A Trust Betrayed (2 page)

Celia shook her head. “You need someone to hold the light for you if you mean to take the stitches out neatly.”

“It is best that no one knows of this but us.”

“I don’t gossip.” It was a statement, not a vow.

But Margaret was grateful. “God bless you, Celia.”

“Where would it be best for me to stand?”

Margaret indicated a place near the head of the shroud. “I need see only his face.”

Silently, Celia took her position. Margaret was grateful the maid asked no more questions. And why should she? It was reasonable to have some small hope that Andrew had made a mistake.

The stitches at the top of the shroud were tiny and even. Margaret worked to keep her hand steady. There was no cause to let others know she had unwrapped the corpse. As she picked at the stitches in the dim light and the cold, her sight blurred and her fingers grew clumsy. Celia took the scissors and handed Margaret the lantern.

“The lantern warmed my hands,” Celia said. “If you hold it while I finish the tearing out, you will have warm fingers to sew.”

The lantern did warm Margaret’s hands. And when Celia stood back, proclaiming the stitches all undone, Margaret thought herself ready to look at Jack, then sew the shroud closed. She pulled back the cloth.

The sight of him shattered her. Jack’s blond lashes should rest on pale, high cheekbones. Instead they were almost invisible in the folds of
 
bloated eyelids, cheeks. Ye t she could not stop there. She tugged further at the shroud with stiff, impatient, careless fingers.

Celia grabbed her hands, but Margaret struggled to free herself. “I must see his wounds. I must see them.”

“Let me do it,” Celia said. “You will tear the shroud.”

His body was unrecognizable, the flesh discolored, the wounds gaping perversions of the body’s form, obscenely intimate, exposing the inner maze of blood and tissue. The odor made Margaret gag. Why had she done this? This was not Jack, but his lifeless, bloated shell. She lifted the shroud to begin rewinding it, caught his right hand in a fold of the sheet. Something slipped from his hand—a small stone with a hole in the center. She plucked it from the sheet, tucked it up the tight sleeve of her shift.

“Shall we add more dried herbs?” Celia asked quietly.

“What does it matter?”

Silently they bent to their work in the candlelit shed, the wind moaning and pushing at the fragile hut, the rain drumming overhead.

That Jack’s good deed should come to this. Margaret remembered the day, just over a month past, when the plan had been hatched. She was at home in Perth, making use of a rare dry afternoon in March with a tolerable wind. Margaret and her servant had strung rope in the garden between two apple trees and hung out the bedding to air. She was hanging some of Roger’s clothes as well. Four months he had been gone, and the clothes in the chest smelled musty. If the airing did not help, she would add them to next week’s laundry. Margaret’s hands were soon stiff with the cold, but the sunshine cheered her.

An errand, she could not recall what, brought Jack to the house. He strode into the yard, graceful and twitching with energy like a fine horse, wearing his best clothes, a green tunic with a white shirt beneath, brown leggings, soft blue shoes with long points and matching felt hat. How fine he looked. And she could tell by his posturing that he knew it.

“I am bidden to dine with Alan Fletcher.” Jack looked smug. Alan was a wealthy and influential merchant in Perth, and Jack had ambitions. “I told him that I thought it high time I went in search of Roger. Master Fletcher has proposed a bit of business for me to do in Edinburgh and will provide the horse for the journey.” A welcome offer. With no shipping from Berwick or Leith since the English had seized the ports the previous summer, the coffers were almost empty, and hiring a horse for such a journey was out of the question. Margaret needed her mare here.

Still, she had been puzzled. She had worried about Roger all this time, but all the while Jack had assured her Roger was not headstrong and he could take care of himself. “Why now?”

“I did not want— God help us, Roger is home.” Jack had just noticed the hanging clothes. “No wonder I confuse you.”

“No, Roger is not home. Tell me more about your plan.” Easter was upon them. Perhaps she might ride south with him to Roger’s mother in Dunfermline for the holy day.

But Jack said he must leave at once, and Margaret had much to do for the household before she could depart.

“Why this haste?” she asked.

“Seize the opportunity.” He had glanced round, then lifted her hand and kissed it. She pulled away from him, her face burning, and Jack grinned. “I cannot kiss my cousin?”

“It is good you take such an interest in searching for Roger,” she said rather more loudly than necessary, “but why search for him in Edinburgh? He would not ship from there.” His purpose in setting out had been to find an alternative port now that Berwick was in English hands. He had said he would begin with Dundee.

Jack still teased her with his eyes. “It was from Edinburgh he wrote to you. I may find a trace of him.”

It was true—she had received one letter from Roger in late November saying he would be home by Yuletide. The messenger had come from Edinburgh. “And if his trail leads you beyond Edinburgh, will Alan Fletcher approve your continuing with his horse?” Her father and Fletcher had long ago fallen out over the man’s miserly ways. He would expect a full accounting from Jack.

“Such a fuss! Do you not wish to find Roger?”

“Sweet heaven, you know that is not why I ask.”

But it had been the way of arguments with Jack. Teasing, playful. He had been such a vital presence.

And now here he lay.

Margaret’s vigil began in tears. But as the hours slipped by her eyes dried, her sorrow replaced by a more selfish emotion. Fear. For herself, for Roger. Whoever had so savagely murdered Jack might be after Roger. After all, Jack’s business had been Roger’s business, Jack’s kin were Roger’s kin.

*
      
*
       
*

In the early morning Margaret’s brother Father Andrew relieved her at the watch. After Celia took her leave, Margaret watched Andrew for a sign that he noticed the shroud had been opened and resewn.

He knelt beside it, said a prayer, then settled on the stool Celia had vacated, rubbing his hands together. “I don’t need to tell you it’s a cold morn. You must have frozen in here all the night.”

“I preferred that to warming the lyke. Jack is four days gone.”

“Aye.” Andrew ran his hands through the dark hair that curled round his tonsure. He could be handsome if his mouth did not have such a downward curve, if his deep brown eyes met one’s own more often.

Margaret was relieved he noticed nothing untoward. He had grown into such a humorless and judgmental man. She did not know whether she could have explained herself to his satisfaction. And she did not have the stomach for a sermon.

“Be off with you,” Andrew said. “Fergus awaits you in the house.”

Fergus was Margaret’s younger brother, whom she had left in Perth to see to the business and take care of her house. “How can that be? It is at least a day’s ride here.”

“I sent word with a messenger from Edinburgh before I began the journey.”

“It was good of you, Andrew.” If anyone could empathize and in doing so cheer her, it would be Fergus. The brothers were perfect examples of the melancholic and the choleric— Andrew cold, Fergus hot, Andrew dark in mood and appearance, Fergus aglow in all things.

“He can escort you home.”

“Home? But I cannot leave at a time like this. Roger’s mother needs me.”

“You have much to do in Perth. Find a new factor.”

“Fergus has been doing the work since Jack left. He will continue.”

“Uncle Thomas expects him in Aberdeen.” Their father had arranged for Fergus to become secretary to his uncle, who had a fleet of merchant ships.

“He will not go now.” He could not. He
must
not. “He will be Roger’s factor.”

“He is too young, Maggie. Younger even than you. He wants training,” Andrew replied firmly.

Margaret felt her face growing hot. Fergus
was
young, seventeen. But Margaret had no money with which to pay a factor. “It is not for you to decide.” The Church saw to all Andrew’s material needs. He knew nothing of what the merchants suffered with the English blocking the shipping. He could not possibly understand her situation.

Their eyes locked. Margaret prayed Andrew could not see how close she was to tears.

He was the first to look away. “Go, break your fast, Maggie. The burial is set for nones.”

Fleeing the hut, she slipped on the rutted ice, steadied herself against the wall. The morning was cold but dry. She stood a moment in the sharp air, letting it cool her burning cheeks. She must calm herself and think what to do.

*
      
*
       
*

Fergus jumped up from his seat by the fire circle to embrace Margaret.

“I am so sorry, Maggie. Jack was a good friend to you.”

Fergus had thought Jack a difficult boss, ever finding fault, never praising, but he was aware how much Margaret had valued her husband’s cousin.

“You should come back north with me,” he continued. “Far as you can from the English soldiers. Better yet, close up the house and come to Aberdeen. Aye, that’s best.”

It was good advice, but Margaret was not free to agree to it. “How would Roger find me?” She fought tears, but they already streamed down her face. She was tired, hungry, frightened.

“Oh, Maggie, I didn’t mean to make you weep.”

But as he stood before her she saw that Fergus was truly a very young seventeen, not yet experienced enough to handle the responsibilities of a factor without guidance. He did need time with Uncle Thomas. She did not know how she was to manage without either Roger or Jack.

“Have any ships come through while I’ve been away?” she managed to ask.

“Nay. Things are no better than when you left.”

Perhaps it did not matter. She was not likely to find a factor even had she the money to pay one. All the young men were slipping away to fight the English. Another good reason to tie Fergus to the business—he might yearn to be a soldier, but he would not desert her.

*
      
*
       
*

By late morning the sun shone on mud brittle with frost. Jack’s coffin was to be placed in one of the shallow winter graves until the earth thawed and he could be moved to a permanent grave. Standing in the doorway of her goodmother’s house, Margaret shivered and pulled her plaid mantle close about her, shifting from one foot to the other in an attempt to keep some feeling in her toes. She said good morrow to some neighbors and a priest from another parish, pressed the hands of an elderly goodwife in tears.

“Dame Kerr.” It was the hoarse voice of Jack’s father. Will Sinclair bowed his shriveled head to her; the stench of stale wine lingered in his wake as he entered the house. Jack had hated his father, a drunkard who had begotten eight children on two wives, both of whom had died of his neglect. Then he had worked two daughters so hard they, too, had fallen with fevers. Being the youngest, Jack had been taken in by his aunt Katherine.

The mourners had been congregating without the house after expressing their sorrow to the family. There was no room for all of them within. Now they milled about, soberly greeting neighbors.

Margaret’s good mantle was suddenly placed on her shoulders. Fergus squeezed her shoulders and whispered, “No need for you to freeze, Maggie. Jack is on his own now, doing his own penance.”