The Fire In The Flint

6

For a little while, preparing for the celebratory supper, Celia had forgotten about the soldiers in the yard, the crumbling of the life she had begun to enjoy in Edinburgh. Geordie and Hal had set up a trestle table in the largest of the guest rooms in the house beside the tavern and Celia had spent the afternoon cleaning the room, arranging cruisies and candles, and helping Geordie set up. She had been included in the party, as well as Janet Webster and Hal. The seven ate and drank well. Murdoch had conjured three salmon and a large hare for two of the courses. It was more fish and meat than Celia had eaten in any one week, let alone a day, since she’d left Dunfermline. Enjoying herself, she perhaps drank the claret too quickly.

For as the meal wore on she noticed an almost visible, certainly palpable screen of tension around Roger and Margaret, distancing them from the others at the table. They spoke when others addressed them, and ate, laughed and drank, but they seemed truly aware only of one another, reaching for their shared cup at the same time, then awkwardly apologising, trying to spear the same slice of hare and barely missing the other. No one but Celia seemed to mark it.

When the diners rose from the table, Margaret and Roger moved as one to the door. Celia hurried after, offering to help Margaret. Her mistress blushed a little — or was it a flush from the food and wine? — and said it was not necessary, though Celia might leave a tray with wine and cups outside the chamber door. Celia wished she knew whether or not Margaret was happy about Roger’s return, whether she should be reading more into what was said, whether she should be hearing cues to do more than Margaret requested aloud. Certainly the ravages of the previous night visible on her mistress’s face this morning had not boded well. But Celia reminded herself that she was ignorant of the marriage bed, of any bedding with a man.

She felt discarded. Hal and Geordie seemed to sense her mood, for they quietly assisted her in the clean-up. When she could find no more to fuss over, she sought out Murdoch in his kitchen. Janet sat by the door that looked out on the maid’s cottage.

‘Is that where you are biding?’ she asked Celia.

‘No, I thought my mistress might need me, so I’m in a room near hers.’

‘Someone has been spending time in there.’

Not wishing to anger Murdoch by saying in his presence that the cook and the former chambermaid were meeting there, Celia merely requested the wine for Margaret and Roger.

‘What?’ Murdoch said, feigning disbelief. ‘Had they not enough to warm themselves?’

‘Celia has worked long and hard today, Murdoch,’ said Janet, ‘give her what she needs so she might rest.’

‘Humph. You lasses stick together,’ Murdoch complained. But he filled a pitcher and set it on a tray with two wooden cups. ‘I suppose you’ll go with your mistress to Perth.’

‘If she wishes me to,’ said Celia. So it was settled enough that Murdoch knew of the plan.

‘Och, she wishes you to be with her, I’m certain of that,’ said Murdoch. ‘If I allowed it she’d have Hal with her, too.’

Celia would as lief stay in Edinburgh, but not without Margaret. It cheered her a little to know she was not to be cast aside.

Roger had gone out to relieve himself. Margaret sat on the bed, hugging her chest to still the shivering. But she was conscious of a deep sadness. She had swallowed it all these months, drop by drop of poison, swallowed it all the months of her marriage. She had hidden away so much sadness, hidden it from prying eyes, even from herself. Blessed Mother, why was I so misled? She had loved Roger, wanted him, trusted him, and trusted those who had encouraged her with him. But once the wedding was over, they had all withdrawn, leaving her to discover how to exist in a suitable but empty marriage. Even Roger had departed as soon as he could.

The depth of her pain frightened her, as did the knowledge that she had carried this grief unconsciously, convincing herself that she was content, or at least managing to find some contentment in her role. She did not know whether she had ever actually loved him. She was not so innocent as not to know that many women merely tolerated their husbands, but surely she cared for Roger, for she had worried about him all the while he was gone. She must not give in to despair.

Perhaps her benumbed state had been a blessing, a divine gift to help her perform her duties. But then there must be cause for her sudden awakening.

She dropped her hands and took great gulps of air, sucking it deep within, steadying herself. Roger returned with wine and cups.

‘Bless Celia,’ she whispered.

‘She was only doing your bidding,’ Roger said. He handed her a cup and sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed. ‘Wasn’t she my mother’s servant?’

‘Yes. I’ve borrowed her over-long. But I’ve grown to depend on her.’

‘Well, we’ve no need for another servant, nor can we afford one.’

Margaret had not considered parting with Celia. ‘I’ll discuss it with her.’

‘You don’t really believe she’ll work merely for food and a roof over her head when she might be paid?’

‘Your mother paid her until Martinmas. It is only August, so we need not worry until November. And she has gained more by my uncle’s pay.’

‘We can escort her to Dunfermline on our way north.’

‘That would be out of our way. The English control the ferry across the Forth.’

‘Celia is not yours to command.’

Margaret tried to bite her tongue, but the thought of losing her one friend compelled her to speak. ‘Celia is a great aid and comfort to me. Jonet is caring for both our house and Da’s, and she’ll need help once we’re all there.’

‘Celia returns to my mother, Maggie. That is how it must be.’ Roger’s expression made it clear that he considered the case closed.

His tone angered her. What did this matter to him? He had not been there when Dame Katherine suggested that Celia accompany Margaret. He was using this to avoid more unpleasant subjects.

‘Listen to us,’ she said, controlling her anger, ‘arguing about a servant so that we might avoid mention of more painful things. What is to become of us?’

Roger said nothing for a moment, and then rubbed his eyes and dropped his hands to his sides as if weary. ‘Is it possible to begin again?’

‘I don’t know.’ Her face suddenly hot with emotion, Margaret fought tears. ‘I have understood these past months how far outside my ken you have been and it frightened me.’

‘Can man and woman ever understand one another?’

‘God help us if we can’t. Why would He have made us so?’

Roger stared at the floor, saying nothing. His expression was difficult to read in the flickering light. After a long silence, he asked, ‘Why did you remain here after finding Jack’s murderer?’

Margaret had hoped for some words of conciliation. ‘Because this is where you’d seen me last,’ she said, a half truth, though of late not true at all.

‘Why else?’

She must not tell him about her work for James. ‘Until Fergus’s recent letter I dreaded the idea of returning to Perth without you. At least here I was occupied, helping my uncle. The countryside is dangerous as well.’

‘You’ve changed, Maggie.’

‘And you.’

He came to sit on the edge of the bed beside her and took her hand. ‘Will you go home with me to Perth?’

‘Have I not said so?’

‘I am asking you anew. Without expectation.’

She feared that her acceptance would end all conversation. That is how it had worked in the past. ‘Your mission south from George Brankston’s house must have brought you past Perth. Why did you not stop to tell me what had happened? I would have known about Edwina.’

Roger rose up with a muttered curse. ‘Will we always be divided by that brave, unfortunate woman?’ There was a harsh edge to his voice, and he faced the window, not Margaret.

It was time to confront him. ‘You brought her here before you came home to Perth last summer. Uncle Murdoch said you’d brought her here before you returned to me. You’re still lying to me, Roger. I don’t know which of your stories to believe — looking for another port from which to ship goods, going to Dundee — you might be lying about those, too. And I’ve never heard you mention the Brankstons.’

‘God’s blood, woman, what must I do?’ he shouted, kicking aside a stool in temper. ‘You said we must listen to each other. Then listen!’

‘I am listening. But I catch you in lies, I sense you holding things back, and I fear that.’ Though God knew she kept much from him, and lied a little.

‘You have nothing to fear from me, I am your husband. If I tell a half truth or hold something back it is for your protection.’

‘I believe that ignorance is dangerous in times such as these. What you call protection does not work now.’

He began to speak, then paused, and dropped his head for a moment. Nodding, he looked up, opening his arms in surrender. ‘I have made mistakes.’

It was a concession, such as he had never made to her before. She feared pushing him further. ‘Then yes, Roger, I shall go home with you.’

They undressed shyly this time, and once in bed merely held one another.

Margaret woke in the night and thought Roger had gone. She sighed and rolled over, then noticed a soft light beyond the bed curtains. Peering through, she found Roger sitting partially clothed, with his head bowed, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped. A lamp flickered beside him on the bench. His posture saddened her, seeming one of defeat.

‘Sleep will not come?’ she whispered.

He jerked up, startled. ‘My candle woke you?’

‘No,’ she said, sitting up, pulling the cover round her. ‘What woke you?’

‘The devil torments me at night with thoughts of what might have been had the Maid of Norway lived, or had Longshanks been honest.’

‘Celia could mix you a sleep draught.’

‘Perhaps tomorrow.’

‘Tell me about where you have been.’

He gave a dispirited laugh. ‘On horseback, on foot, in leaking boats, sleeping on uneven, damp ground beneath shedding trees. This room is far more comfortable than anywhere I have slept in a long while. Perhaps that is why I’m wakeful.’

‘What of Robert Bruce’s household?’

‘I am not of his household, so I cannot say. When I have met with him he has looked a landed man, but not grand.’

‘Did you see battle?’

‘In Ayr it was unavoidable. Percy and Clifford came through in such force that my lords Stewart and Douglas approached them about surrender. Only the Bruce stood firmly against the English. None were great battles. I’ve yet to see thousands of troops marching towards me.’

Margaret crossed herself at the image he conjured. ‘You were willing to die for him?’

‘For us, Maggie. It is all for us,’ he said wearily as he shrugged off his shirt, blew out the candle, and climbed back on to the bed.

Margaret kissed him on the forehead and opened the blanket to pull him into the warmth. It was a beginning.

*

The next few days were filled with chores that cheered Celia. There was much Margaret wished to set to rights before they left. As Celia helped Margaret plan how to accomplish the work, she watched for changes in her mistress’s behaviour, seeking a clue as to whether or not she and Roger were reconciled. Each morning Margaret looked a little more rested, but it was a gradual change. Often Celia heard the murmur of voices when she woke in the night.

After sending a quantity of bedding to the laundress, they began a systematic cleaning and emptying of the guest rooms, Margaret deciding what items should be moved to the undercroft, such as mattresses that would moulder if the rooms were unoccupied for long. The undercroft, lined in stone, was drier.

A few mornings after Roger’s arrival they were working in the room across from the one Celia was occupying.

‘I am sorry you have been displaced,’ said Margaret.

‘Truth to tell, the chamber up here is nicer than the maid’s cottage where I had thought to stay.’

‘Perhaps we can make it even more comfortable.’

‘But we’re leaving.’

‘Surely not for a week or so. There’s much to do to prepare.’ Margaret stepped across to Celia’s room, then returned. ‘Another cruisie, I think. Or several.’

When they were finished upstairs, Margaret suggested that they move on to the maid’s cottage. ‘Janet mentioned that it seems to be in use, that there’s bedding and lamps within. Did you ready it and then change your mind?’

Celia knew her mistress’s tenacity in unravelling mysteries, so she told her of Roy’s meetings with Belle.

Margaret looked embarrassed. ‘I had not guessed. Uncle would be furious to hear that they’ve been meeting in the cottage.’

Celia knew. ‘They’ve been foolish to risk it, but they’ll not continue for long … Roy started quite a row the other day, telling Belle that with the tavern boarded up he has no occupation, and therefore no choice but to choose a side and arm himself.’

It was sadly true, Margaret thought as they went down the steps. There seemed no occupation but the war at present. Longshanks was not only stealing their country but their livelihoods, their lives. She wondered whether she and Roger might have been happier in better times.

They stood now in the cottage doorway, taking in the rumpled bedding, the chairs and a small table with two cups and a flagon.

Margaret cursed beneath her breath. ‘They’ve been bold enough,’ she said. ‘I can’t think how Murdoch has missed them. Why didn’t you tell me of their trespass before?’

‘I thought you had worries enough,’ Celia said.

‘When did you discover it?’

‘The night Master Roger arrived.’

Margaret walked in and picked up the cups and flagon. ‘Strip the mattress,’ she said, ‘and remove the lamps. I’ll speak to Roy.’

‘Do you think they might have heard something the night of Old Will’s death?’ Celia asked.

‘I wish I’d known of their meetings.’

‘What is the harm of allowing them what little time together they might yet have?’ Celia asked.

‘Roy might wish to work here again one day, Celia. Have you thought of that?’

Celia shook her head. She thought it unlikely that Roy would return. She could not imagine a man, once he’d tasted soldiering, wishing to cook again.

Margaret considered sitting out in the yard for a while to enjoy the late-afternoon sun. Since Roger had arrived she’d filled every waking hour with work. But she would just fret about speaking to Roy if she tried to relax before resolving the issue. So she set her shoulders and carried the flagon and cups into the kitchen. She was disappointed to find Geordie alone, looking glum.

‘It didn’t feel right to leave without tidying the kitchen,’ he said.

‘Murdoch has told you to go?’

Geordie nodded, his features pulled down by the weight of his unhappiness with the circumstances.

‘What will you do?’

He shrugged. ‘Ma says I’m not to get myself killed.’

‘Where is Roy?’

‘He’s meeting with someone about going north to join Wallace’s company. He thinks to win Belle’s loyalty by taking up the fight. But he’s a fool. She won’t think of him once he’s out of sight. The English soldiers will suit her just as well as he did.’

‘So he’s gone?’

‘We’re all gone — Sim hasn’t been about since they closed the tavern.’

Margaret would not miss him, but Geordie and Roy had become part of her family.

‘I’ll miss you.’

Geordie nodded, suddenly shy.

‘Geordie, when did Belle and Roy begin meeting in the maid’s cottage?’

He shrugged. ‘I saw them the night Master Roger arrived.’

‘How long had Roy been leaving you alone in the kitchen?’

‘Early summer — not so long after their babe was born. But I thought he was seeing Belle at her ma’s.’

‘If you see Roy, tell him I wish to speak with him.’

Geordie nodded. ‘God speed, Dame Margaret. I pray that we meet again in this life.’

Such a chilling prayer. ‘God speed, Geordie.’ Margaret walked out into the sunshine and lifted her face to the warmth, trying not to think of how final these farewells might be. It was time she had a quiet moment in the warm and fresh air. She sat on the bench outside the kitchen and leaned back against the wall. She wished she’d seen Roy before he left. She doubted Belle would tell her anything. The woman was slippery as an eel.