A Trust Betrayed (6 page)

A TRUST BETRAYED
                                                           
37

Murdoch did not outwardly react to her comment. When the servants departed, he nodded toward the wine. “Drink up, Father Andrew. You will have little good wine at the abbey. Your abbot has no doubt sent it to King Edward’s captains at Soutra Hospital, and what is left will be rationed among their wounded troops.” Edward had taken over the great Hospital of the Trinity on Soutra Hill, which straddled the highest point on the King’s Highway between the border and Edinburgh.

“There is precious little good wine left this side of the Forth,” said Andrew. “Where do you find yours—on Edward Longshanks’s ships?”

Murdoch growled.

Margaret had had enough of their contention. “What say you, Uncle? Will you turn us out, Celia and me?”

Murdoch dropped his eyes to hers, touched her chin with his rough hand. “I have not convinced you to go home, lass? What do you need to hear?”

“News of my husband.”

A shadow flickered across Murdoch’s face. “We shall talk in the morn. You are a woman in need of bed.”

“Do you have clean linen?” Celia demanded.

The woman did not seem aware of how precarious their situation was. Margaret told her to be still.

Murdoch snorted. “Find me a laundress and I will. Women are fearful to go down to the water with all the soldiers about.”

“Dry clothes, that is what I need,” Margaret said. “And to warm myself down in the tavern for a while.”

The men withdrew so she might change. But when the hide fell in place over the doorway behind them, Margaret did not move. She had expected to fall back on the bed, exhausted. Instead she just sat there, benumbed by the horrible turn life had taken since she had last seen her uncle. Her husband was missing, Jack was dead, she had traveled a long way, with a difficult crossing, with little plan but to resolve Roger’s disappearance, the town was so changed, so broken and subdued, and her uncle, whom she had not seen since her wedding, plainly wished her anywhere but here. She could not remember a worse time in her life.

“Mistress, you wished to change?” Celia said.

Margaret shook herself. She unhooked her scrip from her girdle, drew out the few coins she carried and the weight she had found in Jack’s shroud. The coins she poured back in—she would keep the scrip hidden beneath her kirtle at all times, or beneath her pillow at night. Every penny was precious to her.

“Pay my uncle no heed, Celia. He will come round to understanding why I came.” She studied the weight. It might be a fishnet weight, though it was small and far too clean, unless it was new. It was also too small for a thatching weight. She was almost certain it was a loom weight. A weaver would tie the end of the warp to this to keep it close to the floor, the thread taut. It was not something she would expect Jack to clutch as he died, nor was it something he was likely to have clasped in a fight.

“Your hands are so cold,” Celia said, rubbing them, knocking the stone to the floor.

Slowly, stiff from the saddle, Margaret stooped to retrieve the weight. The movement made her dizzy.

“You have not eaten in hours.” Celia helped her to her feet, untied the laces at Margaret’s back and wrists, let the gown slip to the floor. “Step out of it,” she said softly.

Margaret moved because she was told. “You have not eaten either.”

“I am not eager to taste the food down below.” Celia straightened with a wince.

Of course. It had been a long ride for anyone, let alone one who had apparently never sat astride a horse before. “I’ll send up ale and food—you won’t wish to climb stairs tonight,” said Margaret.

“I have a salve for saddle sores.”

Margaret shook her head at the proud woman. “The sores are the least of it.”

*
      
*
       
*

The tavern was welcomingly warm and busier, now it was early evening, cheering Margaret despite the ripe odors. A rowdy dice game attracted a crowd round the table by the door. Margaret was glad to see two other women in the room. At one table an elderly woman wrapped in a much mended plaid quietly reasoned with a bald man who pounded the table to emphasize his argument. Another woman sat nodding by the brazier, leaning against a man who was listening intently to the other men sitting there. At the third table a man sat hunched over an ale, listening to the diatribe of the man across from him. Both were dressed well, and both occasionally stole glances at Andrew.

Her brother was the only solitary figure in the tavern, sitting at the table nearest the back door, through which Margaret had just come.

Nodding in greeting, he poured her a cup of wine from a flagon.

“I must be off to the abbey as soon as Murdoch returns,” he said brusquely. “He is fetching food for you and Celia.”

“If you must be off, be off.” Though grateful to him for escorting her, Margaret wearied of his stern manner. “There are other women here, I can”—a hush fell over the room as the street door opened—“manage.” A few heads turned as her last word rang out in the sudden silence.

The newcomer smiled into the anxious faces as he drew a fiddle from beneath his cloak. It broke the spell—a few people called out greetings. Others merely returned to what they had been doing or saying. The fiddler leaned against the table shared by the elderly couple, resting one foot on a stool, tested the strings, adjusted one, and then began to play a jig.

“You’ll not sleep up above till these folk go home,” Andrew said. “I’ll find more suitable lodgings for you. It won’t be easy, mind you. Strangers are unwelcome. Anyone could be a spy.”

The fiddler’s entrance had made that clear. But Margaret saw no need for Andrew to make the effort—a tavern full of gossip suited her. “I am biding here.”

“You saw how he is—Murdoch is not the one to help you if you get into trouble or fall ill.”

The wine, the warmth, the comforting background patter, and now the music cheered Margaret. She took her brother’s hands in hers. “All this worry about me. What of you? Is it so what Uncle Murdoch said of your abbot? Is he King Edward’s man?”

Andrew squeezed her hands, then withdrew his. “Our uncle blethers about what he does not know.” He glanced over at the men who had been watching him, looked away as he caught one staring.

“Do you know them?” Margaret asked.

“Aye, of course. Edinburgh is smaller than Perth—and do you not know everyone there?”

That did not need an answer—he knew she did. “They do not appear friendly.”

Andrew snorted. “Men are ever uneasy near their confessors. I shall ask about Canongate for lodgings that would suit you.”

“I shall bide here until I either find Roger or learn where he is and what he is doing.”

“Our uncle might disagree.”

“Then I must persuade him.”

Andrew sighed one of his annoying sighs. She did not think he had even attempted to understand her need to know what had become of Roger.

Her attention was caught by a drunk who had walked into their table, then muttered, “Longshanks’s canons, all of you,” before lurching on to the back door. Murdoch was just entering. The drunk gave a cry of surprise as the innkeeper grabbed him by the arm and, with his other hand in the small of the man’s back, pushed him out the back door.

“Pay him no heed, Maggie,” Andrew said sharply, his face red.

“It would seem the clergy are the scapegoats for the town,” Margaret said.

“I told him he was better off at home,” Murdoch grumbled as he sat down beside Margaret. “Keep the peace, that is the duty of a taverner. I won’t abide such talk. It starts brawls. I’ll not have it.”

Andrew had already risen and was fumbling with his cloak. “Watch over Maggie, Uncle,” he said. It seemed to Margaret that he was trying to avoid looking anyone in the eye. He blessed them both, then with bowed head made his way through the crowd to the street door and departed.

Sim placed a trencher, the hollowed center filled with a milky oat and broth paste, before Margaret. “I took one up to your maid,” he said.

“That was kind,” said Margaret.

She had not known whether she could eat. But once she inhaled the steam rising off the oats, she could not help but break off a piece of the hard crust of bread and scoop up a mouthful. Her stomach received the hot food gladly.

“I thought you’d have an appetite after that journey,” Murdoch said. “It is the sort of thing your mother would do— making that journey in a storm.”

Margaret ignored him and ate.

Murdoch was quiet, tapping his feet to the music for a time.

“Are all the canons blamed for their abbot’s support of Long-shanks?” she asked him after a while.

Murdoch grunted. “If you would be wise, keep to yourself and trust none in this town, Maggie.”

Not comforting advice. But at least he seemed resigned to her staying. For the moment.

4

Not a Good Beginning

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.