently throughout Mass. She wished to learn to quiet the chaos in her mind, and Bethag seemed the ideal model to emulate.

Sunlight fell on the statue of the Blessed Virgin, and Mary’s face glowed. Christiana caught her breath and crossed herself, staring unblinkingly at the illuminated face, expecting a vision.

‘Close your eyes,’ Dame Bethag said quietly. The nun knelt with rosewood beads encircling hands pressed together in prayer.

‘Look at the Mother of God,’ Christiana whispered.

The nun raised her eyes and smiled. ‘A moment of grace. Come. Close your eyes, empty your mind, and receive the Virgin’s gift of grace.’

‘But what if she is sending me a vision?’ Christiana asked.

Bethag straightened, her expression one of wonder. ‘Are you receiving a vision?’

Christiana shook her head. ‘No, or perhaps — look at the heavenly light!’

The nun’s expression was sympathetic. ‘It is but the sun lighting her face as it does every day at this time. There is no mystery to it. Now come. You asked for my instruction.’

Blushing, Christiana bowed her head and closed her eyes. Thoughts surfaced from the roiling pool of her mind, like salmon leaping upriver, flashing silver in the sunlight. She had behaved like a fool. Perhaps she had never experienced a real vision. She was a married woman — what was she doing biding in a convent? On and on. She fought the thoughts and tried to think of nothingness, but it was impossible.

‘How can I empty my thoughts when my thoughts do not come from within?’ she asked.

And how was this dear nun so patient, still encouraging Christiana with her peaceful smile? Surely Bethag had never had such an inept student.

‘But your thoughts do come from within. Even when the devil tempts you, he does so from within, and you are responsible for what thoughts you accept. God holds us responsible, you know that. Now close your eyes, breathe deeply, and feel the Blessed Mother’s love bathe you in heavenly light.’

‘I don’t deserve heavenly light.’

‘It is not for you to judge,’ said Bethag.

Once more Christiana closed her eyes. This time she tried imagining a white light emanating from the statue of the Blessed Mother before which she knelt. The light flowed around her, enveloping her, filling her with grace. A sweet smell accompanied the light, and the sound of tiny bells. Her sandalled feet grew warm, her heart lifted. Was this a vision? But Dame Bethag had led her to it. And with that thought, the beautiful moment dissolved. Christiana tried to recall it, tried to will the sensations, but her thoughts flitted all about with no order.

‘I felt it for a moment,’ she whispered.

‘What happened?’ asked Bethag.

Christiana described what she had seen and felt. ‘I began to wonder if it was a vision, and that is when it faded.’

‘The Virgin has blessed you,’ said Bethag with a radiant smile. She began to rise.

Christiana touched her arm. ‘Could we not try again?’

Bethag patted her hand. ‘You have no more need of me, Christiana. You asked how you might cultivate a quiet spirit. I showed you the way, and you were able to follow. Now it is a matter of practice.’

‘But I lost it.’

‘Grace must be earned, Dame Christiana. We must still our minds in order to receive it. And ever the world rushes in to shatter the stillness. And so we begin again. Moment after moment, day after day, year after year. Until we attain the everlasting grace that is the kingdom of heaven.’

Rising, Christiana bowed to Dame Bethag and whispered, ‘I asked for the key to your serenity, Dame Bethag, and your clear-headedness.’

‘And I have given it to you, Dame Christiana. Rest in the grace of the Blessed Virgin. Have faith that she is ever there to break your fall, to nudge you away from a mistake. Quiet your mind and accept her grace. That is all you need to do.’ Bethag bowed and seemed to glide out into the sunlit yard.

Kneeling again, Christiana closed her eyes and tried hard to resurrect the heavenly light. Years ago she had struggled to calm her mind under Aunt Euphemia’s tutelage. A busy mind dims the Sight, Euphemia had said over and over again, but Christiana could not still the thoughts. She should not have wasted Bethag’s time.

‘Dame Christiana,’ a voice called timidly.

Christiana turned towards the servant.

The woman bowed. ‘Dame Katrina bids you come to the hostelry.’

Christiana rose and followed her. An elderly, bearded man in the simple clothing of a labourer sat in the hall of the hostelry with Dame Katrina.

‘Your friend has returned,’ the hosteleress said. ‘I knew you would wish to see him at once.’ Dame Katrina bowed to both of them and left the room.

Before taking a seat, Christiana checked the doors for loiterers. A disguise might fool the sisters, but their conversation would give him away. When she was certain that no one could overhear, she sat down across from Malcolm, irritated by his interruption.

‘Why are you here?’ she demanded. ‘We’ve said all we need to say to each other.’

Malcolm pressed his hands together, pleading. ‘Christiana, my love, I have come to beg you to reconsider. Leave this place and return with me to Bruges.’

It seemed a suspicious change of heart. ‘Why should I reconsider?’

‘I don’t know whether I’ll ever dare return to Perth.’

Christiana tried to quiet her mind as Bethag had instructed and focus on her husband’s face. She did detect fear in his eyes, and a weariness in the way he sat with his usually proud shoulders rounded. ‘Why would you not dare return?’ she asked in a gentler tone.

‘I have taken too many risks.’

Risks. She knew something of his risks. He was not so different from his brother Murdoch. What distinguished them was that Malcolm made his piracy seem like honest trading, whereas Murdoch did not bother. But Christiana felt the same about most of his fellow merchants. It was their wives, their work in the community, that made them appear respectable.

She wondered whether that was the source of his dissatisfaction with her. ‘I am not the wife you need, Malcolm. I haven’t the skill to assist you.’

‘You are the wife I love,’ he cried and, taking her hand, he kissed it and then looked deep into her eyes. ‘I am nothing without you. You are my anchor.’

Christiana could feel his need and the force of it frightened her. ‘I was your burden.’

From his scrip he drew a necklace of gold, a thick, solid bar bent into a graceful semi-circle with intricately decorated knobs at the two ends.

‘Your wedding gift to me,’ she whispered.

He had given it to her on their wedding night. It is an old piece, as old as the gift you carry from your kin, as old as the mountains whence they came, he had said, and she had wept with joy that he understood and respected her Sight.

‘You said I forfeited this when I entered Elcho.’

Malcolm bowed his head. ‘I said many ugly things.’

She leaned forward, confused by this change in him, and tried to see his expression. ‘You agreed to my withdrawal from the world. In truth, you seemed glad of it then.’

He lifted his head and she saw that his cheeks were wet. ‘I no longer remember why I encouraged this, Christiana. I beg you to come away with me.’ His voice broke.

This was no clever play-acting. And yet she had seen such moods in him in the past, when he feared he had overstepped the bounds he set for himself. Such moods always passed.

‘I cannot be the wife you want.’

His face reddened. ‘How can you forsake me? We lay together as man and wife so many years. You bore my children. I held you when you wept over those you lost.’

A lump rose in her throat. But the memories he wished to conjure were of long ago. ‘Perhaps this is your purgatory to bear,’ Christiana said. ‘But I promise you it will pass.’

Malcolm rose with clenched fists. ‘I am begging you. Are you not satisfied?’

‘You are breaking my heart,’ she said. ‘You promised that you would not do this to me once it was settled.’

‘Did you never love me?’

She hesitated, frightened by the rapidity of her heartbeat, the upwelling of tears. ‘Do not ask me in that way. You accuse me of having no heart when you ask it so. I did love you. Faith, I do still. But it is not a carnal love. You have my heart always. You are the father of my children. I do remember how you held me. I do.’ She pressed her cold hands to tears on her hot cheeks.

‘God help me, I did not mean to make you cry,’ Malcolm said, his voice catching.

Both must bear this purgatory. They were unhappy apart, unhappy together. What would she do if he deserted her in Bruges? She breathed deeply and prayed until she calmed. By then Malcolm was pacing.

Christiana reached out to him. ‘Come, sit beside me for a moment. Tell me of your troubles.’

He shook his head. ‘I told you I cannot.’

‘And I cannot go with you to Bruges. I seek peace here, Malcolm. You have no idea how I have suffered with such a cruel gift as the Sight.’

‘You’ll have all the peace you wish in the grave.’

‘And with the English king killing our people — I cannot desert our children, Malcolm.’

Malcolm gave a cold laugh. ‘You have never thought of them before.’ He made for the door. ‘So be it, Christiana. Farewell.’ He was out of the door before she could respond.

Her hands were cold. She did not know how she felt. She had not lied to him, it was no excuse. The thought had come to her as if whispered in her ear. She must remain in the land to help her children.

Margaret had Jonet bring wine to the bedchamber and told her that they would dine as usual. She and Roger sipped wine and quietly talked about John Smyth’s death.

‘If the English learn of it, we are in danger,’ said Roger.

Margaret thought of Old Will’s death and the trouble that had brought to her uncle. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Have you a plan?’

Roger shook his head. ‘Fergus says John Smyth had been long absent from Perth, and that he has no kin here. My thought is to take his body without the town and bury him.’

‘Not in sacred ground?’

‘Maggie, Maggie,’ Roger said, shaking his head. ‘Do you really think we might find a village full of strangers who would vow to keep our secret?’

Of course he was right, and she felt childish, behaving just as he expected her to.

‘There is a rumour of Malcolm’s presence in Perth,’ Roger said. ‘Have you heard it?’

Margaret rose and pretended to wipe up spilled wine, keeping her face averted. ‘How odd. But perhaps not. If word of John Smyth’s death in Da’s warehouse is common knowledge, such a rumour is not surprising.’

Roger nodded. ‘What if it were true, that he is here — would he want Smyth dead?’

‘I can think of no cause,’ she said truthfully. ‘I doubt Da has given the man much thought since he turned him out.’ Perhaps that was not quite true.

So she had begun again to deceive Roger. It did not bode well for their marriage.

His skiff hidden in the water meadow near the nunnery landing, James stepped out, stretched his legs, and considered Malcolm Kerr’s careful disguise, his nervous glances at the shore and behind him as he’d rowed downriver. James parted the grasses and took a few steps towards Kerr’s boat, but quickly withdrew as a man rowed past, his eyes on the very boat James was watching. The man seemed familiar, although he was moving away too quickly for James to see his features clearly with the sunlight on the river reflecting on his face. But James thought him one of Wallace’s men. He was disturbed that Wallace had not told him he was watching Malcolm. He must not trust James to keep it from Margaret.