The Fire In The Flint

15

When Margaret returned to the house the afternoon stretched endlessly before her and she regretted not having gone with James. Risky it might have been, and wise to refuse, but at least she would have been certain that something was being done to assist Fergus.

Pacing back and forth in her bedchamber, she could work up neither the enthusiasm nor the concentration to choose fabric and plan other furnishings. Instead she fell to brooding about her earlier conversation with Roger.

All in all, it had been an uncomfortable interrogation, and as a result she’d been beset with memories of the old drunkard’s death and its consequences as she’d walked to the kirk and back. But what still troubled her most was Roger’s having arrived in Edinburgh on the heels of the tragedy.

She dropped to her knees by the casket Roger had stored in her uncle’s undercroft and another with which he’d arrived in Edinburgh. She ran her hands over them, wondering what they might divulge. There was but one thing to do — search through them. She stepped out to the landing to check that the house was quiet, and considered setting something easily knocked over outside the door so that she might be warned of anyone’s approach. But she discarded the idea on realising that either Jonet or Celia would clear it away, and it might simply call more attention to the door.

From their hiding place, she took the lock-picking tools that her uncle had given her long ago and settled down in front of Roger’s caskets. She felt a twinge of guilt, followed by a far stronger frisson of fear. Despair might be her reward. She might find proof of an affair, a murder, or some other disturbing secret.

May God grant me the strength to go forward with what I must do, she prayed. I would know my husband’s heart. I would know why he cannot tell me the truth about Edwina.

Working slowly and as quietly as possible, she opened the casket that had sat for months in her uncle’s undercroft. A fine pair of gloves lay on top, and a linen shirt that she had made for Roger shortly after their wedding. Beneath the items was a layer of rolled documents, some of the seals broken, some whole. After memorising their order she set them aside. Beneath them was a leather wallet almost the length and width of the casket. Coins jingled as she lifted the wallet, but the soft leather was taut around something. Removing the cord binding the wallet, she found more documents. Suddenly keenly aware that her activity might have masked noise from the landing, she paused and listened, but heard only sounds from the river.

One by one she took the rolled documents from the wallet to check for broken seals, but she found none. The coins were sterlings, enough to keep her household in comfort for a year. Margaret resisted the temptation to pocket them and inconvenience Roger in his work for Robert Bruce. It was not worth the fuss. Returning the wallet to the casket, she sat back on her heels and listened again. The sounds drifting in from the street and the backlands were comfortingly familiar, and for a moment she forgot her task.

Here she had knelt when first married, hesitantly shaking out Roger’s clothes for her first laundry day. The memory was little more than two years old, but she felt she had lived a lifetime since then. She rose and fetched a polished metal mirror to see how much she had aged for her nineteen years. Her skin was still unlined, her hair held no silver strands, but her eyes were different. More alive, she thought, or perhaps more cunning. She smiled at herself and the pain of the past year was forgotten as she considered her courage and maturity.

But shortly she remembered her mission and set aside the mirror. She pressed her ear to the door and then, hearing nothing unusual, returned to the caskets, opening the second one. A pair of daggers lay atop Roger’s old boots. The weapons reminded her of the danger in which she placed herself, spying on her husband. Inside each boot were several documents, all with broken seals. Beneath the boots she found a dark scarf folded as if it had been wrapped around Roger’s head to keep sweat from his eyes, and a long length of rope.

One by one she opened the unsealed documents that had been in the boots, looking for recognisable names. Roger’s name was atop one letter, and the word ‘Rex’, but the Latin hand was too difficult otherwise. Another letter was in a language completely unfamiliar. After the third document she was about to give up, accepting that her rudimentary reading skills were not enough for such a task. But on the fourth she picked out her father’s name, which was curious as the letter was addressed to Roger and held part of what her father had once told her was a royal seal of England. She set that document and the one with Roger’s name and ‘Rex’ aside before she repacked the second casket. Returning to the first, she quickly searched the documents with broken seals, but all were in a foreign tongue. As she began to repack the casket she froze at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, then hurriedly finished and stuffed the documents she’d set aside beneath the mattress.

She was fastening the locks when a knock on the door made her jump. Glancing around and seeing nothing obviously amiss, she called, ‘Come in,’ letting out her breath with relief as Celia stepped into the room.

‘I thought you might wish to know that your father is in the stable.’

Though tempted to ignore it, Margaret wondered what her father wanted. Her feet took her to the yard, where she paused with a sudden memory of Hal in her uncle’s stable sharing his meal with Agrippa. She missed Hal’s quiet companionship. She wondered what he was doing, how Bonny had fared on her night journey back to the town.

‘Mistress?’ Celia said behind her. ‘Are you unwell?’

Margaret started and realised she was hugging herself so tightly it was difficult to breathe. ‘No, just thinking,’ she said quietly over her shoulder as she consciously relaxed. ‘Thank you for coming for me. Now leave us.’ She continued to the stable, stepping in hesitantly.

Her father spoke from one of the stalls. ‘Your handmaiden told you I was about, eh?’ Margaret’s horse whinnied as her father stepped out of its stall into the light. Straw stuck to his clothes, as if he’d been rolling about in it. Without waiting for Margaret’s response to his first question, he said, ‘You’re wise to bring your horses in from without the walls, though they are crowded. The English would have found them.’

Margaret nodded and asked, ‘Are you still in hiding?’ as she eyed his straw-covered clothing.

He looked down, brushed straw from a sleeve. ‘And a good thing I am,’ he said. ‘Have you told Roger I’m here?’

‘No,’ said Margaret with an inadvertent glance back over her shoulder. The yard was empty. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Are you certain?’ Malcolm thrust his jaw forward, challenging her.

‘Of course I’m certain. Do you think I talk in my sleep?’

Her father shrugged. ‘Or said something of it to your nosy handmaiden in his hearing.’

‘You might make such mistakes, but I don’t.’ His low esteem for her was nothing new to her, but it still stung. ‘Do you have cause to think Roger knows?’

‘I’m being followed.’ Her father took a step towards her, looking past her to the yard. ‘Closely.’

‘You’ve been in hiding since you returned. Surely you expected to be sought?’

He shook out his gown. ‘I’m going away. It’s not safe for me in Perth.’

‘Nor is it anywhere in this land, for any of us.’

He sniffed a sleeve. ‘Pah! When did you last clean the straw?’

She imagined clean straw was as dear here as it had been in Edinburgh. ‘What trouble are you in, Da? Is it John Smyth’s death?’

‘I touched him not, Maggie. That is all I can tell you. Fergus can manage my business.’

That might be a problem, she thought, but she would not betray her brother. ‘Are you leaving Fergus to face your enemies?’

Malcolm sniffed. ‘It’s no sacrifice, he’ll inherit all I manage to keep.’

‘Are we in danger, Da?’

‘Your brother is quite able to defend himself.’

‘What if he doesn’t care to fight your battles?’

‘Who said aught about battles?’ Her father patted her arm. ‘Don’t fret, lass. Fergus won’t desert the business. He’ll have nothing if he does.’

‘Nor will you.’

‘Nor any of us, I sometimes fear.’ He dropped his head. When he lifted it, there were tears in his eyes.

Margaret put her arms around him and he clutched her so tightly she thought he might be weeping. But when he pulled away he was only flushed.

‘God watch over you, Maggie.’ His voice was ragged. Nodding once, he strode past her and out into the yard.

‘Da, wait!’ she called as loudly as she dared, but he did not turn. She rushed after him, then hesitated. There was little more she could say without revealing Fergus’s plans, certainly nothing that would move her father to change his plan. Dear Lord, watch over my da.

A change was in the air, heralded by a subtle shift in Christiana’s senses, an increased clarity, as if a portion of her that had slumbered was awakening. Marion had remarked about how quickly her mistress had risen upon waking, particularly as the dawn was cool and misty, a morning for lying abed. Though Christiana had made light of her unusual energy she was uneasy, for she’d awakened with a keen sense of urgency. But Marion knew of no appointment.

Christiana was dressing when a servant came with a summons from the prioress.

Wrapping a soft mantle around her veiled head and shoulders, Christiana walked through the damp yard, holding her skirts from the ground and keeping her footfall tentative so she might hear the birdsong and the rush of the Tay. The mist refreshed her after the pervasive dust of the past few days and, pausing before stepping into the cloister, she lifted her face to receive the moisture. The beads that clung to her lashes made rainbows in the early morning dullness of the cloister.

In the prioress’s parlour, the commanding Agnes de Arroch sat enthroned, confident in her status, although her usually smooth, high forehead bore lines of worry this morning. She gestured Christiana to an elegantly carved but uncomfortably straight-backed chair and offered her some honeyed almond milk. She seemed offended when Christiana declined the delicacy.

‘It coats my throat and hampers speech,’ Christiana explained. The air in the chilly room crackled with tension. She glanced at the bowl the prioress had proffered, a delicately carved mazer. It was such a beautiful piece that she felt compelled to hold it. Perhaps a sip would appease her hostess. ‘I find I thirst for the milk after all.’

The prioress nodded to the maid to pour.

Cupping the mazer in both hands, feeling the warmth of the wood, Christiana bowed her head to the prioress and took a drink. The sweetness delighted her heightened senses.

The maid retreated to a corner. The matter to be discussed must not be too confidential for her ears. Yet the tension in the parlour was undiminished.

‘We must speak of a matter involving my kinsmen as well as this community, Dame Christiana,’ Agnes began.

‘The shouts in the night?’ Christiana guessed.

The prioress, pursing her lips, paused before continuing. ‘Would you object to the inclusion of my cousin Thomas in this discussion?’

‘Is he one of the men guarding us?’ Christiana asked, and without awaiting a response added, ‘It would be discourteous of me to object, Dame Agnes.’

Gesturing to the servant, Agnes sat back to await the arrival of Thomas.

Christiana let her eyes roam the room as she sipped the honeyed milk. On shelves lining one wall the prioress displayed her collection of jugs from Scarborough in Yorkshire. Christiana recognised them by their elaborate decoration — human figures, masks, stylised animals — and especially the lustrous green glaze. It was a costly collection of which the prioress was obviously proud.

In a short while the door opened and a large, pale-haired man entered. He bowed first to the prioress and then to Christiana, who found him familiar. But of course, the kin who guarded Elcho were from Perth. She thought he might be a merchant, someone she had met through Malcolm’s guild, although at present his dress was rough and dirty.

He sat in a third chair, one that Christiana knew to be more comfortable than hers, and accepted a mazer of wine. His cup was plainer and larger than the one she had been offered. While he drank, the prioress explained to Christiana what she already knew, that on the previous night the guards had refused hospitality to English soldiers.

‘And this matter requires my counsel?’ Christiana asked.

‘More than that,’ said Thomas, closing his mouth at a slight sound from his kinswoman. Even this most substantial man was controlled by Agnes de Arroch.

‘Our discourtesy will be reported to their captain,’ said Dame Agnes, ‘we may be sure of that.’

Christiana sipped the almond milk as the prioress and her kinsman gradually came to the reason for her presence. In a day or two they expected more English, made suspicious by Elcho’s inhospitality, and it would be helpful if Christiana had a plausible ‘vision’ to proclaim on their arrival, a warning of danger, something that would drive them away to seek shelter within the walls of Perth. Christiana listened with growing incredulity. The Sight was a divine gift and as such should not be used in vain.

‘Dame Agnes, you have counselled me that my visions are meant by God for me alone.’

Thomas looked to his kinswoman with a pained expression.

But the prioress coolly nodded. ‘Yes, a true vision is God’s gift to you. But this would be a vision we prepare in order to protect us. We ask simply that you speak it as you would a true vision.’

Not at all certain that she would oblige them, Christiana stalled by asking what they wished her to say.

Thomas leaned forward, his face more relaxed, apparently assuming she meant to cooperate. ‘William Wallace and Andrew Murray have the English looking over their shoulders, fearing ambushes. All they need to hear is that we found signs of someone lying in wait this morning, and that you sense they’re near, and perhaps that the one in charge has recently come to Perth-’

‘No,’ Christiana interrupted. Thomas stopped with his mouth open. ‘Nothing of Perth.’ She saw Maggie being questioned, Fergus struggling with someone.

Thomas closed his mouth and slowly nodded. ‘Yes. I see. We want them seeking shelter in Perth, not avoiding it. Have you a suggestion?’

Now Christiana knew why she had woken with such urgency. She sensed that she must cooperate in order to keep her children safe. ‘I pray you, allow me some time to consider this.’

Thomas glanced at the prioress, who nodded.

‘Let us reconvene at Nones,’ said Agnes.

Although Margaret did not rise as quickly as she had the previous day, finding her own clean, comfortable bed too irresistible on a cool, damp morning, she found Roger patiently awaiting her in the hall so that they might break their fasts together. His attentiveness made her momentarily regret the previous afternoon’s search, until she remembered his lie about Edwina and the Brankstons. Still, she was more at ease with him for not having found additional lies among his belongings.

Their conversation was easy until Roger asked, ‘Is Fergus sharing your father’s house with someone?’

Margaret kept her eyes on her pottage of oatmeal. ‘Jonet sleeps there. Does that seem inappropriate? I thought as Celia is here Fergus might continue to have her there.’

‘I meant a man,’ Roger said with a touch of irritation. ‘I went there to see Fergus yesterday and heard his voice and another man’s as Jonet answered the door, but when she showed me in Fergus was alone.’

‘Are you certain you heard two different voices?’ Margaret asked in a teasing tone.

‘Do you mean Fergus was talking to himself?’ Roger suddenly grinned. ‘He has been much alone.’

‘Perhaps too much,’ Margaret said with a little laugh.

But Roger’s amusement had already faded. ‘Why do I sense secrets behind that smile?’

Margaret reached for his hand. ‘It is the times, my love. We all grow secretive by habit.’ She prayed her father had escaped safely.

The meal ended without incident. After loitering until Roger was out of the house, Margaret walked slowly to St John’s. This time she found James sitting on a bench in a rear corner of the nave.

Joining him, she asked, ‘Have you found my brother a travelling companion?’

James nodded. ‘He will depart in two days.’

‘Two days? Can he not leave sooner?’

‘No.’ James shifted a little on the bench. ‘Fergus is in such a hurry?’

Perhaps she was panicking. She could not in truth predict Fergus’s reaction. She prayed Matilda was kind to him today so that he might choose to linger. ‘He’s angry, but he may calm. Who would this companion be?’

‘One of Murray’s messengers. A trustworthy young man and someone with whom your brother might feel comfortable.’

‘I’ll tell him. When can we talk again?’

‘Ride out into the country with me after Nones. Surely that gives you time enough to discuss this with Fergus. Then you can meet the man.’

‘I’ve told you-’

‘You have. But it is Wallace himself who wishes to meet with you.’

William Wallace. She had seen him once at Inverkeithing, awaiting the ferry across the Firth of Forth. At that time she had thought him a common thief and wondered at the quiet deference of the men who acknowledged him. ‘I have nothing of use to tell him.’

‘He would warn you. He says you are in danger. I believe he has information about your husband’s or your father’s activities.’

Warn her or question her, she wondered. ‘I fear for my father,’ she said. ‘Someone is following him. Is it Wallace’s men?’

‘Among others.’

‘What others?’

‘I’m uncertain — but it seems the English are interested.’

‘Then I am glad he is wise enough to leave Perth.’ She feared he was more like his brother Murdoch than she had known, that perhaps John Smyth was just one of his troubles, and the rest had to do with smuggling.

‘I pray he manages that safely, but he might be wiser to stay now that he is here.’

‘There was the death in his warehouse.’

‘A thief. Even the English understand thieves.’

‘I think he is very frightened.’

‘I’ll watch his house.’

‘So you’ll be in town?’

‘For a while. But first I would take you to Wallace.’

‘Not today, James. What of Roger? Are Wallace’s men watching him?’

‘I am, through you. Why not today? You are concerned about both your father and your husband. I thought Roger and his man were spending their days going through the warehouses and checking the accounts.’

‘They are. I can’t explain. I don’t feel ready. I know too little. I don’t even know my own heart.’ She was momentarily upset with herself for having said that, but it was the closest she could come to an explanation. It seemed enough for James. He agreed to meet her the following morning.

Fergus was relieved when Jonet departed for Maggie’s house — she was upset about the mess he was making of the hall and his father’s bedchamber in his search, and he had spent part of the morning undoing the neat stacks of papers that she had made the past evening without regard to the organisation he had devised when the tenor of his search had changed late the previous afternoon.

A well-dressed stranger had come looking for his father, having heard a rumour of his return to Perth. He claimed Malcolm owed him a bag of coins, which he now needed. Fergus had convinced the man that he knew nothing of the coins. Once the man had gone on his way, Fergus had resumed his search in more earnest, determined to find out where his father was storing money. But searching through the evening and part of the morning he had unearthed nothing of substance — a few coins and a necklace that might be worth a goodly amount if there were anyone in the market for jewels at present.

Fergus had considered making Matilda a gift of the necklace, but decided against buying her affections. Yet he kept returning to the small casket in which he’d found the jewellery, looking at the delicate jet and silver strands and imagining them encircling Matilda’s neck. He was lost in one of his daydreams when there came a loud knock on the street door. Whoever it was rapped again even more loudly and called out to Fergus’s father.

Expecting the caller of the previous day, Fergus opened the door muttering about patience, but lost his train of thought as he faced yet another well-dressed stranger. This one was larger and appeared angrier than the earlier visitor.

‘Where’s Malcolm Kerr?’ the man demanded, trying to peer beyond Fergus into the hall.

‘In Bruges,’ said Fergus, bracing a hand on either side of the doorway. ‘If you knew my father you would be aware of that.’

‘Make no mistake, I know Kerr,’ the man said as he easily pushed past Fergus. Striding into the hall, he bellowed Malcolm’s name.

Fergus slammed the door. ‘Who do you think you are, barging in here like this?’

The man had a foot on the steps to the solar. ‘He has been seen on the river.’ Crossing to the alcove that opened on to the kitchen yard, he glanced round, then returned to Fergus. ‘He’s keeping the silver to himself, isn’t he? Or he’s handed it over to Longshanks. He’ll be doubly sorry if he has done so. You tell him that Gilbert Ruthven means to retrieve what is his. I’ll return tomorrow — with others he owes.’

A Ruthven, landed and lordly. ‘I’m his factor but I know nothing of silver owed you or anyone else. Nor of any dealings with the English king.’

As Ruthven looked Fergus in the eyes, his expression softened. ‘Then he is cheating you as well. Look to yourself, young sir, and trust not your greedy master.’ He bowed and departed.

Fergus leaned against the door and began to go over the encounter. He examined it again and again, fanning a fire in his gut. The man had insulted the family honour. Yet, as Fergus calmed a little, he wondered whether there had been some truth in the man’s accusations. It would be no wonder his father was in hiding if he had cheated a Ruthven and who knew how many others. Damn him for leaving Fergus to face his victims. Silver … that might have been what John Smyth was after. Fergus’s anger shifted to his father. He wondered what else his da was hoarding, or trading to Longshanks. By St Columba, if his father proved to be in league with the English invaders Fergus would never speak to him again. To so humiliate his own son. Damn him. He would not see Fergus’s face again, not on this earth. Aberdeen would be his new home.

And where was the stolen silver? Not in the house, that was almost certain. Fergus hid the casket of coins and jewellery in a chest beneath the solar stairs and headed for the warehouse.

The cool mist of early morning had lifted and the day had warmed, though the sun had not yet broken through the low clouds. Fergus’s clothes clung to him damply and he slowed his stride in an effort to cool himself. But his mind could not let go of Ruthven’s sympathetic tone, his father’s deceit, and his own humiliation, and the anger heated his blood to a simmer. At the warehouse he jammed the key in the lock at an angle while he swatted at midges and then spent an eternity straightening it. Once within, he cursed to discover the body gone. He’d wanted to search it again, look at the hands.

Resigned to the loss, Fergus set about scouring for clues in the area in which the man had fallen.

After meeting with the prioress, Christiana had walked for a long while in the water meadow under the wary eyes of Dame Agnes’s kinsman, seeking a tale that would send the English running to Perth for protection. But she was a receiver rather than a creator of visions and her mind kept wandering away from what might sufficiently disturb a soldier. The abrupt cliffs of Kinnoull Hill across the river held her attention. When she had first visited Elcho, the cliffs looming above the opposite bank had filled her with dread. Now, as on the night of the intruders, she thought how vulnerable the water meadow was, how all the low-lying fields, the river, and Friarton Island might be watched from that cliff. The cliffs’ vantage point might make the English uneasy.

Back in the prioress’s parlour she watched understanding dawn on the faces of Agnes and her kinsman.

‘They would feel far too exposed down here,’ Thomas said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘I am grateful to you, Dame Christiana.’

The prioress smiled benignly and commended Christiana for her clever scheme.

As Margaret made her way home from St John’s Kirk she pondered what it would take to know her own heart, and it seemed to her that she must decide whether or not she trusted Roger. There was Aylmer as well — she no longer considered him insolent, but rather unaware that there was more to playing a servant than being called one. He was not the actor that James was. If he was so unprepared for the role she might learn much from his belongings. She would search them.

Celia was sitting in the doorway to the yard, using the daylight to mend a tear in one of Margaret’s worn gowns. ‘You’ll be thirsty,’ she said, moving to set aside her work.

Margaret shook her head. ‘I’m going to search Aylmer’s chamber. If anyone appears, come for me.’

Celia bowed her head. ‘Have a care, Mistress.’

Margaret nodded and went within, hurrying up to her chamber for her tools. Back down in the hall she lit a piece of kindling from the hearth fire, and then crossed to the small chamber in the rear in which Jack and Fergus had worked on accounts and letters. Lifting the hide that covered the doorway, she lit the lamp on the shelf just within and looked around. She found Aylmer’s travelling casket and pack beneath the small work-table. Lifting the casket to the table, she set to work picking the lock. Her trembling hands slowed her but the simple lock was soon opened.

Within were daggers, a small cache of coins, a jewelled belt, and a wallet like the one she had found in Roger’s casket, filled with rolled documents. She sat back on her heels and examined the rolls in the wallet. All but one were sealed; the opened one bore Roger’s name as well as what she thought might be a form of the name Bruce. She stared at the casket, willing it to reveal more. And in a little while it did, for she realised that the casket was not as deep within as it was from without. But there were no legs, nor was there a bottom compartment. She set to prodding and poking what must be a false bottom. With persistence she shifted it enough to insert a finger and pop it out. Beneath were more coins and several documents with broken seals — English royal seals. Setting those aside, she replaced the false bottom with care and then repacked the casket.

She would take these and the two from Roger’s casket to Ada, who read as well as any priest. In fact she would do it now. She gathered the documents and went out into the town with them hidden beneath a cloth in her market basket.

At the Northgate crossing, she spied Fergus talking to an acquaintance a few doors from Matilda’s. She nodded to him as he noticed her and was surprised when he quit the man and hurried towards her. His face was livid.

‘We were close to starving and all the while he was hoarding coin!’ he blurted.

Margaret glanced about uneasily. ‘Who?’ she asked softly. ‘What coin?’ She listened with increasing perplexity as he told her of his visitors. ‘Does it not mean that Ruthven wants to recover a debt, rather than that Da is hoarding?’ she asked. ‘Has he paper to prove it?’

‘Two men, Maggie, two days in a row, and Ruthven said others would accompany him tomorrow.’ Fergus shook his head. ‘Da is up to no good, you can be sure.’

Thinking of the royal seals on the documents she carried in her market basket, and her father’s name in the text, she said, ‘I’m on an errand that might prove enlightening. Be patient, I pray you. And I have found a travelling companion for you.’

He had resumed his complaints but her last comment caught his attention. ‘How soon does he leave?’

‘In a few days.’

Fergus cursed. ‘More waiting. Who is this companion?’

‘We really should not talk of such things out here in the street.’

‘The body’s gone from the warehouse. Did Roger take it?’

Margaret hushed him. ‘Come to the house first thing in the morning, after Roger departs. I hope to have much to tell you.’

‘I mean to be gone by the time Ruthven returns.’

‘Lock up Da’s house and bide with us.’

Fergus hunched his shoulders. ‘You tell me nothing.’

‘I’ll tell you all I know. I pray you, be patient.’

He wagged his head, a gesture that could mean many things. ‘I’m expected at Matilda’s.’

‘Will you come to me in the morning?’ Margaret asked, uneasy about his mood.

‘If you have much to tell me I’d be a fool not to, eh?’ He forced a smile, but his eyes were sullen as he left her.

Puzzling over how she might have better handled her brother, Margaret continued on to Ada’s. But she was met with frustration. Ada had gone out with her niece and the child to visit an ailing friend. Margaret told the servant that she would return in the morning.

In the end, Fergus did not dine with Matilda. He had not the constitution to accept two humiliations in one day. On his arrival he discovered one of Matilda’s old sweethearts seated in the hall, regaling her with tales of his adventures in Edward Longshanks’s ranks. Her blue eyes were fixed on his suntanned face, sounds from her lovely throat expressing awe at every pause. She was enraptured by a traitor. Fergus was doubly shamed, by his lack of experience and his stupidity in falling in love with such a witless woman. He could not bear another night in Perth, no matter what Maggie had to tell him. In late afternoon he collected his travelling pack from Maggie’s stable and was off north.