The Fire In The Flint

20

Celia’s reluctance to go to Ada’s had not surprised Margaret, but her own excitement about the trek to Wallace’s camp did, and once out in the street she expected to have second thoughts — to depart the town so suddenly was not the behaviour of a merchant’s wife. But she continued to feel steady in her resolve to further her commitment by meeting with William Wallace. Margaret’s only regret was that Jonet accompanied them — she would far rather inflict the sullen maid’s presence on her father and her husband. But she understood that the maid might have more to divulge.

James, walking slowly now as the elderly friar, surprised her with news of Andrew: alive, well, and managing to spirit information out from Soutra Hospital. She could think of nothing that might cheer her more and better confirm the rightness of her path.

But her mood was not to last. As they approached the guard at the west gate, Margaret recognised him as a man of Perth and warned James.

‘He has seen us,’ said James. ‘We must continue as if we have nothing to fear.’

The guard straightened at their approach and, raising a hand in greeting, called out, ‘Dame Margaret! Blessings on you and all your kin.’

It was hardly what she expected from a man gone over to the enemy. Her confusion must have been plain to him.

‘You’ve not heard? Your mother, the blessed Dame Christiana, saved our fair town from the thief Wallace this day. She had a vision of Wallace’s men attacking the English guards on Kinnoull Hill — a great slaughter they had begun. She rushed outwith the gates of Elcho and warned the English captain in time to save some of the men. God give them rest who died in defending us.’ He crossed himself, though he still beamed at Margaret, and then bowed to her with respect. ‘I wish you and your companions a safe journey.’

Margaret did not know where to rest her eyes as he spoke, unable to bear his smiling gratitude, fearful of what she would read on James’s face. The guard clearly enjoyed what must have been an embellished account of her mother’s pronouncement. She nodded to him and walked on through the gate, James and Jonet close behind.

Her joy in hearing word of Andrew was as dust. She was gasping as if she were suffocating. Her forearms felt as if insects were crawling on them. Once out of sight of the gate, she left the road and leaned against a tree trying to catch her breath. The leaves seemed to ripple as if floating on water, and the ground undulated beneath her.

‘Margaret?’ James called to her solicitously.

She shook her head and stumbled away, feeling a terrible heat building within. ‘Damn her!’ she cried, then dropped to her knees, doubling over to retch. It was but bile, for she had not eaten since early morning, and she felt weak when the spasms ceased. Sinking back on her heels, she pressed her cold, almost numb hands to her cheeks and whispered Hail Marys until her breathing calmed.

In the quiet aftermath a thought teased her consciousness. It seemed blasphemy to Margaret and she refused it, but its persistence won out.

Was it not God’s betrayal rather than Christiana’s? He had given her a vision in the presence of the English captain. Did that mean His blessing was on the English? She could not accept that. But neither could she accept her mother as betrayer of her people. There was no part of Christiana MacFarlane that was English in sympathy. She had not even spoken their language until her parents thought it might make her more marriageable.

Think, Margaret commanded herself. Wallace had set watchers on Kinnoull Hill, overlooking the river and Elcho on the other side. Might someone in the nunnery have noted the men and asked the English about them? Her mother might be no part of it. Perhaps the English had used her name to prevent a backlash from the townspeople. Surely some of them must support Wallace’s defence of Balliol’s crown.

‘Come, Margaret,’ James said gently. ‘We must not linger on the road.’ He crouched beside her, his eyes sympathetic, yet he still held firmly to Jonet’s arm.

‘How am I to hold my head up after this?’ Margaret moaned. ‘My father, my mother …’ The presence of Jonet angered her and cut short her lament. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly, ‘we must continue.’

As James rose, Jonet tried to slip from his grasp, but received a twist for her troubles.

‘Your parents’ transgressions cannot be laid at your feet,’ James said to Margaret as he reached out his free hand to help her up. ‘You are no longer of their households, you have no control over them.’

‘So you and those close to me understand. But not all people will see it so. I cannot return to the town. And what of the Wallace? He will find it difficult to trust me, or convince others to do so. I am damned.’

‘So must our king feel, Margaret. His former subjects jeer him, calling him “Toom Tabard” — empty coat, a mere English poppet. Can you imagine his humiliation? For surely he hears them, perhaps some even say it to his face.’

Margaret was uncomfortable discussing such things in Jonet’s hearing but the maid seemed unmoved. ‘John Balliol does not deserve such rebuke.’

‘Nor do you, Margaret. Now come,’ James said, ‘Wallace is not such a fool as to blame you, and in following through with your purpose to see him and to work for the return of our rightful king you will prove yourself a woman of honour.’

His words resonated in her heart, and she accepted them. They continued on, a solemn trio, and as if God acknowledged they’d had enough trials this afternoon, He blessed them with an uneventful journey.

A company of men melted out of the brush near the camp, daggers drawn, faces grim until they recognised Friar James. The sight of these fight-hardened men intensified Margaret’s fear. She was certain they bent their black looks on her, knew her as Christiana’s daughter. James handed Jonet on to the men and took Margaret’s arm when she hesitated, urging her forward. She walked with her eyes on the men’s muddy boots as they moved through brush and skirted a marshy lowland, then climbed a steep slope. Looking up to see how far she must climb, she was blinded by sunlight and stumbled. James was there with a firm hand beneath her elbow, coaxing her up to the top. When they reached it, he gently pressed her hand and smiled at her before he let go. His kindness and her exhaustion brought her to tears. Margaret wiped them away with impatience and was grateful that James had already looked away.

Jonet stared down at the camp in the glen. ‘So many!’

‘This is but a small camp,’ said James. ‘Parties gather here and are guided to Wallace’s camp further north. Is that why you are certain of our failure, Jonet? You thought there were only a few of us?’

The maid shrugged but she seemed to shrink in on herself.

Margaret wondered at James’s frankness with the maid. ‘Should Jonet see this? Should we not have covered her eyes?’

‘She will not be released to return to her friends in Perth, if that is your worry,’ said James.

He had not mentioned that before. Margaret had thought Jonet would return with her and face her father and her husband. She hid her confusion by gazing out on the camp and saying, ‘I had imagined tents.’ There were none, merely men sitting, standing, pacing amidst scattered plaids and travelling packs.

‘Tents would slow us down,’ James said.

Although there were campfires, none were lit. A few game carcasses hung upside down from a low branch by one of the fire circles, too little for so many men as spread out before her.

Their guides led them among the clusters of men. Margaret bowed her head, certain they could see some sign on her that branded her as the daughter of the woman who had betrayed their comrades.

She recognised William Wallace standing at the centre of a circle of men, the late-afternoon sunlight burnishing his coppery hair. He stood taller than the rest, but that was not what most set him apart. It was rather the respectful distance the men kept from him. Though they pressed together to hear what was said, no one crowded the Wallace, no one so much as touched him with their garments.

Someone must have commented on their approach, for Wallace turned towards them. He nodded at James and began to smile, then his eyes were drawn to Margaret and she thought the smile faded.

The men drew back to let the newcomers through.

‘I hoped to see you before I returned to Kinclaven camp, James,’ said Wallace. ‘Is this the supporter of whom you have spoken so warmly?’

James gave a little bow. ‘This is Margaret Kerr. Margaret, William Wallace.’

‘I am honoured to meet you, sir,’ Margaret said, bowing her head.

‘Dame Margaret, you are most welcome. And is this your handmaid?’

‘She was,’ said Margaret, ‘but no more. She has consorted with the English to spy on my family.’

‘We have brought her in the hope that she may have information of use to you,’ said James.

‘And what of her mother,’ Jonet demanded, looking at Margaret, ‘who favours the English with her visionary warnings?’

A murmur rose among the men. Wallace silenced them with a gesture and then led the newcomers to a fire circle sheltered in a rocky outcropping. It faced the others but was a few yards removed. A young man made room for them, lit a small fire, and offered them water.

It was clear and cold. Margaret rinsed the bad taste from her mouth, then drank her fill and splashed some on her face.

All this while she had kept her eyes averted from those around her. Wallace and James were quietly talking to Jonet. It seemed that the sight of so many men willing to risk their lives for their king had convinced her to cooperate, and she was providing names and activities without hesitation. Margaret leaned back against a sun-warmed rock and closed her eyes. Her turn would come, and she hoped to be calm for it.

Waking from a doze, Fergus found his injured eye swollen shut.

‘It hurts me to look at you, son,’ said Malcolm from a chair beside the bed. He leaned close. ‘But your good eye is clear?’

‘I can see you,’ said Fergus. ‘Where’s Maggie?’

Malcolm shrugged. ‘Heaven knows. Gone out the window, with that devoted maid of hers.’ He handed Fergus a cup. ‘This is the physick they left for you.’

The liquid was bitter, and though Fergus did not drink much he guessed he would not be awake long, for he’d not had much earlier. But it numbed his bruised side and shoulder nicely and he saw no reason to deny himself that comfort. ‘I’m to return to the Wallace and carry a message to Murray near Aberdeen. I’ll have a guide. You won’t stop me.’

Malcolm grunted. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying. Abandon our business now and you’ll have no inheritance. You wouldn’t be so foolish.’

‘There’s no trade.’

‘There will be. I trow we’ll chase those bastards back to the border and our ships will sail once more, with Dundee and Perth making up for our loss of Berwick.’

‘I want Maggie.’

‘I told you, she left by her chamber window and Sinclair cannot find her. We’re off to Elcho at dark to seek her.’

‘What of me?’

‘Dame Ada came asking about you. She is sending one of her servants to bide with you the night.’

‘Why would Maggie be at Elcho?’

‘You don’t need to hear of that now, lad. Rest. I’ll sit by you a while longer.’

I’ll go to Aberdeen with or without your blessing, Fergus swore silently, his mouth unable to form the words. Not that it mattered. He knew his father would not listen. The bitter herbs pulled him back down into sleep.

The soft cadence and courtesy of Wallace’s speech and the warmth of the rock had lulled Margaret into a doze. She awoke with a start, her mouth dry. Jonet was nowhere in sight, and another cup of water sat by Margaret. James and Wallace were talking quietly. Loath to call attention to herself, she lifted the cup and drank, thankful again for the soothing coolness. She wondered why James still wore the habit.

He glanced over his shoulder. ‘You’re awake.’

‘Where’s Jonet?’ Margaret asked.

‘She’s no longer your concern,’ said Wallace. He motioned to her to come closer.

They made a small circle of three.

‘I see by your ease that you understand you are among friends, Dame Margaret,’ said Wallace. ‘I am glad of that, for I count on you to confide in me.’ He smiled kindly when she blushed at the allusion to her nap.

He was perhaps her brother Andrew’s age, but as so many of her countrymen did now, he had the eyes of an older man who had put aside the conceits and games of youth. Strange that he should so trust James, the devoted play-actor.

‘I’ll tell you anything that might be of help to our king, sir,’ she said.

‘Be assured that I do not hold you responsible for the activities of your parents,’ he said. ‘James says you have heard about Kinnoull Hill.’

Margaret glanced at James, who gave her an encouraging nod. ‘I have,’ she said.

‘Two more of our men have died from their wounds,’ said Wallace. ‘It is best you hear it from me. Death is expected on such a mission. Our men brought death to theirs. They returned the violence. At the end of every mission I thank God for sparing me this time.’

Margaret bowed her head, seeing no need for words.

‘James has told you of your brother Andrew’s courageous help. Now I want your brother Fergus to carry a message to Murray near Aberdeen. He has a letter of invitation from his uncle the shipbuilder, so he has a good chance of being released if he is caught. His youthfulness will also help — he seems younger than his years.’ Wallace smiled when he said that. ‘Is this acceptable to you?’

‘I shall be proud of my brother if he accepts the mission,’ said Margaret, ‘but it is for Fergus to decide.’

Wallace nodded. ‘Your father and your husband are of interest to me. I doubt that surprises you. Would you tell me what you know of their activities regarding our English troubles?’

Margaret turned to James. ‘You have not told him what you know?’

‘Not what I learned today,’ said James. ‘I thought you would wish to.’

‘And Roger?’

‘He knows what I do of Roger, but if you know anything more …’

She had not yet told James of the letters, and she felt unsure about what to say. So she began with her father.

Wallace listened so unresponsively that Margaret wondered at times whether she had lost his interest. But he interrupted her once to ask if she could describe one of the sterlings, which she could not, and when she had exhausted what she knew he asked a few questions that made it plain he had listened closely.

He sat back against the rocks, nodding thoughtfully, and gradually a bemused smile spread across his sun-browned face.

‘Your father takes bold risks,’ he said.

‘Over-bold this time,’ said Margaret.

‘He was poorly informed,’ said Wallace.

James chuckled. ‘You think he might be of use, William?’

Wallace shifted forward, leaning an elbow on a bent knee, his eyes alight. ‘We need such men. Too many consider the risk and lose heart.’

Margaret thought him mad, but kept her own counsel. She let them talk a while as she thought about the letters. Aylmer was nothing to her, but Roger — she felt a lingering, perverse loyalty to him. She turned instead to the news that her mother was guilty of two additional deaths. Throughout her childhood Margaret had feared her mother’s visions would come to some horrible disaster, and they finally had.

‘God help them,’ she prayed.

‘What?’ asked James.

Margaret realised she must have voiced the thought. ‘I was praying for the men caught on the cliffs.’ She crossed herself. ‘I must go to my mother. She must hear and understand what she has done.’

‘The deed is done,’ said James.

‘I see your point, Dame Margaret,’ Wallace said.

She was glad of the great man’s support, and puzzled by the angry look James gave him.

Shortly it was agreed that James would escort her downriver at deep dusk. Wallace’s goal was not Christiana’s contrition, but rather he hoped that to regain her daughter’s respect she would be willing to explain the visions concerning the true king’s identity.

Margaret tried not to be disappointed in Wallace’s self-interest, for it provided her the opportunity to confront her mother. Perhaps they would both be satisfied, she thought, and that was a doubly good result.

Malcolm did not think to use his wife’s new favour with the English to depart the town openly. At the far end of dusk he led Aylmer and Roger through the backlands, slipping through the shadows. He was buoyant with hope, his senses alert, his step confident. He would recover his wife, heedlessly set aside when his head was too full of intrigue to realise how he needed her beside him. He thanked God for this chance to win back his Christiana, the light of his life. He did not let his thoughts rest overlong on the capture of Wallace’s men. Christiana could not have foreseen the damage she would do by recounting her vision. Poor, foolish woman. He would cherish her all the more for her innocence. For that is what it must be, that she was unaware of the evil in men’s hearts.

Once in the boat they kept close to the weedy bank, and only Aylmer, manning the oars, sat upright.

‘Do you really think we’ll get past the de Arroch guards?’ Roger muttered.

‘She’s my wife. They have no right to deny me, and I’m bringing you to speak for me.’

‘The English will be watching. Thomas de Arroch and his companions will not want to alarm them.’

‘It is dark.’

‘They’ll have torches.’

‘Quiet,’ Aylmer muttered.

Both withdrew into silence.

Leaving Jonet at the camp, Margaret and James made their way to the river under escort as dusk lingered into the summer night. Margaret moved too eagerly in James’s opinion. She did not sufficiently understand the danger of this mission.

‘You can still change your mind,’ he said, as the men removed a screen of branches and brush from a small boat.

‘I must do this,’ Margaret said. ‘The English will hardly report to Ma that two more men died, and she must ken the mortal cost of her loose tongue.’

‘You do understand that we might die on the water? The English will be watching the river.’

‘Two in a small boat will not alarm them,’ said Margaret, ‘is that not what Wallace said?’

‘He said perhaps.’ And he had not wished to dissuade her, damn him.

Margaret looked out over the river. ‘It’s too dark. They’ll not see us well enough to aim their arrows. But you can still allow me to go alone as I requested.’

‘No.’ James could not let her face death alone, or whatever lesser danger might befall her. He felt responsible for her involvement in this cause despite her argument that she had chosen it. He had heard the hesitation in her voice as she told Wallace of the documents she had taken to Ada. That Aylmer was the Bruce’s kinsman had made her deed more dangerous than she seemed to realise. She was but a woman, with no training in defending herself.

By necessity, there would be little conversation once they were on the river. James would use the time to consider how he might teach her what she needed to know, for it was clear she was determined to carry out her mother’s prophecy of mingling with soldiers.

The three men set down on a stretch of river bank near Elcho with enough brush and small trees to screen them from the guards. While Roger and Aylmer crouched beneath the trees and planned an approach that would not alarm the de Arroch men, Malcolm left them and wandered down closer to the river bank. Though he believed the guards would recognise him soon enough, he would wait a little longer to see whether the two came up with a better plan. He wanted nothing to go wrong. All he wanted was to set sail for Bruges with Christiana and leave this troubled land, and whether it was for a time or for good he did not care.

He let his mind wander back to their last meeting. Christiana’s words had sent him away, but there had been something in her gestures, her voice, her eyes that hinted at a passion that all her prayers had been unable to still. He might have pleasure of her yet, and he would be gentle with her, slow and patient, attentive to her desire. He grew hard planning the only strategy that interested him now.

‘Down!’ James said, pulling the oars out of the water and folding forward. He had guided the boat close to a ship docked just north of Perth, unusually far upstream from the shipyard but fortunate for their stealthy purpose as there were soldiers on the bank beyond.

Margaret hesitated, not knowing what was more terrifying, looking up at the hulking mass of the ship or crouching blindly in its shadow. She had never been on the river at night, much less with a ship towering above. What by day was a fascinating beehive of activity was now a thing out of her most frightening dreams.

James reached out and pulled her down.

He used the paddle just to steer the skiff safely downstream now, so they had slowed to the summer current. Margaret’s heartbeat slowed, too, and she was beginning to believe they would make it to Elcho without incident when she heard the soft singing of an arrow and then James’s groan. She sat up and saw that they had just passed Greyfriars’. James pressed her back down and bent low over her.

‘Where is your wound?’ she managed to whisper.

‘Left shoulder. I don’t think it’s deep.’

They huddled so for what seemed an eternity, their shallow breaths mingling. Margaret could hear James’s heart racing.

Finally James straightened. ‘Cursed luck. One arrow and I caught it. You’ll have to steer, Maggie.’

She straightened up and, taking the paddle, turned the boat so that she was facing downriver.

James lifted his habit and used a knife to cut a strip from the shirt he wore beneath. ‘It’s but a flesh wound, I think. I was some idle bastard’s sport, a bored guard shooting at anything moving on the river.’

But it was bleeding freely, and the cloth he held to it was soon dark. Margaret read in his movements that James was shaken, and she understood. It might have been much worse, so close to his heart.

She leaned towards him once they were past Friarton Island. ‘We’ve but to show Thomas de Arroch that you are wounded and they’ll let us through.’

‘And if they don’t, it’s not my right arm, I can bloody them all. Begin guiding us to shore,’ he said.

A splash distracted Malcolm. Whatever caused it was still upriver and faint, but it was the first sound he’d noticed on the water. Which in itself was strange. He wondered whether it was a night creature or a vessel on the river. He leaned forward, cocking his best ear towards the Tay, and held his breath.

Another splash, and yet another. Oars dipping into the water, Malcolm thought. And the irregular rhythm suggested it was drifting towards shore.

He crept back to his companions and alerted them. Aylmer sprang to his feet, dagger drawn, a conditioned fighter. Though his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Malcolm did not see as well at night as he once had, and he sensed rather than saw Roger’s grim mood. Both men seemed certain they were about to engage in battle.

‘It might be but a deer crossing the river,’ Malcolm whispered. He prayed it was so. The men guarding Elcho were trouble enough for one evening, and a confrontation would only delay his reunion with Christiana.

‘Draw your weapon and prepare to defend yourself,’ Roger said.

‘They’re close now,’ Aylmer murmured.