A Trust Betrayed (27 page)

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.

16

WE’LL BE Bound

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. If
 
ever 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.