The Fire in the Flint (12 page)

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.

7

Margaret grew drowsy in the sunlight and began to nod, but was roused by the sound of James and her uncle taking leave of one another. James appeared in the yard between her uncle’s kitchen and the tavern and headed straight for the archway between the two inn buildings, not bothering to look around. It was then that Margaret noticed there was no English soldier behind the tavern. Thinking perhaps he had withdrawn to a shady spot, she searched the close, but saw no sign of a soldier.

She found her uncle sitting, seemingly napping, near his kitchen fire despite the heat of the day, his bare feet propped on a bench. But as she approached him he said, ‘You’ve tidied all the rooms now, eh?’

‘I thought you were asleep.’ She glanced
around, thinking the guard might be in here, but her uncle was alone. ‘The soldier is gone.’

Murdoch chuckled as he sat up. ‘You’ll not find him in here.’

‘He’s not in the yard,’ Margaret said.

‘He is not.’ Murdoch’s grin stretched ear to ear.

‘What have you done?’

‘Made him welcome.’

‘If he’s not really gone, but he’s not in here …’ Puzzling over her uncle’s self-satisfied grin, she settled down beside Agrippa, who was curled into a ball. It did not take long for her to venture, ‘You’ve fed him a barrel of ale?’

Murdoch waggled his head side to side. ‘Not quite a barrel. He’s lying in the straw on the tavern floor, sleeping it off.’ It was evident he was proud of the prank.

Margaret thought him foolhardy. ‘You trust that he won’t report what you’ve done?’

‘Och, Maggie, it’s worth the risk to be free of prying eyes for an afternoon.’ He swung his feet down to the floor and stretched his arms overhead.

‘I saw James leave. Surely the English already know he is your partner.’

‘I’ve no doubt of that.’ Murdoch’s voice lilted with delight.

Margaret still did not understand why he thought it worth the risk. ‘Why did you need the guard drunk this afternoon?’

‘He was to make a list of all the items in the
undercroft. A rare thing, a soldier who can write. I sat down with him to explain the order of things. One drink led to another, and he lay down to rest.’

‘You needed time to remove something.’

‘James did.’ Murdoch’s grin soured into a scowl. ‘In another day you’ll be gone, Maggie. What I do no longer concerns you.’

Margaret shook her head. ‘Another day? But there is still so much to do.’ Her hands were suddenly cold. ‘Has Roger said we leave tomorrow?’

Murdoch nodded solemnly. ‘He told Hal to have the horses ready after dark on the morrow.’

‘I’d heard nothing of this,’ Margaret cried, feeling a confusion of anger and panic. ‘I must speak with him. Where is he?’

‘He tells me naught, lass.’ Murdoch reached out, squeezed her shoulder. ‘To delay will not make it easier.’

He used to squeeze her shoulders thus when she had taken a tumble as a child, or been scolded.
Courage, Maggie
, he used to say. She wanted to stay here with him.

‘But the laundress has the bedding for washing,’ Margaret muttered to herself. ‘And we’ve not discovered who searched the undercroft.’ Her pulse pounded in her ears.

‘We may never find the intruder. As for the laundry, no one bides here now.’ Murdoch’s voice sounded as if it came across a great distance.

‘You
bide here,’ Margaret said.
‘You
need clean bedding.’

‘I sleep at Janet’s more than I do here. You need not worry about me, lass, or the bedding. It will be delivered whether you’re here or no.’

Margaret said nothing, almost choked by bile rising up from her roiling gut.

‘Och, Maggie.’ Murdoch’s hand was suddenly beneath her elbow. ‘Sit down, lass.’ He led her to a bench. ‘You’ve gone all pale. You can’t be with child already – Roger’s been here only a few days.’