A Trust Betrayed (10 page)

Sweet Jesus, he was alive. She choked back a sob as she began to run again, then stopped, realizing too much time had passed, she had no hope of finding him now. It was not such a large town, but big enough for a man who did not wish to be followed.

And then she realized: Murdoch must have known Roger was in Edinburgh. He heard all the gossip in the tavern. Ye t he had not told her. She did not know what to make of that, but it frightened her. Everyone was turning on her. No one was as they had seemed. It was as Murdoch had said, she should trust no one.

Slowly, in a daze, she bent to pick up her sodden mantle, then headed down High Street, shivering in her wet clothes. From behind she heard the soldiers returning, but she did not bother to look up.

“We found no trace of them,” one of the soldiers said as he fell into step beside her.

“What did you expect? You wasted the time stopping me.”

“It is our duty to question all those who disturb the king’s peace.”

Whose king? she wondered, but she was beginning to know better than to speak in such wise. “Why did you chase me? Why not them?”

“They ran only when you shouted to them.”

Not true. Or was it? “My husband was wounded. Stripes of blood down the left side of his face, deep enough for me to see in the rain. Have you seen such a man?”

“I do not recall a man with such wounds.”

Margaret did not even know whether Roger was their king’s prisoner or supporter. She knew so little about him.

The soldier asked pardon for hurting her, more kindness than she had expected.

“My pain is in losing sight of him.”

The soldier declared he would escort her home, and insisted on giving her his mantle. “I am sorry about your husband.”

She walked in silence, wondering frantically about Roger’s wounds, the men accompanying him. In front of the alley between the inn buildings she paused, lifting the mantle from her shoulders and holding it out to the soldier with thanks.

“If I see a man with a wounded cheek I shall direct him here,” the soldier said, and with a bow he headed back the way they had come.

Margaret took the alley to the back.

Murdoch caught up with her. “God’s blood, escorted to my tavern by a man wearing the badge of an English soldier. Do you want me cursed by all my customers?”

“I saw Roger.”

“What? Is he now fighting in Edward Longshanks’s army?” Murdoch touched the bandage on her hand. “Did they injure you?”

She glanced down, having forgotten why she had ventured out into the rain. “I cut myself earlier.” But everything had changed since then. “Roger is alive, Uncle. I saw him.” She did not know whether to rejoice or weep.

“You are shivering. Come.” Murdoch put his arm round her and led her to his kitchen. She sank down on a bench he drew close to the fire circle.

“What is this about seeing Roger?”

Haltingly, she began the story, but when Murdoch handed her a cup of mulled wine she stopped to drink.

“Clouds, rain, the smoke from fires—how close did he come to you that you recognized him?”

“I might have touched him in three strides.”

“Fairly close, then. But are you certain it was him?”

“He is my husband. I know him.”

“It would not be the first time the heart betrayed the eyes, Maggie.” He did not believe her—his gaze was soft with sympathy. “I pray you are right.” He frowned down at her a moment. “Were they headed toward the castle or away?”

Perhaps he did not doubt her. Buoyed by the question, she stumbled over her words. “They were walking up High Street, toward the kirk, the castle, how can I know? But when they ran it was toward Cowgate.”

Murdoch took her mantle, hung it over a bench by the fire. “Your bandage is bloody.” He crouched down, began to unwind it.

Margaret embarrassed herself by beginning to weep afresh.

“Och lassie.” Murdoch gathered her in his arms. “He does not know how to be a husband.”

With a stern act of will she gradually stopped the tears, remembering her uncle might have known of Roger’s presence. “Did you know Roger was here?” she asked.

Murdoch drew back from her, eyeing her with puzzlement. “Why would I keep that from you? I’d be free of you. I’ll fetch your maid to see to your wound.”

The earlier scene with Celia came flooding back. “I banished her to the chambermaid’s cot.”

“What?”

“She is of no use to me. She wishes to be a lady’s maid, handling silk, sewing pearls on scarlet. So I said I ’d find an escort to take her back to Dunfermline.”

Murdoch snorted. “No wonder she has been searching for you. But she can at least see to your hand.”

He withdrew, leaving Margaret in a nauseating swirl of emotion. Might she have imagined it was Roger? But he had hesitated, turned toward her. A stranger would not do that.
Holy Mother, help me find him.

*
      
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*

Celia had apologized. Margaret had forgiven her and invited her back to the chamber. But Celia chose to stay the night in the chambermaid’s cot “in case your husband should come to you.” Margaret tried not to hope that would happen.

At the moment she was trying to distract herself by examining her bedchamber. Except for a draft that ran across the floor, it was very comfortable. Not the sort of room Margaret imagined Murdoch in. The walls were plastered and had painted borders. Though creaky, the high-backed chair was a luxury. The bed hangings were fine twill. The pillows were down-filled and the linen covers were embroidered at one edge. The mattress had been aired recently. She wondered who the woman was who fussed with this room and no others that Margaret had seen.

With a pin Margaret worked at the lock on a chest in the corner, hoping to find some evidence of the woman in Murdoch’s life. Picking locks was a skill her uncle had taught her when she was small. Her mother would lock trunks of stores and lose the keys. He had given her tools for more complicated locks. When she opened the chest she was disappointed—inside were only her uncle’s clothes, more covers, and an extra pillow. He must have already removed whatever had been valuable or revealing.

Or perhaps she was wrong about a woman. Perhaps her uncle was as alone as she was. And more fastidious than she had thought.

She had begun to doubt she had seen her husband. She cursed herself for calling out Roger’s name. She should have quietly followed the men. But she had been so astonished to see him, and she had not expected him to run from her. Perhaps the man had realized at that moment that he did not know her.

Restless, she paced from one end of the room to the other, from one corner to the opposite. A tread on the floor without her door made her heart race, but the footsteps continued into one of the other chambers. A shout down below pulled her to the window, but it was one man calling out to another. She cursed Celia for planting the hope in her head. Roger had run from her. He had been running from her ever since the day they had wed. Perhaps he had watched her enter Edinburgh, knew very well where she was. She must quit this foolish vigil and go to sleep. Her legs ached too much for such pacing.

At last she lay down on the bed, drew the curtains, but she lay awake listening to the sounds from the tavern below. She was still awake when Murdoch called the curfew. Soon all she heard was the rattle of empty tankards, the faint noise of tidying, Murdoch calling to someone, the front door bolt clanging into place. In the young silence she heard a rat somewhere in the roof, the lonely wail of a cat defending its hunting ground.

Something scratched at the door. Margaret scurried to her feet. “Roger?”

A cat mewed.

A much more likely visitor than Roger. She threw on her mantle, slipped her feet into her shoes. She shoved the bolt aside, opened the door slowly. The cat’s eyes glowed. Margaret bent to pet it, but it led her across the vestibule to the opposite door, scratched to be let out. Men talked quietly in the guest chamber to the right.

She opened the door to the outside stairs. The yard was dark, quiet except for some skittering near the tavern’s back door. The cat rubbed against her leg, then slinked off down the stairs.

As she turned to go in, Margaret heard footsteps below. But she could see no one when she looked down. It sounded like several people. A knock on the ground-floor door of the other inn building startled her. A dim light appeared as the door to what Murdoch had called his storeroom opened. A man stepped aside, three men entered. The door shut.

Margaret returned to her room, closed the door and bolted it behind her.

*
      
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*

She gave up trying to sleep before the bell chimed for Mass. Her aching hand and her confused feelings about Roger had given her a restless night. At one point she had stoked the brazier embers for enough light to check that her hand was not twice its normal size, but it was not as swollen as it felt. She was glad, for she had much work to do.

The bandage made her clumsy. Her clothes fought her. But she managed to dress warmly for morning Mass and took a lantern for the predawn walk to St. Giles.

Past the other rooms she slipped, out the wooden door to the stair landing. Down below, the first step creaked. Margaret shuttered her lantern and backed against the door.

“It is Hal, from the stable, Dame Kerr.”

She let out her held breath, opened the shutter, and went down to him.

Hal watched her descent, but the moment she reached his level he dropped his head.

“What do you want, frightening me like that?” she asked.

He said something, but it was necessary to ask him to repeat it. He raised his chin just enough to be better heard.

“I am to go with you wherever you wish to go, Dame Kerr.”

“This is a turn. My uncle’s orders?” She had not thought he would go to such efforts to protect her—or to know her movements.

“A y e .”

“How do you come to be here now?”

“He said you might slip out for Mass.”

So her uncle did not wish her to be escorted by a soldier again. But she wondered how this young man was to prevent that. She opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of burdening him with her lack of faith.

“Then I welcome your company to St. Giles,” she said.

As they walked she inquired whether he could find some fresh straw for the tavern floor.

“Difficult, mistress. The English soldiers have many beds to make and horses to stable.”

“But not impossible.”

“No.” He did not sound happy.

“Do you know of any weavers in the town?” She had spent much of the night wondering about a connection between the loom weight and the young weaver Old Will had mentioned.

“Goodwife Janet by Blackfriars.”

“Another called Bess?”

“Goodwife Janet would know.”

“Then you must take me there later.”

6

Might Have Warned Her

Celia had tidied the chamber and brought up food and drink for Margaret as soon as she returned from Mass. Margaret saw the question in the maid’s eyes but did not enlighten her about whether Roger had come in the night. No doubt she already knew he had not—servants had their ways of kenning.