The Fire In The Flint

16

After Roger left for the warehouses in the morning Margaret lingered in the hall waiting for Fergus. She hoped his tardiness was a sign that he had stayed late with Matilda. To while away the time she engaged Celia in helping her hang the largest of Christiana’s tapestries.

Quiet at first, her dark eyes pensive, Celia eventually broke her silence to ask whether Margaret dreaded the return of the English soldiers. Margaret was about to answer when Celia continued.

‘Will they take an interest in Smyth’s death? Do we have anything to fear?’

‘They must control the townsfolk for the safety of their men, so they’ll mark anything unusual. I’m certain they’ll hear the rumour and come to question Fergus,’ Margaret said. She explained Roger’s reasoning about the surreptitious burial. She understood Celia’s sceptical expression, for it seemed less useful each time she recounted it. It was plain that she had not managed to reassure Celia. Margaret was sorry to leave her with such concerns, but she was anxious to take the documents to Ada and learn their contents for she must know the nature of her father’s business with Longshanks. ‘If Fergus comes, tell him I’ll not be long away,’ she said.

Ada answered her knock, elegant in her silk gown but too impatient to wait for a servant to open the door. Seeing something in Margaret’s demeanour, she guided her in by the arm and closed the door. ‘What has happened?’ She lifted Margaret’s chin so that she could clearly see her face. ‘You look as if you’re about to have a spell.’ She touched one of Margaret’s hands. ‘And you’re cold despite the day.’

‘I’m in no danger of fainting.’ Margaret was sorry to have caused Ada concern, but she did not wish to spend the visit reassuring her. ‘I hoped you might read some papers to me. I’ve learned to read a little, but only enough to confuse myself.’ She glanced at Ada’s niece, who was rocking the baby’s cradle with one foot as she spun wool. ‘Might we talk where we would not be heard?’

Ada glanced with interest at Margaret’s basket. ‘The kitchen is deserted at present.’ She led the way to a small building at the edge of the backland. Directing Margaret to sit at the table beneath the window, Ada tossed some herbs in a small pot, added water, and set it over the fire. Their relationship was that of friends, but Ada also enjoyed mothering Margaret, and her efforts were appreciated. Once she was seated she asked about the documents. ‘Are they personal letters?’

‘No.’ Margaret’s face burned as she drew from the basket one of the letters she’d taken from Aylmer’s casket, suddenly shy about having taken what didn’t belong to her. ‘They may concern dangerous matters. You’ve only to say and I’ll find someone else to help me.’

‘Someone you would not mind endangering?’ Ada asked with a wry chuckle. But her strong face tensed as she noticed the broken seal. ‘It looks like rather official correspondence. Where did you find this?’

‘In the possession of Roger’s servant.’

‘Servant,’ Ada repeated in a thoughtful voice. For a long moment she held Margaret’s gaze. It seemed neither of them breathed.

When at last Ada stirred, her eyes and mouth softened. ‘I know you would not have searched had you not good cause.’ She spread the document on the table before her. ‘Let me see whether I can help.’ She skimmed the document and nodded. ‘The scribe has a good hand. That is to be expected, of course, in the household of King Edward of England.’ She watched Margaret’s reaction.

Sick at heart, Margaret crossed herself. ‘So I was right in thinking the seal that of Edward Longshanks. Are you able to read the letter?’

‘I can see that you are aware of the danger in reading such things, Maggie. Have a care.’ Ada nodded to herself, as if satisfied that she had done her duty in warning her friend. ‘The answer to your question is yes, by a good hand I mean that the writing is easy to read. You have learned some letters, you say?’

‘A priest in Edinburgh was teaching me.’

‘At your request?’

Margaret nodded.

‘I’m glad you wish to learn. I’ll take over for him if you like.’

By the rather inappropriate sparkle in Ada’s eyes, Margaret saw that her friend welcomed the intrigue. Margaret had hoped that Ada’s past with a noble lover might prove helpful, but she had expected some resistance.

Without waiting for Margaret’s response, Ada lifted the document and began to read aloud. The letter acknowledged Malcolm Kerr’s offer of the use of his ships for some of the king’s business in Flanders. The king accepted the offer, with the arrangements to follow.

It was as Margaret had feared, her father had chosen the side of wealth and influence in this struggle. She turned away from Ada, shamed by her father’s lack of honour.

Ada set down the document. ‘Many in Perth would admire Malcolm for this,’ she said in a thoughtful tone.

‘I hate him,’ Margaret said too loudly. ‘I am ashamed to be his daughter, coward and traitor that he is.’

Ada shifted, her silks whispering richly. ‘He might have done you a favour, Maggie.’

‘How could this favour me?’

Ada smoothed out the curling document. ‘If the English were in fact the executioners, they will never mention Smyth’s death; if they had nothing to do with it but consider a thief in your father’s warehouse a threat to either their supplies or their plans, again they won’t mention it.’ She gestured to Margaret to move closer. ‘Come, I’ll read the letter slowly, pointing to each word. Then we’ll read the next.’

Following along as Ada read calmed Margaret’s mind a little, but Aylmer’s possession of her father’s letter troubled her.

She next chose the document addressed to Roger that mentioned her own surname and bore part of a royal seal. She held her breath as Ada explained that it was dated shortly before Roger’s departure for Dundee. It was not the royal seal, Ada said, after a quick look at the contents, but that of the constable of Carlisle Castle, a royal castle, and thus it incorporated some royal details in its design.

‘The scribe wrote on behalf of Robert Bruce the constable of Carlisle,’ Ada explained, ‘father to the Bruce who some believe might lead us out from beneath Edward Longshanks’s hammer.’

Margaret had not told Ada of Roger’s connection to the Bruce. It was an unexpected complication, that Roger had been in contact with the father of the Robert Bruce whom Roger served. This Bruce was still publicly loyal to Edward Longshanks. Fearing the letter might concern Roger’s rescue of Edwina of Carlisle, Margaret said, ‘I don’t know that I want to hear this one.’

Ada gave a silky shrug. ‘It is a trifle, purely business. On behalf of your father, Roger was to receive some goods for the constable in Dundee and arrange for transport to Carlisle.’ She looked up at Margaret. ‘Would you care to go over the words?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘Perhaps I can come again to learn more words.’ She was relieved that Roger had genuinely intended to go to Dundee.

‘Come as soon as you like,’ said Ada as she handed back the document. ‘Do you have another?’

Margaret produced the other document she’d taken from Roger, the one with the word ‘Rex’ in the text.

Smoothing it out, Ada glanced through it, her expression growing troubled. ‘I believe this may be what you deemed dangerous. A letter from the younger Robert Bruce. Your husband should have destroyed this, once read.’

Her heart pounding, Margaret bent over the parchment. She recognised a few words but too little to understand the message. ‘What does it say?’

Ada read slowly. It concerned Edwina of Carlisle, the wife of ‘our good friend’. The wording was cautious, until mention of Edward’s slaughter of the burghers of Berwick, a slip of passion in an otherwise harmless request for Roger to escort Edwina to Edinburgh and there await the funds to continue on to an unspecified safe haven. She would travel under the name Dame Grey.

So Roger had rescued Edwina at the request of Robert the Bruce.

‘Does Roger think to survive by pleasing both sides?’ Ada wondered.

‘He had a change of heart as he travelled to Dundee on the elder Bruce’s business,’ Margaret said. ‘I already knew of this.’

‘Ah.’ Ada rose and poured the contents of the small pot she’d heated into two cups. After handing one to Margaret she moved to the window with hers and stood quietly gazing out for a while.

The tisane was spiced with ginger, Margaret discovered as she held the steaming liquid to her lips, and it was still too hot to drink. She set down the cup, drew out another document. The rustle of silk made her look up. Ada had turned from the window. Her attention was on the basket.

‘Are you also a supporter of the young Robert Bruce, Maggie?’

‘No.’ Margaret sipped the tisane, burning the tip of her tongue.

‘Are you spying on Roger for someone else?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘For myself. I need to know this man I married.’

Ada eased down beside her and took her hand, looking long into her eyes. ‘My dear friend, I had guessed there was much you had kept from me. Your stories the other day were amusing, yet I sensed a great sadness behind them. I pray you confide in me.’

It took little more coaxing for Margaret to open up to her friend.

‘Roger seems unable or unwilling to tell me the truth about how he came to disappear, what his bonds are with others.’ She explained who Edwina of Carlisle was, and her lingering suspicion that she’d been Roger’s mistress. ‘Uncle Murdoch was so loath to tell me about her, I was ready to believe the worst. And then Roger reappears with a servant far too fine for his station.’ Knowing she could trust Ada, Margaret also confided her own staunch support of John Balliol so that her dilemma was clear. ‘You see, I’ve taken a scunner to my own husband.’ She shook her head.

Ada listened to all of it attentively, asking no questions though her eyes were alive with emotion, which Margaret found comforting.

‘And yet I weaken at his touch,’ Margaret added in a hushed voice, then blushed and looked away, thinking she had said too much. The last was not something to share with others, no matter how close. She closed her eyes and drank down the spicy tisane.

Ada was bent over the next document by the time Margaret was composed enough to open her eyes.

‘I am glad to know all this,’ said Ada. ‘Now I know your mind.’

‘I feared I’d said too much.’

Ada pressed Margaret’s hand, then tapped the letter. ‘As for this,’ she said, ‘it contains further arrangements for the king’s use of your father’s ships, acknowledging that Malcolm will be sailing on one of them.’ She regarded Margaret. ‘The first of these you found in the possession of Roger’s servant, or whatever he is. This one, too?’

Margaret was only half listening. That Aylmer had one of Malcolm’s letters was suspicious, but to have two was damning. She needed to know whether these letters had been in her father’s casket at her uncle’s tavern, whether Aylmer and Roger were the intruders who murdered Old Will.

‘I know what you are thinking,’ Ada said. ‘It is strange that this man is collecting information about your father, indeed letters that belong to him.’

‘I very much fear that Roger and his servant collected these documents in Edinburgh, and that Old Will, the boller I mentioned the other day, caught them in my uncle’s undercroft.’

‘And one of them murdered him to keep him silent.’ Ada took a deep breath. ‘This is a terrible business. What will you do now?’

‘Put these back before they are missed,’ Margaret said, rolling up the letter and returning it to the basket. ‘There was another, but I think I know what I need to know.’

‘Don’t be so certain. Let’s read them all.’

‘I have what I need.’ Margaret rose.

Ada caught her by the arm. ‘How do you know, Maggie? You’re frightened, and with good cause. But the more you know the better prepared you will be.’

She was right. Margaret could hardly run away. Settling back down, she drew out the third document she’d found in the false bottom of Aylmer’s casket.

Ada unrolled it, and as she glanced through it she nodded. ‘So. Aylmer is no servant but kin to the younger Robert Bruce. The Bruce places his trust in him.’ She paused as she read further. ‘He is to assist Roger in making his way to Perth, introducing him to those who can help him in such travel.’ She paused again, frowning as she read, then set down the document and looked at Margaret. ‘He says that Malcolm Kerr is someone with ties to both Edward and John Balliol and therefore would be a prized spy, unless he cannot be persuaded to be constant.’

‘And then what?’

‘It is left to Aylmer’s imagination.’

Margaret’s hands had grown cold. Her heart felt fluttery, as if she were ill. She prayed that her father was well away. Yet she also wished she might ask him where he had kept the two letters.

Ada sighed and shook her head as she returned the document. ‘When you wed Roger I rejoiced for your good fortune. I imagined pretty children tucked to your breast and an attentive husband sitting beside you. Clearly I have not your mother’s gift of prescience.’

‘Much good hers did me. She kept her misgivings to herself.’ Margaret hugged her friend. ‘Bless you for coaxing me to hear the last letter. And for not telling me to stay out of trouble.’

‘It is far too late for such advice. Our king is fortunate in having your support. But go with care, Maggie. Do not let Roger and the Bruce’s kinsman see your fear.’

Fergus had made little progress. As he’d left the relative safety of the town he had begun to doubt the wisdom of travelling alone armed with the sketchiest of instructions as to the route, merely a drawing his father had once made to illustrate a tale and the names of a few landmarks and towns along the way. It was little to guide him, and provided no checks to judge whether he strayed. He spent the night in an outbuilding on his father’s property in the countryside, out of the way of the cousin who farmed the land. He was too agitated to sleep, anxiously debating whether to return to Perth or to seek out the Wallace near Kinclaven, a destination he knew. He guessed it must be someone in Wallace’s camp with whom Maggie communicated, and perhaps it was someone from that camp with whom he might journey to Aberdeen. He also missed his dog. He should have brought Mungo, for no one would care for him, not properly. Perhaps he should return to town and confer with Maggie. But to return to Perth was to risk seeing Matilda and that would be a reminder of his mistaken ardour. She had made him feel the greatest fool in all the land. Mungo was worth a hundred Matildas. And therefore Fergus should go back for him. What to do? He had never faced a more difficult decision. The birds were greeting the dawn when at last he felt himself being pulled down into sleep.

By the time he woke and went out to relieve his bladder he found the foreshortened shadows of noon. Back inside he chewed on the bread and cheese he’d left too long in the pack and resumed his debate.

*

On leaving Ada’s house Margaret turned away from the river, needing time to compose herself before facing Roger, who might be home for the midday meal. She felt ragged, as if her stuffing were being nibbled by mice and birds and parts of her were already cut off from her heart and head. And she was giddy with fear, unable to still her mind. To the few who greeted her she responded absently. Those who pretended not to notice her were far more intrusive, their eyes boring holes into her back. When she found herself on Southgate, she sought a moment’s quiet in her father’s house. Fergus’s dog Mungo greeted her with an anxious bark and led her to the door. He preceded her into the hall but stopped abruptly and growled upon discovering Aylmer.

The Bruce’s kinsman rose from her father’s favourite chair, cup in hand. His moon face was expressionless.

He’d made himself right at home. ‘What is your business here?’ Margaret demanded, interrupting his greeting. Intruders deserved no courtesy. She trembled with anger and feared that he’d already missed the papers, although she thought it unlikely.

Aylmer pressed his free hand to his ear. ‘Can you quiet the dog?’

‘He recognises an intruder,’ Margaret said, but she crouched down and tried to calm Mungo. He stopped barking but kept his eyes on Aylmer. Mungo was a good guard dog.

‘Thank you, Dame Margaret.’ Aylmer stepped away from the chair and offered it to her, then resettled on a bench nearby. Mungo moved to lie across Margaret’s feet. ‘I was sent to fetch your brother Fergus,’ said Aylmer, ‘but Jonet says he did not come home last night or this morning, and that dog has barked all the while.’

Margaret reached down to pet the dog. ‘Mungo seldom barks for nothing.’

Aylmer dismissed the comment with a sniff.

‘Did Jonet mention anyone coming to the house?’

‘No. But I was visited earlier by some angry men claiming your father is in Perth and demanding to see him.’ He regarded her intently.

‘What men?’ Margaret said as off-handedly as she could manage.

It must have been convincing, for he looked disappointed. ‘You are not surprised by the claim that your father is here?’

‘I’d already heard that rumour. What men, I ask you?’

‘Only one gave his name — Gilbert Ruthven. As their spokesman he demanded the sterlings owed to all of them by Malcolm Kerr.’

‘Everyone’s eager to call in their debts,’ Margaret said, amazed by her calm voice.

Aylmer shook his head slowly. ‘Sterlings — they were clear about it, Dame Margaret.’

She found it unsettling, both of them aware that her father’s ships had carried Edward Longshanks’s men and that Malcolm had no doubt been paid well, probably in sterlings, the coin of the realm, and yet neither mentioning it.

‘Sterlings, coins, what does it matter?’ she asked, an honest question for she had no idea why Aylmer found it significant.

‘Might I ask what you know of your father’s trading?’

About to rebuff him, she changed her mind, thinking she might quite naturally put him off. ‘Less than I know of my husband’s, which is little. The household is my responsibility.’

Aylmer said nothing.

‘What did you tell these men?’ Margaret asked.

‘That my master understood Malcolm Kerr to be in Bruges. I could not help them. It was but a small lie.’

‘You know something of the sterlings?’

‘No, but I believe your father has been in the town.’

Margaret wondered whether Jonet had told him. She should have admitted it when Roger first asked her. He would not have harmed her father. And yet there were the letters. ‘In faith, little surprises me of late.’ She rose. ‘I must be going.’ Mungo rose and stretched, obviously intending to stick by her.

To her dismay, Aylmer insisted on escorting her home. ‘The men were quite agitated, Dame Margaret. I would not have you harmed.’

‘No one accosted me earlier, and now I have Mungo to protect me.’

‘You were fortunate to pass safely. But your husband would not wish you to risk walking alone again.’ He nodded to the dog. ‘As for him, he hid when the men arrived.’

Aylmer’s determination silenced further argument.

They found Celia in the yard airing clothing. She greeted Margaret and bent to scratch Mungo behind the ears. Margaret was bemused to find fussy Celia fond of dogs. She told Celia briefly why he was there, and the maid offered to watch him while working out in the yard. ‘You have been missed,’ she said. She did not so much as look at Aylmer.

Roger was pacing in the hall when Margaret and Aylmer entered. He glanced from one to the other. ‘What has happened? Did you find Fergus?’

‘No.’ Aylmer informed him of Ruthven and company’s visit. When Roger exhausted his questions, Aylmer excused himself and withdrew to his room.

Margaret’s heart sank. She could only hope that Aylmer was so confident the papers were well hidden that he did not obsessively check for them on return.

‘Have you no idea what it is the men are demanding of Malcolm?’ Roger asked.

Margaret stood beside the table at which Roger had apparently been going over the accounts. She set the basket out of sight on the bench pulled up to the table and fussed with a mound of tally sticks. ‘I have never witnessed anyone descending upon my father’s house in the mood that Aylmer described. Is there enough light for you to work in here?’

‘Yes. And leave the tallies as I had them.’

Margaret shrugged and sank down on to the bench beside the basket and sighed as if weary.

‘It is strange they do not think to come here about your father’s debts when they find no satisfaction at his house,’ Roger said. ‘As if they know only Malcolm can satisfy their demands.’

‘Sometimes I think Andrew is the only member of my family I understand.’

‘I have seldom heard you praise him. You thought him lacking joy.’

‘I have learned to value his steadfastness. And at present even Fergus lacks joy.’

‘That reminds me …’ said Roger. ‘I sent Aylmer for Fergus. Where is he?’

‘I don’t know,’ Margaret said. ‘What did you want of him?’

‘We need to make certain that the English hear the same story about John Smyth from all of us.’

‘I don’t understand your secretiveness about his death. Everyone knows of it. We don’t know what happened, but he shouldn’t have been in the warehouse. He was trespassing. Isn’t the truth our best defence?’

‘Maggie, I know what I’m doing. Do not interfere.’

Margaret refused to back away. ‘Then explain how you imagine it working.’ She paused as she thought of a possible explanation for the scene at her father’s house. ‘I wonder. Smyth’s death is no secret. Perhaps Da’s creditors are worried that the English will seize him when he returns, and they fear their money will be claimed by the English.’

Roger cast his eyes down for a few breaths, then met her gaze with interest. ‘That is quite possible. With whom have you discussed this?’

‘Only with Aylmer. He spoke with the men. Why?’

He shook his head. ‘I maintain that it’s best the English find no proof of anything amiss.’

Margaret was about to appropriate Ada’s reasoning and suggest that the English might have been the executioners, or would approve of Smyth’s murder, but remembered in time that she should not know of Malcolm’s cooperation with the English for she’d learned of it in the stolen letters.

‘What of Smyth’s kin?’ she asked instead.

‘What proof do they have? And I don’t think the English will care enough to talk to them. They’ve bigger problems, with Wallace and Murray gathering troops near Kinclaven, and the Bruce they know not where.’ He began to leave the room.

Margaret relaxed a little. She might at least return Roger’s documents. But he suddenly turned in the doorway.

‘Where is Malcolm?’

‘I’ve wondered that myself. All but his family seem to have seen him. Aylmer believes he has been in Perth.’

‘We’ve found signs of someone shifting goods as if preparing to move them. Whoever it is, he has not succeeded in hiding the preparations. But you’ve not spoken with your father?’

For the second time this day she regretted her promise to her father. His carelessness made her feel a fool. But she did not have time to consider the consequences of confessing to Roger. ‘How could I have spoken to him without your knowledge?’

‘Where were you this morning?’

‘At Ada’s. I’m worried about Fergus,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘It’s not like Mungo to bark in the night, even when Fergus is from home. Do you think Ruthven and the others are watching the house? Do you think they might have taken Fergus?’

‘If they had him, why would they storm the house when Aylmer was there? More likely they would demand ransom. I’m still wondering why they don’t come here.’

‘Give them time,’ said Margaret, ‘they’ll think of it soon enough.’ She picked up the basket and rose, struggling to keep her mind from the damning documents she carried lest Roger somehow read her thoughts. ‘Perhaps we should close up Da’s house and let Fergus and Jonet bide here.’

‘We’ll discuss it.’

‘I thought that’s what we were doing.’

‘I must think about it.’

‘Oh. Then I’ll be about my work.’ Margaret brushed past Roger and climbed to the solar to return his letters to the casket.

Halfway back to Perth, Fergus halted. Fear of what he might face on the road was propelling him back into the trap of his family. But it occurred to him that because of his father’s activities Perth might be the most dangerous place for him at present. Or was he using that as an excuse not to see Matilda? He could not think clearly.

The afternoon grew hot as Margaret, Jonet, and Celia shifted the airing bed linens. Celia kept up a patter about spreading linens on lavender shrubs, which Dame Katherine had recalled from her mother’s youth in Suffolk in the south. That led her to perfumed oils and unguents. Margaret relaxed with the chatter, imagining an idle life in a richly furnished home with a glorious garden that bloomed even in winter. Mungo had been sleeping in the sun, but suddenly he stood up and growled.

Aylmer approached, giving the dog a wide berth. ‘May I speak with you, Dame Margaret?’ he asked.

She dropped her arms, stepped away from the line of bedding. ‘What is it?’

He turned his head so that Celia could not see his face. ‘Might we talk alone?’

Judging his expression as one of irritation, Margaret did not fuss but led Aylmer directly to the stable. ‘Is this acceptable?’ she asked, matching his impatience.

He surprised her by pulling off his cap and giving her a little bow. ‘Forgive me for interrupting your work, but I am missing some letters from my travel chest.’

She forced herself to breathe. ‘What has that to do with me?’

‘With your servants, Dame Margaret. Have they been in my room?’

‘As you see, we are airing the linens, so yes, one of them has been in there. But neither of them is a thief.’

‘Are you so sure of them?’

Indignation came easily. ‘Jonet and Celia have been in the service of our family for a long while. Neither would suddenly turn dishonest merely because of your tempting belongings. Nor can they read.’

He was sceptical, and with good reason. With every word Margaret felt herself sinking into a trap that would catch her the moment she let down her guard.

‘If not your servants,’ Aylmer said, looking uncomfortable, ‘perhaps — I would not have thought such a thing but — your father’s sterlings, owed to someone, my papers — might your brother have helped himself to that which isn’t his, and then fled?’

Margaret’s cry of outrage escaped her before she had time to think. Suddenly Roger was beside her. He had appeared so quickly she wondered whether he was spying on her. Or on Aylmer.

‘What is the matter?’ he demanded.

‘A misunderstanding,’ said Aylmer. With a curt bow, he left the stable.

Not meeting Roger’s eyes, Margaret said, ‘The Bruce did you no favour in Aylmer.’

‘He did not attack you?’

‘What? Oh, no, it was nothing so-’ She looked up, blushing. ‘Nothing so terrible, Roger. I find him irritating, that is all. Nothing is to his liking.’ She kissed Roger’s cheek and he walked off, looking uneasy.

Returning to her work, she nervously waited for Roger and Aylmer to leave together and then went within, Celia with her. In a short while she had returned the documents to Aylmer’s casket. Exhausted by the day’s events, she agreed to Celia’s suggestion that she lie down in her chamber with a cool, lavender-scented cloth over her eyes. She woke much later, worrying about Fergus.

Dreams of Kilmartin Glen had filled Christiana’s sleep the previous night, and she spent the day quietly, gathering what she could recall of the dreams and piecing them together. Whether or not she reconstructed them accurately, she sensed that it was the effort that would teach her what she must glean from them. It felt a validation of her new resolve to have such guiding dreams.

Marion helped her dress in one of her finest gowns, a blue that flattered her, and a white silk veil. She was resting when a novice came with Prioress Agnes’s request for her presence in the hall of the guest house. The English had returned. As Christiana rose, Marion smoothed out her skirt and adjusted the veil, then smiled in admiration. She was better than a mirror.

The moment Christiana stepped into the guesthouse garden she was drawn to look up at Kinnoull Hill. The novice was staring at her uncertainly.

‘Let us hasten,’ said Christiana.

The young woman bowed her head and led the way down the yard.

Prioress Agnes and her kinsman Thomas greeted Christiana with pinched faces. Her hands were cold, his odour sour with fear.

‘You have nothing to worry about,’ Christiana assured them. ‘The soldiers will seek the safety of Perth.’

Prioress Agnes crossed herself. ‘We must pray God to make that so.’ She cast her eyes up and down Christiana’s attire. ‘Do you mean to dazzle the soldiers?’

‘The English respect splendour,’ Christiana said.

All three turned towards the sound of horses in the yard.

‘I hope you’re prepared,’ Thomas said.

The captain was travel-worn, dusty and stinking of horse, yet he was clean-shaven, indeed still bled from a nick, and his clothes were well-tailored. He bowed courteously and greeted her with particular respect, saying that he had heard of her great gift. But once he sat he gave his full attention to the prioress as he asked permission to leave some of his men at the priory to watch the river.

‘So it is not your men atop Kinnoull Hill?’ Christiana asked. She meant to say more, but the prioress motioned to her to wait.

Thomas explained the strategic value of the hill, how it would be better to station men there to signal those on the Perth waterfront if anyone approached from downriver.

Agnes nodded. ‘If your men are known to be here, we might be attacked. We ask you to leave us in peace.’

But the captain turned to Christiana. ‘Why do you ask if our men are on the hill, Dame Christiana?’

Her surroundings began to fade and the hill filled her vision. ‘Behind the two on watch there are a handful with weapons drawn.’

‘I have only four men up there,’ said the captain. ‘Have you seen a vision of this?’

‘I have them before me, Captain. They watch your men approach Perth.’

‘What happened to my guards?’

Christiana shook her head. ‘I see only these. Oh no.’ She caught her breath, seeing the flies. ‘Why did they not bury them?’ she moaned.

From far away Thomas’s voice said something to the captain. Christiana was sinking down, down.

The light was fading and the shadows had grown so long that Fergus slowed to be sure of his footing. He could not risk falling and being injured, for someone followed him. Ever since he had turned away from Perth in late afternoon he’d felt eyes on his back, heard sounds behind him as he walked, silenced when he paused to listen. At his easy pace anyone might overcome him, but they stayed behind him. They must want to see where he headed. He shivered with fear and did not know what to do. His present path would return him to the hut on his father’s land at dark. He could not walk into the night. Yet perhaps that is what he should do — he would not sleep anyway, not with eyes watching the hut. He wondered what would happen if he turned back towards Perth. He hesitated, but could not turn himself around. Fear filled his bladder. It was miraculous, for he’d no water left and had not the courage to kneel at a burn and drink, imagining a sword coming down on his neck. He told himself beheading was not the method of stealth, but the image held.

Suddenly a heavy hand clutched his shoulder.

‘Fergus Kerr. On business for your da, are ye?’

Piss ran down Fergus’s leg.

Christiana returned to consciousness to find the prioress watching her with concern. Thomas stood a little away from them, a cup in hand.

‘I should like some wine,’ Christiana said. ‘Is the captain gone?’

The prioress sighed and rose to call for a servant.

Thomas turned to Christiana. ‘He has sent more men to the hill. If what you told him proves true, he will follow our advice and leave here.’ He threw his head back and drained his cup. ‘God help us when he finds his men safe and sound.’

‘He will not,’ said Christiana.