Read Online The Fire in the Flint by Candace Robb - Free Book Online
Authors: Candace Robb
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James wanted to believe that her sense of honour would prevent her from betraying him, but love often pushed people beyond moral behaviour.
It all put James in a foul mood and, though it was the middle of the night, he woke his servant to fetch him wine and a cold repast.
Voices raised in anger woke Margaret. They were so loud that her heart raced as she peered out of the bed curtain. The room was empty, the argument now more clearly down in the yard. One of the voices was Murdoch’s. Someone had arrived yesterday – the English servant. And what of his master? She realised with a start that she had neither met him nor resolved whether to let them stay. The light streaming in through the slatted shutters alarmed her. She could not think why Celia had not roused her much earlier.
But a hat on one of the hooks and a leather travelling pack on the chest jogged her memory. Roger was here. Had she not seen his things in the room she would have thought his return a dream. Yesterday afternoon had been like any other. She’d had no premonition that her wait of almost a year was about to end, not even a fleeting thought that Roger might appear. In fact, of late she had ceased to pray for either his safety or his return, an omission born of resentment. She was not eventwenty and condemned to the chaste life of a nun while her husband yet lived. Though he might never venture near her, she was condemned to await his pleasure while he might change his name and marry or bed as many women as he pleased – or so she had come to think over the past year, usually in wakeful hours before dawn.
And now he’d arrived, pledging his love, teasing her with passionate play, promising … what? No more than he had promised on their wedding night, to be a good husband. She had told him she did not understand what he meant by ‘love’ but she might have added ‘husband’.
About one thing she was adamant – she would not let his return erase the strength she had gained in his absence. Nor would she withdraw her support from John Balliol. With that resolve she forced herself to rise and begin her day. Her eyes burned and her face was tender from Roger’s scratchy beard. Worst of all, she had been left unsatisfied and abandoned, as if he’d opened his eyes this morning and realised she was the wrong woman.
Celia knocked – her timing was uncanny. After pulling her crumpled shift over her head, Margaret called out for the maid to enter. As the door swung open the arguing voices grew louder.
‘With whom is my uncle debating so long and loudly?’
‘English soldiers,’ said Celia. ‘They are carryingout orders to board up the High Street door to the tavern and guard the yard entrance.’ She glanced at Margaret, then quickly averted her eyes. ‘The tavern is shut.’ She shook out Margaret’s dress.
Margaret turned her back to Celia to receive the gown overhead. ‘Shut?’ This was disturbing news. ‘Uncle feared this would happen. Does it have something to do with that stranger who arrived yesterday?’
Celia looked confused. ‘Stranger?’ She shook her head as if she didn’t know whom Margaret meant. ‘The soldiers say it’s because of Old Will.’
‘Old Will,’ Margaret whispered. ‘They searched his rooms and now they close the tavern.’ She turned back to Celia. ‘Why has death stirred them like no other among us? Who do they think he was that they find him so important in death?’
Celia stole another glance. Her pained expression was like a mirror held to Margaret – she must look as ragged as she felt.
‘Whatever their reasoning,’ Celia said, ‘they are eager. While your uncle argues with one, the other soldiers make haste with the carpentry. But I don’t believe their mission surprised him. Your uncle and Hal were up before me, loading a cart in the dark.’
So her uncle had another hiding place. Margaret should have guessed. As she stretched out her arms for the sleeves she asked, ‘Where did you
It all put James in a foul mood and, though it was the middle of the night, he woke his servant to fetch him wine and a cold repast.
Voices raised in anger woke Margaret. They were so loud that her heart raced as she peered out of the bed curtain. The room was empty, the argument now more clearly down in the yard. One of the voices was Murdoch’s. Someone had arrived yesterday – the English servant. And what of his master? She realised with a start that she had neither met him nor resolved whether to let them stay. The light streaming in through the slatted shutters alarmed her. She could not think why Celia had not roused her much earlier.
But a hat on one of the hooks and a leather travelling pack on the chest jogged her memory. Roger was here. Had she not seen his things in the room she would have thought his return a dream. Yesterday afternoon had been like any other. She’d had no premonition that her wait of almost a year was about to end, not even a fleeting thought that Roger might appear. In fact, of late she had ceased to pray for either his safety or his return, an omission born of resentment. She was not eventwenty and condemned to the chaste life of a nun while her husband yet lived. Though he might never venture near her, she was condemned to await his pleasure while he might change his name and marry or bed as many women as he pleased – or so she had come to think over the past year, usually in wakeful hours before dawn.
And now he’d arrived, pledging his love, teasing her with passionate play, promising … what? No more than he had promised on their wedding night, to be a good husband. She had told him she did not understand what he meant by ‘love’ but she might have added ‘husband’.
About one thing she was adamant – she would not let his return erase the strength she had gained in his absence. Nor would she withdraw her support from John Balliol. With that resolve she forced herself to rise and begin her day. Her eyes burned and her face was tender from Roger’s scratchy beard. Worst of all, she had been left unsatisfied and abandoned, as if he’d opened his eyes this morning and realised she was the wrong woman.
Celia knocked – her timing was uncanny. After pulling her crumpled shift over her head, Margaret called out for the maid to enter. As the door swung open the arguing voices grew louder.
‘With whom is my uncle debating so long and loudly?’
‘English soldiers,’ said Celia. ‘They are carryingout orders to board up the High Street door to the tavern and guard the yard entrance.’ She glanced at Margaret, then quickly averted her eyes. ‘The tavern is shut.’ She shook out Margaret’s dress.
Margaret turned her back to Celia to receive the gown overhead. ‘Shut?’ This was disturbing news. ‘Uncle feared this would happen. Does it have something to do with that stranger who arrived yesterday?’
Celia looked confused. ‘Stranger?’ She shook her head as if she didn’t know whom Margaret meant. ‘The soldiers say it’s because of Old Will.’
‘Old Will,’ Margaret whispered. ‘They searched his rooms and now they close the tavern.’ She turned back to Celia. ‘Why has death stirred them like no other among us? Who do they think he was that they find him so important in death?’
Celia stole another glance. Her pained expression was like a mirror held to Margaret – she must look as ragged as she felt.
‘Whatever their reasoning,’ Celia said, ‘they are eager. While your uncle argues with one, the other soldiers make haste with the carpentry. But I don’t believe their mission surprised him. Your uncle and Hal were up before me, loading a cart in the dark.’
So her uncle had another hiding place. Margaret should have guessed. As she stretched out her arms for the sleeves she asked, ‘Where did you
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