A Trust Betrayed (21 page)

Margaret turned into Murdoch’s arms.

He hugged her hard, then let her go. “We must talk, Maggie.”

Closing her eyes, she remembered the warmth of
 
the bed when Roger was there, the scent of wine and spices that never seemed to fade in his clothes, his hair. “Maggie, are you taking a turn?” She opened her eyes. “I’ll not faint here.” “Have I not asked you what you ken of Roger?” “Do you remember how it felt when you lost your wife?” “I do, Maggie, that is why—”

“Edwina of Carlisle—did you know that was her name?” “Maggie, if you will just be quiet I will tell you all—” “Now. Oh, yes, now I’ve lost him you’ll tell me all. Now I can’t bear to speak of him you’ll—”

“It was Roger you saw, Maggie,” Murdoch shouted, interrupting her. “It cannot have been him killed at the border.”

Margaret felt her world revolve and re-form itself once again. “What is this?”

Murdoch took off his cap, wiped his sweaty head with it. “We have much to talk about.”

Margaret fled to the door, swung it wide, gulping the evening air.

Murdoch stood behind her. “Come, Maggie,” he said gently. “We must talk within.”

Gingerly, feeling she could not trust her own feet, she moved toward the table, sat down, poured herself more ale. Leaning her elbows on the table, she took a great drink.

Murdoch closed the door and eased down across from her. “You might put that aside. I have much to tell you.”

In a foolish act of defiance she drained the cup before putting it aside. Still leaning on her elbows, she asked with a slight slur, “Roger’s wound? Is that real, too?”

Murdoch looked up through his uneven brows. “Are you going to remember a word I say?”

She was certain she was hearing quite clearly. Pulling herself up to her full height, she repeated the questions, this time without any trouble.

“Aye,” Murdoch said. “I have heard of it.”

“From whom? Who saw him?”

“Janet Webster.”

“ Ye gods!” It felt good to shout and hit the table with the side of her fist. And she had cause. Neither Murdoch nor Janet had deemed it a charitable thing to tell Margaret this news. “Both of you. How could you be so cruel?” She was now fully sober.

“I have told you all along, Maggie, there is no trusting anyone. Even now I fear not for myself but for all those others who are fighting for the same thing. What you know you can be forced to tell.”

“You and Janet Webster can be trusted, but not me? Is it because you fight for something so awful I cannot possibly support it? Tell me. What are you fighting for?”

“Freedom.”

“John Balliol?”

Murdoch leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, watched her closely as he said, “I don’t much care who it is as long as it is not Edward Longshanks. But John Balliol has been taken to the Tower of London and we need a new leader.”

“Who would that be?”

“Roger believes it is the grandson of the Competitor, Robert Bruce. I helped Roger because he believed it so firmly. And I will do so again.”

She made a connection. “Robert Bruce’s father was constable of Carlisle.”

“Aye. Edwina of Carlisle has known the Bruce for a long while. She believes he is the man who might rally the nobles.”

“You have lied to me, Uncle. All this you might have told me. I knew you were a thief, but I thought you had honor when it came to family.”

He jerked as if she had slapped him, and looked pained. She hoped he took notice.

“Maggie, listen to me.”

“I have been listening to you. Much good it did me.”

“I never chose to be a part of it and I have feared for my life, my tavern, my family ever since.”

“Such noble feelings. My husband does not appear to have had them.”

“They asked me for help stealing letters, any information we might find, from the English ships. I confess Roger spoke to my pride. I was honored to be asked to use my skill for such a noble end.”

“All this time Roger has been out there working for Robert Bruce?”

“He takes great risks. With his silence, he hopes to protect you.”

Though Margaret wanted to believe her uncle, she found it difficult. Roger had not cared enough to make certain she understood that he loved her. “Why did he not speak to me when I saw him?”

“I don’t know. He might have been with someone who would use you.”

Implications flooded her mind. She bowed her head and her throat tightened. “What sort of wife am I if I could not see his preoccupation, guess what it might be?”

“It was the slaughter in Berwick, Maggie. So many people he had known. He had stayed in their homes, shared meals with them, danced with their wives and daughters. You must have noticed a change in him after that?”

“Of course I did, but he said so little. I tried to talk about it, but he behaved as if I were merely curious, looking for gossip.” He had treated her as a child. She did not believe she had given him cause to consider her such. “He left with the promise to return at Yuletide with no intent to do so.”

“He did not know when he left that he would be caught up in it. He left intending to honor his promise. But something happened on his way to Dundee. I do not know what.”

“It happened well before his journey to Dundee if he brought Edwina of Carlisle here before the summons to Berwick this past summer.”

“Aye. But he left her then for a long while.”

“He has left me for a long while.”

“It was after Yuletide he returned, already travel-worn, and ready to escort Dame Edwina to Ayr.”

“They were not on their way to Carlisle?”

Murdoch shook his head. “No, they were headed to the Bruce, the Earl of Carrick.”

“I don’t understand. Robert Bruce is Edward’s man.” The Bruces did not accept John Balliol as King of Scotland. They claimed to be the rightful heirs to the throne, and after Long-shanks chose John Balliol as King of the Scots over the earl’s grandfather the family had refused to pay fealty to him or to support him in his belated uprising against the English. As constable of Carlisle the earl’s father had defended the English castle and town against King John Balliol’s forces. Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, was much at Longshanks’s court.

“Robert Bruce has turned against the English,” said Murdoch. “He is raising the men of Ayr against Longshanks’s warden in the west, Sir Henry Percy.”

“Why should anyone believe Bruce will be loyal?”

“He has everything to gain from supporting Longshanks, that is why.”

Perhaps Margaret had drunk too much. She did not understand the logic, nor did she care about Robert Bruce’s allegiance at the moment. “Do you think it was Edwina Carlisle’s body they found at the border?”

“I doubt it was at the border. I doubt the sheriff told Andrew half what he kens about the killing.”

“Did you lie about her, too? Were she and Roger lovers?”

“I never saw them together in such a way, Maggie. He did not spend the nights in her room.”

“Did he mention me?”

Murdoch hesitated. “Not as often as I thought he should. But he had much on his mind.”

“Yes.” Margaret pushed herself up from the table, realized she was wobbly on her feet, and her stomach was queasy. “And now to bed. It has been a long and tiring day.”

She wove toward the door. Murdoch caught her round the waist, helped her out to the yard, where she promptly lost what little food she had managed to swallow. Then, a supporting hand beneath her elbow, he helped her to her chamber. She accepted his kindness, though she did not yet forgive him. It was merely expedient in order to make it across the darkening backlands and up the stairs.

Murdoch growled at the bolted door.

Margaret called to Celia.

It seemed a long while before the maid opened the door. She was a blur as Margaret made her way to the bed, dropped down onto it.

“Mistress, what can I do for you?”

“Let me be.”

Her thoughts were fluttering butterflies trapped beneath her ribs and in her skull, all trying to find a way out. Murdoch’s and Andrew’s voices vied for possession of her ears. Murdoch had kept all this from her. She could think of no motive but distrust. She had been a fool to come to him, asking for his help, this man who believed she would betray him. She had remembered him from childhood as her hero, the one person who would always come to her aid. But he had lied to her from the moment she arrived.

As for Roger, she hated him. Ye t she prayed that she had another chance with him, to convince him that she was as strong and admirable as Edwina of Carlisle. She had never had the chance to prove that. She had been a merchant’s daughter, raised to quietly stay in the background and care for a household. Her life had been uneventful until now, except for her mother’s Sight. She had had the charge of her father’s household when she met Roger, and then she had charge of his. No one had ever asked more of her.

She did not believe Roger had kept her ignorant to protect her. It would have made all the difference to her these many months to have known what he was about, and any man in love would know that.

Perhaps worst of all, if she had known Roger was working for the Bruce she would not have fretted so much in Jack’s presence. She would have been frightened, but she would not have spoken of it. She would have put on a brave face. Jack would not have come to this cursed town. He would be alive.

13

The Murderer Might Be Anyone

Margaret lifted her head, then dropped it back down onto the pillow, rueing the quantity of ale she had drunk the previous evening. She smiled when she remembered that Roger was alive, that it had been him she saw in the town. Practical thoughts woke her more—perhaps she should return to Perth now, ready the house for him.

A vague feeling of dread insinuated, and then came memory. Roger was alive, yes, but her marriage was ashes. Her husband had not trusted her enough to explain to her what he was about, what he was willing to die for. She turned over onto her side, clutching her stomach.

She felt absolutely alone.

Less than a week ago her husband had been so near but made no effort to see her, speak to her. For two years she had shared her bed with a man about whom she had known nothing at all. Nothing. Ye t she had worried so about him that his cousin had been moved to search for him—a kindness for which he had been rewarded by a violent death. A needless death. Roger’s danger had at least been of his own choosing.

Murdoch thought it likely Harcar had been murdered because of his complicity with the English. Murdered in the alley next to this house in which she lay. The murderer might be as near as James Comyn. Or Roger. Neither supported Longshanks, for whom Harcar had spied. Ye t each had cause to protect Murdoch—Comyn as his partner, Roger for the help Murdoch had given him. She did not think either would let the body lie in Murdoch’s alley. But Celia had come upon it so soon after the deed—perhaps there had not been time to move Harcar. The murderer might be anyone.

Celia entered the chamber balancing in one hand a tray with bread and a pot of something steaming and smelling of mint. She must have walked fast, to keep it so hot.

Celia set the tray on the table, turned round, gave Margaret a good look. “Your uncle says it’s best you don’t go with him to the smith’s burial.”