A Trust Betrayed

4

Murdoch had given Margaret and Celia his chamber. It was far cleaner than the room beside it, in which they had talked earlier, and boasted a shuttered window and a wooden door.

Celia stood ready to help Margaret undress. “Let me help you with your boots, mistress.”

Margaret’s boots had tightened as they dried. Now her feet hurt, though she had not noticed the pain until Celia mentioned the boots. She sat down on the one high-backed chair in the room-it squeaked when she leaned against the back. But her head felt so heavy she thought she would topple if she did not sit back. The chair held, but Celia was now ready for Margaret to stand to be unlaced from her kirtle.

At last Celia stood beside the curtained bed, a sheepskin in hand with which to crown the blankets and linens. As Margaret slipped her cold feet between the covers, she found Celia had warmed the bed with a hot stone and left it down at the foot. Margaret was grateful for the cosseting.

Lying there, feeling her tired body ease into the mattress, she prayed she would fall asleep at once. But the bed, though comfortable, was unfamiliar, the sounds from the tavern below intrusive and now and again jarring. All in all, conducive not to sleep but to worry. Her chest tightened and she had to will herself to breathe. With breath came tears. Useless, embarrassing tears. She tugged the curtains closed so Celia would not witness her weakness.

In a little while Celia crawled into the bed from the other side, but she said nothing.

Church bells woke Margaret. For a moment she lay still beneath the piled coverlets getting her bearings. Her eyes were swollen from weeping and burned when she blinked. Her head pounded. She must do better than this. Her time here might be brief if Murdoch did not soften toward her presence. She must put her fears aside and plan her search for Roger.

A full bladder sent her sliding out of the warm bed down to the cold floor, where she fumbled about for the chamber pot.

“I put the chamber pot outside the door,” Celia said in a drowsy voice. “I shall fetch it.”

“I can fetch my own chamber pot. I mean to go to Mass at St. Giles if I can dress quickly enough.” Margaret hoped it might comfort her, give her strength.

“Widow Sinclair would not want her gooddaughter handling a chamber pot.” Celia groaned as she sat up. “I must dress you. You must make a good impression.”

“There is no need. None will mark me.”

“I need to move about.” Celia rose with much effort, lit another lamp from the brazier.

The light gave Margaret a better view of the wooden bolt that secured the door from within. The wood was worn smooth where it slid across the braces. To protect her uncle as he slept? She unbolted the door, peered without, and found that the full pot had been exchanged for an empty one. The servants at least understood that basic service.

Celia groped at her cap, stuffing her hair inside, tugging at her dress to smooth it. It had fallen from its hook in the night and dried wrinkled. “This evening I shall take more care with my gown.” She looked disheveled and sleepy. She winced as she moved about.

“You need not accompany me,” Margaret said, feeling her own stiffness from the saddle.

But Celia insisted, and fussed with Margaret’s attire.

The wind caught their skirts on the stairs and tugged at Margaret’s veil. A cat streaked across the yard, vanished. Old bean vines rattled over new growth. The two women slipped out to the alley between the two tall houses, emerging on High Street. On the climb to St. Giles in the early morning gray the only living creatures they saw were rats and a well-bundled person sweeping the street outside a shop. It was too early for shops to be open or the market set up, but not too early for market carts to be arriving in the town, or for folk to be leading their livestock to graze, and there were none of those. It felt as if everyone in the town held their breath.

The Mass bell rang as they were halfway up the hill. Margaret gathered her skirts in her hands and walked faster. Celia tried to keep up, but eventually fell back, complaining that she was out of breath. Ignoring her, Margaret arrived at the kirk door, tidied herself, and slipped in. She hurried to join the worshippers standing toward the choir, where the rood screen separated them from the clergy. Celia limped to her side a moment later.

Her fellows numbered less than on a typical day in St. John’s, her kirk in Perth, and far fewer than in the abbey at Dunfermline. From the crowd in the tavern the previous evening, Margaret had expected more. Perhaps the folk who stayed in town preferred to get their courage from ale, not prayer.

The singing calmed her, as if the voices moved through her. She bowed her head, prayed for God’s help for her mission, for Roger’s safety, and for Jack’s soul. For Katherine, her goodmother, who must be feeling quite alone with Margaret and Celia away. There were other servants in the house, but none with whom her goodmother might talk about her grieving for Jack. Fifteen years Roger’s junior, Jack had been a comfort to Katherine when her own son had gone out into the world. Though Jack had been living in Perth the past six years as Roger’s factor, he had not forgotten the aunt who raised him, returning to Dunfermline for feast days several times a year.

Margaret fought past the memory of Jack’s corpse, back to an evening a few months past. He had arrived at her house to dine, his cheeks bright from the cold, his blond hair glistening with melting snowflakes. When the maid left them to take Jack’s cloak to the kitchen to dry, he had grabbed Margaret’s hand, holding it for a long moment with his head bent to it. She remembered the feel of his breath tickling her. She had been in a reckless mood and had let him take his time kissing her hand. He had been so close she could smell wood shavings from the warehouse on his boots and wine on his breath.

“You opened a shipment of wine and brought none for me?” she had teased when he at last let go of her hand.

When Roger was away Jack dined with Margaret on Saturdays and told her how the business was going. What merchandise had arrived from Germany or the Lowlands-wine, finished wool cloth, pottery, how much wool and leather goods they were shipping out. She enjoyed the dinners, feeling more a part of Roger’s business than when he was at home.

It was after Martinmas that she had begun to notice how often she thought of Jack, and how she looked forward to Saturdays, fussing over her dress, helping the cook make Jack’s favorite dishes. He was a handsome man with a cheerful humor who appreciated her intelligence. And yet he could be an exasperating tease; he enjoyed the effect he had on her as he did all women. She should not have encouraged his attentions. But it was difficult to separate all her feelings for him into proper and improper. She had not wished to offend him; she valued him too much as a good and loyal friend. And truth be told, she had enjoyed being appreciated as a desirable woman.

She fought the vision of his bloated body in the shroud, the horrible wounds. Holy Mother of God, Roger must be alive. They must be given a chance to have children, to have joy of each other. They had been separated so often she felt she had only begun to know Roger, only just stopped being tongue-tied and in awe of him.

Margaret did not know what would become of her if her search led to a corpse. Her father was in Bruges, her mother at Elcho Nunnery, Andrew in the Kirk, Fergus so young. Her heart lurched as a new fear arose. If Jack’s murder had any connection with Roger’s trading, Fergus might be in danger, all alone in Perth. Sweet Jesus, watch over Fergus. Help him know his enemies.

But none were safe with Edward Longshanks set on claiming the kingdom of Scotland. All knew how the Welsh had suffered. Many Scots had fought on Longshanks’s side in that slaughter. She had heard it whispered that it was God’s retribution for that they were now slaughtered in turn. But the dead of Berwick had been traders, merchants, not soldiers. And the English went unpunished. Folk said Longshanks was old now, and bitter with disappointment in his heir, which made him cruel. Dear Lord, let him die and his weak son turn his eyes inward, give up this battering of Lothian, the humiliation of our king, John Balliol.

And bring Roger home. Her greatest fear was of being left alone, penniless and with an overwhelming grief, of use to no one and without even the means to withdraw into a nunnery. I am too young for this, Lord, I’ve had no life yet. Foolish prayer. Babies died every day. And young mothers. Who was she to expect any different treatment from God?

She glanced round at her fellow worshippers. The English lived in their midst now. She wondered what their thoughts were this morning. The man with the scab on his bald pate. Wa’s he mourning someone killed in the fighting, praying for deliverance from the English, or merely trying to keep himself from scratching the tender spot? What of the woman in the fine mantle beside her? She kept her eyes down, but her hands moved as if she were examining them. They looked swollen, much like Margaret’s did after laundry day. The mantle must be her finest. Such delicate wool, woven loosely. Not warm, but lovely. The gown beneath the mantle was difficult to make out in the dim light.

Someone behind Margaret stank of urine, no doubt a cure for boils or foot ulcers. A woman muttered her prayers accompanied by gentle clicking sounds-she must have Paternoster beads. That is what Margaret should have done to keep her mind on her prayers. She reached into the scrip she wore on her girdle; her fingers touched the loom weight among the beads. Such a light weight might be used to add to a weight that did not quite balance with its opposite. It might also be used for fine work. Like the mantle she had been admiring.

As people began to take their leave, Margaret turned to look at the woman beside her. Her profile and her walk pricked a memory, but Margaret could not place her.

“I could not help but notice your mantle,” said Margaret.

Never meeting her gaze, the woman turned and hastened away.

“And why would anyone talk to a stranger with things as they are in the town?” Celia said.

Indeed. But if someone had spoken thus to Margaret she would have been too curious to resist a glance in their direction.

Outside St. Giles a fog had moved in from the firth, rounding the corners of buildings, foreshortening the street. Margaret paused to get her bearings. Gradually the worshippers disappeared and the two women were alone but for the sweeper they had passed earlier, who had covered much distance since they had climbed the hill.

“Does he sweep all the town?” Margaret wondered aloud.

“I believe he is watching us,” Celia said as she looked the other way.

“Let us disappoint him with a brisk walk back to the inn.”

Margaret’s spine tingled as they neared the man. She could not resist a “God bless you” as she passed him.

“Bless ‘e,” the man muttered.

The exchange calmed her. He might be precisely what he seemed, a street sweeper. She must not let the atmosphere in the town frighten her.

“St. Columba!” Celia cried as she tripped, pitching forward into a puddle.

Margaret reached out to help her up, but Celia waved her away. “You will muddy your sleeves.”

The woman was mad worrying about another’s clothing when she was on her hands and knees in a puddle. Margaret grabbed Celia by the waist and supported her as she rose.

“I stumbled on a rock,” Celia muttered.

Margaret guessed that the maid’s stiffness from the previous day’s ride had caused her to stumble over her own skirt.

“Holy Mother,” Celia cried as she shook out her skirts, “look at the mud.” A patch of her plaid mantle and the skirt of her russet gown were the same dark gray-brown. She brushed her hands together and muttered a curse.

“Are you injured?” Margaret took Celia’s hands, turning them palms up. A few pebbles were lodged in the sticky mud, but though the skin at the edges looked red there was no blood. “No cuts, that’s a blessing. Let’s get you back to our chamber.”

They continued slowly, Celia pausing several times to brush her hands as the mud dried.

Behind Murdoch’s inn was a garden patch with the brown, slimy remains of the past harvest, and beyond it a low building whence came smoke and enticing smells. The kitchen, Margaret guessed.

“Go up, take off those wet clothes, and warm yourself,” she told Celia. “I shall follow soon.”

Margaret headed for the small building. This was not where she had thought to find her uncle, but there he stood stirring something in a large pot. And watching the door with a black look.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

“At St. Giles. Celia and I went to Mass.”

“Mass? After such a journey, and without an escort? Did I not tell you the women of Edinburgh cannot safely go about without an escort? Do you not know what soldiers are like? Half of them are felons pardoned by Longshanks to serve in his army.”

“You mentioned the laundresses yesterday. But there were other women at Mass.”

He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head. “The trouble with your being here is I’ll spend all my time worrying.”

“I am a married woman and run my own household. I do not need tending.”

“This place is nothing like your household.” Murdoch grabbed two bowls from a shelf, a ladle from a hook. His motions were not hesitant-he knew where everything was. “Had you the patience I would have brought some of this up to you myself. A soup with winter roots, a bit of coney, and even some beef.”

“God bless you. I am starving.”

“Sit down.” He ladled some soup into a bowl.

“Celia should have some of this,” Margaret said.

“In good time. You are the mistress.”

“She fell in High Street. She’s wet and muddy.”

“Is she injured?”

“Only her gown, I think.”

“Thank the Lord you women are protected by all your skirts and mantles. Now sit. She will still be peeling off the layers.”

Margaret sat down on a bench, put the bowl on the win-dowsill, and wondered at the amount of meat she stirred up with her spoon. The English would have it if they knew it was here.

“Do you cook for the tavern?” she asked after several spoonfuls.

“I cook for myself, no others. I have a cook for the tavern.”

“This is not the tavern kitchen?”

“That is farther in the backland.”

It was a large kitchen for one man. “Might I dry Celia’s wet clothing in here?”

Murdoch’s short eyebrow twitched. “I’ll not have it. There’s a brazier in your chamber.”

“It will be forever drying. A good cook fire’s what’s needed.”

“Ask my tavern cook-Roy’s his name. His kitchen’s behind the next cottage-where the chambermaid bides when we have one.”

Not wanting to outstay her welcome, Margaret took her leave as soon as she was finished and carried a bowl of the fine soup and a chunk of dark bread up to Celia. The maid ate hastily, then gathered her wet clothes and set out for the tavern kitchen, hoping to wash out the mud before the stains set in.

Margaret felt weary to the bone, but when she lay down and closed her eyes, she felt them fluttering behind the lids as if trying to catch passing ghosts, and every creak set her heart racing. She thought it might help to get her bearings, that she might rest more easily once she had seen more of the inn, the back-land, the town, and understood the sounds.

The rain had stopped, though the stiff breeze carried its scent. The backland stretched out behind Murdoch’s kitchen. The chambermaid’s lodging was a shed half the size of his kitchen, wattle and daub with a thatch roof. Margaret pushed at the door. Inside it was dusty and smelled of damp. There was a platform for a bed, a shelf for a candle, and a stool. A shuttered window faced back to Murdoch’s kitchen. Water puddled in a corner of the packed-earth floor. It was a simple room, but with a brazier, a good oil lamp, and a wattle screen by the bed to block the draft from the window it would be as comfortable as many simple homes. With the leak that had caused the puddle fixed it could be the best home a servant had ever had. Margaret must ask her uncle what had happened to the maid.

Stepping out, she shut the door behind her and turned the corner to continue down the backland to the tavern kitchen. She thought she might come to Celia’s aid if necessary.

The tavern kitchen was twice the size of the chambermaid’s lodging, with a tile roof, smoke coming from the smoke hole in the center, benches lining the outside wall either side of the door. Raised voices, Celia’s and a man’s, came from within.

A young man appeared in the doorway, a bowl cradled in one arm. He stirred the contents with the opposite hand. He was the one who had brought the peat for the brazier the previous day. Dark hair, dark eyes, solemn. His clothes were shabby, but clean. The cook’s helper, she guessed.

He withdrew into the kitchen, but the argument did not falter.

“Surely it is Master Murdoch’s kitchen,” Celia was saying quite steadily, in the tone of the righteous.

Margaret stepped across the threshold. The wild-haired man waving floury hands at Celia must be Roy, the cook.

“How can I work with your clothes flapping about?” He matched Celia’s righteous tone.

The room was indeed crowded, with several small tables, a large fire circle, a wall of shelving, several benches, and the two men moving about their work. Murdoch must not have considered that when he suggested Celia do her laundry here.

“I see the problem,” Margaret said from the doorway. “Send a basin of warm water, some soap, and a cloth to our chamber and we’ll manage there. Come, Celia.” And before the imperious pair could continue their argument Margaret grabbed her maid by the elbow.

“Send a basin of warm water?” Roy exclaimed in disbelief.

As Margaret shoved Celia through the door she said, “As soon as the water is warm.”

Celia trembled with rage. Margaret did not let go of her until they gained the stairs. “Now go up and wait, Celia.”

Two spots of color and eyes that seemed to be generating heat dominated Celia’s thin face. “That man.”

“He is the cook, not a servant under you. Do not make me regret bringing you here.”

Celia’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, just turned and gathered her skirts, mounted the stairs.

Margaret peered into the tavern. Murdoch was bent over someone lying on a bench by the cold brazier.

“Murdoch wastes his time,” a woman spoke softly behind her. “There’s no waking Old Will till he’s sober.”

By the speaker’s breath, she was not sober either. Margaret turned in the little space the woman allowed.

A piece of dirty plaid kept most of the woman’s dark hair in check, though a long greasy strand hung down over her left eye. “You don’t look like a Kerr.”

“Do you have business with my uncle?”

The woman lifted dirty, large-knuckled hands. “These make the finest ale in Edinburgh. Ask your uncle about Mary’s ale.” She looked Margaret up and down, grinning. “Roger Sinclair’s wife, eh?”

Margaret felt a shiver down her back. “Do you know my husband?”

“I ken all who come to the tavern.”

“So there you are, Mary,” Murdoch interrupted. “What have you got for me?”

“When did you last see him?” Margaret asked, willing to risk irritating her uncle for news of Roger.

“Save your gossip for later,” Murdoch growled.

Margaret murmured a farewell, vowing to seek out the brew-ster another time, and left the tavern.

Out back once more, she noticed a stable off to the left, beside Murdoch’s kitchen. Moving closer, she saw that it was conveniently at the edge of Netherbow. It had a large yard, but as she stepped within she saw that the stable itself was small, with room for no more than six horses. The air was heavy with the dust of hay. A young man sat beneath a hole in the roof that let in light. He hummed as he combed the mane of a large-eyed ass. Sensing someone approaching, he shook his head to clear his hair from his eyes, glanced up at Margaret, then dropped his gaze back to the ass. He had stopped humming.

A horse snorted in the opposite corner. Margaret approached the ass, holding out her hand. The animal sniffed it with interest, then dropped her muzzle so that she might be scratched between the ears. Margaret obliged. The ass was a gentle, lovely animal, well cared for.

“Are you Murdoch’s groom?” Margaret asked the lad.

He had stopped combing and watched her through the unruly fair hair.

“Who is asking?”

“Dame Margaret Kerr, Master Murdoch’s niece.”

“God bless.” He gathered his long legs and stood up to make a little bow, keeping his gaze toward the packed-mud floor. “I am Hal, mistress.”

Margaret still scratched the ass’s head. “She is well cared for.”

“Bonny. She is the master’s, and proud of her he is. She likes you.”

She was the first in Edinburgh to do so. “Does my husband ride her when he’s here?”

“Master Murdoch keeps Bonny to himself.”

“Have you met Roger Sinclair?”

“I meet only the folk who come in to see to their beasts themselves, mistress.”

A sly response.

“I am not spying on you. I have come to Edinburgh searching for my husband. Any word of him, any memory of his time here might help.”

Hal raked a hand through his hair, peered at her intently before his eyes were hidden once more. “I didn’t hear he was missing. I don’t ken much about him, Dame Kerr. He’s never been sharp with me, that I can say.” His mouth twitched into a smile, and Margaret realized she was still stroking Bonny’s soft muzzle. “You’ve a gentle touch with animals.”

“I like them. They’re often kinder than people.”

“Och, aye.”

Margaret heard Mary the brewster call out a farewell as she cut through the backland toward Cowgate. “Can I trust her, Hal?”

“Mary? Most times.”

Margaret took her leave of Hal and Bonny, returning to the tavern.

Murdoch now had the bench overturned. He was cursing under his breath as he tightened a leg with a bit of straw.

An elderly man sat on the fetid floor watching a slow drip from the ceiling near the street door. Margaret guessed from his age and his drink- and sleep-flushed face that this was Old Will.

“She’s a splasher, that one,” he said.

Murdoch muttered a curse.

“Such language afore your niece, Murdoch?” Old Will gathered himself and rose with a grunt and a moan.

Murdoch glanced up at Margaret. “Tell that maid of yours to keep the water in the basin.”

The old man tottered over to Margaret. “The young weaver might ken where your Roger is. She had an eye on his cousin.”

“Will!” Murdoch shouted. “I told you to be off.”

It rang true, a woman attracted to Jack. “What is the weaver’s name?” Margaret asked.

Old Will licked his lips, shook his head to help his memory. “Bess, is it? Aye, Bess.” He shuffled on out the back door.

Murdoch shook his head as Old Will stumbled on his way to the alley. “That was his wife’s name, Maggie. He calls most women Bess. See to your maid. She’ll be the ruin of me.”

“Was his wife a weaver?”

“She might have been. It’s long ago.”

“But he said she had her eye on Jack.”

“Old Will dreams in his tankard, and he likes a pretty face- he wanted to keep you talking.” Murdoch shook his head at the wet spot on the ceiling and moved toward the stairs.

“I’ll see to her.” Margaret pushed past him and hastened up to her chamber.

Celia knelt over a basin kneading her gown and splashing water as she cursed.

Margaret walked over to where the maid could see her. Celia looked up, her eyes flashing.

“Your wash water is dripping through the floorboards,” Margaret said.

Celia yanked her hands out of the basin and sat back on her heels. “That filthy cook told Master Murdoch he should order me to do all the laundry.”

“It is not my uncle’s place to give you orders. He knows that.”

“He agreed that I should.” She lifted her red hands to Margaret. “How can I handle fine fabrics with rough hands?”

“Stop your fretting and hang your gown to dry. It is surely clean by now.”

It was not a good beginning.

On the following morning the rain poured down in sheets, soaking Margaret in the short walk between the house and Murdoch’s kitchen. She shook herself as she stepped across the stone threshold. The room was unoccupied, but a pot of broth simmered over the fire circle in the middle of the room and from the oven near it came a welcome warmth and an equally welcome aroma of fresh bread. Margaret walked slowly round the room, looking for a sense ofher uncle in it. The wattle and daub walls had been much repaired, with patchwork plaster from which radiated hairline cracks, and watermarks where the walls met the slate roof. A boarded-up window on the wall opposite the oven hosted a vine that twisted in through the slats and disappeared into the roof. The remaining window was on the wall with the door, looking out on the chambermaid’s cottage and the tavern kitchen, not toward the tavern. Dried herbs hung from the rafters. Roots were stored in a shallow pit beneath a trapdoor far from the fires. This had not been fixed up by the same hand as Murdoch’s bedchamber. There was no feel of a woman here.

“Bring that lopsided pot over for these, would you?” Murdoch stood in the doorway with an apronful of dried apples.

Margaret found the pot, held it for the tumble of fruit.

Murdoch took the full pot from her, carried it to a trestle table. “Is your curiosity about my kitchen satisfied?” He picked up a knife, turned his back to Margaret, and began to core.

“You wield that knife so well. I cannot recall Father ever picking up a knife in the kitchen.”

“Nor did your mother, I would wager. Too busy with her prophecies.” He sounded angry.

Margaret thought he still fumed about Celia’s washing. “I’ll not allow Celia to wash up above again.”

“It was my fault,” he said, surprising her. “I had forgotten Roy would likely be unfriendly.”

“You could predict he would not like Celia?”

Murdoch shook his head. “Women. He was unfortunate in loving Belle, the chambermaid. She went off with a man who offered her safety to the north.”

“And Roy blames all women?”

“He’ll mend in time.”

“You’ve been unable to find another chambermaid?”

“Aye. You have complaints about the bedchamber?”

“No. I thought that if you or someone else would show me the guest chambers, and where you keep mops, rags, brooms, and buckets, I could be of use to you.”

“As you can see, I am busy.”

They were dried apples and could keep. Unless he meant to toss them in the pot. But what was in there did not smell like it would mix with the fruit.

“Then let me help you with the apples.”

“Sweet Jesus.” He threw down the coring knife. “Can a man have no peace?” His eyes glared beneath the uneven brows.

“I would like to help.”

Murdoch stirred the pot, took off his apron. “Come on, then. I see you must not be idle.”

He hurried her through the rain to a lean-to on the corner of the tall house across the alley from the tavern. Opening a poorly fitted plank door, he stepped aside to reveal a collection of sorry-looking brooms, buckets, rags (she was certain they were home to a nest of rats or mice), and a ladder.

“Roy keeps the soap.”

Murdoch closed the lean-to, slogged through a puddle to a short stairway leading up to a door that opened on to the first floor.

“This house is part of the inn?”

“Aye.”

“What is down below?”

“A storeroom.”

The landing above the stairs was broader than in the other house.

“Three rooms up here,” Murdoch said, opening the first door. It was larger than either of the guest chambers next door, with two beds and a shuttered window facing the backlands. A wall of wattle hurdles separated one room from the next so that the shape of the room could easily be changed. The second room was also configured to be large, with many pallets and a tiny window high up, shuttered also. The third was a smaller room with a window toward the back and a fair-sized bed that took up most of the space.

“I am sleeping here at present,” Murdoch said.

“You could plant a garden in the dirt and dust.”

“I would not mind some tidying.” He caught her eye. “I would be a fool to turn down your offer, eh?” He did not smile, but his anger had cooled.

“What of the storeroom?”

“We shift things often enough it needs no cleaning. Tend to what is suitable, the guest rooms. While they are empty!”

They descended to the backlands and bowed their heads against the rain that pelted them on their way to the stairway that led to her chamber. The stairway was roofed, praise God. Margaret already felt the damp soaking through her clothes and shoes. On the floor on which she was staying, Murdoch showed her the room to the right, which was the chamber in which they had talked on their arrival. The bed had been tidied, a man’s tunic lay on an ancient chest, a pack lay on the floor. It was a wide enough bed to sleep two or three. The room opposite was much larger, with several pallets and one substantial bed without bed hangings. A man snored beneath a tattered hide. Two cloaks hung on hooks on the wall, some clothes were strewn on one of the pallets. The air in the room was stale-surprising with the draft from the doorway. Both doorways were covered by hides, not wooden doors. How cold it must be to lie on the floor in the draft.

“You will not interfere with the business of the tavern, Maggie.”

“This will be sufficient. I have a husband to find.” “If it’s too much work, find a good replacement for me, eh?” At last Murdoch smiled. “Now I have work to do. And so do you.” He bowed to her and headed down the stairs.

She thanked God her uncle had accepted her offer. It would buy her time.