A Trust Betrayed (11 page)

The ale was just beginning to warm Margaret’s toes when Murdoch knocked on the door and told Celia he wished to speak to her mistress alone. As Celia slipped away, Murdoch settled himself across the table from Margaret, his chair set sideways.

“Hal has asked permission to escort you to Janet Webster’s this morning. Why?”

“You said he was to go with me where I wished.”

“But why the weaver? Because of what Old Will said? He was drunk, Maggie, thinking of his dead wife.”

“I have my reasons.”

Murdoch was not looking at her, but the floor, or perhaps his worn shoes from which one of his small toes stuck out. His sock was dirty.

“You need a laundress,” Margaret noted.

“That is not news to me. Why would you speak with Janet?”

“You know why I am here, Uncle. Is there something you should tell me before someone else does it for you?”

“What do you know of your husband, lass?” Now he looked her in the eye.

His look, his tone made her lose her appetite. “It is plain from your face that whatever I know, it is not enough.”

“How often has he been at home for any time?” Murdoch pressed.

Her heart pounded. “He is a merchant. He—”

Murdoch banged his fist on the table, his breath coming in angry bursts. “A merchant. An excuse for long absences and no one the wiser to his other life.”

“What are you saying?”

“He has used you ill, that is what I am saying. He has the prize of Perth, of all Scotland, and he stays away. Fie on him.”

“Tell me what you know, Uncle.” Margaret reached for her cup, but she did not trust herself to hold it steadily. She sat on her hands. “I must hear it. I must know what I face.”

Murdoch, elbows on knees, dropped his head to his hands for a moment. Then with a great sigh he straightened. “Just afore the summons to Berwick last summer, Roger brought a woman here, asked if she could bide at the inn until she found a more permanent home. She had fled Berwick.”

Margaret felt the heat rise to her face. She took a great, long drink. “Go on,” she said.

“I tell you this only because you will eventually hear of Mistress Grey.”

“Is she here now? In Edinburgh?”

Murdoch shook his head. “She left the town after Christmas.”

“Have you seen Roger since?”

“Once. He did not speak of her.” Murdoch rose to fetch the pitcher, filled her cup.

Beautiful,
she thought.
Younger even than me.
“Tell me about her.”

“She is his age, I would guess. Two score, I would say. Handsome of manner and dress, and speech, aye, she has a noble way of speaking. Not bonny. Dark hair. The gossips thought her a lady in disguise or a lord’s mistress. Mistress Grey she calls herself. No Christian name that she admits to.”

A lady in disguise or a lord’s mistress? “Is this how he spends our siller?” Margaret would kill Roger if ever she saw him again.

“She is not his mistress, if that’s what you’re thinking, and of course you are. Roger could not have dressed the woman in such finery, Maggie. Nor could he have paid for the food and drink she demanded.”

The costly curtains and bedding. “She stayed here, in your chamber,” Margaret said dully. “It was she who had the bed curtains made, painted the walls.”

“Aye .”

Margaret rose. “I cannot stay here another night. I must move my things.”

“Sit down, Maggie. I thought of telling you last night, when it seemed Andrew had not yet told you, hoping you would turn round and flee to safety across the Forth.”

“Did Jack know about her?”

“I don’t know, Maggie. I saw Jack Sinclair but once this winter. He asked for Roger, stayed long enough to tell me how you fared, then was gone.”

“Near the time he died?”

Murdoch shook his head. “More than a fortnight ere he was found.”

“Where did Roger stay?”

“Sometimes in the room I have now, when he was in the
town. He never stayed a long, unbroken stretch. He’d be weeks away, then return for a few days. Mistress Grey never behaved as if she missed him. It was as if she knew where he was and how long he would be gone.”

It would be difficult enough to learn this of her husband, but harder yet to realize how public was her shame. No wonder Mary the brewster had been curious. “Celia can help me move my things.”

“Stay, Maggie. It is the safest room in the inn. I tell you again, Mistress Grey was not Roger’s mistress. She was above his station.”

Margaret turned away from him. “Then what were they— are they—to each other? Why does he spend more time with her than with me?”

“They worked together in some way, so I believe. Informants or messengers, or both.”

“For John Balliol or Edward Longshanks?”

“I pray they were not involved in anything of such import.” Murdoch shook his head. “I was gey happy when she left.”

Margaret sank back down on the chair. “Why did you permit her to stay?”

“I was not quick to realize she could bring me trouble.”

“You did not ask her business? Nor did you ask Roger?”

“You must learn, Maggie. These days you ask no man or woman their business. You will not get the truth, and you may reap trouble.”

“Roger told me nothing of this, Uncle, nothing.”

“He might have meant to protect you.”

“He betrays my love with every step. What am I to do?”

Murdoch moved toward her.

She shook her head. Silence was what she needed, a moment to catch her breath. All these months she had expected to comfort Roger when he returned, to bury her anger at his absence once she knew the cause. She had ached so for him. But at the moment she felt only anger and a frightening loneliness. When she felt steadier, she said in what she hoped was a stronger voice, “I still mean to find him. And to find Jack’s murderer.”

Murdoch’s expression changed from sympathetic to curious. “You seem equally upset about Roger and Jack Sinclair.”

“Jack was Roger’s cousin and factor.”

“Maggie,” Murdoch said softly, “did you—?”

“Roger is my husband, Uncle, though he does not act it. I keep my vows. As for Jack, I feel responsible. It was my brooding over Roger that committed him to come here to search.”

“I thought he’d come on Alan Fletcher’s business.”

“He grabbed the chance.”

“But Fletcher sent him.”

“He would not have left me if he had not thought it a chance to find Roger.”

Murdoch shook his head at her. “Jack is not the only person to die in this town of late, Maggie.”

“Roger?”

“I do not speak of him.”

“Who then?”

“Many. That is my point. Within days of Jack’s death, a man’s body was found on the bank of the River Tummel east of Holyrood Abbey. And a week ago a woman was raped in the close by her own home, then her husband was executed for threatening the life of the guilty English soldier. The widow has disappeared.”

“Is she dead?”

“Who knows? Listen to what I am saying, Maggie. Edinburgh is a dangerous place, especially for someone asking questions that might bring them to the notice of the English.”

“Is that why you set Hal to watch me?”

“Damn it, I set him to protect you, Maggie, don’t twist my actions. But it’s not enough. You should return to Perth.”

Margaret did not answer. Celia knocked on the door, opened it at Margaret’s invitation.

“We are finished?” Murdoch asked.

“For now. I need to think.”

Uncle and niece regarded Celia silently. She looked from one to the other, smiled uncertainly. “Forgive me if I intrude.”

“Do I have Hal as escort to Janet Webster’s?” Margaret asked.

Murdoch shook his head, but said, “Aye.” Mumbling some complaint, he departed.

Margaret considered the bedchamber while Celia took the uneaten food away. The sprigs of heather and broom painted on the walls sickened her now that she knew they had livened the room for Mistress Grey. It was not difficult to imagine that the mysterious woman knew Roger better than Margaret did. Perhaps he thought that compared with Mistress Grey his wife lacked wits.

Damn him. How many nights when she lay awake worrying about Roger had he sat in this comfortable room with Mistress Grey? Or down in the tavern? Nothing had prevented him sending more messages to Margaret. He had not chosen to. Neither had her uncle.

And as for her brother Andrew, he must have heard about Mistress Grey—the canons of Holyrood were not likely to be immune to gossip. He might have warned her long ago, saved her the shock of hearing it now, after she had slept three nights in the woman’s chamber. Margaret grabbed her cloak. She did not believe in wasting anger. She went to the stable, hoping to find Bonny unattended. But Hal was there, raking out a stall.

“You look busy,” she said. It was a long walk to Holyrood Abbey, through Netherbow and all the way down the hill, as far again as from here to the castle. She eyed Bonny.

Hal pushed back his hair, but kept his chin down, eyes averted. “You would go to the weaver now?” He mumbled his words.

“Not yet. I have business at the abbey. How difficult is it to get past the guards at Netherbow?”

The hair flowed back over his eyes. “We are free to come and go. They will ask you some questions, but they will not fuss.”

“It is a goodly walk.”

Hal nodded. “A hard climb back.”

“Might I borrow Bonny?”

“You must ask Master Murdoch.”

“I would rather not.”

The young man studied his hands for a moment. They were large hands for a lad, and encrusted with dirt. Then he actually raised his eyes to Margaret’s. “Are you plotting trouble?”

She wondered whether he sensed her agitation. “No. Visiting my brother.”

“But you don’t want Master Murdoch to ken?”

This required a small lie. “He does not agree that I might be better lodged elsewhere.”

Hal wrinkled his brow, considering.

“You must go with me, either way.”

“Aye,” he said to Margaret’s feet. “I’ll lead you on Bonny.”

Margaret slipped out of the stable, went to wait in the alley. The ass sniffed the air as she approached Margaret. Hal stopped, steadied Bonny while Margaret mounted.

The afternoon was dry, with a brisk wind and scudding clouds. The guards at the archway were busy examining a laden cart and waved them on. Behind Margaret, Edinburgh Castle rose on its rock high above the lower cluster of buildings. The spires of St. Giles were lost against the crag. Below her, houses lined the street leading to the Abbey of Holyrood, which dominated the hollow below. Beyond the abbey complex rose a steep, rocky crag known as Arthur’s Seat that was even higher than that on which sat Edinburgh Castle.

“Up here many houses were burned by King Edward’s army.” Hal nodded to several burned shells. “Down farther most of the houses were spared.”

Canongate seemed a lovely, open place after Edinburgh. The plots were larger, the houses more sprawling than stacked. “Who lives here besides canons?”

“Some folk with shops in Edinburgh. Some landowners have town houses here.”

*
      
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Father Andrew sat at prayer in the cloister blowing on his hands frequently. Though the sun shone, the wind was still chilly. He did not know why he stayed—his mind was too full to pray. A servant approached, settling his gaze on Andrew as he spotted him. Perhaps Goodwife Logan had changed her mind about lodging Margaret. Andrew nodded to the servant.

“Dame Kerr has come to see you, Father Andrew. She awaits you in the parlor.”

Crossing himself and dusting off his habit, Andrew made his way to the parlor. How annoying. No doubt she came alone and he would need to find someone to escort her back.

Margaret looked agitated. He could tell by how she tucked her hands beneath her mantle, as if they could not be trusted. Her eyelids were swollen. Heaven knew what Murdoch had seen fit to tell her.

“Benedicte, Maggie. I did not think to see you here.”

“Benedicte, Andrew.”

“Did you come without escort?”

“No. A young man led me into Canongate on an ass. Like the Blessed Virgin entering Bethlehem.” She smiled, but it was a cold twist of her mouth. Already Edinburgh poisoned her.

“You are not as content at Uncle’s inn as you thought to be?”