A Trust Betrayed

16

Margaret and Andrew walked slowly down the stairs to the backlands. He had made it clear they might not see each other again for a long while, but he would say no more than that. It was strange-though she could feel her brother was frightened, he carried himself straighter than he had of late, as if he had resolved something. She envied him that.

When they reached the alley he leaned down, kissed her on the cheek. “You need not walk me out to the street, Maggie.”

She stood on her toes to kiss him on the mouth, then hugged him tight. “I’ll pray for you, my brother,” she said as he drew away from her. “God go with you.”

“And with you, my sister.” His face was pale against his dark hair, his eyes sad. “I pray for your sake Roger returns safely.”

“With a change of heart, eh?” She forced a smile.

He closed his eyes, bowed his head to her, then moved toward the alley. She withdrew to the stairs, suddenly unwilling to watch him cross over the spot where Harcar had lain, fearful she might see a sign of his own death as he touched it.

“Do not look so forlorn,” Murdoch said from the doorway of his kitchen. “Despite the robes, he is not off on pilgrimage.” He stood with arms stretched out, his hands pressing either side of the archway as if holding it up. “Did he tell you the abbot means to close me down?”

“No.” Margaret turned away. She could not bear any more bad news.

“Come in here, Maggie. We’ve something to discuss.”

“Not now, Uncle.”

“I’ve news of Roger.”

The words hit her in the stomach, making her gasp. She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, steadied herself, fought to recapture her breath.

“Maggie?” Murdoch had quit the doorway, stood at her side. “Are you taking a turn?” He touched her shoulder.

“Where is he?” she managed to ask.

“Far from here, Maggie. Word came through one of his men.”

She dropped her hands, pressed them to her sides. “I was not expecting word from him. Go in, I’ll come after you.” She waited until her breath was nearly back to normal, then followed him.

On the small table beside the window Murdoch had set out two tankards and a pitcher of ale. That did not bode well. Margaret dropped down onto a stool. “He is alive, then?”

Murdoch filled her tankard before he sat. “As of Sunday he was, aye.”

She did not touch the ale. “He is with Robert Bruce?”

Murdoch glanced away. “The messenger did not say. Roger’s orders are that I send you away from here, Maggie. Back to Perth, where you will be safer.”

That stung. “Where he will not risk seeing me.”

Murdoch frowned in surprise. “No, I-”

After all this time, after he had seen how his appearance shook her, this was Roger’s message. Anger rushed through her.

“How dare he!” The power of her anger brought her to her feet. The ale sloshed in the tankards and the pitcher.

“Maggie-”

“How dare he order me away!” She swept her full tankard to the floor. Her face burned, her breath came in gasps. “He can order his Englishwoman about, but not me!” She was choking on bile.

“Edwina of Carlisle is dead, Maggie.”

She heard it faintly, through the roar of her blood. “Good riddance.” She raised her hand to strike the pitcher off the table. Murdoch lunged at her, pinned her against the wall behind her.

“Stop it, Maggie! She was nothing to him, I’ve told you that.”

She struggled to free her hand, trying to slap Murdoch in the face. But he was far stronger than she was.

“Roger wants you safe, Maggie. This is no place for you, I’ve said it over and over.”

Through clenched teeth she managed to say, “Go… to… hell.”

Murdoch suddenly released her, backed away. “What’s gotten into you, lass? What did that brother of yours say?”

“Something has happened, I don’t know what-he says I’ll not see him for a long while.”

It was plain Murdoch had not heard that. “Then all the better that you go away.”

“Och aye, far more convenient for you.”

“Maggie! You must calm yourself, lass. You’re wrong if you feel-”

“You can’t even begin to ken what I feel. First my father runs, then my husband abandons me. Andrew-God knows what’s happening to him. And now you would ship me back to where I have no one. No one, Uncle.”

Murdoch dropped his head, momentarily silenced.

Margaret caught her breath. “Did Roger say he had seen me?”

“Aye, and he was sorry he could not come to you, but it would be dangerous.”

“And yet when Edwina of Carlisle-” She stopped. The woman was dead. “So it was her body they found on the border?”

“Aye, it was.” Murdoch wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “You’ll go to Dunfermline, to your goodmother.”

“We’ll see about that.” Margaret gathered her skirts and pushed past him and out the door. She heard him shout her name as she ran by the chambermaid’s hut, the tavern kitchen. Once beyond the inhabited buildings she slowed to a walk, pressing her hands to a stitch in her side.

The clouds had lifted, the soggy rooftops steamed in the late afternoon sun. She squinted against the light. A deep, wrenching sob doubled her over. She sank down onto a rock, buried her face in her hands, and wept until it was too painful to weep any longer. When she was certain she had rid herself of the lump in her throat, she slowly lifted her head. The world swam before her, but after a time it righted itself as her breathing slowed.

How dare he order her back to that empty house. Christ what a heartless man she had married. God had abandoned her and her brother, that was plain. Her mother’s prophecy for Andrew was coming true, but those for Margaret-how pathetically naive she had been to wonder even for a moment whether they might come to be.

Perhaps it would be better to leave this place. It would not be so awful to return to her goodmother’s house. Edinburgh was a dark town choking with suspicion and hate. Ifever she had done a pointless thing it was coming here, searching for a husband who did not wish to be found by her, grieving over another man who had not been the man she had thought him, seeking help from a selfish, spineless thief. She would be better away. She took some deep breaths, gazed round, wondering whether anyone had witnessed her collapse-not that it mattered.

Beyond the tavern kitchen stood a few sheds, then a paddock outlined with wattle hurdles. Behind the house that faced Cowgate was an old shed with a collapsed roof. Agrippa sat on the crumbled roof material, cleaning himself. His fur was a deep red-brown in the sunlight, not black at all.

Like Andrew’s hair. Oh, what a handsome man her brother was. And so unhappy.

So was she. She wondered what her mother would make of her prophecies now-pouring over maps before a battle, holding her babe in her arms, her husband by her side. If the contrast were not so painful Margaret might laugh at it. Her goodmother had been silly to believe Christiana. And what would Katherine make of all this? Pray God she did not turn Margaret away. Her stomach clenched to think on it. A week ago she would not have feared rejection there, she would have been confident of being received by her goodmother with open arms. But Katherine might prefer not to know all Margaret had learned of Roger and Jack. That would require a silence Margaret feared she could not maintain. And once told, there would be no erasing it.

And so to Perth? She had a house there, at least. Ye’t there were rumors that William Wallace was in Scone a few miles up-river-that would not make for a safe or peaceful place.

Margaret had risked everything in coming here to seek out the cause of Jack’s death, she had not seen that before. And still she could not name Jack’s murderer. Well, as long as she was still here, she might continue to work at unraveling Jack’s murder; perhaps she might learn something of use to her. It was obvious she had only herself to depend on. She still believed there was more to Jack’s death than Comyn’s men seeking vengeance. There was the loom weight. And Besseta Fletcher, daughter of the man who had sent Jack to Edinburgh, was a weaver.

Margaret found Celia in their chamber, spinning. The bedchamber seemed chilly and dim after the sunshine.

“Was it darksome news, from Father Andrew?”

Margaret hesitated by the door. She had come to a decision, but did not know how to begin. “Thank you for coming to my aid in the storeroom.”

“I was gey glad to help. Did you find something of use to you?”

Here was the invitation Margaret sought. She sat down across the table. “It is time you knew everything.”

Celia pursed her lips, dropped her eyes to her spindle. “We’ll be bound if I do.”

“Aye. But you’ve already risked danger to help me. You’ve already bound us.”

The maid lifted her dark eyes to Margaret’s. “Tell me.”

Not knowing how much Celia already grasped, Margaret began from the beginning, with the loom weight. It was a long telling, punctuated by pauses when Margaret lost her way in her own thoughts. Celia listened with rapt attention. At the end, there was silence.

Margaret felt as if she had confessed her sins. Andrew must have felt this way.

“I am sorry for any trouble I have caused you,” Celia said at last.

“You’ve helped. Surely you can see that.”

“What will you do?”

“My husband wants me to go back to Perth and wait there until he has nothing better to do than resume his business and his marriage. But before Murdoch finds us safe passage, I wish to see the Fletcher sisters. I want you to accompany me on a visitation tomorrow. I thought we would offer one of your remedies to Agnes. And while you have them distracted I shall look at Besseta’s loom weights.”

The warm day allowed Andrew to do his copying in the cloister, away from the abbot and his knowing eyes-though he could not escape his words. Andrew was making a fair copy of a letter Abbot Adam was sending to Bishop Wishart regarding some old business. In an incidental remark at the conclusion Adam complained of Andrew’s treatment by the English soldiers. Andrew had protested the passage when taking notes this morning, but Abbot Adam said his feelings were too delicate on this. Andrew cursed as a cat jumped up onto the table and jarred his arm.

“Damn you!” He jerked the parchment out from beneath the cat’s large white paws. The cat hissed at him and retreated to the corner of the table. Andrew disliked the creatures, and they knew it.

“Cursing Griselda.” The abbot softly chuckled. “It is no wonder she torments you.”

A chill ran down Andrew’s back-he had not heard the abbot’s approach. He put down his pen and rose to bow to the abbot.

“Forgive me, My Lord Abbot. She surprised me.”

“As have I, apparently. Return to your work. I did not mean to disturb you, merely to ask you to see me after nones.” The abbot nodded to Andrew, then, calling to Griselda, walked slowly away.

Andrew broke out in a sweat. Adam played with him like a cat with its prey.

This morning he had been certain the abbot would challenge him about his absence the previous afternoon, but he had not mentioned it. All was as usual, the abbot dictating, Andrew scribbling. If Adam did not broach it at their next meeting, Andrew must bring it up himself. He could not bear this game.

In the warmth of the sunny afternoon the upper stories that leaned crookedly over High Street blocked the air. But it was her mission, not the spring sunlight, that had Margaret sweating as they turned down the alley to the Fletchers’ door. She prayed for success, raised her hand, rapped sharply. Waited.

“Someone is there,” Celia whispered.

Margaret nodded, rapped again.

Besseta opened the door just enough to peer out. The room behind her was dark, as was the shade of mid-afternoon. “Margaret. So you have found me.” She peered out farther. Her neck looked fragile beneath the cap that covered her hair. “Who is with you?”

“Celia, my maid. She is skilled with herbs and roots. I thought if she could see Agnes, she might be able to mix something to help her.”

“Agnes is sleeping. She must not be disturbed.”

“Perhaps if you described Agnes’s illness to us?”

Besseta shook her head, began to close the door.

“I have an excellent sleep potion,” Celia said.

Besseta checked the movement of the door. “A sleep potion?”

Celia pulled back the cloth on the basket she carried, lifted a packet.

Besseta opened the door wide. “It is a hellhole in here,” she said, stepping aside as if to let them see for themselves. But their eyes could not adjust to the indoor dimness so quickly. “You are welcome if you do not mind it.”

There was no question of refusing the offer. Margaret stepped within, Celia following on her heels.

It was not a pleasant room, but hardly deserved the comparison with hell. A loom at the far right caught the north light from a high window-surely not enough light in which to weave for long in most seasons. A tattered cloth covered an interior doorway to the left of the window. Though the house sat on a hill dropping off north and east and should have excellent drainage, the beaten-earth floor smelled damp, and the warmth of the day made pungent various cellar odors. Margaret prayed that Celia would not wrinkle her nose. But if she had, Besseta did not notice.

Margaret wandered toward the loom as Besseta and Celia arranged a bench and stools. The weights tied to the warp were larger than the one she had in her scrip. But on the floor near the loom were several piles of loom weights of various sizes. The smallest were much like the one Jack had clutched in death.

By the loom sat a wool comb. On an impulse, Margaret grabbed it, concealing it behind her back as Besseta joined her.

“I had no idea you did such delicate work.” Margaret touched the unfinished piece of weaving on the loom. “Did you weave the mantle you are wearing?”

“I did. Useless thing.”

“But quite beautiful.”

They moved over to the arranged seats, near the unlit brazier.

“It would have been of more use to me to have carried down a larger loom.”

Margaret sat on the bench. “You brought it from Perth?”

“I did.” Besseta perched at the edge of a wobbly stool. “I needed something to keep my hands busy.”

“While you sat with Agnes?”

“Aye. Though I did not expect to be here so long.”

Celia moved her stool back slightly, so that Besseta would need to turn her head all the way to her left to see her.

Margaret was close enough to see that the fluted edge of Besseta’s cap trembled.

“I understand Agnes was widowed, then lost a bairn.”

Besseta fidgeted with her hands. “It has been a terrible time.”

“She was fortunate to have you here.”

Besseta looked down at her hands, quieted them. “I seem to mind you are staying with your uncle?”

“I am. In fact, it was from the laundress I hired for his inn that I learned of Agnes’s misfortune.”

Besseta looked up sharply. “What else did the laundress say about us?”

“She grumbled that you took from her the little weaving work she had, for the priests of St. Giles.”

“Rosamund.”

“Yes.”

Margaret tried not to react as Celia slipped away, through the inner doorway.

“You will be satisfied with her laundering,” Besseta said, “but do not depend on her weaving.” She tried a smile.

“I am glad to hear that I have not yet made a mistake with her.”

“It seems a strange time to journey here-with the English at the castle.”

“I hoped to hear news of my husband, Roger. He has been gone for some time.”

Besseta’s head shook quite noticeably now. “Oh.”

“Forgive me,” Margaret said. “You have your own troubles. I should keep mine to myself.”

“How- How did you find my parents when you left Perth?”

“Your mother wore a lovely new cap to market with a pale ribbon woven into the border,” Margaret said, “and she looked bonny. I have not seen your father since Jack departed.”

Someone knocked on the outside door.

Besseta rose so abruptly she tipped over the stool. It clattered and rocked to a halt.

Celia came through the curtained inner doorway and slipped back onto her stool as Besseta answered the street door. Margaret dropped the wool comb into her scrip.

“Dame Fletcher.” It was a man’s voice.

“Master Comyn. How strange to have so many visitors in one afternoon.”

“Who is here?”

“Dame Kerr and her maid.”

Margaret and Celia exchanged a glance and rose.

Besseta opened wide the door. James Comyn filled the doorway, bending slightly to enter.

“Dame Kerr, forgive me for intruding on your conversation.” He studied her face, then Celia’s. Glanced round the room.

“You did not intrude at all. We must return to the inn.” Margaret turned to Besseta. “I pray you, send word to me at the inn if there is anything I can do.”

“The potion?”

Celia handed Besseta the packet. “That is enough for ten nights. Mix it in wine or ale. Sparingly.”

Comyn gave Besseta a questioning look as he nodded to Margaret and Celia.

“What did you see?” Margaret asked when they reached High Street.

“There is a room back there with a locked door.”

“Probably Agnes’s chamber.”

“A pallet lies in the hallway just beside the door. Mistress, the odor back there is that of a sickroom and something else.”

“There are many unpleasant odors in that house.”

“I should not like to spend a night there. It is far worse than the inn. What did you put in your scrip?”

“A wool comb. I’ll show you when we are back in our chamber. But first I want to talk to Janet Webster.”

Janet’s door was open to the warm day. The weaver had pulled the loom beneath a panel in the roof that had been propped open. She stood on a bench pushing up the weft with a wooden sword, the light revealing the lovely pattern of the weave.

“Good day to you, Margaret.”

“Might we talk?” Margaret asked.

Janet tucked the sword in her girdle, stepped down off the bench with a grunt. Her brow and upper lip glistened with sweat from the warm sun.

“Surely I’ve told you all I know?”

She sat down on the bench. Margaret pulled over a stool. Celia sat on the bed in the corner nearby.

“We have been to see Besseta Fletcher,” said Margaret. “James Comyn arrived while we were there. He seemed- I felt that he came to watch over her conversation with me.”

Janet sighed. “Celia, will you hand me that pot of grease on the shelf beside you?”

Celia passed her a small earthen pot. Janet scooped some of the grease out with her fingertips and rubbed it into her hands. “Comyn might be right to be concerned.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Agnes’s Tom, like my Davy, was Comyn’s man,” she said. “He died on a mission for Comyn. I expected trouble when Jack Sinclair arrived.”

“Why?” Margaret could not imagine Jack caught up in Comyn’s battles.

“I told you-Jack wished to be like Roger, even in his support of Robert Bruce,” Janet said gently.

“Jack was on her father’s business,” Margaret insisted.

“And why do you think he agreed to travel in such times?”

“For Roger.”

“That, and Besseta. Jack stayed at the Fletcher lodgings here. It was said they were to be wed.”

He clutched the loom weight in his hand. Besseta’s loom weight. Margaret closed her eyes, trying to make sense of all the noise in her head.

“You did not know they were lovers?” Janet asked.

“No.” Even had she noticed them arm in arm she would have thought little of it. Jack was that way with all women. “Besseta and I had not spoken much for many years.” Margaret was trying to absorb all this, reason her way through it.

“Someone at the Fletcher lodgings must have been indiscreet in Jack’s presence,” Janet suggested. “Talked of the plans for the raid on Holyrood.”

Margaret nodded. “Jack was holding one of Besseta’s loom weights as he died. Might she have killed him, I wonder?”

Janet shook her head. “I cannot imagine a woman cutting up her lover’s body like that.”

“I can’t either, but someone murdered him.”

“Aye.”

“Comyn seems very worried about Besseta talking to me. Perhaps he or one of his men murdered Jack?”

“If that were so, and Besseta kenned, she would be eager to tell you, I think. Vengeance.”

Perhaps Besseta would have told Margaret had they not been interrupted. “What do you know of Comyn, Janet?”

“Little more than what your uncle has told me. He once brought me a lovely piece of plaid and the wool to make an-other-the piece was charred on two sides. I think of the odor of burned wool when I think of James Comyn, smelling that all the while I copied the pattern. That was our only true encounter.”

“Is he married?”

Janet dipped her fingers in the grease again. “Old hands dry so quickly, even handling wool.” She shook her head. “Murdoch says Comyn loves the wife of another.”

“He is wealthy, that I ken.”

“He has worked for it. He does favors for his wealthy, more powerful kin.”

“What sort of favors?”

“You can be sure his efforts for his kinsman John Balliol do not go unrewarded.”

“I thought therein lay his honor, that he was committed to his kinsman’s right to the throne.”

“It has become that, I think. But it began as a mission for another.” Janet rose, pressed her hands to the small of her back, arched to consider the light coming through the roof. “I must get further today.” She glanced down at Margaret. “Do you really think Comyn murdered Jack? Is that why you are so curious about him?”

“I don’t know. I hoped to learn something I could use to keep him away from the Fletchers tomorrow. I need to speak further to Besseta.”

“Ask Murdoch to help. He’s taken in ill part the cruel murder of Jack Sinclair.”

“He doesn’t behave so.”

“He thought if he seemed indifferent you would give up your mission. Tell him this will allow you to leave all the sooner.” She tilted her head, studied Margaret for a moment. “Murdoch tells me you pick a lock as well as he does.”

Much good it had done her. She would do better to unlock the secrets of the men in her life.

Back in their chamber, Margaret drew the wool comb from her scrip. “This I did not show Janet.”

Four long, narrow bone prongs with tapered edges. If one were to stab at flesh and drag the prongs down they might make a wound like Roger’s. It nauseated Margaret to hold it.

“I believe this is what someone used on the side of my husband’s face.”

Celia crossed herself.