A Trust Betrayed (14 page)

The comment certainly surprised Margaret. Murdoch might have told her he knew the woman so well.

Janet sighed. “I mind when I was so young as you.”

She did not seem old, though there was a weariness in her movements. The wimple hid her hair, but the fine down on her chin and cheeks looked blond. Margaret wondered what their relationship was that Murdoch had not mentioned it.

“It is not a new mantle you’ve come for. That is fine work. Good cloth and dye.”

Margaret had not planned her speech. She moved toward the smaller loom, studying the weights that kept the warp taut. None seemed quite like the one in her scrip, but then they varied a great deal, some with center holes, some bone-shaped, with the thread wrapped round the waist.

Margaret had a thought. “My uncle has new bed curtains in his chamber, made of fine twill. Is that your work?”

“It is.” Janet dropped her gaze to her hands.

“For Mistress Grey?”

Janet looked up, searching Margaret’s face. She nodded once.

“Did my uncle order them?”

Janet shook her head. “Mistress Grey ordered the curtains.”

“She must have paid a bit of siller.”

“Aye. And she had no need to ask the cost, just wanted the finest and the warmest, but of cloth, not skins, and light enough to pull aside.”

“She sounds a grand lady.”

“This I tell you, young Margaret, should you be wondering, she is not one who would dally with a merchant from Perth.”

Margaret sank down on the edge of one of the beds. If the weaver understood so much, it was pointless pretending indifference. “What is she like?”

“A queen should carry herself so.” The weaver rolled her eyes. “Half again your age—my age, more like. Fine wool clothes.” She twitched her skirts. “A red underskirt.” Lifted a foot. “Well-made shoes of leather to walk in the countryside.” Janet’s were simple leather shoes, soft-soled, tied with strips of hide. “Plucks her dark hair to broaden her forehead. She might be handsome but for her skin. Pox pitted. She uses a paste to smooth it. It gives her an unhealthy pallor. She does not go to such trouble for the likes of your husband.”

But he is good enough for me, Margaret thought. “He brought her to Edinburgh.”

Janet sniffed. “I say
she
brought
him.
” She eased back in her chair, arms folded across her ample chest, nodded at Margaret’s surprise. “That is how I see it.” A draft blew the peat smoke into her eyes. Janet coughed and changed seats. “You don’t seem a woman to make unnecessary journeys. You must have believed you would find your husband here.”

“I wearied of sitting and waiting. Forgive me—I understand that you, too, wait for your husband.”

“Davy, aye.” Janet sniffed as if impatient with her emotion. “Tell me your story. Murdoch has given it to me in pieces.”

The request, so frankly and simply made, reached into Margaret’s loneliness. With so little encouragement, she blurted out her whole sorry tale, even to her mother’s predictions.

“And what was that?”

Margaret told her.

“A daughter in your arms and the King of Scots in Edinburgh. It sounds a fine future to me.”

“It does not seem likely at present.”

Janet fussed with the fire in the center of the room. “Your mother has the Sight?” she asked as she poked.

“She does.” Margaret shifted uneasily on the bed, drew the loom weight from her scrip. “I have another question. A friend was clasping this in his hand when he died.” She placed it in the woman’s outstretched hand.

Janet fingered it, held it up to the light from a high window, shook her head. “Not one of mine. Too new.” She dropped it into Margaret’s palm, pressed her hand with both of hers. Her expression was unreadable. “Jack Sinclair, your husband’s factor?”

“Yes. Did you know him?”

“You hope I ken whose this is, and why Jack carried it.” Janet shook her head. “I cannot say. He might have found it lying in the gate.”

“Old Will said a weaver named Bess might know something.”

“Poor old man.” Janet rose. “I’ll see what I can find out for you.”

“I am grateful.” Margaret rose also, seeing she was meant to go.

“I have much work to do.”

“Would you know of a good laundress?”

Janet smiled. “Life must go on, eh? I might think of someone.”

“God go with you, Goodwife Janet.”

“And you, young Margaret.”

*
      
*
       
*

When Margaret returned to the inn she found Celia pacing at the bottom of the stairway to her chamber. Her face was flushed.

“Master Comyn went up to your chamber looking for Master Murdoch. He walked in without knocking.”

“What were you doing?”

“Applying salve to my saddle sores.”

“You with your skirts hitched up?”

“I’d not thought to bolt the door.” Celia was about to cry.

Margaret was alarmed. “Did he touch you?”

Celia shook her head. “He begged forgiveness.”

“I hope you chastised him for his discourtesy?”

“I did.”

Margaret did not know how to comfort the prickly woman. “We must remember to bolt the door,” she said.

Now here was a puzzle—James Comyn such a good friend he walked in like that, yet not so good a friend he knew who currently occupied Murdoch’s bedchamber. “Why was he looking for my uncle?”

Celia pressed her sleeve to her eyes. Sniffed. Composed herself. “Folk were asking for drink, the cook said he could do nothing without the key to your uncle’s kitchen, where the ale is stored, and the master has not been seen since yesterday midday.”

“James Comyn takes much on himself. Where is he now?”

“I did not follow.”

Margaret tried the door of Murdoch’s kitchen, found it locked. In the tavern kitchen she found Roy stirring something in a pot, Geordie, the kitchen lad, standing on a bench searching the shelves.

Roy’s brows were pulled together in a ferocious frown. “The master cannot go off like that without telling me. I needed a new barrel of ale.”

“Where is Master Comyn?” Margaret asked.

Roy nodded toward the tavern. “As we are serving his ale, he thought he would have some.”

“He provided the ale?”

“Aye. From his own store.”

Comyn’s behavior mystified her. “Is he often here?”

“Aye, for the ale and the gossip.”

In the tavern, a crowd had formed round two men throwing dice. James Comyn sat alone at another table, observing the activity. Margaret considered his face, his thick, arched eyebrows, the strong lines of his bones, a straight but broad nose. He turned toward her, as if sensing her eyes upon him. His cool regard after barging into her chamber sparked her irritation and made her bold.

She perched on the bench beside him, facing out from the table. “It was good of you to provide the ale.”

“My pleasure. I must apologize to you as well as your maid for trespassing in your chamber.”

That he volunteered the apology spoke well of him. Her irritation mellowed to curiosity. “Do you often enter my uncle’s bedchamber uninvited?”

“l thought to find him lying across his bed drunk.”

“Does that happen often?”

“It is not his custom to be away from the tavern on market day.”

“Surely he deserves time away now and again.”

“But on market day?” Comyn shook his head. “I saw you walking with an English soldier the other day. You looked wet and upset.” He phrased it as if concerned, but she saw by his expression that he was suspicious.

As she might be if their situations were reversed. “How did you come to see me?”

“I bide across the street.” He nodded at her bandage. “Did they hurt you?”

“This was a splinter.”

“Ah. Good. Well now you are here, perhaps you might tell me where Murdoch is.”

“I don’t know. He has not been gone long—we spoke yesterday. Why are you so concerned?”

“Forgive me. I make much of nothing.”

“Thank you again for the barrel of ale,” she said, rising. “ We shall send a barrel to your house as soon as may be.” Thinking she sounded too pleasant, she added, “My maid is much disturbed, Master Comyn.”

“I regret my thoughtlessness.”

Back in the tavern kitchen, Roy was forming oatcakes, getting ready to bake. Flakes of chaff sprinkled his dark hair. His arms were floury to the elbows, where his pushed-up sleeves began.

“Is it so unusual for Master Murdoch to be away a night?” Margaret asked.

“Without word. And not returning for market day. It is a busy day. Too much for Sim alone.”

Margaret was growing concerned. “Let Geordie help Sim.”

Roy straightened, brushed some hair from his eyes, making it now a pasty lock, and glared at her. “I cannot spare him.”

“You will until Master Murdoch returns.”

Roy opened his mouth to protest, but Margaret turned and left before he could make a sound.

Weary and yearning for a moment of quiet in which to sort through all she had heard today, she climbed up to her bedchamber. Celia stood by the small window, staring out.

“When did you last see my uncle?”

“Midday yesterday. I was cleaning his chamber. He ordered me out.” Celia turned round, patting her cap. “I should see to your hand, mistress.”

Margaret sat down. “Was he long in his chamber?”

“I didn’t notice.”

Celia removed the bandage and a piece of splinter that had worked its way out of the wound. A dab of thyme ointment felt soothing, a new bandage refreshing. Flexing her hand, Margaret thanked Celia.

“You looked distressed when I walked in. Because of James Comyn?”

Celia looked down at her hands, shook her head.

“How did you occupy your morning?”

“I shook out the bedding in the empty chambers and wiped down the floors and walls. We should hang some dried herbs in the corners or tuck them into the wattle hurdles.”

“You’ve done a good day’s work.”

“Aye .”

“I am grateful, Celia. And glad you’ve moved back in here.”

“There are rats in the roof of that cottage.”

“And in the walls as well as the roof of this house.”

“It is a wretched place.”

“You’ve a roof o’er your head and a full belly. But I know you dream of more.”

“I am trying to be content with it, mistress.”