The Fire In The Flint

21

Resisting the urge to swat at a cluster of midges, Malcolm looked a little to the side and his peripheral vision showed him a dark shape floating towards the bank. Someone was speaking softly — age had not dulled his sharp hearing. As he strained to make out the figures in the boat — for he guessed the one speaking addressed a companion — he heard a branch break behind him and drew his dagger. They were caught between two unknowns.

‘Devil take them,’ muttered Roger. ‘They’ve attracted company.’

‘Or their companions are coming to meet them,’ said Aylmer, backing away from the water towards the sheltering brush.

The marshy bank received the boat with a sucking sigh. The paddle thudded on the bottom of the boat, which rocked, the ground complaining wetly, as a man rose and stepped out on to the slippery bank. As the second passenger arose, Malcolm heard the rustle of skirts.

‘A woman?’ he murmured.

Both figures at the boat froze.

‘Who goes there?’ came a voice from behind the three watchers. Before anyone could respond, the speaker became aware of the trio in the bush and shouted, ‘Over here!’

‘It is Margaret Kerr,’ came the response from the bank. ‘My companion is injured.’

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Malcolm cried, ‘what madness is this? Roger, it is your wife.’ Hearing grunts, he turned and found Roger and Aylmer engaged with two of the Elcho guards. ‘Stop!’ Malcolm cried. ‘We are-’

Roger gave a choked cry.

Malcolm was grabbed from behind and held in a vice-like grip.

‘Roger? Oh, dear God,’ Margaret moaned in the darkness.

When a torch was shone on the scene Roger was down, bleeding from the chest and the back of one leg, and Aylmer was held firmly like Malcolm, though his captor allowed him to cradle an injured hand. Margaret knelt to Roger, and the friar held a bloody rag to his shoulder as he explained his presence to the torch-bearer. There were six guards in all, more than on the earlier nights.

Malcolm swore under his breath and was rewarded with sharp pain in his chest as the vice closed even tighter. ‘You’ve broken my ribs, you bastard. I’m Malcolm Kerr, come to see my wife,’ he gasped.

Had he not heard the agony in Margaret’s cry James might have laughed at the absurdity of the scene despite his useless, bleeding arm. A family gathering of the Kerr clan turned mayhem. From what he’d seen of the family it was fitting.

But it was far from amusing, the guards talking anxiously about the English on the cliffs across the river. Roger Sinclair was carried to the nunnery on a makeshift litter, Margaret hurrying beside him, her gown stained with his blood.

They had been taken to the priory guest house, and after much arguing about her own state, Margaret had convinced the sisters that she was able and determined to assist Dame Eleanor with Roger. As she helped the nun cut Roger’s clothes away from the wounds, he stared up at her. She thanked God his eyes were so focused. With the grace of God and the sister’s skill he should recover. When she had heard his groan she had feared the worst, and finding him on the ground, his life’s blood pooling … She choked back a sob and prayed silently.

‘Why did you come here, Maggie?’ Roger asked, his words slurred from the physick the nun had given him.

‘Lie quietly and rest,’ she said, smoothing his damp hair from his forehead.

‘What are you doing with a friar?’

‘We’ll talk later,’ Margaret said. ‘You’ve lost much blood.’ Her own gown had been so heavy with his blood and damp from the marshy ground on which she’d knelt that the sister had insisted she step out of it before she was permitted to assist.

‘Bring the hot water,’ the sister said, ‘and the clean cloths.’

Roger closed his eyes. By the time his wound was dressed he was asleep.

Weak with fatigue, Margaret did not join James and the others down below, but crawled on to the pallet the sisters had provided her in Roger’s room and let sleep carry her away.

A cough roused Malcolm from sleep. Gripping his side in agony, he struggled to sit up and reached in the dark for the watered wine the sisters had left for him. He needed something far stronger, but this would have to do. Draining the cup, he held his breath hoping to keep his rib still while he rose. By the time he stood he was gasping and dizzy. The hearth circle glowed invitingly but his bladder needed emptying before he could enjoy the heat. Outside, the sky and the river were silvered with the coming dawn and the world yet slept. He turned away from the river and considered the guest house. He could see well enough in the odd light and although he had never been permitted to visit Christiana in her chamber, he had watched her come and go there on more than one occasion and he knew the room she now called home was towards the rear. He brushed off his clothes, wincing at the touch of his own hand on his side, and headed back through the quiet yard. On his earlier visits he had not noticed the flowers that carpeted the ground beside the guest-house stairs. The blossoms were closed now, awaiting the sun, but they’d been artfully planted. And there were small trees. It saddened him to see such evidence of comfort. He’d thought of the priory as a drab place, and Christiana’s time here as a waiting, an in-between state, a limbo that she would be eager to escape, loving colour and beauty as she did.

He climbed the steps slowly so that he need not expand his lungs to breathe. At Christiana’s door, he hesitated. She and Marion would yet sleep, and he would frighten them with a knock. But to wait when so near would be agony. He might sneak in and slip into Christiana’s bed. From long memory her body would welcome him. And by the time she woke … Malcolm groaned at the thought of such pleasure, but rejected the idea. Such a dishonourable act was not the way to win her back. Taking a seat on the bench without, he listened for sounds of awakening.

A sweet-faced sister woke Margaret, who found that the exertions of the previous day had brought stiffness throughout her body. She sat up more slowly than usual and glanced over to see that Roger still slept.

‘You have had a difficult time,’ said the sister.

She handed Margaret a mazer of honeyed almond milk. It did little to fill the emptiness of her stomach, but Margaret savoured it.

The nun settled on a stool beside Margaret, her hands already moving along her paternoster beads.

‘You are not the sister who dressed my husband’s wounds last night, I think,’ said Margaret.

‘No, I have no such gift. That would have been Dame Eleanor. I am Dame Bethag, and I’ve come to ask a favour. I hope you will break your fast with your mother this morning.’

‘I thought to eat here, with the others. I would see how James fares this morning.’

‘The one disguised as a friar?’ asked Bethag.

‘Yes.’

‘He is yet asleep. Only your father is awake. And gone to your mother, which will anger the prioress.’

Margaret was not surprised. She had guessed he had come to beg Christiana one more time to leave with him. Yet it did not explain the presence of Roger and Aylmer. ‘Do you wish me to fetch my father away?’

Bethag shook her head. ‘I would not be so bold. My concern is your mother’s grief over the man killed on Kinnoull Hill, and the ones taken. She blames herself overmuch and has neither eaten nor slept since she learned of it. She will not be comforted, not even by our chaplain. But the vision came to her as she stood before the English captain. It was not quite the vision she had composed at Dame Agnes’s request. Surely God inspired her.’

‘The prioress requested a vision?’

Dame Bethag explained the purpose.

Margaret was incensed. ‘What right had Dame Agnes to so use my mother?’ she cried then, remembering where she was, she checked that Roger still slept.

‘The scheme was ill-advised,’ said Bethag, ‘but the Lord used it for His own mysterious purpose.’

Margaret did not know what to think. ‘I came here to speak to Mother of the tragedy her words caused, not to comfort her, but … You say she is neither eating nor sleeping?’

‘She is inconsolable.’ Bethag regarded Margaret. ‘You blame her for delivering God’s message to the English captain.’

‘Do you believe this vision came from God?’

‘If not, whence comes such knowledge?’

‘I don’t know,’ Margaret confessed. ‘I’ve feared that her visions were from the devil. Or that pagan spirits possess her.’

Dame Bethag leaned over and patted Margaret’s hand, smiling kindly. ‘You need not worry, I have seen the light of God’s grace in Dame Christiana’s eyes.’ She sat back. ‘But you must do as your conscience tells you, as well as your daughterly intuition of your mother’s needs.’

Margaret did not know whether the nun’s assurances were comforting or disturbing.

Roger stirred.

‘I’ll break my fast here,’ said Margaret, ‘then go to Ma.’

Bethag took the mazer from Margaret and, with a whispered blessing, departed.

‘Don’t listen to her,’ Roger said weakly from his pallet across the way.

Margaret went to him. He looked exceedingly pale and the veins in his forehead pulsed angrily.

‘I would help you drink, but I am afraid to put my arm beneath your chest to help you sit.’

‘Slip another pillow beneath this one,’ he suggested.

She did so, and though he gasped at the pain he thanked her. She held a cup of watered wine to his lips. His breath was foul with suffering.

‘Why were you by the river?’ she asked.

‘I ask you the same. Did you come from Murray or Wallace?’

‘James Comyn brought me here, and for his pains he was injured.’ She thought it sufficient information.

‘Him?’ Roger coughed. ‘He would be with them for certain.’

She sat carefully on the pallet. ‘He is a good friend from Edinburgh.’

‘No doubt. He followed you here?’

‘I have questions for you, Roger.’

He closed his eyes and took a few breaths.

‘I don’t like the sound in your chest,’ she said. The questions must wait. ‘Will you try another pillow?’

‘Why are you attending me? You brought Comyn here to have his wound tended.’

‘His was not so …’

‘Mortal?’

‘Disabling. You will live, Roger. The sister who dressed your wounds seemed skilled.’

‘What would she know of battle wounds?’

‘She was confident in her ministrations. No one is truly cloistered while Edward Longshanks’s army is on our land.’

Margaret slipped another pillow beneath the others.

‘Holy Mother!’ Roger groaned, a hand hovering over his dressing.

‘I’ll fetch Dame Eleanor.’

Roger caught Margaret’s hand. ‘Not yet. I mean to tell you all in case …’ He paused for breath. ‘I do not share your confidence in a cloistered nun’s skill with sword wounds.’

‘Roger, I pray you-’

‘That night in Murdoch’s undercroft,’ he said, ‘Old Will discovered us. I saw his state of drunkenness and guessed he merely sought a place to lie down out of the cold. But Aylmer would not hear of it. Before I could reach the old man, the deed was done. Once he was mortally wounded, there was nothing I could do for him.’

‘Aylmer,’ Margaret whispered. She had no difficulty accepting his guilt. ‘Did he take Old Will back to his rooms?’

‘I insisted.’

‘How kind.’

‘Maggie.’

‘You might have spoken out against Aylmer.’

‘You know who he is, Maggie.’

‘I do. Did his violence not cause you to question your allegiance to his kinsman? Is your conscience no longer your own?’

‘Maggie, Aylmer was right. The old man had seen us, and we could not risk his recalling what he’d seen, revealing our presence before we chose to appear. I can’t expect you to understand, Maggie, but it is the way in war.’

In her mind’s eye she saw again the two caskets, her father’s with a broken lock, Roger’s merely left unfastened, the lid closed sloppily on some documents. How easily she’d been misled. And how smoothly he’d continued to lie to her. Here was what she had feared, a chasm too wide to be bridged. ‘I doubt anyone would have believed Old Will over you. And he was innocent.’

‘No, Maggie. He was spying for the English. They’d paid him well.’

‘Old Will?’ So that was the source of the money for the shoes and the ale — and why the English took action upon his death when they had not after all the others. ‘That is why the English searched his lodgings,’ she said. ‘They wanted the siller for another spy.’

‘But Mary Brewster was there first, and they’ll never retrieve the siller from her clutches.’ Roger smiled wanly. ‘That is the only satisfaction in the story.’

Satisfaction. God help him in his blindness. ‘Can even Mary Brewster be safe from the English garrison?’

‘Her daughter Belle ensures that, Maggie. The men would not wish to lose her.’ Roger was quiet a moment, breathing shallowly.

Margaret leaned down and kissed him on the forehead, then smoothed his hair from his fevered brow. ‘I’ll leave you to rest,’ she said.

‘To go to James Comyn?’ Roger’s eyes shone unhealthily. ‘How is it he had not discovered the truth about Old Will’s spying?’

‘Perhaps you are more clever than he is.’ Margaret attempted a smile though she did not like the direction their conversation was taking.

‘And yet you love him.’

Jealous. She would have cried with joy had he exhibited jealousy a year ago. ‘I did not say that, Roger. I loved you. I still do.’ She said it with far more certainty than she felt. Worry softened her feelings for him, but he’d lied to her from the moment he reappeared in Edinburgh.

‘You have doubts, Maggie. I see it in your eyes.’

His insistence frightened her a little. She prayed James did not read her confusion in the same way. ‘You’ve chosen the worst time to pay heed to my feelings.’ She felt tears coming and busied herself soaking a cloth in a bowl of water as she said, ‘We are so far apart.’ For it worked both ways — she had kept much from him.

‘Are we so divided? We both hate Edward Longshanks.’

‘Do we? I’ve seen no proof that Robert Bruce hates him.’

‘What can he do to convince you?’

‘I don’t know, Roger.’ She placed the cool cloth on his forehead, then kissed him on the cheek. ‘You are in good hands here.’

Roger caught the neck of her gown and prevented her from rising. ‘You’d leave before I’m recovered?’

He was too weak to hold her, but she did not move away.

‘There is no trust between us. I must fight for every morsel of truth I wring from you.’

‘So you leave me now, when I am helpless to stop you?’

Someone knocked.

Margaret took Roger’s hand from her gown, resting it gently on his chest. ‘I am leaving. If the Bruce rewards you richly for your service, you might spend some of the siller to free yourself from me, to buy an annulment.’

‘Never. Maggie!’

She walked to the door on trembling legs.

Roger struggled to sit up.

‘Be still!’ Margaret cried, but resisted the urge to return to his side.

‘If you can forgive your mother for her betrayal, you must forgive me.’

‘I do, Roger, I do. But it’s not enough.’ She opened the door to Dame Eleanor. ‘I’ll leave you with my husband. He fusses too much when I’m here.’ She stepped out and shut the door behind her.

The morning was cruelly beautiful with drops of dew glistening like gems of many colours on the gallery posts and the air sweet with late summer flowers. Margaret sank down on her haunches, wrapped her arms around her legs, and pressed her forehead into her knees. She shivered with the terrors of the previous night that she had pushed aside in order to nurse Roger. James might have been killed by the arrow loosed so casually, the arrow that had been shot from the riverfront of Perth, her home. And Roger’s wounds — the de Arrochs were vicious in their guardianship of the nuns; he, too, might have died, and might still. The world had become a terrible place without sanctuary.

The thought of leaving Roger, of opening wide the rift and pulling free to drift alone in this bleeding land terrified her. She was nothing without him, an unmarried woman dependent on her family once more, and yet she could hardly depend on her parents, both of them adrift in nightmares of their own making. Celia, her staunchest friend, was a servant with nothing. She did have Ada, and James was her ally, but only in regard to her work for his kinsman. And she must tread carefully with him; he must not misconstrue her motivation. A long while Margaret crouched there shivering, letting go her pent up-tears, sobbing for all that she’d lost.

But as the waves of emotion subsided she discovered a flicker of confidence. Over the past months she had proven herself significant in her own right. She had remade her life in Edinburgh, worked for the return of her rightful king, and discovered the truth of Old Will’s murder as well as the intrusions in Perth and here at the priory. These were no small accomplishments. She was not without resources. She pushed herself up, wiped her eyes, and took great gulps of the cool morning air. When she felt steadier, she descended to the hall.

James stood near the hearth circle, his left arm bound to keep the shoulder immobile. He looked up at Margaret’s approach. She was suddenly aware of her borrowed gown’s short sleeves and skirt and she irritated herself by fussing with it.

‘You’ve been weeping,’ James said, stepping closer. ‘Is Sinclair …’ He hesitated. ‘How goes your husband?’

‘He has wearied himself with talk, but it is a good sign. Dame Eleanor has some skill, I think.’

James glanced down at his shoulder. ‘She does, to have made me as comfortable as she has.’

‘He lost much blood from the chest wound, but it is the slash behind his knee that he will remember. You are not in pain?’

She had never seen James so unkempt and hollow-eyed.

‘None of this need have happened,’ he said. ‘There must have been a way to prevent this.’

Margaret shook her head. ‘What good are such thoughts? We cannot return to the past and undo it.’ She sank down in a chair and accepted a cup of ale from a servant. ‘But I know, I know.’

James sat down beside her. ‘How far back would you go if you could?’

‘Would I undo my marriage? Is that what you ask?’

‘Would you?’

‘It would have spared me much suffering. But there have been moments-’ She stopped. This was not something she meant to share with James. ‘I wish I had seen Jonet’s dissatisfaction. I wish Ma had gone to Bruges where she might have done no harm. But things are as they are and I must live with them.’

She stopped, noticing that Aylmer had awakened and was listening from his pallet.

‘You,’ she said, rising and moving towards his pallet, her anger growing with every step. ‘You’re naught but a coward, murdering an old man when he was too drunk to defend himself, then leaving him on the floor of his chamber to die.’

With a curse, Aylmer began to rise. ‘I listen to no woman’s babble,’ he growled.

Margaret shoved him back down with her foot.

‘Margaret!’ James pulled her back just as Aylmer grabbed for her foot with his uninjured hand. ‘This serves no one.’

‘My mother can neither eat nor sleep for sorrow about the deaths she caused and you — I saw how dead your eyes were after you killed the soldiers at the bridge below Stirling. You have no soul.’ Woman’s babble. She would not be so dismissed. She shook James off and withdrew, but not before hearing Aylmer grunt from a blow. Cursed man, cursed master.

Malcolm woke to sunrise and Marion crouching in front of him with a cup of ale. By St Rule, he was an old man to fall asleep at such an important juncture in his marriage. He drank down the ale and rose.

‘You cannot see Dame Christiana,’ said the handmaid.

‘Stop me,’ he said, pushing her aside and entering the chamber.

Marion fluttered behind, making anxious noises. Malcolm was accustomed to her and paid her no heed. But the room confused him. Pieces of his married life littered the place — chairs, tables, tapestries, chests, lamps — crowding it so that he wondered how the two women fitted within. This room belonged in a market place, not a priory.

‘Does she move all this out on to the gallery to entertain?’ he asked.

‘My mistress leads a quiet life here,’ said Marion.

Malcolm walked up to Christiana’s favourite carved screen and beyond it discovered her still abed, buried beneath cushions and bedding in disarray as was her custom. He was increasingly disappointed. He had imagined an ascetic life, with Christiana rising before dawn to kneel on the bare earth in prayer.

Marion dutifully set a cushioned chair beside her mistress’s bed. ‘I’ll bring more ale, sir,’ she said. ‘But you mustn’t wake her. It’s the first time she’s slept since …’ She crossed herself and withdrew.

Malcolm leaned closer and called out his wife’s name. The bedclothes shifted a little. He tried again.

Christiana’s head emerged from the blankets, her hair wild, her eyes wilder, with huge black pupils.

Malcolm’s heart sank. He knew this look, and he knew it was true she had not slept, and that she still could not.

‘Women in cages,’ she keened in the otherworldly voice of her most terrible visions, ‘hanging over castle yards, open to the leering crowds.’ The covers slipped further and she sat up, scooting back against the cushions, an arm thrown up to protect her. ‘The bridge beneath the castle is slippery with blood, the marsh grass is red with it.’

‘God help us,’ Margaret whispered behind him.

He turned and took his daughter in his arms despite the pain. ‘Oh, Maggie, Maggie. Was ever a family so cursed?’

Prioress Agnes kindly gave Margaret another gown that fitted her passably.

‘Dame Bethag is devoted to your mother,’ she assured Margaret. ‘She will sit with her as much as possible until she recovers.’

Margaret was not as optimistic as the prioress regarding her mother’s recovery. She had never seen her so ravaged. But as long as the prioress had hope she would see to Christiana’s care. ‘Dame Bethag seems a patient woman,’ said Margaret. ‘I’ll remember her in all my prayers. And Dame Eleanor as well.’

‘Your husband is strong. He will recover completely, God willing, and then you shall have him home again.’

Margaret could not form the words to enlighten the prioress. ‘We’ll be leaving in a little while,’ she said. James waited for her at the guest house.

‘But you will come to see your mother from time to time?’

‘If Edward Longshanks permits,’ Margaret said.

The prioress gave her a puzzled look, then said, ‘Ah. Yes, that is so. My kinsmen say he is not finished with us.’

She would spend a quiet day or two with Ada, Margaret had decided. She did not want to be alone. She was riddled with doubt, remorse, and she knew she would agonise over whether to go to Roger once more though she knew it would be pointless. Now he needed her, and he was jealous. But the moment he was well enough to continue his service for the Bruce he would be gone again, particularly if he discovered that Margaret actively supported King John. If she were in her own home Fergus would wish to speak of things she did not wish to think of for a few days.

She had told her father and James what she’d learned from Roger about Old Will’s work for the English, his murder, Mary Brewster and Belle.

‘Well, at least that crime is solved, God curse him,’ said Malcolm. ‘We must annul your marriage. Searching for items to use against me — he’s not for you, Maggie.’

‘We have neither the influence nor the wealth to annul a marriage, Da,’ said Margaret. ‘Now give me some peace.’

James courteously lagged behind, but she guessed he’d heard and she did not want to know his reaction.

‘Your mother will recover as she ever has done,’ Malcolm went on, ‘and then I’ll return to take her to Bruges. But what will you do, Maggie?’

‘I don’t know, Pa, except that I mean to keep my pledge to work for the return of King John.’

‘If he cares to return.’ Malcolm had paused and looked Margaret in the eyes. ‘The Bruce is here, fighting with his men. Balliol is far away.’

‘He has been exiled, Pa.’

Although he did not look convinced, Malcolm had nodded. ‘Perhaps he’d be here if he could, I’ll grant you that possibility.’ He’d put a small pouch in her hands. ‘You’re a brave woman, Maggie. And perhaps Roger is a fool to back a Bruce — that family has always played with the devil.’

James had overtaken them and disappeared inside.

Margaret opened the pouch now, as she walked towards the guest house. Sterlings. Enough perhaps to buy the annulment herself. Her stomach fluttered and she went cold. The prospect terrified her. With every step she moved further away from the rules by which she’d lived her life and into a future in which she depended on herself to survive. But there was no going back. The flint had been struck and the flame burned within her. She had a purpose, and what she did from now on would matter to her people though they would never know her part. There would come a time, she prayed that it would be in her lifetime, when the streets and the riverfront of Perth were bustling with commerce, and a trip down the Tay could be taken openly and without worry. A time when her brother Andrew was free. That would be more satisfying than making do with a heartbroken marriage.

James was glad when Celia took her mistress in hand at Ada’s, preparing a hot bath, dosing her with some herbs to help her rest. Margaret had been so distracted on the journey back to the town he suspected that she had confronted Roger. Or perhaps she did not believe he would survive. In either case, she needed comforting. He’d been tempted to take her in his arms and assure her that all would be well, but he’d caught himself before making such an empty gesture. All would almost certainly not be well. It was not the way of things.

As he returned to Margaret’s house to make plans with Fergus, James wondered what she would choose to do now, what use she would make of the sterlings he felt quite sure weighted that pouch. She had such fierce loyalties, and there was such anger in her that he did not imagine for a moment she would stop here. Wallace and Murray were crowding the English, and a great battle was brewing, he could feel it. In the meantime he did not lack for tasks for Margaret. He felt guilty for using her, and a little apprehensive. She was no one’s but her own, and would therefore remain unpredictable unless he could find a way to understand her heart. If she had not been a married woman he might have wed her to keep her loyal to him. But that had not worked for Roger. He must befriend her, become necessary to her. He must think how.

A drizzle began as Margaret and Fergus left Sunday Mass. Despite the weather they walked slowly. He carried a small pack and kept Mungo by him with a cord attached to a collar he’d fashioned from a belt — the dog had worried it at first, but once he’d understood that he was to walk beside his master he seemed calm enough. He’d slept at Fergus’s feet in the kirk.

They were headed to the north gate, where Fergus would meet his companion for the journey. James was bringing him. Margaret worked to hide her agitation from her brother. He was going so far away that she feared she would not see him again. Her only consolation was his joy in finally embarking on an adventure.

‘Ada is teaching me more words,’ she said as they drew near the gate. ‘You might find someone coming this way who could carry a letter. Would you write to me?’

‘I’ll be busy, Maggie,’ said Fergus. ‘I cannot promise.’

‘I know,’ she said.

They had reached the gate. Still treated with special courtesy by the English guard, Margaret was free to walk out through the gate with Fergus.

‘I’ll not come far,’ she said. ‘I would just like to see your companion, so I can imagine the three of you.’ She leaned over to pet Mungo.

Fergus sighed, and when Margaret rose he caught her in a strong embrace.

‘I’ll write, Maggie, and you do, too.’

She felt how stiffly he held himself and understood that he, too, worked to hide his agitation.

‘I will, Fergus. Be happy in your work with Uncle Thomas. I’ll pray for you every day.’

And then James was there, in his own garb, greeting Mungo with a pat.

A compact, homely young man accompanied him. He eyed Fergus up and down and nodded. ‘You look untried. Good. And the dog is good.’ He bobbed his head at Fergus and Margaret. ‘I am Duncan,’ he said. ‘We’ll be journeying together.’ He, too, crouched to greet Mungo, who sniffed him and seemed to approve.

Margaret stepped back and watched as Fergus introduced himself and fell into conversation with his travelling companion. James joined her.

‘It’s a good match, I think,’ he said. ‘Duncan knows the way, and he’s silent and fast with a dagger.’

Margaret took a deep breath. ‘We should go back. I only embarrass him.’

James took her hand and squeezed it once. ‘And they must depart.’

She dared not reach down once more to Mungo. ‘Godspeed, both of you,’ she said with false cheer. She raised her hand in farewell and then turned back towards Perth.

‘The guard is watching,’ said James. He reached for Margaret’s hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm.

She blushed and began to pull away.

‘For his benefit, Margaret, we must look like old friends well met after a long separation. Smile up at me now.’

‘Let us rather talk in earnest about the crops on your property,’ Margaret said, keeping her eyes well away from his. She was grateful to him on Fergus’s behalf and glad to have his company to distract her from this difficult parting, but she meant to be James’s equal, and that meant creating her own comfortable disguise and guarding her heart.