A Trust Betrayed

15

Margaret must have flustered Murdoch more than she had guessed. Or Belle had. But Margaret had no time to question God’s purpose in throwing this temptation in her path. Her uncle might realize his mistake at any moment. She slipped through the storeroom door, pulled it to. Darkness. She felt round the inside of the door, hoping the padlock would be hanging on a hook as it did in the kitchen. Nothing. Crablike she moved to the opposite side of the door, felt round, found the padlock.

But it would be of no use to take it. Murdoch would know she had it, and he would replace it. He seemed to need many locks-no doubt he hoarded a goodly number.

A noise outside the door alerted her. She pressed back against the wall, watched the line of daylight grow along the items to the left.

“Mistress?”

“Celia?”

The maid stepped into the room pulling the door closed behind her, opened the shutter on a lantern.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Whatever you want to see, do it quickly. Your uncle is in the tavern kitchen with Roy.” Celia produced a twig, lit a lamp from the lantern.

Margaret made her way round the chests, past the barrels, to the tapestry on the far wall. There were several, hung one over the other. Loot, she guessed. Beneath them sat another chest. She knelt down, lifted the lid, inhaled a lavender scent. A woman’s gown lay on the top, made of scarlet, the costliest wool cloth.

“Someone is coming!” Celia said.

Beside the woman’s chest was a smaller one, a size that fitted behind a saddle. Margaret had seen Roger strap it on many times. It was locked.

The light dimmed behind her. Celia had blown out the lamp by the door. Margaret shuttered the lantern. The door opened slowly.

“You must be more careful about the wick if you wish to be a spy, Maggie,” said Murdoch. “It is still smoking.”

She opened the lantern shutter, unwilling to be locked in here as a lesson.

“Do you have the key to Roger’s lock?” she asked.

“What took you to his chest so quickly?”

“It is where you were standing.”

Murdoch shook his head. “I do not have the key. For all I did for him, the man still does not trust me.”

“I don’t believe there is a lock you cannot pick.”

“Come out of there. I must get back to Roy. That whore has him in a drunken rage, destroying the kitchen.”

Andrew prayed that the Almighty would grant him the freedom to prove to himself he was not the puppet of Abbot Adam. He was done with that. He intended to warn Murdoch of the abbot’s intention to close the tavern. And he must talk to Margaret-there were things she must know. His honor toward his family was so far intact, let it remain so, please God. He had borrowed a pilgrim’s robe and wide-brimmed hat that had been left at the abbey by a hastily departing guest. So disguised, he passed out the gate without notice. Once in Canongate he forced himself to continue up the road at a solemn pace.

He felt exposed walking alone, without Matthew. He had not realized how accustomed he had become to the young man’s presence, that now to walk by himself seemed unnatural, something all would notice. Matthew was a good lad, quiet and self-effacing. He wished more than anything to be a canon, but he seemed incapable of learning to read. His eyesight was good enough. Alas for Matthew, though the lad might be correct in his assertion that his parish priest did not know his letters, an Augustinian canon must be able to read and write. His best hope was as a lay brother in one of the Austin hospitals. Perhaps Soutra.

In all his agonizing over this venture, Andrew had not thought about Abbot Adam’s mention of Soutra the previous day. A confessor for the English soldiers. Andrew could think of no one in the order he would recommend for that duty-it might be a death sentence if this conflict did not end soon.

In fact it might be Andrew’s. It would be in character for Abbot Adam to turn the request into an order. Once committed even further to the English cause, Andrew would find it impossible to retreat to his private preference. No one would believe him. No Scot would trust him.

Neither would any Englishman. After all, a priest, though he was God’s anointed, was yet a man with man’s frailties. Only God knew who might break the seal of confession when tortured.

There were no guards at Netherbow. Wallace had done this much for the town, a moment of calm, while the garrison marched southwest to Lanark. Andrew thought back to the ferry crossing, the last time he had seen Wallace. His bearing had seemed different then from the deferential man who had attended the meetings from which Andrew was shut out on that humiliating trip to St. Andrews. As if Wallace were already envisioning the battles ahead.

Murdoch frowned at Andrew as he appeared at the steps leading to Margaret’s chamber. “Do you look for me, pilgrim?”

Andrew took off his hat.

“Holy Mother! Why do you wear such garb?”

Andrew told him why, and of the abbot’s threat.

“You crossed your abbot just to warn me of that, nephew?”

“No. I must talk to Maggie.”

“She’s above.”

Margaret stared at the patch of sky out the small window of her chamber. Seeing their things side by side had turned the knife in her heart. Roger had gone to Berwick and brought Edwina here before answering Edward’s summons. And afterward he had returned. But now that Edwina was dead and Margaret was here, Roger avoided the inn. She was less to him than Edwina of Carlisle had been.

There was a knock on the door. She opened it to find Andrew in pilgrim’s garb. He was hollow-cheeked, looking tense and weary.

“Why are you dressed so?”

“I must talk to you.”

“My ears are tired, Andrew. We’ll talk another day.”

“No. There may not be another day.” He pushed past her into the room.

“I cannot bear more terrible news, Andrew.”

He stepped out of the pilgrim’s robe, laid it and the hat on the bed. “There are things you must know.”

“I pray you-”

“About the incident at Holyrood. And other matters.”

That caught her interest. “Tell me about that night.”

“I arrived back the next day, in the midst of the confusion. What I know is secondhand.”

“The abbot confides in you.”

“No more, Maggie. He did then. But no more.” Andrew fingered the bed curtain. “Have you heard what happened on Sunday?”

“Heselrig. Wallace’s attack.”

“Aye.” Andrew turned. “It has truly begun, Maggie.”

“What, Andrew?”

“The routing of the English.”

“It will take more than Wallace the thief.”

“You must get that out of your head. He is a brave man, fighting for our king.” Andrew sat down on the bed. “Do you remember how we played in our parents’ bed when we were little? It was a ship, a vast estate…”

“… a castle, a cave.” A sweet memory. But Andrew was not given to reminiscing.

“Family comes first after God, Maggie.”

He had truly changed since Sunday. “I am sorry we argued.”

“I would not have brought Jack’s body to Dunfermline if he were not now part of our family.”

“And I have thanked you for it.” She drew the curtains aside, sat down beside him, took his hand. So cold. Like the dead. Ye’t he was sweating. “Andrew, if this is about Roger, he did not die on the border. I did see him last week.”

“So said your messenger. You have this on good authority?”

“I do. He was also seen by another.”

Andrew pressed her hand, drew his from hers, touched the side of her face. “That is good news, but you do not look glad.”

“He is working for Robert Bruce. I do not know how I feel about that-or why he did not tell me. If he does not feel he can confide in me, how can he love me?”

“Roger is not good enough for you, Maggie. But if he is caught up in the fighting, God help him.”

Margaret did not repeat the prayer. “Why were you dressed so?”

“I come here against my lord abbot’s wishes, but that does not matter. I do not honor him. I do honor and love you. All my kin. Even Murdoch, because he has welcomed you here.”

“Why this change of heart, Andrew? Why have you disobeyed your abbot? What will be your penance?” Margaret feared the serious consequences of disobeying such a powerful abbot, who might draw on support from Longshanks to punish Andrew.

“God has shown me the true way, Maggie. Do not think of my penance. I can bear anything now. But I need to tell you everything. I may not see you again for a long while, Maggie. So hear me out.”

Her stomach clenched. “Why won’t you see me?”

“Hear me out.”

The tension in Andrew’s voice silenced Margaret. She crossed her legs beneath her on the bed.

“I must begin at the beginning. You will know everything. You can be my judge and jury.”

“Me?”

He put a finger to her lips to silence her. It was like a children’s game. Secrets in the sheltering curtains of the great bed. But this was real and he frightened her.

“I write Abbot Adam’s letters. His is a prodigious correspondence. I was honored to be chosen.” Andrew laughed as he said the word “honored.” “By his dictation, I am privy to his thoughts, his arrangements.”

“And he is King Edward’s man.”

Andrew shushed her as he nodded. “This is difficult for me. Let me speak as it comes.”

“I meant nothing.”

“He is King Edward’s man, and with access to many documents that should have been in the royal archives of Scotland but had been scattered among the abbeys. When King Edward ordered that the Stone of Scone, the emblems of the King of the Scots, and the royal archives be sent to Westminster, Abbot Adam saw his chance to improve his status. As he handed over the archives in his care, he informed Edward that there were other documents. He offered to send emissaries to collect them from around this kingdom. Edward did not trust that-he wished his own soldiers to go. But he needed someone who could both read and be trusted to attend them.”

“You, Andrew?”

He looked her right in the eye and acknowledged it. “The soldiers were not by their nature gentle, you understand. When the clerics and their lay servants fought to protect the items from the English, they were brutally subdued. And I stood by, mute with fear. I am anathema now among my countrymen. I am Judas.”

“Why do you-?”

“I had a choice, Maggie. I might have refused my abbot, taken my punishment. But I am weak.”

“You took a vow of obedience.”

Andrew pressed his hands to his eyes. “Our Lord God granted us free will with which to choose the path of grace. When I saw what was happening I realized that this was the work of Satan. Lucifer!” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “Yet I was too weak to rise against him.”

Margaret could see Andrew truly believed he had done wrong, though in the eyes of the Kirk she was not so certain. “Did many die?”

He shook his head. “At least I do not have that on my conscience. It is the dishonor I cannot bear. I did not know how unbearable it would be to me until it was done.”

He was quiet again. His eyes closed, he seemed to be praying. Margaret wanted to comfort him. It was difficult to keep her silence.

“You asked about that night at the abbey,” he said at last. “When Harry and Davy died. I will tell you. Only today I learned of the last link. I believe it was Harcar who betrayed them to the sheriff. On Jack’s information.”

Dear God, another who accused Jack. “Do you know that?”

“I know that Abbot Adam paid Harcar for something recently. And there is talk of Jack and Harcar drinking together.”

Margaret bowed her head. Although she had never met the men, she still found it hard to think of Jack being responsible for Harry’s and Davy’s deaths.

“The abbot told the brethren of Holyrood to expect several Dominicans in the evening, and to allow them entrance. What he did not tell them was that some of the supposed Dominicans purposed to create chaos and draw the brethren away from their fellows, who would come in after them to steal the documents that had been collected in the abbot’s chambers for the couriers. Harry and Davy were caught before the others arrived.”

“How did the intruders know where the documents resided?”

“I do not know how it was planned.”

“Were the men murdered in the abbey?”

“No. The soldiers dragged them away to execute them.”

“This happened the night before you returned from St. Andrews?”

“Yes. I believe they thought I had gone to St. Andrews for the last documents, that someone would be traveling south with the archives soon.”

“Were you still gathering documents?”

“No. The abbot sent me to St. Andrews to complain to Bishop Wishart and James the Steward, who were meeting there, about my rough treatment by King Edward. I was to say I had been forced to accompany the soldiers in gathering the documents, that I had helped them because I was weak and feared for my life, which was of course true.” Andrew pressed a hand to his forehead. “I was to beg forgiveness.”

“But you had done what your abbot wanted. Why did he seek then to humiliate you?”

“He saw my misery and thought to use it, that I would be quite convincing and would gain their confidence and, perhaps, access to the talks from which he was excluded.”

“What happened?”

“I went to St. Andrews, was told that the bishop and the Steward were unable to see me. I stayed for a few days, but my reputation had preceded me and I was shunned by all, to them I was a traitor. And then I understood the other piece of my abbot’s plan-he sought in this way to show me that I could never go back, I could never desert his cause, for no one would believe me. So I went to Elcho and confessed to our mother, the blessed Christiana, one who could not deny me an audience.” All Andrew’s bitterness went into the word “blessed.”

He had always believed in Christiana. Obviously that had changed. “Why did you confess to Mother?”

“I wanted absolution.”

“Did she absolve you?”

“No one can, Maggie.”

Neither of them moved for a long while. A church bell tolled, but Andrew noticed it only as it ceased. What it had signaled he did not know, did not care. But it woke him from his breathless wait for Margaret’s response. It was as if he had expected that she would shrive him when his mother could not. Ye’t more so than after his meeting with Christiana, he felt lighter of heart, having confessed all to his sister.

Needing activity, he eased off the bed and crossed to the window. Behind him, in the shelter of the curtained bed, Margaret began to sob. She had been right. He did not comfort her, he burdened her. She had received yet another sorrow to add to her burden.

“I should leave you now,” he said. “You have what you wished, all that I know.”

He heard her rise and approach him.

“What is happening here?” she cried. “Has God forsaken us?”

As Andrew turned, Margaret put her arms round his chest and hugged him hard. His throat tightened.

“He has spared Roger, Maggie. Is that not cause to rejoice?”

“This is not a time of rejoicing.”

He kissed the top of her head, held her.

She quieted. Took a few shuddering breaths. Leaned back to look up at him. “I understand now why you did not wish to tell me.” Though her voice was hoarse from her outburst, she spoke with a calm that heartened him.

There was a knock. “Father Andrew!” It was Matthew’s voice.

Andrew opened the door, finding his servant anxiously pacing. “You should not have left the abbey.”

“Abbot Adam is aware you are out with the abbey and he is not pleased. There will be a reckoning, he says. Soon you will be missed at vespers.” Matthew’s voice trembled with the enormity.

“Peace, Matthew, you say I have already been missed. Vespers will not matter. I shall come soon, and I thank you for your message. But it would go better for you if you return at once.”

Matthew shook his head.

“Go now, lad. I command you.”

“My fate is yours, Father Andrew.”

“It is a foolish loyalty.”

Margaret had joined Andrew at the door. “I should think you would thank him, not rebuff him.”

Matthew made a good effort to smile, though it turned out almost unpleasant.

“If Matthew returns in your company, Andrew,” Margaret added, “it will be clear who detained him and that he did not add loitering or another adventure atop his time away from the abbey.”

Andrew began to argue, but stopped, not trusting his judgment at the moment, still wondering whether he should have burdened her with his story. “I will not be long now, Matthew.”

“Go down to the tavern,” Margaret said to Matthew. “Tell Sim that you are thirsty. So are we.”

As the lad disappeared down the steps, Andrew realized he feared for him.

Margaret closed the door. “What did Mother see in your future?”

“That I would go through fire.”

“That you had or that you will?”

“Will.”

Margaret left the door. Hugging her arms to her, she stood with head bowed.

Andrew felt detached, as if a spectator, watching brother and sister. How quiet he must seem, standing there, awaiting his sister’s conclusion. Like a dumb ox waiting to plow. Ye’t there was nothing for him to do now but return to the abbey, learn his penance. He had given his warning to Murdoch. He had confessed to his sister.

“Mother is mad, it is no message from the Lord,” Margaret said.

Andrew watched her as she went to let Matthew in with a tray and three cups of ale.

“I will sit on the landing with mine,” the lad said, leaving them quickly.

Margaret poured the ale. Only now did Andrew notice how her hands trembled, how she bit her bottom lip as if trying to contain some overwhelming emotion.

She handed him a cup. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I ken you think Mother’s visions madness, but I believed her, Maggie. Her vision saddened her.”

“I cried when you told me what you have suffered. A sad, frightening vision is Mother’s way of weeping.”

“No. It is more than that, Maggie.”

“Is it because she predicted fire that you return to the abbey? Leave it.”

“I took vows, Maggie.”

She walked back and forth. “You know too much. You are a threat to the abbot.”

“It is my place. Just as you will return to Roger, though he has deceived you and abandoned you.”

She paused before him, her eyes searching his. “Why are you so certain he has abandoned me?”

“Remember that first trip Roger made, immediately after your wedding? He came to Edinburgh. And when I saw him-” Andrew stopped. He should not tell her this now, when it was of no use to her. And the expression on her face-he had never seen her look so defeated. “Is it not clear to you that your husband has a life about which you know nothing?”

“That is most clear. But I do not fear for my life with Roger. You should do so with Abbot Adam. He is powerful. He tricked you into an act for which you feel great shame. Shame that threatens him. Do what he fears you will do. Denounce him. Another order would take you gladly. And by denouncing him you would show others your true worth. Run while you can.”

“I might have refused at any time. Those who shunned me at St. Andrews saw my true worth.”

She turned from him.

“I am sorry, Maggie. I should not have said what I did.”

She shrugged. “After they execute William Wallace, what then?”

“I do not think Wallace will be easily caught. This is the moment I have feared. Now there will be fighting all about us.”

“And you have truly decided John Balliol is the rightful king?” Margaret asked.

“I believe it now, with my whole heart.”

“I, too, have come to believe that. Though Roger supports Robert Bruce.”

So Sir Walter was right in his suspicions. Andrew was glad he had not known that yesterday. “What will happen to the two of you?” He did not think a couple would easily resolve such a deep divide. But Roger had already done so much damage to his marriage by neglecting his wife. “Had he been a better husband, might he have convinced you of the right of his cause?”

“I doubt I shall ever know.” She still faced away from him, but he heard the pain in his sister’s voice and ached for her. “So we are agreed on this one thing, eh?” she said with forced gaiety as she slipped back down on her stool and took up her ale.

“Aye, Maggie.”

They drank to that.