A Trust Betrayed (8 page)

It was a large kitchen for one man. “Might I dry Celia’s wet clothing in here?”

Murdoch’s short eyebrow twitched. “I’ll not have it. There’s a brazier in your chamber.”

“It will be forever drying. A good cook fire’s what’s needed.”

“Ask my tavern cook—Roy’s his name. His kitchen’s behind the next cottage—where the chambermaid bides when we have one.”

Not wanting to outstay her welcome, Margaret took her leave as soon as she was finished and carried a bowl of the fine soup and a chunk of dark bread up to Celia. The maid ate hastily, then gathered her wet clothes and set out for the tavern kitchen, hoping to wash out the mud before the stains set in.

Margaret felt weary to the bone, but when she lay down and closed her eyes, she felt them fluttering behind the lids as if trying to catch passing ghosts, and every creak set her heart racing. She thought it might help to get her bearings, that she might rest more easily once she had seen more of the inn, the back-land, the town, and understood the sounds.

The rain had stopped, though the stiff breeze carried its scent. The backland stretched out behind Murdoch’s kitchen. The chambermaid’s lodging was a shed half the size of his kitchen, wattle and daub with a thatch roof. Margaret pushed at the door. Inside it was dusty and smelled of damp. There was a platform for a bed, a shelf for a candle, and a stool. A shuttered window faced back to Murdoch’s kitchen. Water puddled in a corner of the packed-earth floor. It was a simple room, but with a brazier, a good oil lamp, and a wattle screen by the bed to block the draft from the window it would be as comfortable as many simple homes. With the leak that had caused the puddle fixed it could be the best home a servant had ever had. Margaret must ask her uncle what had happened to the maid.

Stepping out, she shut the door behind her and turned the corner to continue down the backland to the tavern kitchen. She thought she might come to Celia’s aid if necessary.

The tavern kitchen was twice the size of the chambermaid’s lodging, with a tile roof, smoke coming from the smoke hole in the center, benches lining the outside wall either side of the door. Raised voices, Celia’s and a man’s, came from within.

A young man appeared in the doorway, a bowl cradled in one arm. He stirred the contents with the opposite hand. He was the one who had brought the peat for the brazier the previous day. Dark hair, dark eyes, solemn. His clothes were shabby, but clean. The cook’s helper, she guessed.

He withdrew into the kitchen, but the argument did not falter.

“Surely it is Master Murdoch’s kitchen,” Celia was saying quite steadily, in the tone of the righteous.

Margaret stepped across the threshold. The wild-haired man waving floury hands at Celia must be Roy, the cook.

“How can I work with your clothes flapping about?” He matched Celia’s righteous tone.

The room was indeed crowded, with several small tables, a large fire circle, a wall of shelving, several benches, and the two men moving about their work. Murdoch must not have considered that when he suggested Celia do her laundry here.

“I see the problem,” Margaret said from the doorway. “Send a basin of warm water, some soap, and a cloth to our chamber and we’ll manage there. Come, Celia.” And before the imperious pair could continue their argument Margaret grabbed her maid by the elbow.

“Send a basin of warm water?” Roy exclaimed in disbelief.

As Margaret shoved Celia through the door she said, “As soon as the water is warm.”

Celia trembled with rage. Margaret did not let go of her until they gained the stairs. “Now go up and wait, Celia.”

Two spots of color and eyes that seemed to be generating heat dominated Celia’s thin face. “That man.”

“He is the cook, not a servant under you. Do not make me regret bringing you here.”

Celia’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, just turned and gathered her skirts, mounted the stairs.

Margaret peered into the tavern. Murdoch was bent over someone lying on a bench by the cold brazier.

“Murdoch wastes his time,” a woman spoke softly behind her. “There’s no waking Old Will till he’s sober.”

By the speaker’s breath, she was not sober either. Margaret turned in the little space the woman allowed.

A piece of dirty plaid kept most of the woman’s dark hair in check, though a long greasy strand hung down over her left eye. “You don’t look like a Kerr.”

“Do you have business with my uncle?”

The woman lifted dirty, large-knuckled hands. “These make the finest ale in Edinburgh. Ask your uncle about Mary’s ale.” She looked Margaret up and down, grinning. “Roger Sinclair’s wife, eh?”

Margaret felt a shiver down her back. “Do you know my husband?”

“I ken all who come to the tavern.”

“So there you are, Mary,” Murdoch interrupted. “What have you got for me?”

“When did you last see him?” Margaret asked, willing to risk irritating her uncle for news of Roger.

“Save your gossip for later,” Murdoch growled.

Margaret murmured a farewell, vowing to seek out the brew-ster another time, and left the tavern.

Out back once more, she noticed a stable off to the left, beside Murdoch’s kitchen. Moving closer, she saw that it was conveniently at the edge of Netherbow. It had a large yard, but as she stepped within she saw that the stable itself was small, with room for no more than six horses. The air was heavy with the dust of hay. A young man sat beneath a hole in the roof that let in light. He hummed as he combed the mane of a large-eyed ass. Sensing someone approaching, he shook his head to clear his hair from his eyes, glanced up at Margaret, then dropped his gaze back to the ass. He had stopped humming.

A horse snorted in the opposite corner. Margaret approached the ass, holding out her hand. The animal sniffed it with interest, then dropped her muzzle so that she might be scratched between the ears. Margaret obliged. The ass was a gentle, lovely animal, well cared for.

“Are you Murdoch’s groom?” Margaret asked the lad.

He had stopped combing and watched her through the unruly fair hair.

“Who is asking?”

“Dame Margaret Kerr, Master Murdoch’s niece.”

“God bless.” He gathered his long legs and stood up to make a little bow, keeping his gaze toward the packed-mud floor. “I am Hal, mistress.”

Margaret still scratched the ass’s head. “She is well cared for.”

“Bonny. She is the master’s, and proud of her he is. She likes you.”

She was the first in Edinburgh to do so. “Does my husband ride her when he’s here?”

“Master Murdoch keeps Bonny to himself.”

“Have you met Roger Sinclair?”

“I meet only the folk who come in to see to their beasts themselves, mistress.”

A sly response.

“I am not spying on you. I have come to Edinburgh searching for my husband. Any word of him, any memory of his time here might help.”

Hal raked a hand through his hair, peered at her intently before his eyes were hidden once more. “I didn’t hear he was missing. I don’t ken much about him, Dame Kerr. He’s never been sharp with me, that I can say.” His mouth twitched into a smile, and Margaret realized she was still stroking Bonny’s soft muzzle. “You’ve a gentle touch with animals.”

“I like them. They’re often kinder than people.”

“Och, aye.”

Margaret heard Mary the brewster call out a farewell as she cut through the backland toward Cowgate. “Can I trust her, Hal?”

“Mary? Most times.”

Margaret took her leave of Hal and Bonny, returning to the tavern.

Murdoch now had the bench overturned. He was cursing under his breath as he tightened a leg with a bit of straw.

An elderly man sat on the fetid floor watching a slow drip from the ceiling near the street door. Margaret guessed from his age and his drink- and sleep-flushed face that this was Old Will.

“She’s a splasher, that one,” he said.

Murdoch muttered a curse.

“Such language afore your niece, Murdoch?” Old Will gathered himself and rose with a grunt and a moan.

Murdoch glanced up at Margaret. “Tell that maid of yours to keep the water in the basin.”

The old man tottered over to Margaret. “The young weaver might ken where your Roger is. She had an eye on his cousin.”

“Will!” Murdoch shouted. “I told you to be off.”

It rang true, a woman attracted to Jack. “What is the weaver’s name?” Margaret asked.

Old Will licked his lips, shook his head to help his memory. “Bess, is it? Aye, Bess.” He shuffled on out the back door.

Murdoch shook his head as Old Will stumbled on his way to the alley. “That was his wife’s name, Maggie. He calls most women Bess. See to your maid. She’ll be the ruin of me.”

“Was his wife a weaver?”

“She might have been. It’s long ago.”

“But he said she had her eye on Jack.”

“Old Will dreams in his tankard, and he likes a pretty face— he wanted to keep you talking.” Murdoch shook his head at the wet spot on the ceiling and moved toward the stairs.

“I’ll see to her.” Margaret pushed past him and hastened up to her chamber.

Celia knelt over a basin kneading her gown and splashing water as she cursed.

Margaret walked over to where the maid could see her. Celia looked up, her eyes flashing.

“Your wash water is dripping through the floorboards,” Margaret said.

Celia yanked her hands out of the basin and sat back on her heels. “That filthy cook told Master Murdoch he should order me to do all the laundry.”

“It is not my uncle’s place to give you orders. He knows that.”

“He agreed that I should.” She lifted her red hands to Margaret. “How can I handle fine fabrics with rough hands?”

“Stop your fretting and hang your gown to dry. It is surely clean by now.”

It was not a good beginning.

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On the following morning the rain poured down in sheets, soaking Margaret in the short walk between the house and Murdoch’s kitchen. She shook herself as she stepped across the stone threshold. The room was unoccupied, but a pot of broth simmered over the fire circle in the middle of the room and from the oven near it came a welcome warmth and an equally welcome aroma of fresh bread. Margaret walked slowly round the room, looking for a sense of
 
her uncle in it. The wattle and daub walls had been much repaired, with patchwork plaster from which radiated hairline cracks, and watermarks where the walls met the slate roof. A boarded-up window on the wall opposite the oven hosted a vine that twisted in through the slats and disappeared into the roof. The remaining window was on the wall with the door, looking out on the chambermaid’s cottage and the tavern kitchen, not toward the tavern. Dried herbs hung from the rafters. Roots were stored in a shallow pit beneath a trapdoor far from the fires. This had not been fixed up by the same hand as Murdoch’s bedchamber. There was no feel of a woman here.

“Bring that lopsided pot over for these, would you?” Murdoch stood in the doorway with an apronful of dried apples.

Margaret found the pot, held it for the tumble of fruit.