The Fire in the Flint Read Online Free Page B

looked bemused. ‘Couldn’t they see the rags he wore?’
    ‘He wore a good pair of shoes when I last saw him,’ Hal said.
    ‘When was that?’ Margaret asked.
    ‘A few days past.’ Hal looked up, and Margaret saw that he was pleased to have interested her. ‘The shoes fitted him.’
    So unless God had guided Old Will to the shoes it was unlikely that he had stolen them. Coin for ale, for shoes. ‘Where did he find the siller?’ Margaret wondered, shading her eyes as she turned into the sun to see her uncle’s face. ‘When were you last in the undercroft?’
    Murdoch studied her from beneath his bushy brows for a moment. ‘You’re thinking that it was Old Will hunting for coins in there? And who attacked him? Someone defending my goods out of charity?’
    ‘He’d been in there before, taken some, and then returned at an unfortunate time?’ Hal suggested, his young face alight with interest.
    Murdoch shook his head. ‘I cannot recall at present when I was last in there, but Old Will was no lock picker. Had he been he would have drunk himself to death long ago.’
    Margaret reluctantly agreed.
    ‘I haven’t the head for such things,’ said Hal, rising. ‘I should groom the MacLaren’s horse. He’ll be wanting her soon.’
    Margaret took the tankards into the kitchen.
    Murdoch followed. ‘I don’t like how keen you are to solve my problems, lass.’
    ‘It would be unnatural for me not to want answers. My parents, my husband – what is someone looking for, and who is looking for it?’
    ‘I meant Old Will’s sudden wealth.’
    ‘He was attacked in your undercroft.’
    ‘You’d do better to wonder what your father’s doing in Bruges.’
    ‘Da has never confided in me. I might wonder all I like and never ken the truth of him.’
    ‘You’re curious enough about others, but not your family?’
    ‘Are you about to confide in me?’
    ‘No.’
    But he was right, she should concentrate on what her family might possess that someone might want. ‘I should go to Perth,’ she said.
    ‘What?’ cried Murdoch.
    ‘I’m no use to you here, we’ve had few people staying of late and there’s little for me to do in the tavern,’ she reasoned.
    ‘Fickle woman,’ Murdoch growled. ‘In spring you cursed me for saying you should bide at home.’
    ‘I did, though it was my husband I should have cursed. You were but the messenger. Fergus’s letter has me worried, even more so after seeing the state of the undercroft. I should be with him.’
    ‘I don’t like it, Maggie. The English will becertain we had a hand in Will’s death if you suddenly run off.’
    ‘You’re never at a loss to find ways to ease their worries, Uncle.’ His was the only tavern still open in Edinburgh and she knew he traded something with the English in order to prevent their closing such a place where Scots gathered.
    ‘They grow greedier by the day,’ said Murdoch. ‘I doubt I’ll hold them off much longer.’
    Margaret saw that he was serious.
    James Comyn sat near the window in the hall of his house on High Street considering the conversation he’d just had with a messenger from William Wallace. He was not at all confident that the young man had understood James’s response. Once before he’d had this feeling, and indeed Wallace had taken offence in his reply and a long, inconvenient silence had ensued. Perhaps it was time James met with Wallace again. The messenger had said Wallace was headed for Kinclaven Castle, east of Dunkeld, to keep watch on the English garrison there.
    As James stared out of the window, debating whether to risk such a journey, he watched Margaret Kerr striding up the hill. She wore her everyday gown, which hung from her strong bones of late – life in Edinburgh was more difficult than it had been at her home in Perth or with her goodmother in Dunfermline, and her curly redhair was caught up in a simple white cap. The clothes were not elegant but she carried herself with regal ease. A