by Candace Robb
Margaret held her breath.
‘He wants me to leave the convent and return with him to Flanders.’
The held breath escaped as incredulous laughter. ‘Even after he agreed that you might retire here, that he would not demand his rights as a husband?’
‘Do not hate him. He did agree, but he now regrets it.’
He had seemed only too glad to be free of her mother. Margaret wondered whether her father intended never to return to his country. ‘What changed?’
Christiana had sat up at the edge of the bed and was hugging a cushion. ‘He swears he has no joy without me.’
‘Will you go?’ Margaret asked.
Christiana looked abashed. ‘No. I refused him. I have taken a vow of chastity, and dedicated myself to prayer.’
‘I doubt the vow is binding.’
‘The chaplain supports my refusal.’
‘How long ago did Da return?’
‘A week ago? No, he’s been here longer, I think.’
‘Poor Da,’ Margaret whispered absently, her mind on the coincidence of his return and the searches.
‘Poor me.’ Christiana’s tone was flat, as if talking to herself. ‘Malcolm swears he will prevail.’
‘An empty boast,’ said Margaret. ‘He cannot prevail against the Kirk.’
‘It would have been better had he stayed away,’ Christiana whispered. ‘He has unsettled me.’
Margaret and Malcolm were a pair, then. ‘Do you know where Da landed? Has he been to Edinburgh?’ One of her mother’s intruders might have been her own husband thinking to search for something without being discovered. But her mother’s servant Marion would have recognised his voice. Still, he might have accomplices.
Christiana shrugged. ‘I was not so curious as to ask.’
He’d been gone almost two years now and yet her mother seemed unmoved by his return except as it threatened her comfortable peace. Margaret was not so indifferent; she was furious with him for deserting his family. When Longshanks ordered all land that Scots held in England seized her father took it as a warning and fled to Bruges leaving Fergus and Margaret to fend for themselves. She’d been but four months married with a husband often away. She had felt so alone. And now he returned trailing trouble in his wake, or so it seemed. Her parents were worse than useless.
Roger paced in the guest-house garden, eager to hear of the meeting. Margaret slowed as she drew near, considering what she would divulge.
‘Well? Was she more forthcoming this morning?’
She could see how anxious he was, as if half fearing what she would say.
‘Yes and no. She swears that the faces in her vision were not clear to her, that she knew it was you from the way you bent towards me and the child.’
‘And the king?’
Margaret shook her head. ‘She saw no faces.’
‘She saw yours.’
‘I wish I had something to tell you, Roger. I’m sorry.’
‘She’s mad.’
‘You would not be the first to think so.’
He shook his head, incredulous. ‘Of what value is a gift that only teases?’
Margaret shrugged. ‘I have always found it a tangle.’
‘So why had she sent for you this morning?’
Margaret caught her breath, offered her rehearsed response. ‘To explain why she would not see you. But I could see the choler strong in her. She is unwell. She told me to say that she is glad you have returned with life and limb.’
‘She might have saved her breath.’ The veins on Roger’s temples had risen with his anger. ‘She said naught else? Had she nothing of use to tell you?’
‘That I should trust no one.’
‘I might have told you that.’
‘I stayed longer than I wished, hoping she might recall something, but I wasted the time.’
Margaret was relieved that the others awaited them to complete the journey. Today they would part ways with Alan and Macrath, who were riding on to Dundee. Or so they said. Margaret still did not believe Alan was merely a merchant, and she wondered what business Macrath pursued for the Bruce in Dundee.
As Roger helped her mount, Margaret glanced towards Celia, wondering who would assist her.
‘You need not worry,’ Roger said. ‘Macrath is seeing to her.’
Indeed, Celia had mounted and looked at ease in the saddle as Macrath checked all the straps. Now she leaned towards him with her ear cocked, her eyes shining. Margaret heard a snatch of merry song and was glad for Celia. She deserved some cheer. Macrath might be no worse than Roger, a good man seduced by Robert Bruce.
‘Are you eager to see Perth, Maggie?’ Roger asked as he took his reins from Aylmer.
‘I am. I can’t wait to see Fergus’s surprise.’ She laughed to think of it.
‘I haven’t seen you so happy in a long while.’ Roger leaned from his saddle to kiss her. ‘And I fear I’ll now darken your mood, but I trust you’d prefer to have no unpleasant surprises. There’s been more of an English presence in the town since you left in spring, the result of the uprisings here and there. They’ve blocked access to the canal in places where they’re shoring up the town walls. They come and go. They’re gone at present, which is why we are safe to enter. But we might need to depart quickly if things go badly. Do you see?’
She had not expected Perth to be untouched, but it was alarming that the English were shoring up the town’s defences. They were turning her beloved town into a prison like Edinburgh. Feeling faint, she struggled to breathe deeply and nodded. ‘I do see.’ She tried to think more pragmatically. ‘They think to use Perth as a base from which to secure Scone?’ It was where the Scots crowned their kings.
‘I think they do,’ said Roger.
Perhaps that was why Angus MacLaren had said the folk of Perth welcomed the English. Her joy in coming home was considerably dampened by all this.
Still, the beauty of the water meadows reflecting the blue sky, the flowering brush languid in the warmth, and the smells and sounds of home lifted her spirits once more as they neared the town. Her heart quickened as she caught sight of the Greyfriars’ Monk Tower. Roger recommended they dismount and enter the town on foot, stabling the horses at the friary. Their own stable was too small.
Celia looked anxiously at the tower, the new bits of wall. Margaret told her what Roger had said.
‘I pray we are not trapped here,’ said Celia, ‘walled within.’
‘We’ll not be so shortsighted,’ Margaret assured her.
Watergate looked much as it had when Margaret had gone, modest wattle and daub houses gradually giving way to finer homes nearer the Northgate crossing, a few with stone foundations. Their house stood proudly one short of the crossing. Margaret approached it with mixed feelings, happy to be returning with Roger, anxious that they not fall back into their old, separate ways.
And yet she already kept so much from him. She began to see that she was as much to blame for their being strangers as he was.
As they walked down Watergate, Margaret saw a neighbour hurry down the alley between houses, to share the news of their arrival with someone on Kirkgate, she guessed. Folk watched from their doorways, a few calling out to them, welcoming them home.
‘It is a fine town,’ said Celia, her eyes busily soaking in the houses, the ships on the river, the size of St John’s on the next street.
‘There is our house,’ Margaret said, pointing to their left. ‘And Fergus in the doorway!’ She picked up her skirts and ran to him.
‘St Columba, it’s Maggie!’ Fergus cried, his face alight, his long arms pulling her in for a crushing embrace. ‘And Roger? You found your man?’ He stepped back, shaking his head at her. ‘Christ, I sometimes feared I’d not see you again. Where’d you find him?’
‘He appeared in my bed chamber when I’d given up all expectations,’ Margaret said.
‘Come in, Maggie, Celia!’ Fergus cried, stepping aside to let them precede him into the house.
Roger bowed
to Fergus. ‘By the Rood, it’s good to be home.’
Margaret glanced back to watch the meeting of her husband and her brother.
‘Roger, my goodbrother, I am more glad to see you than you can know,’ Fergus said.
‘I feel the same,’ said Roger. He casually put a hand on Fergus’s shoulder and stepped aside, nodding towards the man behind him. ‘This is Aylmer, my manservant.’
‘You are welcome,’ said Fergus hurriedly, eager to join Margaret.
She looked around the hall in wonder. A tapestry hung on one wall, a cupboard held some fine pottery.
‘What do you think?’ Fergus asked.
‘Who did you rob? I own none of these pieces.’ She lifted a carved stool.
‘Da’s warehouse, things that none were taking. I was looking for records and found hoards of little treasures. I say use them.’
Bribes for their mother’s affections, Margaret imagined, glancing over at Roger as if he could hear her thoughts. ‘You’ve made a warmer home for us, Fergus. I cannot thank you enough.’
Roger’s expression was unreadable to Margaret.
Fergus noted Maggie’s furtive glance and cursed Roger for making her even think to look to him for approval. Left her to an empty house, he had, the swine. Fergus took the first opportunity to wrest his sister away from the others. ‘Come see the kitchen, Maggie. I found some things for that, too.’
In the yard, between the buildings, he turned to her. ‘So? What’s his story for all his time away?’
‘You must keep this close to you,’ she whispered.
Christ, but she looked tired and drawn. She’d lost much flesh since Jack’s funeral. He was glad Jonet had called in a lad to help her with the cooking today.
‘Do you swear to silence?’ Maggie had levelled her eyes at him.
‘I do. And I can guess – marching right down Watergate for all eyes to see – he’s gone to the English, hasn’t he?’
She looked a little surprised. ‘Only the supporters of the English walk boldly here?’
‘It seems so when they are here.’
‘He’s Robert Bruce’s man. He says the Bruce will save our people from Longshanks.’
Fergus had heard of the Bruce’s growing following. ‘So you wed a fool, Maggie. What are you to do now?’
‘We might find it possible to ignore such matters.’
She turned towards the kitchen, but he’d seen her troubled look, and the resignation in her voice saddened him.
‘How is Jonet?’ she asked.
He ignored her attempt to change the subject. ‘The town is loyal to the English for the most part, Maggie. I doubt the matter of the king can be ignored for long.’
‘I suppose not,’ she said, not turning her head. ‘We’ll talk more of this later, Fergus. For now, let me rejoice in my home, let me rest.’
‘Will Celia lord it over Jonet?’ Fergus asked. He had come to rely on the maid. He did not want her pushed around by the bossy Celia.
‘She has changed, Fergus. You’ll find her a most agreeable woman, and so will Jonet.’
He doubted it. But certainly Maggie seemed changed. He felt she’d leapt ahead in years compared with him. That was a benefit of travel.
That reminded him of the travel-worn visitor he’d had. He’d wondered about him all day, and because of him Fergus had not been entirely surprised by Maggie’s arrival, as she would see when she stepped into the kitchen and saw the preparations for a welcoming meal. ‘A black friar came early today, with a message for you, to come to St John’s Kirk as soon as you might. He awaits you there.’
Maggie stiffened and Fergus watched her confusion give way to unease. ‘A black friar? How would he know of our passage?’
‘Perhaps travellers brought news to Elcho and Ma is sending word to you?’ he suggested.
She shook her head. ‘We’ve just come from there. Did he say anything else?’
‘No. He would not even say how he knew of your coming, or with whom you travelled.’
She was studying the ground now, then turned to the kitchen, back to him. Her eyes were lit with purpose. ‘Perhaps I should go now, before I am missed. Stay a little in the kitchen, Fergus, and if anyone asks, say I went to the kirk to thank the Lord for our safe arrival.’
‘You’re not feared Roger will come for you?’
‘He’d see but a black friar. It should not alarm him as long as he knows nothing more. Do you understand, Brother?’
He nodded. Whatever she was about, it was nothing innocent. He decided to follow her.
12
A CROOK-BACKED FRIAR
Spying on his sister was nothing admirable. Fergus hesitated, watching Maggie disappear down Watergate. She was fussing with her veil. What did she care how she appeared to a friar? But women often behaved so, dressing up to return a neighbour’s plate or to go to the flesher’s shop.
She had treated him as did all the family, ordering him to make excuses for her while she went running about, to stand in the kitchen and let time go by so that she would not be followed too soon. It was time she learned that he was not a child. He took the gravel path into the backlands as she turned left on Northgate.
Across from St John’s Kirk he paused. Maggie stood before the door speaking with a white-haired woman – Dame Ada, one of Maggie’s friends. This might be a long interruption.
Fergus ducked behind the house that faced the kirk, grateful that no one was about because he was feeling childish, sneaking after his sister. He might simply ask her on her return what the friar had to say. She seldom kept things from him. He peeked around the house and cursed. Dame Ada was well away from the kirk and Maggie had disappeared. Should he return to the house or cross to the kirk and slip into the darkness, hoping not to be seen? He decided to return to the kitchen to resume preparations for the meal. He told Jonet how many were biding at the house, and helped her carry trays of wine, bread, meat and cheese across the yard.
The three travellers watched them set out the food with interest.
It was Fergus’s first chance to have a good look at Roger, and he wondered at the change. Roger had always looked like a man fond of long meals and good drink, well padded and with a slightly puffy face, a mien implying a weak nature. Now he looked weathered and hardened, a man who could act decisively.
His servant must cost him a goodly amount, and that seemed at odds with Roger’s appearance. Fergus wondered how his goodbrother had raised the money for Aylmer. As Roger’s acting factor, Fergus knew that the money had not come from his trade in Perth, and yet such a self-important servant would not come cheaply.
It was Celia who asked for Maggie as Roger and Aylmer took up cups of wine. Fergus had expected her to be trouble, but not so quickly.
‘She’s gone to the kirk to say thanks for your safe arrival,’ he said, almost believing it himself.
He noticed how Roger exchanged looks with Aylmer, then tossed down his wine and handed Jonet the cup. ‘I’ll join my wife.’
Celia frowned after him. Aylmer offered her a cup of wine. She took it in a trembling hand.
Fergus wondered at the servants’ differing behaviour towards one another.
Margaret guessed that it was James who had summoned her to the kirk – he had used the disguise of a black friar before – and he’d said he would likely arrive before her because he would travel lightly and take risks. But she had not expected to hear from him so soon. He might have given her a chance to rest after the long ride, to reacquaint herself with Perth. Her legs ached from riding, her feelings were tangled, she was doubting the wisdom of slipping away from Roger without more forethought, and sorry she had not taken the time to confide in Fergus. He had looked angry, and she couldn’t blame him.
Turning on to Northgate, Margaret regretted having rushed out without consulting Celia on her appearance. The street was bustling with acquaintances.
‘Dame Margaret!’ a woman called out.
Moving through the people, she explained
she was off to the kirk to give thanks for her safe return. The familiar voices against the background of river sounds were at once reassuring and disorienting. She was relieved to escape into Kirkgate. In such familiar surroundings she felt a stranger to the new self who was unfolding. The young woman she had been would have been troubled to think she would one day agree to spy on these people, no matter how noble the cause. She prayed God that her transformation was not her undoing.
As she crossed Kirkgate, someone hailed her from the kirk porch. It had not occurred to her that she might see an acquaintance at the kirk in mid-afternoon. The complication was unwelcome. But Margaret relaxed as she recognised Dame Ada, a friend who had long provided her with a sanctuary whenever needed, never asking questions unless invited to. Margaret admired Ada’s plainspoken ways and wide-ranging knowledge. She cut a fine figure in her simple gown of costly wool that she kept fashionable with her skilful needlework. Her posture was regal, her face unlined despite the pure white hair braided and netted beneath a veil of shimmering silk.
‘Maggie!’ The tall woman held out her arms. ‘Oh, my dear Maggie.’ Ada embraced her. ‘When Fergus told me you’d gone with Andrew to Edinburgh I feared I might never see you again.’
The woman’s strong, rose-scented embrace brought tears of joy to Margaret. ‘I’ve missed you so,’ she said, pulling back a little to wipe her eyes and look at her good friend.
Ada, too, brushed at tears. ‘How long have you been home?’
‘Long enough to leave my scrip in the house and hurry here to say a prayer of thanks for my safe return.’
Ada gave a curt nod. Her eyes smiled. ‘Good. Then I shan’t waste time brooding over your neglecting me. Come tomorrow, when you can. My niece and her child are biding with me. I have spoken of you so much it will be a treat for my niece to meet you.’
‘I promise.’
‘Then I shall leave you to your prayers, my dear Maggie.’ With another quick hug, Ada resumed her walk.
Calmed by the happy encounter, Margaret slipped into the kirk. Its thick walls had absorbed some of the sun’s warmth, but the dim nave was still cooler than without, a coolness welcome to Margaret, whose hands and back were damp with the tension of sneaking about. Eavesdropping at the tavern had not filled her with such anxiety as this. Margaret walked slowly down the nave towards the screen and knelt in a circle of light shining down from a clerestory window. She wished she had her beads.