A Trust Betrayed (5 page)

His anxiety heightened Celia’s and spread to her horse, who whinnied and danced. The town was eerily silent. Margaret imagined every head in every house glancing toward the horse’s whinny, though the wind and the rain might muffle much of their passing. She was glad when Matthew took the reins and steadied the animal, quieting it.

Many houses below the castle were damaged, some blackened and stinking of charred wood, others lacking doors or shutters. Bits of furniture lay strewn about the doorway of one of the burned houses. The front wall of another was stained with blood. A baby’s cry sent chills down Margaret’s back. This was no place for a child. Armed men moved about their business, as did some townsfolk, though Margaret saw no children and few women.

At St. Giles Kirk she handed her horse’s reins to Matthew and invited Andrew to step within to say a prayer of thanksgiving for their arrival.

“We are not yet at the inn. You can walk up to the kirk later,” Andrew said with a shake of his cloak as if to remind her that he, too, was soaked to the skin. “Move on, Matthew.”

Margaret could walk here, true enough, if she could still stand once she felt some heat. And if she dared venture out again so soon.

A few hardy souls huddling beneath the eaves against the north wall of St. Giles called out their wares as the four travelers passed, but otherwise the street was deserted.

Though it was mid-afternoon, none of the shop front counters had been unhooked from the houses to display goods. From the looks of them, Margaret guessed the shop fronts had not been opened for a while. A shutter off one of its hinges hung down over one of the shop fronts, on another house a counter hung askew and cracked. A pile of refuse rose too high to allow the neighboring shop front to open. None of the doors stood ajar to invite custom.

In Perth and Dunfermline the shops had stayed closed for a time after the English had come through, but within a month or so trade had resumed, albeit modestly. Margaret had not considered how much worse it would be here, with the garrison in the castle above the town. She had not considered whether her uncle would have food for two more.

Andrew brought them to a halt just before the arch of Netherbow. Tw o tall, weather-beaten houses leaned slightly toward each other across an alley. A pole decorated with leaves projected above the ground-floor door of the house nearest Netherbow, letting passersby know they could find wine and ale within.

“Will there be soldiers in there?” Celia asked.

“No, they have been ordered to keep well away from this lot,” said Andrew. He handed the reins of all four horses to Matthew. “I’ll ask Murdoch to have his groom help you down to Holyrood with the horses.”

The young man’s shoulders slumped.

“Surely Matthew deserves a cup of ale first,” Margaret said.

“A tavern is no place for a cloistered lad,” Andrew said.

“Still, he needn’t go thirsty. I’ll ask Uncle to bring ale to the stable,” Margaret said, and entered the tavern.

At first she welcomed its warmth, the still air, the roof shielding her from the incessant rain. But two or three deep breaths later, her body rejected the air and she began to cough. Smoke was thick in the air. The room reeked of stale ale, sweat, rancid fat, vomit, urine—Margaret stopped herself from identifying any more. Andrew guided her farther into the room. The rushes were piled so deep on the floor that her footing was unsteady, her shifting feet stirring the odors. There were two shuttered windows that seemed to do little to vent the smoke and provided no light, a weak glow from the brazier and four oil lamps, one on each of the four trestle tables that lined the walls.

A half dozen men sitting on benches surrounding a small brazier in the center of the room turned toward the newcomers. Their expressions were difficult to make out in the dim light, but their sudden silence felt hostile.

Celia stepped closer to Margaret. “Mistress, we cannot stay in such a place.”

Thinking much the same, Margaret’s instinct was to turn and run. But she had nowhere to go. “This is but the tavern,” she said, “the inn rooms must be cleaner or surely my uncle would have no custom.”

“Men do not care about such things,” Celia persisted.

Margaret could not allow herself to lose heart now. “We are not so fine we cannot clean a room to suit us.”

A man moved toward them from the far end of the tavern, wiping his hands on his tunic. Margaret’s heart lifted as she recognized her uncle’s rolling sailor’s gait—from a career of smuggling. Murdoch Kerr was the fourth son, youngest brother to Margaret’s father. He was broad-shouldered, bow-legged, with a barrel of a stomach. His nose hugged his face unevenly, the result of many a drunken brawl, and his thick brows parted not over his nose but rather over his right eye, where a scar prevented new growth. He wore a felt cap—Margaret guessed that his pale red hair was thinning, or gone. Not a handsome man, but as a girl Margaret had prayed her husband might be just like Uncle Murdoch. He always had a smile and a tale for her, and though he thought Christiana’s visions were the dreams of a madwoman he was one of the few people who could make her mother laugh. He was strong and quick. And Margaret had always felt safe in his company—for which she was particularly grateful at the moment, as the others in the tavern continued to stare. She smiled and held out her arms to her uncle.

He ignored them. “Nephew, God help me, you’re a fool to bring Maggie here in this storm. You did not cross the firth in this?” Murdoch was not smiling.

“We did, but it was not my choice to bring her, Uncle.”

“He is not to blame,” Margaret said, searching Murdoch’s face—it was familiar in feature but alien in mood. His scowl frightened her. “Will you not greet me, Uncle?”

Grudgingly, Murdoch came forward and hugged her. “You are soaked through, Maggie,” he said as he stepped back. Glancing from Andrew to Margaret, he gestured to a doorway toward the rear of the large room. “Come away in. If it is weighty enough to bring you all this way, it is not to be discussed in a public room. Though none other are so warm as this. Sim,” he called to a man wiping one spot on a table as he stared at them. He was tall and skinny, with fair hair thinning early. “Bring peat for the brazier above, and some ale.”

Murdoch led them out the unlatched door and up an outside flight of stairs to the first floor. Celia stayed close to Margaret as if fearful of being left behind. Murdoch hustled all three through an outer wooden door and into a vestibule with a hide-covered doorway to each side and a wooden door ahead. He lifted the hide to the right and Margaret and the others stepped into a bedchamber, the bed a solid structure heaped with soiled linens. If her uncle had servants, whatever he paid them was too much. But, sweet heaven, it would be good to rest her head.

“It is filthy,” Celia whined.

Murdoch growled. “I have lost my maidservant. It is difficult to find the time to come up here to sort things out.”

Margaret signaled to Celia to hold her tongue. She felt suddenly very unsure of their welcome and thought it unwise to fuss. She hung her wet cloak on a peg by the door, pushed the soiled bedding to the floor, and sat down on the mattress— which had little stuffing, and none of it sweet. She gestured to Celia to do likewise. Andrew perched on the edge of a table.

Murdoch folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the wall near the hide-covered doorway. “Now what is this all about?”

“I must find Roger, Uncle,” said Margaret. “I fear for him after Jack Sinclair’s murder. I must warn him.”

“You call it murder, eh? What says murder and not a fight lost?”

Margaret could glean nothing from her uncle’s expression. Feeling as if she were edging out onto thin ice, she tested it with, “What can you tell me of his death?”

“Naught, but I’ve seen worse wounds from a brawl.”

“I never knew Jack to brawl,” she said softly, but firmly.

Murdoch snorted. “All men like a fight.”

That was nothing Margaret was ready to judge, but she did not believe Jack had been brawling on the occasion of his death. “I saw his body. His throat and his belly were slashed, Uncle. He was murdered.”

“How did you see?” Andrew asked, horrified.

She did not meet his eyes. “I had to be certain it was him.”

Murdoch shook his head, pushed himself away from the wall. “A fine job of consoling and reassuring her you did, Andrew.” He lowered his voice. “You cannot poke about in these times, Maggie. You’ll get yourself and me in trouble.” His voice at last held a flicker of warmth, which encouraged Margaret.

“I must find my husband,” she insisted.

“For all you know he found passage to Bruges and is with your father.” Malcolm Kerr had settled his affairs and fled to Bruges after the slaughter at Berwick the past spring, worried that Perth might be next.

“Roger thought Father’s flight cowardly. He would not follow.”

Murdoch raised his uneven brows in doubt.

“When did you last see Roger?” Margaret asked.

Murdoch frowned down at the floor. “I don’t recall. Jack came here asking about him, too. Why did you think Roger would be here?”

Margaret told him about the letter sent from Edinburgh.

“He sent only the one message?”

Margaret cursed herself for blushing as she nodded.

Murdoch grunted. “You think to bide here while you look for a man who has no reason to be here and hasn’t seen fit to send word to you since before Christmas?”

Margaret had expected resistance, but not unkindness. She tried to keep her voice steady, confident. “I hoped my maid and I might be welcome.”

“And why should I welcome you? You’ll be naught but trouble.”

Don’t drop your head,
she thought.
Don’t let him know how you doubt yourself.
“Kin are always welcome in the house of a Kerr.”

“In a house, mayhap. This is an inn. I depend on paying customers here. You two cannot bed with men—you need a chamber to yourselves. Two paying customers you lose me, or more.”

“I shall pay you,” Margaret said. She had thought he would not have much custom at present and could therefore spare the room. She felt very naive.

Murdoch growled. “I cannot take your siller, Maggie.”

For that she was grateful, for she had little, but it was not the time to inform her uncle of her penury.

Murdoch’s voice softened. “You should not be in Edinburgh. What would your father say if he sailed into Perth and heard you were down here among the English soldiers? They will come sniffing about. They can think of only one reason women might come to the town—to service them. Oh, Maggie, you must be gone. Back to Perth with you. And your fancy maid.”

Had her father cared he would not have left Perth. As for the soldiers, she had not thought of them as a danger to her unless she threatened them. She must have a care. But it did not sway her. “I’ve sat at home since Martinmas, worrying. Imagining all the worst. That Roger is injured and has no one caring for him. Taken prisoner. That he has left me and begun another life.”

“He will come home, I am sure of it,” Murdoch said absently, turning his attention to Andrew. “Could you not find Maggie fit lodgings in Canongate?”

Andrew threw up his hands. “I did not know she meant to come until last night. I have not had time to make arrangements for her, but I shall do so.”

Risking irritating her uncle, but recalling how he had encouraged decisiveness in her, Margaret said, “I will bide here, Uncle.”

She watched for Murdoch’s reaction to her determination as Sim shuffled in with a flagon of wine and four cups. “I’ll bring a pie by and by,” the man muttered as he withdrew. A lad carried in some peat, began to fuss with the brazier. Celia told him she could manage and quickly set to it.