A Trust Betrayed (20 page)

She stared at him until he dropped his gaze.

“You are too curious, Maggie.”

“You do not appear injured. So whose blood was it, Uncle? Harcar’s?”

“No! I’ve told you I had no part in that.”

“So?”

“I took too much of a risk boarding a ship. It is possible I killed someone—but he attacked me first. I’m not a murderer.”

Like Roger, he had his own moral code. Margaret understood that in times like these a certain ruthlessness might be necessary, but it still chilled her.

The cat rubbed against Murdoch’s leg. He dropped a piece of fish for him.

“You spoil the cat, feeding him scraps of food. He’ll never be a good mouser if so well fed.”

“Agrippa is good company,” said Murdoch. “And a good mouser. If you were a cat, so would you be, I think.”

She was not sure she liked that. But cats had been much on her mind. “Might it have been a cat that wounded Roger? No man’s fingers could dig such wounds. Not four of them. But such great claws they must have been. A far larger paw than I have ever seen.”

Murdoch blew on a spoonful of stew, tasted it, tossed in a pinch of savory. “You are sure of what you saw, Maggie?”

“For a few breaths I was close enough. He must be in great pain.”

Murdoch shook his head as he sliced bread. “No man would stand still for four swipes of a knife. You are certain of four?”

She was not certain about any of it anymore. “I might be mistaken about the number.”

“Four claws, that’s what you were thinking, eh?”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Believe you I do, Maggie. But to the counting of the wounds . . .” He shook his head.

She tugged at the wool spun out below the spindle.

“Maggie, have you ever had a vision, like one of Christiana’s?”

The question surprised and annoyed her. “You know that I’m not like my mother. I did see him.”

“How can you be certain it wasn’t a vision?”

She wished she had moved more quickly. If she had touched Roger she would be more certain. “The soldiers saw him.”

“Did they say they saw him? Or a group of men?”

Murdoch was confusing her. “The men.” Margaret tried to recall her mother’s descriptions of her visions. Outwardly, it was clear that Christiana was staring at something that was not there, or that did not warrant such an expression as she wore. She might move toward it, or reach out to it imploring, or behave as if someone had touched her. Once she had bled from the touch of steel in her vision. Andrew had borne witness. He had sworn that she had not moved, the blood had just appeared. She did not see Christ or the Blessed Virgin or the saints. She saw ordinary people in scenes from the past or the future. If that had happened to Margaret, it was possible that Roger’s wounding was something yet to happen.

Murdoch grunted as he set a trencher with stew in the center before her. “It is something to think about on a full stomach.” He sat down, started to eat at once.

Margaret had no appetite. “What will happen if the English hear you found Harcar? Father Francis might have been seen moving him to St. Giles.”

He frowned up at the ceiling. “With Sim’s tongue we’ll soon ken. I caught him telling a stranger that Harcar was killed on his way from the tavern this morning. I do not ken what is stuffed betwixt his lugs, but it’s not a brain.” Murdoch shoved a piece of bread in his mouth, chewed energetically. “But it’s only to be expected of the son of a flyting fishwife,” he continued after swallowing. “Thrice brought up before the magistrate for it.”

Margaret gave up trying to eat, put down her spoon.

Murdoch held out a rough hand.

She grasped it.

“They cannot prove a thing. We’ll talk of other matters.” He frowned as he sought out a topic. “Do you remember your aunt, lass?” He began a tale of romance that Margaret did not believe, but it distracted her enough that she finally picked up her spoon to eat.

A knock at the door brought both their heads up. Murdoch shook his. “Eat, lass. I’ll see who it is.” He crossed to the door, opened it. “Andrew, good day to you. Or is it evening? Doesn’t your abbot fret when you are not there at vespers?”

“I would see my sister, Uncle.” Andrew’s voice was strained.

Margaret turned round in her chair. Andrew unwound his mantle, draped it over Murdoch’s arm. Her uncle grunted, then handed the mantle to Matthew, who had entered behind his master, wiping his forehead. His face was red from exertion.

Not so Andrew. Dear God, if Andrew had looked pale before, he looked far worse now.

Murdoch muttered to Matthew to hang the mantles on the pegs and take a seat by the door, and he would have some ale to fortify him for the rest of his journey.

Margaret pushed back from the table and rose to take her brother’s hands. They were dry and cold. He avoided looking her in the eye. “Andrew, what is it?” She had to take a deep breath to manage more words, he frightened her so. “Did you go to the castle?”

“I have just now spoken to Sir Walter Huntercombe.” Andrew shook his head at Murdoch’s offer of ale, slumped down onto the bench farthest from the door, crossed his hands, stared down at them.

Margaret drew her chair over to him.

“It is possible Roger is slain, Maggie.”

The choking sensation was now almost overwhelming. She stood, hand on her ribs, and forced herself to remember how to breathe.

*
      
*
       
*

“Look what you’ve done!” Murdoch shouted, running to Margaret, who pushed him away.

“Do not silence Andrew now.” Her words came in gasps. “Go sit.”

Andrew glared at Murdoch, hoping to push him back toward Matthew, but the stubborn man pulled up a chair near Margaret’s.

Andrew drew Margaret down on the bench beside him. She smelled like peat fires and rosemary. Her hair was undone, tumbling down her back. She was so young, and not even her mother here to comfort her. He saw her pain in her shadowed eyes, the lines of fatigue in her face, a stiffness of posture as she fought for control. She was not so faint of heart as most women, but to lose a husband must be a terrible thing to bear. He told himself that she would recover, she would remarry, it was not the end of happiness for her. But it would take time before she could see that.

“What makes you think Roger is dead?” She spoke more easily now.

Andrew felt her breath on his cheek. He could not remember when he had last been so close to anyone. How could he say anything but the truth when she was so close? “Roger accompanied Mistress Grey to the border.” It was not the time to explain the names. “She and one of the men in the party have been slain. The man was not identified.”

Margaret crossed herself. “Since Thursday?”

That cursed vision of her husband. Andrew moved away from her, to the end of the bench, so that he could turn to face her squarely. “Perhaps a week ago, Maggie. On the border. You did not see him the other day.”

Her eyes narrowed. With distrust? Anger? “I did see him. I am certain of it.”

Andrew took her hands in his. They were warm. Her grasp was strong.

“I did,” she insisted. “It must have been another man in their company who was slain.”

Her eyes widened and filled with tears. When they were young Andrew knew her bad days by the color of her eyes— the same deep green as today. But what could he do but tell her the truth, help her accept it? She could not be spared the pain.

“Maggie, the sheriff believes he would have heard if Roger was back in Edinburgh.”

Murdoch shifted on his seat. “How many men were in Mistress Grey’s company?” he asked, his crooked brows drawn down in challenge.

Why would he not go away? “Three.”

Murdoch shook his head at Andrew. “Then there is more than an even chance he is not dead.”

Such unfounded optimism would not help Margaret face her possible loss.

“Why was Roger escorting this woman?” Margaret asked.

Once again Murdoch interrupted. “Indeed. The sheriff has nothing to tell you, so he tells a tale. Maggie—”

“The woman’s real name is Edwina of Carlisle,” Andrew said loudly, to drown out Murdoch. “Roger was escorting her to her husband in that town.”

“Carlisle? Why?” Margaret asked.

Andrew told her what the sheriff had told him, though not his mention of Robert Bruce. It did not seem as clear in the recounting as he had thought it when hearing it before. He still did not understand why the woman had remained in Lothian, why her husband was not with her.

Margaret withdrew her hands. “I do not understand Roger’s involvement. Does he think helping this English merchant’s wife will gain him a port?”

Murdoch snorted through his oft-broken nose. “Do you have a body to show for this story?”

“No.” God’s blood, the man irritated Andrew. “By now they will have been buried.” He prayed that they were, that they had not been left where they lay.

Margaret studied her hands silently.

“I wanted you to know as soon as I heard,” Andrew explained, wondering why she said nothing. “I did not want you to hear it from others. Not as you did about Mistress Grey— Edwina.”

Margaret clutched her elbows, tucked in her chin. She began to bite her cheek and tap one of her feet. Andrew moved to embrace her, but Murdoch’s arm was already circling her. What right had their uncle to comfort her when Andrew was here?

She shook herself loose from Murdoch, turned to Andrew.

“How did the sheriff learn of their deaths? I want to talk to someone who saw them.”

“He received a report from Glasgow. I doubt the messenger had witnessed any of it.”

“How far is Glasgow?”

“Too far,” Murdoch said.

“What would you accomplish?” Andrew asked. “They would never agree to your opening the grave, Maggie.”

“How am I to know whether to mourn him?” she cried.

Andrew could not look at the pain in her eyes. It seemed a day of widows. His journey up the hill with the lyke of Davy the smith seemed so long ago, but it had been just this morning. The morning of a long day. And he must get back to Holy-rood. “I must leave you now, Maggie. My lord abbot awaits word of my meeting with Widow Smith.”

“Pray for Roger,” Margaret said, still turned from him. “Pray that I saw him on Thursday.” Her voice trembled.

Matthew jumped up to retrieve their mantles.

“Godspeed to you,” Murdoch said grudgingly.

“I will pray for you and Roger all the night, I swear,” Andrew said.

Turning Margaret round, he kissed her on the forehead. She put her arms round him and held him tightly for a moment.

12

All the Difference

There had been a moment a year ago when Margaret sank into the abyss. Her flux had begun after two months—all that while she had happily believed she was with child. When she saw her blood, she fell into despair and walked in a colorless, silent land with an endless, bleak horizon. She walked there again now.

“Maggie?”