A Trust Betrayed (23 page)

Comyn invited her through to the main hall of the house, with a brazier near another long table, a few benches as well as one high-backed chair. Two tapestries graced the larger walls, one a hunting scene, the other of wine making. Here, too, were candlesticks, some of a gray metal she did not recognize, some of silver. In a cupboard were handsome silver plates and two of the unusual metal, as well as a tankard.

Comyn must have followed her gaze. “Pewter. It is made with both tin and copper or lead.” He handed one of the plates to her. “I bought them in York.” It was a heavy plate, but the metal had a satiny finish and feel. “These were made in Paris. In York they make only items for the kirk. No one makes pewter in our country.”

“Have you often traveled to York?” It seemed as far away as Bruges.

“I have property outside York, so I have lived there from time to time.”

Margaret noted a fine carved wood screen to one side of the brazier. This was the way she had dreamed her home in Perth would look in a few years, filled with treasures from Roger’s travels. She wondered in what coin Robert Bruce rewarded Roger’s service.

On one of the benches lay a fiddle and bow.

“Do you play the fiddle?” she asked, glad she was now on stone with scattered rushes, as she was still dripping.

“Rather well. And you?”

“No. Mother took our harp to the convent. But I played very little.”

“Your mother withdrew to a convent?” He sounded genuinely curious.

She reprimanded herself for mentioning Christiana.

“It is not uncommon after a woman’s children are grown.”

“But your father is in Bruges, I think?”

If he knew that, he most likely knew of her mother also. She was glad of the reminder to watch her tongue. Comyn changed his expression at will, and she had been fooled by his apparent interest. “Father agreed to her retirement before he departed. Uncle says to tell you this is a finer ale than the one that put him in your debt.”

Comyn laughed. “His always is, even if brewed the same day in the same house. I pray you, sit and we shall test it.”

She shook her head. “I have much to do.” And no stomach for ale this morning.

“Have you heard anything of your husband since the day you saw him?”

She tensed at the question. “No. Have you?”

“Why should I hear anything? I asked because you look weary.”

She did not believe him. His attempt to eavesdrop the previous evening was just one more item on a fast growing list of things about which he was suspiciously curious. “There is much to do at the tavern.”

“Ah.”

Her repetition certainly signaled her discomfort. He said no more.

Even that made her uneasy, his easy acquiescence. He inquired, but he never pressed. She took her leave with much relief, exiting through the study so she might collect Hal.

*
      
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*

Abbot Adam had not asked about the rest of Andrew’s day the previous evening, but it was clear he meant to now. He had summoned Andrew to take a letter, but he had no documents spread before him, there was no sign he had been at work. Instead, he was kneeling at a prie-dieu in his parlor when Andrew arrived. Abbot Adam often put on a display of piety when he was about to impart bad news or make unpleasant demands.

Now he rose slowly, clutching at the prie-dieu for support, bowed slightly to Andrew with his hands still folded in prayer, sat down on a leather-seated, backless chair, tucked his hands up his sleeves, blinked his eyes several times as if bringing himself back to the mundane world.

“Ah, Father Andrew. Sit, I pray you.” He expounded on the rewards of prayer for a while.

Andrew patiently listened, nodding in the correct places, all the while tensed for the assault.

“Indeed,” Adam said, “I imagined you yesterday kneeling in prayer with the widow of the smith. All the day I pictured you there, through vespers, through the evening meal, enjoining her to pray for the soul of her departed husband. What a comfort Father Andrew must be to the bereaved woman, I thought.”

Andrew squirmed. “As I mentioned last evening, My Lord Abbot, I saw my sister afterward and went to the castle on her behalf.”

A long, dramatic sigh. “So you did.” The abbot touched his head. “I become forgetful. I pray you, tell me again whom you saw and what you discussed.”

Judging it unwise to argue that the abbot’s memory was excellent, that last night Andrew had told him only that he had made the journey, not what he had discussed, he launched into an account of his meeting with Sir Walter Huntercombe. He took care with his choice of words, his emphasis.

Adam listened with eyes closed, his head tilted slightly as if making an effort to hear clearly in his best ear. There was nothing wrong with the abbot’s hearing. He nodded now and then, clearing his throat delicately.

When Andrew was finished, Adam allowed a long silence. Then he said, “Interesting. Sir Walter did not mention what happened at Lanark yesterday?”

“Something happened?”

“William Wallace slit the throat of William Heselrig, the sheriff of Lanark.”

Andrew crossed himself. “Had he been provoked?”

The abbot looked at Andrew askance. “You know that Wallace needs no provocation. He believes he is John Balliol’s champion, and hopes to return him to the Scottish throne.”

“Was he alone?”

“No. And Heselrig was not the only one to die. The garrison marches from Edinburgh Castle today, to hunt down the murderer.”

And so the bloodshed began. Wallace and his men had moved against the English. The garrison had at last been set loose to pursue the quarry. Andrew prayed Wallace escaped. “You mentioned a letter. It is of this you will write?”

The abbot touched his temple as if thinking, then shook his head. “I have thought better of it. I shall speak to the brethren at Mass in the morning. I am commanding all the brethren to confine themselves to the abbey grounds. With the garrison’s protection gone, we must have a care.”

Andrew knew too well the townspeople’s hostility toward the abbey. It might indeed be dangerous for the brethren to go abroad without the garrison keeping the peace in the town. Ye t he must talk to Margaret. “But My Lord Abbot—”

The abbot swept to his feet.

Andrew clamped his mouth shut and bowed his head.

“If your sister is concerned about her husband’s factor, she must pursue the information herself.”

The hairs rose on the back of Andrew’s neck. Someone must have been close enough to hear the message Hal had brought.

“She will find her factor’s murderer among the Scots who drink their lives away at her uncle’s tavern, I have no doubt of it,” Adam continued. “Though she must do it quickly—Will Harcar was murdered at Kerr’s inn yesterday.”

“Harcar?”

“When Sir Walter returns I shall advise him to close Kerr’s inn and tavern.”

“My sister!”

“She chose to stay there, Andrew. It is not in your keeping. Your duties lie here.” The abbot gave Andrew a reproving look. “You are still seated.”

Despite the bile rising in his throat, Andrew obediently rose, bowed to Abbot Adam.

Inclining his head graciously, Adam smiled. “By the way, Master Thomas at Soutra Hospital has requested another chaplain. The English soldiers do not feel that one is sufficient. A delicate situation, assigning a canon to hear the confessions of those many consider invaders. Give it some thought, if you will. I need your advice on who might be discreet, trustworthy in that role. God go with you, Andrew.”

“And with you, My Lord Abbot.” It was not by his own will that Andrew departed soundlessly, but by the will of Abbot Adam.

*
      
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*

When all his brothers were snoring, Andrew paced back and forth in his small cell. He had thought his new resolve would break the hold the abbot held over him, but he still behaved like a puppet. It must be a spell. The man was in league with the devil. It was not natural that Andrew became dumb when Adam commanded him.

And now the abbot knew Margaret sought Jack’s murderer. Someone in the abbey was spying for him. But Andrew could remember no one so near except the servant who had summoned him when Hal arrived.

14

So Many Questions

As she turned onto Cowgate, Margaret thought her eyes betrayed her. But no, the smiddie fire was lit, and a man bent over it hammering a piece of metal while another pumped the bellows.

“Dame Janet’s son and her daughter’s husband,” Hal said at her exclamation. “Work went undone for two weeks. Davy never liked others to take up his work.” As they reached the door of the house, Hal withdrew to talk to the men.

The young woman who had stood beside Janet at the grave answered the door at Margaret’s knock. Fair, with soft brown eyes and apple cheeks, she kept her left hand on her stomach in the protective gesture of a woman with child.

“Come in, do. I’m Tess. Mother is out at the kitchen. I’ll fetch her.”

Margaret stepped past the fire circle to the large loom that had been pushed against the far wall to accommodate the mourners earlier in the day. The cloth that Janet had begun on Saturday was already several feet long. The wool was undyed but the pattern intricate.

Hearing the door open behind her, Margaret turned to face Janet, pushing down her welling anger by reminding herself that the woman had buried her husband this day.

“What think you of the cloth?” Janet asked, her eyes on the loom rather than her guest.

“It is lovely.”

“It will be one of my finest.” Janet glanced back at the door, as if to see whether anyone had followed her. “Has Tess been telling you what a perfect wean she will have, and how many more are to come?” Her voice was taut, anxious.

“She seems happy.”

“I’ve never seen a young woman so taken with carrying a bairn.” Janet sat down heavily by the fire. “I worried how her mourning might hurt the bairn, but Tess is too absorbed in the wonder of her stomach to linger long on Davy’s death.”

Margaret took a seat across, so she might see Janet’s eyes. “How many children does Tess have?”

“The one in her womb so far. I pray it lives.” Janet crossed herself. “The first is so often the worst. And Tess won’t take failure in birth in stride.” At last she brought her eyes to meet Margaret’s. “But you’ve not come to talk of my Tess.”

Margaret was relieved to arrive at the point. “I am grateful to you for seeing me today.”

“One day is no better than another. I have felt in my bones Davy was dead these two weeks.” Janet pressed her palms to her eyes for a moment, then dropped her hands in her lap. “Maud quieted after you left. She is ever a prickly woman, even in the best of times.”

“I have so many questions.”

“Aye. And you are angry with me.”

“My uncle has spoken to you?”

Janet averted her eyes. “He thought the less you were told the safer you would be.”

“My coming to Edinburgh put me in danger’s way.”

“You must remember you have both changed since he lived in Perth. He did not expect such a stubborn lass.”

“He said that?”