A Trust Betrayed (25 page)

“Aye .”

“She is a weaver?”

“So she says.”

Bess the young weaver had her eye on Jack, that is what Old Will had said. “I wonder at the priests risking someone new when they were pleased with you. They were pleased with you?”

Rosamund sniffed. “No one has ever complained about my work. It is knowing the Comyn that helped her. Perhaps more than knowing.” She bobbed her head and raised an eyebrow let
ting Margaret know she might imagine the worst. “He is oft seen there.”

And once more James Comyn was involved. Margaret nodded to Celia, understanding Rosamund’s implication all too clearly but unwilling to pursue gossip spread by one with a grudge. “Fetch the linens and accompany Rosamund to the tron to weigh them.”

Celia went off to retrieve the bundles from the lean-to.

“A farthing a pound,” Margaret proposed to Rosamund. It was a generous offer.

Rosamund’s face softened. “Aye, mistress, that is fair.”

Margaret handed her the penny as arles. Even in times such as these one should bargain in good faith. “Do you have someone to help you carry the laundry?”

“I have a cart. It will do.”

A proud young woman. “When you are finished, there is more of the same. I cannot promise to keep you steadily in work, but it is better than a private household.”

“God bless you, mistress.”

Margaret nodded to the laundress and went out into the backland to find Murdoch. He should know of the arrangement. His kitchen was empty. She stood by the window, thinking about the Fletchers. More pieces to the puzzle, but she still saw no clear shape. Besseta, who had seemed unwilling to speak with Margaret, was a friend to James Comyn—mistress if Rosamund was right—and daughter to the man who had arranged for Jack’s journey here. If the Fletcher sisters knew of the plan for Holy-rood, Jack might have heard it there. But she could not think why they would know, or why they would have spoken in front of him. The stakes of this game were too high, and no one seemed to have trusted Jack.

The black cat rubbed against her legs, butted his head against the hand hanging idle at her side. She crouched to pet him.

“Well, Agrippa, what do you make of it?” she whispered.

The cat purred and presented each side of his neck in turn, then the top of his head.

“Should I beware James Comyn, or should I trust him? He is my king’s kinsman.” And he seemed to be the link in all this.

Leaving the kitchen, Margaret was thinking where to look next when she noticed Roy’s voice raised in anger, answered by a woman’s voice. Concerned that Celia might be at odds with the cook again, she hurried to intervene.

Geordie and Sim sat outside the tavern kitchen, leaning their heads against the wall of the house, eyes closed, listening.

“Whoring queyn, why would I take you back?”

“You love me is why. I went with him for your sake. For the wean’s safety.”

“You carried no bairn of mine when you left with your farmer.”

Sim opened an eye, elbowed Geordie. They stood up with guilty blushes and moved away from the house.

“It’s Belle and Roy,” said Sim. “Her farmer left her for soldiering.”

But Margaret already knew that. “Does your master know she’s here?”

Geordie shook his head. “The master’s in his storeroom.”

*
                                        
*
       
*

The padlock was not on the door. Margaret pushed gently. The door swung open with a faint creak. To one side of the door an oil lamp on a shelf illuminated part of an aisled room. The pillars and the walls were stone. But from without, the undercroft looked wooden. Murdoch’s secret. Several chests rested on trestles in the center. On one of them burned another lamp.

Barrels stood in a neat line beyond the chests. In the far aisle yet another lamp burned. Against that wall hung what looked like a tapestry. She stepped farther into the room, drawn by the flickering colors, looked up. The ceiling was plastered.

“What are you doing in here?” Murdoch roared.

Margaret dropped down into a crouch beside one of the chests, startled by the loud sound in this dark place.

“I know you’re here, Maggie.”

Her heart pounded. Best to stand. He must know where she was. But she could not make her legs move. This was his secret place and she was trespassing.

Beyond the chest by which she crouched was one with a thistle carving on the side. She knew that chest. It was her father’s. He had taken it with him to Bruges.

Murdoch’s footsteps approached. He must be by the barrels now. She wished she had not been such a fool as to hide.

He grabbed her by the back of her gown, dragging her to her feet.

“I told you not to bother with this room.”

He was so close she could smell the garlic and ale on his breath.

It took her a moment to find her footing. “I was looking for you.” She shook out her skirts. “Geordie said you were here.”

“What did you need of me?”

“I’ve hired Rosamund.”

“You broke into my storeroom to tell me that you hired a laundress?” he shouted.

“I did not break in. The door was unlatched.”

Murdoch ran a hand through his hair. “How much?”

“A farthing a pound of laundry.”

“You’re robbing me!” He walked away from her, then turned, hands on hips. “Why did you hide?”

“Because I could see I was being a fool.” She pointed to the deeply carved thistle. “That’s my father’s chest.”

“Aye, it is Malcolm’s.”

“Why is it here?”

“My brother brought it to me for safekeeping while he is in Bruges.”

“What is in it?”

“Records of his trade, his lands and possessions.” Murdoch folded his arms before him. “Now you’ll be going out that door behind you while I see to the cruisies.”

*
      
*
       
*

As Margaret left the storeroom she met a young woman coming down the alley pouting and muttering to herself. Her dress was of good cloth, loosely laced up the front with the cleft between large breasts well exposed. She would give birth by midsummer by the look of her. She wore neither mantle nor shoes. Dark, lustrous curls tumbled down about her neck from a threadbare cap. Her color was high—perhaps from her encounter with Roy. She had a rosebud mouth and blue eyes heavily lashed. Noticing Margaret, she paused, smoothed the front of her gown.

“Dame Kerr?”

“Aye. And you are Belle, I think.”

The blue eyes rounded as Murdoch came out the door behind Margaret.

“Count everything you give that laundress, Maggie,” he said as he closed the door. “God’s blood!” he exclaimed as he turned and saw Belle. “Has Roy seen you?”

“Master Murdoch—”

“There’s no welcome here for you, Belle. Get you gone.”

She pouted prettily.

“Go!”

Belle’s bottom lip trembled and the great eyes welled with tears, but she raised her chin. “You’ll come begging. You’ll see. You need Roy, and he needs me.”

“I don’t need Roy, and there’s your mistake. I’m a better cook than he is.”

“Hah!” she said loudly, and headed off down the alley to High Street.

“I must see to Roy,” Murdoch said, and left Margaret standing by his storeroom.

The padlock was still not on the door.

15

Honor

Margaret must have flustered Murdoch more than she had guessed. Or Belle had. But Margaret had no time to question God’s purpose in throwing this temptation in her path. Her uncle might realize his mistake at any moment. She slipped through the storeroom door, pulled it to. Darkness. She felt round the inside of the door, hoping the padlock would be hanging on a hook as it did in the kitchen. Nothing. Crablike she moved to the opposite side of the door, felt round, found the padlock.

But it would be of no use to take it. Murdoch would know she had it, and he would replace it. He seemed to need many locks—no doubt he hoarded a goodly number.

A noise outside the door alerted her. She pressed back against the wall, watched the line of daylight grow along the items to the left.

“Mistress?”

“Celia?”

The maid stepped into the room pulling the door closed behind her, opened the shutter on a lantern.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Whatever you want to see, do it quickly. Your uncle is in the tavern kitchen with Roy.” Celia produced a twig, lit a lamp from the lantern.

Margaret made her way round the chests, past the barrels, to the tapestry on the far wall. There were several, hung one over the other. Loot, she guessed. Beneath them sat another chest. She knelt down, lifted the lid, inhaled a lavender scent. A woman’s gown lay on the top, made of scarlet, the costliest wool cloth.

“Someone is coming!” Celia said.

Beside the woman’s chest was a smaller one, a size that fitted behind a saddle. Margaret had seen Roger strap it on many times. It was locked.

The light dimmed behind her. Celia had blown out the lamp by the door. Margaret shuttered the lantern. The door opened slowly.

“You must be more careful about the wick if you wish to be a spy, Maggie,” said Murdoch. “It is still smoking.”

She opened the lantern shutter, unwilling to be locked in here as a lesson.

“Do you have the key to Roger’s lock?” she asked.

“What took you to his chest so quickly?”

“It is where you were standing.”

Murdoch shook his head. “I do not have the key. For all I did for him, the man still does not trust me.”

“I don’t believe there is a lock you cannot pick.”

“Come out of there. I must get back to Roy. That whore has him in a drunken rage, destroying the kitchen.”

*
      
*
       
*

Andrew prayed that the Almighty would grant him the freedom to prove to himself he was not the puppet of Abbot Adam. He was done with that. He intended to warn Murdoch of the abbot’s intention to close the tavern. And he must talk to Margaret—there were things she must know. His honor toward his family was so far intact, let it remain so, please God. He had borrowed a pilgrim’s robe and wide-brimmed hat that had been left at the abbey by a hastily departing guest. So disguised, he passed out the gate without notice. Once in Canongate he forced himself to continue up the road at a solemn pace.

He felt exposed walking alone, without Matthew. He had not realized how accustomed he had become to the young man’s presence, that now to walk by himself seemed unnatural, something all would notice. Matthew was a good lad, quiet and self-effacing. He wished more than anything to be a canon, but he seemed incapable of learning to read. His eyesight was good enough. Alas for Matthew, though the lad might be correct in his assertion that his parish priest did not know his letters, an Augustinian canon must be able to read and write. His best hope was as a lay brother in one of the Austin hospitals. Perhaps Soutra.