The Fire in the Flint (29 page)

One by one she took the rolled documents from the wallet to check for broken seals, but she found none. The coins were sterlings, enough to keep her household in comfort for a year. Margaret resisted the temptation to pocket them and inconvenience Roger in his work for Robert Bruce. It was not worth the fuss. Returning the wallet to the casket, she sat back on her heels and listened again. The sounds drifting in from the street and the backlands were comfortingly familiar, and for a moment she forgot her task.

Here she had knelt when first married, hesitantly shaking out Roger’s clothes for her first laundry day. The memory was little more than two years old, but she felt she had lived a lifetime since then. She rose and fetched a polished metal mirror to see how much she had aged for her nineteen years. Her skin was still unlined, her hair held no silver strands, but her eyes were different. More alive, she thought, or perhaps more cunning. She smiled at herself and the pain of the past year was forgotten as she considered her courage and maturity.

But shortly she remembered her mission and set aside the mirror. She pressed her ear to the door and then, hearing nothing unusual, returned to the caskets, opening the second one. A pair of daggers lay atop Roger’s old boots. The weapons reminded her of the danger in which she placed herself, spying on her husband. Inside each boot were several documents, all with broken seals. Beneath the boots she found a dark scarf folded as if it had been wrapped around Roger’s head to keep sweat from his eyes, and a long length of rope.

One by one she opened the unsealed documents that had been in the boots, looking for recognisable names. Roger’s name was atop one letter, and the word ‘Rex’, but the Latin hand was too difficult otherwise. Another letter was in a language completely unfamiliar. After the third document she was about to give up, accepting that her rudimentary reading skills were not enough for such a task. But on the fourth she picked out her father’s name, which was curious as the letter was addressed to Roger and held part of what her father had once told her was a royal seal of England. She set that document and the one with Roger’s name and ‘Rex’ aside before she repacked the second casket. Returning to the first, she quickly searched the documents with broken seals, but all were in a foreign tongue. As she began to repack the casket she froze at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, then hurriedly finished
and stuffed the documents she’d set aside beneath the mattress.

She was fastening the locks when a knock on the door made her jump. Glancing around and seeing nothing obviously amiss, she called, ‘Come in,’ letting out her breath with relief as Celia stepped into the room.

‘I thought you might wish to know that your father is in the stable.’

Though tempted to ignore it, Margaret wondered what her father wanted. Her feet took her to the yard, where she paused with a sudden memory of Hal in her uncle’s stable sharing his meal with Agrippa. She missed Hal’s quiet companionship. She wondered what he was doing, how Bonny had fared on her night journey back to the town.

‘Mistress?’ Celia said behind her. ‘Are you unwell?’

Margaret started and realised she was hugging herself so tightly it was difficult to breathe. ‘No, just thinking,’ she said quietly over her shoulder as she consciously relaxed. ‘Thank you for coming for me. Now leave us.’ She continued to the stable, stepping in hesitantly.

Her father spoke from one of the stalls. ‘Your handmaiden told you I was about, eh?’ Margaret’s horse whinnied as her father stepped out of its stall into the light. Straw stuck to his clothes, as if he’d been rolling about in it. Without waiting for Margaret’s response to his first question, he said,
‘You’re wise to bring your horses in from without the walls, though they are crowded. The English would have found them.’

Margaret nodded and asked, ‘Are you still in hiding?’ as she eyed his straw-covered clothing.

He looked down, brushed straw from a sleeve. ‘And a good thing I am,’ he said. ‘Have you told Roger I’m here?’

‘No,’ said Margaret with an inadvertent glance back over her shoulder. The yard was empty. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Are you certain?’ Malcolm thrust his jaw forward, challenging her.

‘Of course I’m certain. Do you think I talk in my sleep?’

Her father shrugged. ‘Or said something of it to your nosy handmaiden in his hearing.’

‘You might make such mistakes, but I don’t.’ His low esteem for her was nothing new to her, but it still stung. ‘Do you have cause to think Roger knows?’

‘I’m being followed.’ Her father took a step towards her, looking past her to the yard. ‘Closely.’

‘You’ve been in hiding since you returned. Surely you expected to be sought?’

He shook out his gown. ‘I’m going away. It’s not safe for me in Perth.’

‘Nor is it anywhere in this land, for any of us.’

He sniffed a sleeve. ‘Pah! When did you last clean the straw?’

She imagined clean straw was as dear here as it had been in Edinburgh. ‘What trouble are you in, Da? Is it John Smyth’s death?’

‘I touched him not, Maggie. That is all I can tell you. Fergus can manage my business.’

That might be a problem, she thought, but she would not betray her brother. ‘Are you leaving Fergus to face your enemies?’

Malcolm sniffed. ‘It’s no sacrifice, he’ll inherit all I manage to keep.’

‘Are we in danger, Da?’

‘Your brother is quite able to defend himself.’

‘What if he doesn’t care to fight your battles?’

‘Who said aught about battles?’ Her father patted her arm. ‘Don’t fret, lass. Fergus won’t desert the business. He’ll have nothing if he does.’

‘Nor will you.’

‘Nor any of us, I sometimes fear.’ He dropped his head. When he lifted it, there were tears in his eyes.

Margaret put her arms around him and he clutched her so tightly she thought he might be weeping. But when he pulled away he was only flushed.

‘God watch over you, Maggie.’ His voice was ragged. Nodding once, he strode past her and out into the yard.

‘Da, wait!’ she called as loudly as she dared, but he did not turn. She rushed after him, then hesitated. There was little more she could say without
revealing Fergus’s plans, certainly nothing that would move her father to change his plan.
Dear Lord, watch over my da
.

A change was in the air, heralded by a subtle shift in Christiana’s senses, an increased clarity, as if a portion of her that had slumbered was awakening. Marion had remarked about how quickly her mistress had risen upon waking, particularly as the dawn was cool and misty, a morning for lying abed. Though Christiana had made light of her unusual energy she was uneasy, for she’d awakened with a keen sense of urgency. But Marion knew of no appointment.

Christiana was dressing when a servant came with a summons from the prioress.

Wrapping a soft mantle around her veiled head and shoulders, Christiana walked through the damp yard, holding her skirts from the ground and keeping her footfall tentative so she might hear the birdsong and the rush of the Tay. The mist refreshed her after the pervasive dust of the past few days and, pausing before stepping into the cloister, she lifted her face to receive the moisture. The beads that clung to her lashes made rainbows in the early morning dullness of the cloister.

In the prioress’s parlour, the commanding Agnes de Arroch sat enthroned, confident in her status, although her usually smooth, high forehead bore lines of worry this morning. She gestured
Christiana to an elegantly carved but uncomfortably straight-backed chair and offered her some honeyed almond milk. She seemed offended when Christiana declined the delicacy.

‘It coats my throat and hampers speech,’ Christiana explained. The air in the chilly room crackled with tension. She glanced at the bowl the prioress had proffered, a delicately carved mazer. It was such a beautiful piece that she felt compelled to hold it. Perhaps a sip would appease her hostess. ‘I find I thirst for the milk after all.’

The prioress nodded to the maid to pour.

Cupping the mazer in both hands, feeling the warmth of the wood, Christiana bowed her head to the prioress and took a drink. The sweetness delighted her heightened senses.

The maid retreated to a corner. The matter to be discussed must not be too confidential for her ears. Yet the tension in the parlour was undiminished.

‘We must speak of a matter involving my kinsmen as well as this community, Dame Christiana,’ Agnes began.

‘The shouts in the night?’ Christiana guessed.

The prioress, pursing her lips, paused before continuing. ‘Would you object to the inclusion of my cousin Thomas in this discussion?’

‘Is he one of the men guarding us?’ Christiana asked, and without awaiting a response added, ‘It
would be discourteous of me to object, Dame Agnes.’

Gesturing to the servant, Agnes sat back to await the arrival of Thomas.

Christiana let her eyes roam the room as she sipped the honeyed milk. On shelves lining one wall the prioress displayed her collection of jugs from Scarborough in Yorkshire. Christiana recognised them by their elaborate decoration – human figures, masks, stylised animals – and especially the lustrous green glaze. It was a costly collection of which the prioress was obviously proud.

In a short while the door opened and a large, pale-haired man entered. He bowed first to the prioress and then to Christiana, who found him familiar. But of course, the kin who guarded Elcho were from Perth. She thought he might be a merchant, someone she had met through Malcolm’s guild, although at present his dress was rough and dirty.

He sat in a third chair, one that Christiana knew to be more comfortable than hers, and accepted a mazer of wine. His cup was plainer and larger than the one she had been offered. While he drank, the prioress explained to Christiana what she already knew, that on the previous night the guards had refused hospitality to English soldiers.

‘And this matter requires my counsel?’ Christiana asked.

‘More than that,’ said Thomas, closing his
mouth at a slight sound from his kinswoman. Even this most substantial man was controlled by Agnes de Arroch.

‘Our discourtesy will be reported to their captain,’ said Dame Agnes, ‘we may be sure of that.’

Christiana sipped the almond milk as the prioress and her kinsman gradually came to the reason for her presence. In a day or two they expected more English, made suspicious by Elcho’s inhospitality, and it would be helpful if Christiana had a plausible ‘vision’ to proclaim on their arrival, a warning of danger, something that would drive them away to seek shelter within the walls of Perth. Christiana listened with growing incredulity. The Sight was a divine gift and as such should not be used in vain.

‘Dame Agnes, you have counselled me that my visions are meant by God for me alone.’

Thomas looked to his kinswoman with a pained expression.

But the prioress coolly nodded. ‘Yes, a true vision is God’s gift to you. But this would be a vision we prepare in order to protect us. We ask simply that you speak it as you would a true vision.’

Not at all certain that she would oblige them, Christiana stalled by asking what they wished her to say.

Thomas leaned forward, his face more relaxed,
apparently assuming she meant to cooperate. ‘William Wallace and Andrew Murray have the English looking over their shoulders, fearing ambushes. All they need to hear is that we found signs of someone lying in wait this morning, and that you sense they’re near, and perhaps that the one in charge has recently come to Perth—’

‘No,’ Christiana interrupted. Thomas stopped with his mouth open. ‘Nothing of Perth.’ She saw Maggie being questioned, Fergus struggling with someone.

Thomas closed his mouth and slowly nodded. ‘Yes. I see. We want them seeking shelter in Perth, not avoiding it. Have you a suggestion?’

Now Christiana knew why she had woken with such urgency. She sensed that she must cooperate in order to keep her children safe. ‘I pray you, allow me some time to consider this.’

Thomas glanced at the prioress, who nodded.

‘Let us reconvene at Nones,’ said Agnes.

Although Margaret did not rise as quickly as she had the previous day, finding her own clean, comfortable bed too irresistible on a cool, damp morning, she found Roger patiently awaiting her in the hall so that they might break their fasts together. His attentiveness made her momentarily regret the previous afternoon’s search, until she remembered his lie about Edwina and the Brankstons. Still, she was more at ease with him
for not having found additional lies among his belongings.

Their conversation was easy until Roger asked, ‘Is Fergus sharing your father’s house with someone?’

Margaret kept her eyes on her pottage of oatmeal. ‘Jonet sleeps there. Does that seem inappropriate? I thought as Celia is here Fergus might continue to have her there.’

‘I meant a man,’ Roger said with a touch of irritation. ‘I went there to see Fergus yesterday and heard his voice and another man’s as Jonet answered the door, but when she showed me in Fergus was alone.’

‘Are you certain you heard two different voices?’ Margaret asked in a teasing tone.

‘Do you mean Fergus was talking to himself?’ Roger suddenly grinned. ‘He
has
been much alone.’