A Trust Betrayed (24 page)

“Aye, he did. Still, I have my own mind about it now I’ve met you. Ask me what you will.”

“You saw Roger Thursday?”

Janet nodded.

“And his wound?”

“The wound, aye. I thought it a brand at first glance. But they were cuts, not burns. He told a tale of being attacked by a wolf.”

“Do you believe that?” Margaret felt her throat tightening. If she could have seen to his wounds . . .

“No.” Janet sighed. “Men count us such fools sometimes. But I did not challenge the tale.”

“Why did he come to you?”

“He came to the smiddie to see about having a horse shod. He had not yet heard Davy was missing.”

Margaret wondered whether Roger knew now that Davy was dead. “Why did he run from me? Who were the men with him?”

“I know not who would have been with him. As for his running, I should think he did so because it is not safe to be seen with him. He has done much to anger the English.”

“Uncle told me Roger supports Robert Bruce. I’d think that would please the English. His father has been a loyal subject. They say this youngest Robert Bruce is much favored by King Edward.”

“You sound like Davy. He distrusted the Bruce and believed Balliol would return to save us.”

“You did not share your husband’s beliefs?”

“Och no, not in that. John Balliol and the Comyns surrendered to Edward. We need Robert Bruce to drive Longshanks out of our land.” Janet leaned toward the fire, stretching out her hands to the warmth.

“Robert Bruce and his kin have done worse than surrender to Longshanks, they fought on his side against us,” said Margaret. But she noted that Janet’s eyes were sad, her gaze unfocused, the argument apparently falling on deaf ears. “I cannot understand how Roger was drawn so deeply into this.”

Janet glanced up. So she had been listening. “I never thought to ask,” she said. “I supposed it was his nature.”

“Trading is his passion. Leave governing to those with nothing better to do—that was his belief. At least I thought it was.”

“Something changed that to be sure.”

“These troubles have touched us all.” Margaret felt in that a kinship with Janet. “So your Davy was involved in all this?”

“At Comyn’s beck and call, he was. He and Harry were of a group who worked to return Comyn’s kinsman Balliol to the throne.”

So that was James Comyn’s cause. “I did not know James Comyn’s part in all this.”

Janet pressed her red eyelids with her fingertips. “Such a waste!” she whispered, breathing unevenly for a moment. Then she dabbed her eyes with her apron. “John Balliol does not wish to be king. They say he is in Hertford, where he is allowed a huntsman and ten hounds. I think he is grateful to have escaped.”

Margaret wearied of such hearsay. “John Balliol tried to rule, but the nobles of our country are too divided between the Comyns and the Bruces, or care only to protect their own lands. And then at Dunbar so many of the king’s commanders were taken by the English. King John had no sure support.”

Janet’s eyes widened with surprise. “A fine speech. Do you speak so to Roger? Perhaps that is why he told you little.”

Margaret’s face grew hot. She was grateful for the flickering firelight. “No. He has not heard such speeches.” She could not imagine what Roger would think if she argued such a thing with him. Perhaps, like her father, he would patiently listen, then tell her why she was wrong and consider it settled. “What did Maud mean about Jack?”

“He talked too much when he had a head full of ale. And drank with the wrong men. The night before Harry and Davy were killed he sat at a table in the tavern with Harcar. They left with a flask of brandywine.”

“She believes Jack killed Harry and Davy?”

“No. They were executed by the English—quietly, not in public. It happened at Holyrood.”

Margaret remembered Andrew’s reluctance to talk of the deaths. “Their bodies were in the Tummel.”

“They were dead before their bodies were thrown in the river, I am sure of it.”

“What happened at Holyrood?”

“Comyn’s men—Harry, Davy, and others—were to steal something from the abbey, something they believed was Balliol’s by right. They dressed in the habits of black friars. Harry and Davy went ahead, gained entrance, and were to signal the others to enter. But the English soldiers were waiting for them. The others realized that their fellows had been caught and slipped away. From the first some said Harcar must have learned of the plan from Jack.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Murdoch and Roger accomplished a mission for Robert Bruce that same night. It was quite favorable for them that on that evening the soldiers from the Edinburgh garrison were watching the abbey and not Leith harbor. And were looking for men wearing black habits.”

“Jack would not have betrayed his own countrymen,” Margaret said, shocked that anyone would make such an accusation.

“No? Well, we may never know. I thought it possible—it was my impression he would do anything for your Roger.”

“But there must be other soldiers guarding the harbor.”

“Oh aye.” Janet shook her head. “It is just a feeling I have.”

“Did Comyn’s men murder Jack? As revenge for Harry’s and Davy’s deaths?”

“So I believe, though I would call it execution.”

“Balliol against Bruce, and Longshanks’s men reaping the benefits of their animosity.” Janet was right, it was a waste—a waste of good men.

Janet rose, folded her arms in front of her. “I am sorry to tell you about Jack, but in truth I wonder you had not heard of it before this morn.”

“In the tavern they stare, but say nothing. Old Will and Mary the brewster are the only two who have spoken to me.”

Janet shook her head. “Both full of talk but little substance.”

“Mary said my uncle’s chambermaid has returned.”

“She is right about that, but then a mother would ken such a thing.”

“Belle is her daughter?”

“Aye. Don’t look so. Your uncle would not thank you for bringing her back to Roy. Things have been peaceful at the inn since Belle left.”

Tess quietly entered the room. “Mother, you must rest, eh?”

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The light spilling from the back door of the tavern attracted Margaret. As she stepped within, folk looked her way, and by ones and twos and threes they ceased their talk until silence filled the room. But not before she had heard, “Dame Kerr,” “Murdoch’s niece,” “She
is
married to a Sinclair, after all.” Being the subject of gossip was not new to her—not with a mother like Christiana, and she had given the folk of Edinburgh much to gossip about. But antagonizing everyone was the very worst thing she could have done. She might just as well depart for Perth. Ye t Janet had befriended her.

Murdoch rose to join her. She expected him to send her upstairs, but instead he invited her to sit with him by the brazier in the middle of the room. He shouted for Sim to bring them ale.

Mary the brewster, her face shiny from the heat, nodded to her. Margaret wondered about Mary’s daughter, Belle, but heeding Janet’s warning she said nothing.

A man who looked like a MacLaren, with the family’s red hair though no beard, stared candidly at her. His companion, nodding over his cup, took no notice. The men at the table near the door resumed their game of merrills.

Gradually the volume expanded. The talk was of soldiers and William Wallace.

“I’ll lose custom for you,” Margaret said.

Murdoch’s scarred right brow lifted. “Folk come here for gossip. They’re curious about you, now they’ll have time to watch you. Did you see anyone leave at your arrival?”

It was a pragmatic reassurance, which she could accept. “What are they saying of Wallace?”

“He’s killed Heselrig, the sheriff of Lanark, and some of his men.”

“Why?”

“He says he’s fighting the English for John Balliol. Heselrig was a good target. But some say Heselrig attacked Wallace’s home. There’s also talk of a lass killed by soldiers.” Murdoch took a tankard from Sim, held it out to Margaret. “Drink, Maggie. Drink to our freedom for a few days, weeks if
 
God’s smiling on us. The garrison has joined the hunt for Wallace and his men. The war has begun, but until the fighting reaches our door we are out from under the eyes of the English bastards.”

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Margaret still lay abed the following morning when Celia came up to announce that Rosamund the laundress was below.

“Dame Janet sent her.”

Janet must have suffered a prick of conscience. “You know where the bedding is,” Margaret said. “Fetch it for the laundress. Tell her that when she has finished it, there is more.”

Celia took Margaret’s gown from the peg on the wall, shook it out, returned it to the peg. “She asked to speak with you, mistress. She said she does not take her work from servants.”

Margaret managed a weak smile. “Rosamund must not understand the importance of a lady’s maid.”

“You laugh at me.”

“I laugh at nothing and no one at the moment, Celia.” But they did need a laundress. “I’ll go down to her.”

“I’ll tell her to wait, then return to help you dress.” Celia flew out of the room before Margaret could object. This lady’s maid nonsense must cease. Margaret was fully capable of dressing herself. It was a matter of wanting to.

But Celia returned quickly, dressed Margaret, gathered her hair into a netted coif so that her wimple fitted comfortably.

“I prefer a cap,” Margaret argued.

“You should look as respectable as possible when hiring a maid,” Celia said, standing back to check her work.

“I feel like an old woman padded with clothes against the cold. But it is no matter.” Margaret took a penny out of her scrip in case she decided to hire the woman. “Let us go down to Goodwife Rosamund.”

The laundress was a small woman with a sharp chin and
angry eyes—a match for Celia. “Dame Kerr,” she said with a curt bow. “I am Rosamund the laundress.” She glanced down at the stinking straw on the tavern floor and sniffed. Margaret caught her eye. Rosamund blushed and dropped her head.

“If I hire you, you need not come into the tavern,” Margaret said. “The tavern kitchen is out in the backland. Celia will show it to you.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“My uncle said you are the laundress for the priests at St. Giles, and that you do some weaving for them. Do they no longer need you?”

Rosamund lifted her chin at the question. “I do only the laundry now. They have given the weaving to someone they judge needier than me.”

“Is this woman needier?”

Rosamund regarded Margaret as if wondering how best to answer. “She has but one other mouth to feed—I have three bairns and my husband unable to walk. Agnes Fletcher lost her husband, lost her wean, and is sickly now. For that her sister gets half my work.”

The name pricked Margaret’s interest. “You speak of Besseta Fletcher.” She had forgotten the presence of Alan Fletcher’s daughters in all the confusion of the past days.