A Trust Betrayed (18 page)

Hal picked up the bowl, rose with harness in hand, followed Murdoch to the stable. Margaret followed them at a little distance, stayed out of sight, listening.

“This belongs to a red-bearded MacLaren,” Hal said. “From the Trossachs, a day’s ride from Stirling Castle. He came with it to see it was stabled well.”

So that was Redbeard’s name—MacLaren. And he was still here. She remembered him following Comyn out of the tavern the previous night. Nervous, she glanced behind her.

“This belongs to someone who does not come far to Edinburgh and comes through often.”

“Ian Brewster,” said Murdoch.

Margaret had put him in the room opposite the Englishman last night.

“No other?” Murdoch demanded.

“Not last night.”

Margaret withdrew before they came out.

10

We Have
  
Not
 
Begun to See

Margaret had the card weaving spread out on the table, trying to unravel more of the thread. Her hand had healed to the point where she no longer needed a bandage. The work was a good use of her hands while trying to quiet her mind enough to search for connections between what was going on round her. She saw Roger’s presence in town, his running from her, and Comyn’s reaction to the news that she had seen him as a set. But she did not know what to make of it. For it had not been clear whether Comyn saw Roger’s presence as dangerous or as a sign of danger. Harcar’s murder the night of the discovery of Davy’s body might mean that someone blamed Harcar for Davy’s death. She feared that someone had seen her begin to approach Harcar and killed him before he could tell her about finding Jack’s body, which would mean she was being watched, and that someone did not want her to learn anything about Jack’s murder. She did not know how to interpret MacLaren’s antagonism toward the Englishman, his following Comyn out of the tavern, his stealth outside Murdoch’s room last night. Then there was Murdoch’s absence just as all this took place, and Comyn’s concern about it. If only she knew where her uncle had been. Ye t even that might tell her little. There were too many pieces, and she did not know whether they were all connected. Certainly James Comyn figured largely. She wished she knew more about him. He was like an object in the night, seeming clear when seen from the corner of her eye, but insubstantial straight on, impossible to focus on. That made her very uneasy.

Celia sat across from Margaret darning some bedding. A knock on the door brought her quickly to her feet. She crossed herself before she asked who was there.

“Father Andrew.”

Celia unbolted the door.

Shaking his cloak, Andrew asked if he might come in.

Margaret knotted the warps together and tied a cord round the cards, sorted at last. She would begin again on the border when she could pay it her full attention.

“Celia, take your work to my uncle’s kitchen. It will be warm in there.” She could not speak plainly with Andrew if the maid were in the room, and she had a favor to ask of him.

“Master Murdoch will not be pleased,” Celia said.

“Tell him I sent you.”

Celia took her mantle and her sewing and departed, slamming the door behind her.

Andrew had gone straight for the brazier. He stood there rubbing his hands together close to the heat. His curly hair clung damply to his temples, his beaked nose was red.

“You have had a cold walk up here.” Margaret took his mantle—such heavy wool it always surprised her—and hung it on a peg near the brazier to dry.

Andrew’s forced smile did not distract Margaret’s attention from his eyes, which looked desperate. She prayed Abbot Adam had not already heard about Harcar, that Andrew had not been sent as his emissary. She tried to hide her anxiety as she offered him the high-backed chair.

He dropped into it with his hands folded, his elbows close to his sides, like a lad awaiting a lecture. “I have been with Janet Webster.” A weariness in his voice seemed at odds with the tension in his body.

So it was that business, not Harcar. Almost gasping with relief, Margaret sat on a stool, took out her spindle to keep her hands busy. “How is she?”

“Widow Smith is strong. She did not collapse with grief though it’s plain she feels it.” Andrew had unclenched his hands, shifted in the chair. He looked calmer. “She wished Davy’s body brought to the smiddie this morning. While she stood watching the servants shift him from the cart to the house she asked at last what our infirmarian had said about the body.”

Widow Smith. That is how people would know Janet now, until she remarried. If Margaret were widowed, she would be Widow Sinclair, just like her goodmother. “What had he noted?”

“He saw no marks on the body but a head wound.”

“And poor Davy ended in the Tummel naked like Harry the cobbler.”

“Perhaps they fell into an argument beside the river.”

“Naked?”

Andrew threw up his hands. “I don’t claim to ken how they came to be there.”

Margaret ignored him. “Was Davy wounded in the front or the back of his head?”

“Why? What does it matter?”

Margaret tugged at the wool, said nothing.

“Davy’s injury was to the back of his head, at the base of the skull.”

“So he was hit from behind.” Margaret thought about that. “How did Harry die?”

“His neck had been broken. But not simply snapped. Crushed. A strong man like Davy could murder a man so.”

“And then Davy hit himself in the base of his skull? Or perhaps Harry was yet so strong after a fatal wound?”

Andrew’s full, handsome face looked gray, despite his recent travels, which would normally put color in a man’s cheeks. “Perhaps there was a third man.”

“Forgive me. I should not argue with you as if you had cause to lie. I am only trying to make sense of all this. You look weary. It is good you are through with your travels for a while.”

Andrew ran a hand through his tonsured hair. “Our people are stirring all round us, Maggie. Raids on English ships, attacks on the king’s messengers, the barns burned in which they stable their horses.” He dropped his head to his hands and was quiet a moment. “We have not begun to see the bloodshed. When I was at Elcho I heard the rumors. I prayed I would reach Holyrood before the uprising began.”

There had been many rumors of skirmishes, particularly up north, around Aberdeen—she worried about Fergus—but the tales were of individuals fighting to keep their provisions, cattle, horses—that was a far cry from a rising. “You believe the people will fight for John Balliol?”

Andrew said, “I do,” without hesitation. “Our countrymen may fight among themselves, but they will not support a soulless murderer like Edward Longshanks. They will be loyal to their king.”

“And you think this uprising could happen anytime?”

“Andrew Murray in the north, William Wallace down here.”

“Sir Andrew Murray? But he was sent to England with King John.” He was of one of the noblest Scots families, with lordships north of the Forth.

“No, his son.” Who had also been imprisoned in England. “He has fled Chester Castle and headed home with a will to oust the English.”

“You ken far more about this than I imagined. But of course—you were in St. Andrews. Was it for the meeting you spoke of, between Bishop Wishart and the Steward?” From what he had said at the ferry crossing, the bishop and the Steward had consulted William Wallace.

The question seemed to make Andrew uneasy. He waited so long to respond that Margaret had just opened her mouth to apologize if she pried when he spoke.

“I was—I happened to be there at the time. But I was not privy to their discussions.”

She did not like that answer if it meant he had been there spying for Abbot Adam and had been discovered. But she had not intended to make Andrew uneasy. “When you returned to Dunfermline with Jack’s corpse you were taking a greater risk than I knew.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

“Brave, nonetheless.”

They were quiet a moment, each lost in a place the other could only guess at.

“Do you think Jack’s death had anything to do with the deaths of Harry and Davy?” she asked in a while.

“I see nothing to connect them.” Andrew seemed distracted, studying his hands, gazing round at the room.

“I have blethered on without asking your news. Did you find lodgings for me? Did you come to argue me away from biding here at the inn?”

“No. Everyone is frightened. I do not think anyone will come forward to accept a stranger, despite your being my sister.”

“Because of the murders on the River Tummel?”

“No!” It was almost a shout. Even Andrew seemed taken aback by the vehemence of his denial. “Because of the trouble all round us,” he said softly. “Might I have some ale?”

“I’ll fetch it.”

Margaret pondered Andrew’s mood as she went down to the tavern kitchen. It was not his usual bristly irritation, but something much deeper, and not aimed at her. She wondered how she seemed to him, weighing her words as she was, fearful of mentioning the corpse in the alley that was so much on her mind.

Andrew was pacing the length of the room when she returned with two cups, followed by Geordie with a heavy pitcher.

“A nice, large chamber,” Andrew said when Geordie had gone. “Well fitted. This was Mistress Grey’s?”

“Yes. She fixed it up to suit her.”

“I am sorry about her.”

“Let’s not talk of it. There are those who say she was
not
Roger’s paramour.” She poured the ale. “You have said little about your time with Mother before Easter. Has she embraced a more purely Roman worship?”

Andrew thought Christiana’s second sight was a pagan thing, not a gift from God as the sisters thought.

“We did not discuss it. She looked well.” His eyes roamed the room again. “Did you find an escort to Dunfermline for your maid?”

“Not yet.” She saw no need to admit she had not tried. “You have not heard of anyone traveling north?”

Andrew shook his head. “I doubt I shall find someone suitable.”

This banter was irritating. Margaret had a favor to ask. “Andrew, as a priest you have freedom to move about the town, to mingle with your countrymen and the English.” She shook her head as he opened his mouth to speak. It was time to tell him about Roger. “Hear me out. I saw Roger on Thursday.”

“Here? In Edinburgh?”

She told him what had happened. “He had such wounds on his face. I can’t bear not knowing whether he is still in the town, whether someone is seeing to his injuries. I hoped you might ask at the castle.”

Andrew frowned at her as if she had suddenly begun to talk in tongues.

“He is your sister’s husband,” she said. “It would not be unseemly for you to inquire about him. And Jack’s death. If you could just ask whether he had been in trouble with the soldiers.”

Andrew had begun to shake his head, as if trying to dislodge the words from his ears.

“It cannot be such an impossible request,” she cried. “He is my husband. Jack was his factor. You are—”

“I am a canon of Holyrood, Maggie. Not one of the priests the English brought with them. I can go to the castle, yes, and I might mention Roger, but both of them? Surely you see how that would look?”