The Fire In The Flint (Margaret Kerr Mysteries 2)

by Candace Robb

  ‘Where am I?’ Fergus asked.

  ‘In the camp of friends,’ the man said, his deep voice matching Fergus’s fleeting impression of a large man. ‘Are you thirsty?’

  Fergus moved his tongue around his mouth, identifying the salty, metallic taste of blood. There was little moisture.

  ‘I am.’

  He struggled to sit up, blinking furiously. His nose began to run. The man assisted him, then held a cup to Fergus’s mouth. Cool water washed over his teeth and tongue, but as it trickled down his throat he began to cough again, and worse, for his stomach joined in the spasms. The man helped him bend over to retch. It felt as if he’d been knifed in the gut. He straightened slowly.

  The man still sat beside him. ‘I don’t doubt you’re in pain,’ he said. ‘But you’ve no mortal wounds that I can see.’

  ‘I remember someone grabbing me by the shoulder and then nothing but pain,’ Fergus said, his stomach cramping as he recalled that the man beside him was a stranger. But he had been too kind to be the one who had beaten him.

  ‘One of my men came upon a pair of Englishmen hurrying away from a clearing, looking over their shoulders as if they might be followed. He retraced their steps and found you in a faint and your goodbrother’s companion bent over you. Both of you looked beaten up, and he guessed the man was gauging how badly you were hurt. But then he rose, gave you a kick that might have killed an older, weaker man, and departed. What did he seek?’

  ‘Aylmer?’ Fergus whispered.

  ‘That’s the name,’ said a new voice. ‘He’s one of the Bruce’s men.’

  ‘He attacked me?’ Fergus asked. Beside the first man knelt a second, a travel-worn friar with an untidy tonsure. A deep cleft in his chin teased Fergus’s memory.

  The friar nodded.

  They helped him ease back against a rock, and he found his voice again. ‘He had no cause to search me,’ Fergus said.

  The one who had helped him drink was taller than Fergus and broad-shouldered, with large, calloused hands. A warrior, no doubt of it, though by his speech Fergus had first guessed him to be if not English, a well-travelled merchant. But he wore his red hair longer than a merchant, and his beard was rough.

  ‘Who are you?’ Fergus asked. ‘I must know who to thank for delivering me.’

  The friar chuckled. ‘You must be the only young man in these parts who does not recognise William Wallace.’

  ‘God have mercy,’ Fergus breathed. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, though nothing could make him look presentable or erase his humiliation.

  ‘I am glad not all know my face,’ said Wallace.

  Tongue-tied, Fergus looked away, noticing perhaps a dozen men sitting a little away from the fire, heads together. A few horses neighed. ‘Are we at Kinclaven?’ he asked.

  ‘Is that where you were headed?’ the friar asked.

  Fergus closed his eyes. ‘I had not come nearly so far.’

  ‘Where were you headed?’ the friar repeated.

  ‘I couldn’t decide. Aberdeen, Kinclaven, back to Perth …’ He shrugged.

  ‘Aberdeen,’ Wallace said softly.

  ‘You see?’ the friar said to Wallace.

  Wallace nodded. ‘But not at once.’ He turned back to Fergus. ‘Friar James will escort you home. We’ve none to care for your wounds here.’ Strong brows shadowed his face in the darkness.

  Some time after Mungo’s bark in the night sleep claimed Margaret. When she woke, Roger was sitting by the window in his shirt, the shutters opened to a sunny dawn. Rumpled from sleep, his bare legs sticking out of the bottom of his shirt, he looked his age, and weary, yet he sat straight. Both of them had changed in the past year, in many ways for the better. If only there were a way to erase all that had come between them.

  Roger noticed her movement and returned to bed, sitting down beside her with his legs bent, outstretched arms propped on his knees. He steepled his hands and seemed to address them.

  ‘Are we to war with one another from now on?’

  Margaret’s heart fluttered at the question so like that in her own mind. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  They said nothing for a while. Margaret searched for something honest she might say to patch the rift.

  But it was Roger who spoke first. ‘I regret laying hands on you last night,’ he said.

  ‘You did not injure me.’

  Another silence ensued.

  ‘Mungo barked in the night,’ Margaret finally said. ‘I wonder whether it was Aylmer returning from his watch at Da’s house.’

  ‘I didn’t hear the dog after Celia went down,’ Roger said.

  ‘Why would Aylmer leave his watch in the middle of the night?’

  ‘We don’t know that he did.’ Roger sighed. ‘Aylmer is not your enemy, Maggie.’

  ‘He thinks, as you did, that Fergus took the letters. And worse, he believes Fergus has stolen the money that Ruthven and the others are demanding.’

  ‘That does not make him your enemy.’

  Margaret turned to Roger. ‘I fear for my brother with that man searching for him.’

  ‘Aylmer would not hurt him.’

  ‘Why not, if he believes him guilty? What is to prevent him? There’s no law now, what would stop him?’

  Roger began to speak, but looked away.

  ‘You lied to me about the letters Aylmer carries,’ Margaret said. ‘My father’s letters. I know what they say, Roger, and I’ll ask you again – what is Aylmer doing with them?’

  ‘So you can read?’

  She shook her head. ‘I took them to someone who can. I had to know, Roger. Though it has made it all worse, for now I fear you murdered Old Will.’

  ‘Why do you go on about that old drunk? I didn’t touch him, Maggie.’

  ‘Did Aylmer?’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘Why does he have Da’s papers?’

  Roger pressed his hands to his face and grew quiet.

  It had all gone so horribly wrong, Margaret thought, and yet she did care for Roger.

  Dropping his hands, Roger said, ‘I needed information about Malcolm’s dealings with the English, something I could threaten to reveal unless he shifted his allegiance from Edward to Robert Bruce. We don’t want his ships helping the enemy.’

  ‘How did you know to look for the letters?’

  ‘Something Malcolm said before he left alerted me that when he’d pledged his fealty to England in Berwick he’d made a business deal much to his liking. But I needed more – something to prove he was serving both sides.’

  ‘You think so little of my father?’

  ‘He’s not so different from his brother Murdoch,’ said Roger. ‘Surely you’ve seen that?’

  She had, and she could not fault Roger’s suspicion. ‘So where did Aylmer find the letters?’

  ‘In Murdoch’s undercroft – they are the originals. I knew your father would carry only copies of such documents when travelling unless the original was required.’ Roger ran a hand through his hair. ‘Oh, Maggie, why did you insist on prying?’ His face compressed in anguish, chilling Margaret to the heart. ‘How am I to explain?’ He swung his legs over the bed and reached for his leggings.

  ‘Explain to the Bruce’s kinsman, you mean?’ she asked.

  He came around to her side of the bed. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I know who Aylmer is.’ She told him about the other letter Aylmer carried.

  Roger turned away.

  ‘You had not known that the Bruce sent Aylmer to lure Da,’ she said.

  ‘No. But I understand. I’m sure he was also concerned about my steadfastness once I was among my family. Anyone can swear allegiance.’

  ‘The Bruce will be pleased when Aylmer reassures him that your family has no influence over you. I’m gey glad Da isn’t really here.’

  ‘We are in a war against a powerful force, Maggie.’

  ‘Does it not give you pause that Robert Bruce set Aylmer to spy on you and my father?’r />
  ‘You little fool, meddling in what you don’t understand.’

  The chill in his voice numbed Margaret. They dressed in silence and went their separate ways.

  Celia saw the anger on both faces as the couple descended, first Roger, then Margaret not far behind. As Roger began to cross the hall to the street door Celia had offered him food but he shook his head and departed. Margaret stood in the middle of the room, hands hanging at her sides, as if she awaited some grim news.

  ‘Come out to the kitchen, Mistress, I beg you,’ Celia said, stepping into Margaret’s field of vision. Aylmer had not yet risen, and she did not want him to come upon them as she recounted his return in the night.

  18

  A STRONG THREAD

  ‘Were you up long with Mungo?’ Margaret asked as the dog bounded across the yard to greet her and Celia.

  ‘I slept with him in the hall,’ Celia said.

  ‘I’m sorry you had such a night.’

  ‘You should not be.’ Celia told her of Aylmer’s state when he returned in the middle of the night. ‘Had I not been there, we wouldn’t know. He’ll have himself cleaned up before he presents himself today, I’ll warrant.’

  ‘God watch over my brother,’ Margaret whispered, crossing herself, certain that Aylmer had followed Fergus. Now that she knew Aylmer’s true identity she saw that he was a strong thread in the complex knot of conflicting loyalties in which she was bound up, and she could not guess whose side Roger would take if the Bruce’s kinsman harmed her brother.

  It was mere chance that Wallace had been in the small camp across the river from Scone when Fergus was brought there the previous evening. Having observed the English garrison in Kinclaven moving about as if expecting reinforcements, Wallace had worked out a plan for the gradual dispersal of his troops and had come south to discuss it with his men there, including James, who had been biding in the smaller camp for quick access to Perth and Scone. Though Longshanks had robbed Scone of anything of worth and sent it south to England, it was yet a sacred place to the Scots.

  ‘I’m sending some parties on to Dundee,’ Wallace told James shortly after dawn. ‘They’ll travel in small groups. I’ll wait at the Kinclaven camp for the last to arrive. I hope my party includes you and those you’ve coaxed from Perth.’

  ‘Perth is for the English,’ James said. He’d been brooding about the burden of Margaret’s presently useless brother. ‘Someone else could take the lad back to town.’

  ‘No, James. Not all of the people there support Edward Longshanks.’ Wallace listed the families on whom he was depending. ‘It’s important to me that you go to Perth. You’re a Comyn, the king’s kinsman. The people need to know that his kinsmen still fight for him, and that not all have been bound and taken to England.’

  James knew from experience that the Comyn name was not always a welcome one. Power breeds resentment. ‘They would rally even more to your call,’ James said.

  The face framed in rusty hair looked haggard. ‘I am but one desperate supporter of King John Balliol, never meant for greatness, James. Think how strong we would be were the great lords of this land to stand by us.’

  ‘Edward has taken too many of them to England,’ said James.

  Wallace nodded. ‘It was clever of him.’

  In the end James promised to talk to the families Wallace had named in Perth, and any other households they might suggest.

  Going in search of Fergus, James found him curled up on his side napping under the watchful eyes of one of his rescuers.

  ‘What do you think, can he travel?’ James asked.

  ‘He’ll be slow.’

  Fergus stirred. ‘Are we off home, then?’ he asked, rubbing his eyes and cautiously stretching out his legs along the uneven ground. Dew glistened on his straight, chestnut-coloured hair. He coughed after sucking in a lungful of the damp morning air and clutched his sides with a grimace of pain.

  ‘I don’t know that you’ve the strength,’ said James.

  ‘I’m sore but able to walk.’

  ‘What’s your hurry?’ asked Fergus’s protector.

  ‘The English have returned to Perth,’ said James. ‘They’re distracted by a skirmish on the far side of the river, but I want to be inside the walls before they’ve time to organise a watch on them.’

  ‘They hadn’t left one in place?’

  James shook his head. ‘They are too confident of the townsfolk.’

  ‘With good cause, the cowards,’ Fergus muttered. He had managed to sit up and was studying James. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You came to the house the day Maggie returned to Perth. But you were dressed as a friar then. So it was you she’s been meeting at the kirk.’

  James had not expected Fergus to know him in his usual clothes. ‘How did you recognise me?’

  ‘By the cleft in your chin,’ said Fergus. ‘I remember thinking that the amorous cleft was wasted on you – unless the tales of lecherous friars are true.’

  ‘I bow to your keen eye,’ said James. ‘At your age I would not have marked it.’

  Unfortunately there was nothing James could do to hide his cleft short of growing a beard, which would be inappropriate for a friar. Perhaps it was time to change his disguise.

  Fergus rose with some effort and the muscles in his neck were taut as if he were struggling to stay upright.

  ‘You’re in pain,’ said James. ‘You should rest today.’

  ‘I’m stiff from sleep and sore, but I’ll be so whether I walk or sit in camp.’ Fergus shook out his legs and hurried away to relieve himself.

  He was as stubborn as his sister, James thought. And as proud. But he moved more naturally the further he walked, and with reaching Perth before the English watch a concern, James decided to take the young man at his word.

  ‘How did you meet my sister?’ Fergus asked as they started out.

  ‘Too much talk and we’ll not only attract attention, but we’ll not hear the noise of a pursuit,’ James said quietly. ‘Your attack last night should make you cautious.’

  Fergus peered over his shoulder and said nothing more. They were following a burn south. Where the bank sank almost to water level the path skirted round marshy areas. They had been walking a while when James recognised an occasional wet, sucking sound behind them as that of shoes pulling up out of the marshy spots.

  He tapped Fergus and whispered to him to follow as he struck off the path seeking a place to hide. Behind a tree on a wild, brushy hummock they crouched to watch the path. Fergus’s breathing was ragged. Three men eventually appeared, alert and watchful. Two strode on past the point at which James and Fergus had left the path, but the third stopped, studying the path and then the marshy ground between him and the brush in which the two hid. His companions turned back to him.

  Fergus caught his breath a little too noisily for James’s comfort. He held his own, praying that no one had heard and that the young fool would now be quiet.

  The men discussed something. One of the pair who had continued on lifted a foot and pointed to it. James could not make out their words. With a shrug, the tracker nodded and moved on with the others, casting one glance back before he disappeared into the trees.

  James remained immobile for a while, and Fergus, though straightening up, said nothing and stayed in place.

  ‘You almost gave us away,’ James growled softly when he finally rose.

  Fergus raked back his damp hair. ‘I caught myself, didn’t I?’

  ‘I was grateful for that.’ Remembering the young man’s condition, James asked, ‘Are you in much pain?’

  ‘That wasn’t why I almost spoke. I know two of them,’ Fergus said. ‘They’re friends of our maid Jonet.’

  ‘Friends, eh?’ said James. ‘Then she’s befriended Longshanks’s soldiers, for all three are known to me as his men. They’ve been to your house?’

  ‘Many times over the summer. That bitch. She’s why Mungo didn’t bark.’

  ‘Mungo?’

  �
�My dog. It must have been Jonet who stuffed him into a feed bin the afternoon they searched the house. He could have died.’

  James almost laughed. The young man had odd priorities – he’d not lost his temper over his beating the previous evening, but now he was livid over his dog’s having been stuffed in a box. ‘God has not blessed you with trustworthy servants – Aylmer, Jonet.’

  ‘Aylmer is Roger Sinclair’s servant, not mine – What are you doing?’ Fergus hissed as James shoved him back down in the brush.

  ‘They’ve headed back.’ He’d heard a bird startle in the direction the three men had taken. The tracker must have convinced the others to search. James wondered whether the three were after Fergus or himself. He would soon know – a figure approached on the path, bent almost double and moving hesitantly. Fergus groaned softly beside him. James fingered the dagger on his belt.

  But when the man came clearly into sight James realised it wasn’t one of the three at all.

  ‘Da,’ Fergus whispered. ‘It’s my da.’

  ‘Here?’

  Malcolm Kerr straightened up at the point on the path nearest them and trained his eyes almost precisely on their brushy hideout.

  ‘Don’t be hasty,’ James said, noting a dagger in the man’s hand.

  But Fergus took no heed. He rose and softly hailed his father.

  Putting the dagger between his teeth, Malcolm lifted his arms in peace and walked slowly towards them. James thought it extraordinary, the potbellied elderly man picking his way silently and efficiently through the brush along the marshy ground. He was more adventurer than merchant.

  ‘What are you doing here, Da?’ Fergus hissed.

  ‘Saving the two of you. You’ve three irritated men waiting for you further on. God was watching over you today, my son, for I’d almost given up my search for you and gone on. I know a way round them. Come!’

  James had a new respect for Malcolm Kerr.

  Angry with Aylmer and worried about Fergus, Margaret took out her frustrations on the kitchen garden. Despite being neglected since the previous autumn, the patch of earth had managed to bring forth some herbs but the soil was so packed and dry that the weeds snapped off just above ground, and digging for their roots disturbed the plants she wanted to save. It was just the sort of work she needed, and she fell to it with energy. Mungo kept her company, demanding an attentive pat now and then.