A Trust Betrayed

5

Margaret tucked her hair up in a cap and the front hem of her gown up in her girdle, wrapped cloths round her forearms to protect her sleeves, and set to cleaning Murdoch’s temporary chamber. Celia daintily dusted the doorway, the furniture.

“For pity’s sake, clean the rest of the room before cleaning the furniture,” Margaret said, losing patience. “The ceilings and the wattle walls are full of dust that will just settle again on the furnishings.”

“I was sent here to be your maid, not a chambermaid.” Celia flicked dust off her shoulders.

Margaret fought the urge to slap her. “Neither am I a chambermaid, eh? But as my uncle was good enough to give us his room, this is the least we can do for him.”

“I would as lief stay in a less favored room at such a price.” Celia regarded the rafters with a grimace and a shudder.

“You would speak to me in such a manner?” Who did she think she was? “I am done with making apologies for you. You’re of no use to me and you never will be. I don’t know what my goodmother sees in you. You do nothing for your keep.”

Celia had dropped her gaze to the floor.

“Get yourself off to the chambermaid’s cot. You will sleep there until I arrange an escort for you back to Widow Sinclair, where the work is more to your liking. I’ll ask my brother to make arrangements.”

Celia glanced up at that, her jaw dropping unbecomingly.

“Get you gone,” Margaret repeated, waving the maid on with a dusty cloth that produced a cloud she thought certain to disgust the dainty woman.

Celia tossed her cloth to the floor. “Look at my hands.” She held them out, palms down. The nails were even and clean, the skin unbroken.

“A lady’s hands,” Margaret said. “I am not surprised.”

Celia turned her palms up. “It took a long while to soften and smooth them so my mistress would let me touch her silk gowns.”

“So be off in search of your lady.”

“I thought as Master Roger’s wife you would at least live as well as my mistress.”

The comment brought Margaret up short. It was in truth a reasonable expectation-in other times, with another husband. “So did I.” Caught off her guard, Margaret spoke more from the heart than she had intended.

Celia dropped her hands, looking confused.

“Go now.”

Bobbing an awkward curtsy, Celia hurried out.

Climbing up onto a stool, Margaret snapped her cloth at a cobweb, angry that she had lost her temper and revealed her pain to the woman. She swung at another web. The dust caught in her throat, made her eyes teary. Two years of marriage had brought her to this. It was Roger’s fault that she had half fallen in love with Jack, Roger’s fault that Jack was dead, Roger’s fault that she was childless. In what way was she a wife? She shoved the cloth along the rafter.

Blood bloomed on the cloth as a sharp pain reached her consciousness. She dropped from the stool, sank down on it, examined her hand. A large splinter lay beneath the fleshy base of her thumb inside her palm. She held her breath as she drew it out. Sweet Jesus. It was worse in the coming out than in the sinking in. She sank her hand into a bowl of rainwater that had collected beneath a drip and said several Hail Marys, then tore a strip from the cleanest side of the cloth protecting her left sleeve and wrapped her hand.

It throbbed, and her mind was unquiet. She needed air. A walk was what she wanted, but the rain dripped steadily into the now bloodstained water and drummed on the roof above her. No matter, it would wash away her thoughts, her irritation, cool her hot hand.

Donning her old plaid mantle she slipped down the stairs, through the alley, and on to High Street.

The rain slanted down, making her blink. She pulled the edge of the mantle forward on her head and splashed up the street through puddles. Her toes were soon wet and cold, then her heels, then her ankles. New boots had been out of the question this autumn when money dwindled. She wished she had thought to bring pattens; but the idea of sitting idle in her chamber was too dreary.

So she moved on. Beneath the tron in the marketplace she could not help but pause. Here was where Andrew heard Jack had lain, somewhere beneath this weigh beam, a little over a week ago. Nine days, she counted. Discovered early in the morning, he must have been murdered during the night. Someone who lived within sight of the tron might have seen something, at least heard a cry. Jack would not be struck down without a struggle, without a shout of anger or terror. Surely someone remembered that night, such a violent attack. She backed beneath the eaves ofthe nearest house and considered the houses that clustered round. Light shone through the shutters of one just opposite her, directly across from the tron. She should ask her uncle who lived there.

She moved farther beneath the eaves as a half dozen men approached the market area, voices low. There was a stealth in their movements. When they were almost past her, she felt her eyes drawn to one of them. It was difficult to pick out features with the veil of rain and gloom, but the man’s stride, the way he leaned forward with his upper body as he walked was familiar-dear God, Roger held himself so. The man moved out from the shadow of the overhangs. “Roger,” she whispered, taking a step forward. He could not have heard her, but he glanced her way, then turned more fully toward her, walking backward a few steps. She reached out to him. Sweet Jesus, the left side of his face was striped with wounds. “Roger!” Margaret called out and ran toward him. He hesitated, but two of the other men grabbed him and pulled him with them. They ran across the street and disappeared down a close.

Margaret pursued, increasing her speed until her lungs hurt.

“Halt!” a man cried behind her.

She heard more than one set of boots chasing her, but she kept running. A piece of cloak fluttered behind one of the men ahead as he turned into a wynd. She slipped, caught herself, hurried round the corner. Empty. She wept, kept running, sobbing, “Roger!”

A hand grabbed her arm, jerking her to a halt. She turned and blindly struck out with her fists, not caring who it was. Damn him for stopping her. Damn him!

“That was my husband,” she cried. Her blows made contact with a fleshy face before her arms were pulled behind her, causing her mantle to fall away. She screamed with pain. The man in front of her shook her by the shoulders until she stopped struggling and quieted.

“Why were you chasing those men?” Water dripped down the soldier’s forehead. He shook it away.

“One of them was my husband. I have not seen him for months. I did not even know whether he was alive. You made me lose him.”

“In this gloom how can you be certain it was him?”

“A woman kens her husband,” she said through chattering teeth.

Her arms were released.

“They cannot be far,” one of the soldiers said.

Margaret rubbed her upper arms as both men took off in the direction in which Roger had disappeared. She closed her eyes, trying to remember every detail of what she had seen. Four gashes on his face, perhaps more. He had stopped, looked at her. It was the others who pulled him away. Was he a prisoner? Had the men with him wounded him? But he had not seemed a prisoner when they approached, only when he hesitated as if meaning to turn back to her. Why? Damn those soldiers for stopping her. She might even now be with Roger. Would he embrace her? He had not seemed indifferent, he had stopped, had not tried to ignore her.

Sweet Jesus, he was alive. She choked back a sob as she began to run again, then stopped, realizing too much time had passed, she had no hope of finding him now. It was not such a large town, but big enough for a man who did not wish to be followed.

And then she realized: Murdoch must have known Roger was in Edinburgh. He heard all the gossip in the tavern. Ye’t he had not told her. She did not know what to make of that, but it frightened her. Everyone was turning on her. No one was as they had seemed. It was as Murdoch had said, she should trust no one.

Slowly, in a daze, she bent to pick up her sodden mantle, then headed down High Street, shivering in her wet clothes. From behind she heard the soldiers returning, but she did not bother to look up.

“We found no trace of them,” one of the soldiers said as he fell into step beside her.

“What did you expect? You wasted the time stopping me.”

“It is our duty to question all those who disturb the king’s peace.”

Whose king? she wondered, but she was beginning to know better than to speak in such wise. “Why did you chase me? Why not them?”

“They ran only when you shouted to them.”

Not true. Or was it? “My husband was wounded. Stripes of blood down the left side of his face, deep enough for me to see in the rain. Have you seen such a man?”

“I do not recall a man with such wounds.”

Margaret did not even know whether Roger was their king’s prisoner or supporter. She knew so little about him.

The soldier asked pardon for hurting her, more kindness than she had expected.

“My pain is in losing sight of him.”

The soldier declared he would escort her home, and insisted on giving her his mantle. “I am sorry about your husband.”

She walked in silence, wondering frantically about Roger’s wounds, the men accompanying him. In front of the alley between the inn buildings she paused, lifting the mantle from her shoulders and holding it out to the soldier with thanks.

“If I see a man with a wounded cheek I shall direct him here,” the soldier said, and with a bow he headed back the way they had come.

Margaret took the alley to the back.

Murdoch caught up with her. “God’s blood, escorted to my tavern by a man wearing the badge of an English soldier. Do you want me cursed by all my customers?”

“I saw Roger.”

“What? Is he now fighting in Edward Longshanks’s army?” Murdoch touched the bandage on her hand. “Did they injure you?”

She glanced down, having forgotten why she had ventured out into the rain. “I cut myself earlier.” But everything had changed since then. “Roger is alive, Uncle. I saw him.” She did not know whether to rejoice or weep.

“You are shivering. Come.” Murdoch put his arm round her and led her to his kitchen. She sank down on a bench he drew close to the fire circle.

“What is this about seeing Roger?”

Haltingly, she began the story, but when Murdoch handed her a cup of mulled wine she stopped to drink.

“Clouds, rain, the smoke from fires-how close did he come to you that you recognized him?”

“I might have touched him in three strides.”

“Fairly close, then. But are you certain it was him?”

“He is my husband. I know him.”

“It would not be the first time the heart betrayed the eyes, Maggie.” He did not believe her-his gaze was soft with sympathy. “I pray you are right.” He frowned down at her a moment. “Were they headed toward the castle or away?”

Perhaps he did not doubt her. Buoyed by the question, she stumbled over her words. “They were walking up High Street, toward the kirk, the castle, how can I know? But when they ran it was toward Cowgate.”

Murdoch took her mantle, hung it over a bench by the fire. “Your bandage is bloody.” He crouched down, began to unwind it.

Margaret embarrassed herself by beginning to weep afresh.

“Och lassie.” Murdoch gathered her in his arms. “He does not know how to be a husband.”

With a stern act of will she gradually stopped the tears, remembering her uncle might have known of Roger’s presence. “Did you know Roger was here?” she asked.

Murdoch drew back from her, eyeing her with puzzlement. “Why would I keep that from you? I’d be free of you. I’ll fetch your maid to see to your wound.”

The earlier scene with Celia came flooding back. “I banished her to the chambermaid’s cot.”

“What?”

“She is of no use to me. She wishes to be a lady’s maid, handling silk, sewing pearls on scarlet. So I said I ‘d find an escort to take her back to Dunfermline.”

Murdoch snorted. “No wonder she has been searching for you. But she can at least see to your hand.”

He withdrew, leaving Margaret in a nauseating swirl of emotion. Might she have imagined it was Roger? But he had hesitated, turned toward her. A stranger would not do that. Holy Mother, help me find him.

Celia had apologized. Margaret had forgiven her and invited her back to the chamber. But Celia chose to stay the night in the chambermaid’s cot “in case your husband should come to you.” Margaret tried not to hope that would happen.

At the moment she was trying to distract herself by examining her bedchamber. Except for a draft that ran across the floor, it was very comfortable. Not the sort of room Margaret imagined Murdoch in. The walls were plastered and had painted borders. Though creaky, the high-backed chair was a luxury. The bed hangings were fine twill. The pillows were down-filled and the linen covers were embroidered at one edge. The mattress had been aired recently. She wondered who the woman was who fussed with this room and no others that Margaret had seen.

With a pin Margaret worked at the lock on a chest in the corner, hoping to find some evidence of the woman in Murdoch’s life. Picking locks was a skill her uncle had taught her when she was small. Her mother would lock trunks of stores and lose the keys. He had given her tools for more complicated locks. When she opened the chest she was disappointed-inside were only her uncle’s clothes, more covers, and an extra pillow. He must have already removed whatever had been valuable or revealing.

Or perhaps she was wrong about a woman. Perhaps her uncle was as alone as she was. And more fastidious than she had thought.

She had begun to doubt she had seen her husband. She cursed herself for calling out Roger’s name. She should have quietly followed the men. But she had been so astonished to see him, and she had not expected him to run from her. Perhaps the man had realized at that moment that he did not know her.

Restless, she paced from one end of the room to the other, from one corner to the opposite. A tread on the floor without her door made her heart race, but the footsteps continued into one of the other chambers. A shout down below pulled her to the window, but it was one man calling out to another. She cursed Celia for planting the hope in her head. Roger had run from her. He had been running from her ever since the day they had wed. Perhaps he had watched her enter Edinburgh, knew very well where she was. She must quit this foolish vigil and go to sleep. Her legs ached too much for such pacing.

At last she lay down on the bed, drew the curtains, but she lay awake listening to the sounds from the tavern below. She was still awake when Murdoch called the curfew. Soon all she heard was the rattle of empty tankards, the faint noise of tidying, Murdoch calling to someone, the front door bolt clanging into place. In the young silence she heard a rat somewhere in the roof, the lonely wail of a cat defending its hunting ground.

Something scratched at the door. Margaret scurried to her feet. “Roger?”

A cat mewed.

A much more likely visitor than Roger. She threw on her mantle, slipped her feet into her shoes. She shoved the bolt aside, opened the door slowly. The cat’s eyes glowed. Margaret bent to pet it, but it led her across the vestibule to the opposite door, scratched to be let out. Men talked quietly in the guest chamber to the right.

She opened the door to the outside stairs. The yard was dark, quiet except for some skittering near the tavern’s back door. The cat rubbed against her leg, then slinked off down the stairs.

As she turned to go in, Margaret heard footsteps below. But she could see no one when she looked down. It sounded like several people. A knock on the ground-floor door of the other inn building startled her. A dim light appeared as the door to what Murdoch had called his storeroom opened. A man stepped aside, three men entered. The door shut.

Margaret returned to her room, closed the door and bolted it behind her.

She gave up trying to sleep before the bell chimed for Mass. Her aching hand and her confused feelings about Roger had given her a restless night. At one point she had stoked the brazier embers for enough light to check that her hand was not twice its normal size, but it was not as swollen as it felt. She was glad, for she had much work to do.

The bandage made her clumsy. Her clothes fought her. But she managed to dress warmly for morning Mass and took a lantern for the predawn walk to St. Giles.

Past the other rooms she slipped, out the wooden door to the stair landing. Down below, the first step creaked. Margaret shuttered her lantern and backed against the door.

“It is Hal, from the stable, Dame Kerr.”

She let out her held breath, opened the shutter, and went down to him.

Hal watched her descent, but the moment she reached his level he dropped his head.

“What do you want, frightening me like that?” she asked.

He said something, but it was necessary to ask him to repeat it. He raised his chin just enough to be better heard.

“I am to go with you wherever you wish to go, Dame Kerr.”

“This is a turn. My uncle’s orders?” She had not thought he would go to such efforts to protect her-or to know her movements.

“Aye.”

“How do you come to be here now?”

“He said you might slip out for Mass.”

So her uncle did not wish her to be escorted by a soldier again. But she wondered how this young man was to prevent that. She opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of burdening him with her lack of faith.

“Then I welcome your company to St. Giles,” she said.

As they walked she inquired whether he could find some fresh straw for the tavern floor.

“Difficult, mistress. The English soldiers have many beds to make and horses to stable.”

“But not impossible.”

“No.” He did not sound happy.

“Do you know of any weavers in the town?” She had spent much of the night wondering about a connection between the loom weight and the young weaver Old Will had mentioned.

“Goodwife Janet by Blackfriars.”

“Another called Bess?”

“Goodwife Janet would know.”

“Then you must take me there later.”