A Trust Betrayed

by Candace Robb

  ‘I shall rely on my own strength in this,’ Margaret said to her goodmother. ‘On my own certainty that God guides me.’ She turned to her brothers. ‘Is that not better than relying on our mother’s pronouncements?’

  Andrew did not answer, but sat staring into the fire.

  Fergus looked uncertain. ‘I thought them strange visions at the time, but now that you’ve chosen to go to Edinburgh and feel so sure of it, I wonder. She might have foreseen all this.’

  ‘There,’ said Katherine, satisfied. ‘Now Margaret must get her sleep, so good night to you, Father Andrew, Fergus.’

  This morning, Katherine paced about and hovered over Celia’s preparations—she insisted Margaret have a maid on the journey. Celia was a vain woman and tidy to the point of sinfulness—though Katherine claimed it to be an excellent virtue in a maid. Margaret was not pleased with her goodmother’s gift, but she knew it was meant kindly and so accepted Celia’s presence—for the time being.

  Eventually the household began to calm and settle into the morning routine.

  Then Andrew announced that his servant, Matthew, waited without with the horses. It was time to depart.

  The widow threw back her head and pressed her palms together. ‘Blessed Mary, Mother of God, watch over them.’ She lowered her eyes to Celia. ‘Take care of Margaret. What you do for her, you do for me.’

  Celia forced a smile. Margaret did not like the tension she sensed beneath the maid’s attempts to appear calm and wondered whether Celia was less pleased at the prospect than she had claimed the previous night, whether she had agreed to do this to please the widow. No doubt she was afraid. Faith, she would be wise to be fearful.

  The scent of lavender water and the sour breath of one who has been weeping for days assailed Margaret as her goodmother gathered her in a farewell embrace. ‘Find our Roger, my dear. Let your mother’s vision of your future give you courage.’

  Margaret pulled back far enough to look into her goodmother’s eyes.

  The widow smiled through tears and hugged Margaret once more. ‘God go with you.’

  ‘May God watch o’er all of us,’ Margaret whispered.

  Father Andrew loved his sister, but he did not want her in Edinburgh. So close, within a comfortable walk, sooner or later she would hear of his shame.

  He had watched her this morning, rushing about, her red-gold hair loose, tumbling in long waves down her back, her freckles making her look too young to be a wife. She should not witness what the troubles had done to her fellow man. Neither should she endanger herself for a husband who so regularly disappeared.

  Yet even Perth was not safe. King Edward had touched it, as he had touched so much of this land. Margaret was strong boned and strong willed. She would no doubt survive the disillusionment. In faith, he only angered her when he tried to guide her. Sooner or later Margaret would know anyway.

  All through the ride to Inverkeithing the wind tore at Margaret’s hood. The rain soaked through two pairs of gloves, the outer pair made of leather.

  But worse than the weather was her belated fear. Saturday night she had been so sure this was what she must do. But that clarity had abandoned her, replaced by the clamour of all she had heard about the cruelty of Edward Longshanks, his governors and soldiers. If they were behind Jack’s death, she did not know what justice she could hope for.

  Her uncertainty about her husband haunted her too. Though Roger had been horrified by the slaughter in Berwick, she was uncertain what he might be willing to do in exchange for an English governor’s turning a blind eye as his ships approached Scotland. She would never have wondered but that one of his ships had arrived in Dundee in early autumn. Roger had proclaimed it a sign of a good captain, no more, and set his sights on Dundee as an alternative port, but folk had whispered at his long absences and the ease with which he had found a solution. And the longer Roger was away the more Margaret brooded on his contradictory behaviour. He had cursed Edward Longshanks when his army slaughtered the people of Berwick, but then he had subscribed to the Ragman Rolls, swearing his loyalty to the English king. He had been summoned to swear, it was true, but he was no one of importance, the King of England would not have wasted troops to pluck him from Perth if he had not gone. He need not have sworn loyalty to the murderer.

  She glanced at Celia to see how she fared.

  Katherine had not warned Margaret that Celia had little experience on horseback. The maid had required assistance this morning in mounting and staying astride. On the journey her hood had been blown back and her white headdress was askew. Her horse flicked his tail and danced. Celia fussed nervously with the reins. Despite all this, her expression was one of determination.

  As they approached Inverkeithing Matthew spurred his horse and rode ahead for news of the ferry. The timing of the crossing was unpredictable in the stormy weather, and with the English occasionally shutting down the ferry. In a short while, the lad reappeared, sodden and flushed by the ride, shaking his head at Andrew’s shouted query. The news drew a curse from Margaret’s impatient brother.

  ‘Do we return to Dunfermline?’ Celia asked Margaret tremulously.

  ‘That would be foolhardy,’ Margaret said. ‘My brother will have arranged a room at a hostel near the ferry landing.’ He was nothing if not organised. ‘He knows how uncertain the crossings are in this season.’

  ‘But he did not plan for us.’

  ‘We may all four crowd in one room, Celia. It is the way of travellers. Matthew will wake early and take up watch on the ferry landing.’

  Margaret was gey glad when they gained the inn yard, looking forward to dry clothes, a fire, and something warm to drink. Dismounting, she took the reins from Celia’s icy hands. Andrew’s servant, Matthew, assisted the maid in dismounting.

  ‘Forgive me for my awkwardness,’ Celia said to Margaret. ‘I shall improve.’

  ‘You sat your horse all the way—I applaud you,’ said Margaret. ‘Now—do you have Pater Noster beads?’

  Celia shook her head.

  ‘I shall loan you mine. I want you to pray for God’s help in calming yourself while we cross in the morning. Your mount senses your fear. That is why he dances.’

  ‘I am not afeart.’

  ‘You cannot lie to a horse.’

  Celia turned away, tidying her cap as best she could. It was not easy. The linen was limp and damp.

  The hostel was small, and crowded because of the storm. Margaret did not see many of their fellow travellers, for Andrew hastened them into a private room, arranged by a letter from the Abbot of Dunfermline—the landings for the ferry had been carved from his lands, the ferry operated on his munificence. The four huddled round a smoky brazier, steaming in the welcome warmth.

  Though she was already so deeply chilled that even changing into dry clothes did not abate her shivering, Margaret vowed to be first awake in the morning. She was disappointed in that. Sleep held off until just before dawn, and then she fell into a deep slumber from which Celia had to shake her awake. It added to Andrew’s already foul mood regarding the delayed crossing, and as he rode beside her to the landing he leaned over every few feet to urge her forward. ‘The ferry approaches.’ ‘Let us make haste.’ ‘You might have caused us to miss it.’

  ‘I did not even stop to break my fast,’ Margaret snapped finally. He was so impatient. He had a schedule and all must fall in line. No doubt he thought unless she strained forward in the saddle she was being too easy on the horse.

  The stormy day afforded no view of Dalmeny on the far bank. A huddle of cloaked figures, some with carts, a few horsemen, stood on the ferry landing. Seagulls circled above them, their cries a bleak accompaniment to the wind and the crashing waves. The large ferry, oars lifted, bobbed on the choppy water of the firth. Soon she would be bobbing with it, colder yet than she was now. She thought back to her days seated before her goodmother’s hot fire working on the altar cloth and wondered when next she would be so warm and dry.

  They dismou
nted at the edge of the crowd.

  ‘Matthew will tend your horse until we reach Dalmeny,’ Margaret said to Celia’s back.

  The maid nodded, securing her hood over her cap. She seemed quite subdued this morning, and moved stiffly.

  The vessel bumped against the dock, frightening some of the horses. A man on the shore called to those waiting on the landing to open a path for those disembarking, then he hurried forward to take the ropes, tie up the ferry. The passengers came off, a bedraggled dozen, stumbling on the solid earth. Two horses were led off by servants, one of the men wearing the evidence of a weak stomach on his mantle.

  Margaret glanced round at her fellow passengers. There were several merchants, fat-bellied and well dressed—no ostentation in their garb, of course, no need to call attention to themselves in such times; an elderly couple, with a boy of ten or so who complained loudly that his boots were wet, all three wrapped in fine mantles held shut with silver brooches; two servants who accompanied the three; two clerics, both quite humble, one a lay priest in patched clothing, the other a Dominican friar; several young men with the stony expressions of soldiers—Scots, but as they were heading south perhaps hoping to join the English.

  The friar stood beside Andrew. They had talked a little, as strangers do in such places, discussing the weather, the crossing. The friar’s hood was so wet it clung to his head, and it and the rest of his black habit was mud-stained and much mended. He was unshaven and encrusted with more dirt than the rain could rinse away.

  ‘You have journeyed far, Brother?’ Andrew said now.

  ‘What is far to one of my order, Father? Dominicans travel everywhere there are souls to save.’

  One of the seven crew members stepped out on to the dock, eyed the waiting crowd, and shouted for attention—he had to shout to be heard above the wind, the crashing waves, the shrieking gulls.

  ‘All you who would board this ferry be ware. This is a treacherous water.’

  One of those disembarking said to the friar as he passed, ‘Some might find the English soldiers at Dalmeny a greater danger than the sea.’

  ‘Soldiers at Dalmeny?’ a woman moaned.

  Had she no sense? Of course the English would guard the ferry—they would be fools not to.

  A man armed with a broadsword withdrew from the cluster waiting at the dock. Margaret had noted the weapon when the wind caught the man’s cloak. It had been covered quickly. Now one of the men who had disembarked bowed slightly towards the armed man and joined him. A murmur went through the crowd.

  ‘The man with the broadsword is William, the younger son of Malcolm Wallace,’ said Andrew, speaking softly. ‘He has been at St Andrews. Bishop Wishart and James the Steward have had words with him.’

  Margaret followed the man’s progress through the small crowd, saw yet another man join him. It was a moment before she registered her surprise. ‘The Bishop of Glasgow and the Steward of Scotland? What would they want with a thief like William Wallace?’

  ‘Thief?’ Andrew looked down at Margaret, droplets of rain falling from the edge of his hood to his beaked nose. ‘You have confused him with someone else,’ he said.

  Margaret thought it rewarding to know something Andrew did not for once. ‘He robbed a wealthy widow of Perth of food and ale. His slow companion was caught. He named his accomplice as William Wallace.’

  Andrew grunted. ‘Young Wallace a thief? Foolish talk. I do not believe it.’

  Margaret felt the friar’s eyes upon her. He studied her so closely she dropped her head, sorry to have spoken.

  Fortunately, they had begun to board the ferry. Andrew and Matthew took charge of the party’s horses, coaxing them aboard and in to the enclosed space for beasts, where they could be restrained with harnesses. As they boarded, a wave caught the vessel, panicking Celia’s horse. The friar, leading his horse behind them, called out to the foot passengers to help. One grabbed the reins of the other horse in Matthew’s charge.

  Margaret pushed through the crowd, climbed up onto the deck of the bucking vessel. ‘Matthew, let me have the reins while you cover his eyes.’ She took the bridle firmly in hand, talked to the horse, calming him as Matthew blindfolded him with a strip of cloth.

  The cold rain stung Margaret’s face and the fierce wind that carried it tore at her breath. She was grateful to have both cloaks and held them close to shield her face, but she lost hold of them whenever a wave tossed the ferry and she was thrown against Celia’s horse. The beast had responded to her gentling murmurs and did not panic again, God be praised. Margaret glanced round to see how others fared. Celia stood beside the elderly woman and boy, all three hanging on to the side of a cart. She seemed to ride the rolling boat well. There was hope for her.

  Turning the other way, Margaret found the friar’s eyes on her.

  He nodded. ‘That was brave, what you did. You have a calming way with a horse.’

  ‘It is what was needed. I thank you for your concern.’

  The friar bowed slightly. ‘Travellers help one another. You are kin to Father Andrew?’

  ‘His sister.’

  ‘He escorts you to some happy event?’

  ‘No, he does not.’ She turned away, not liking his interest. Friars were known to prey on women and to be the confidants of thieves. Fortunately, Andrew was making his way to her, balancing himself like quite the seaman. He looked grave.

  ‘You heard that there are soldiers at Dalmeny. Keep your eyes downcast, speak only to answer if necessary.’

  ‘What are you afraid I shall say? Tell me of what I should not speak.’

  ‘It is best to let me speak for you.’

  He was so solemn he frightened her. ‘I shall be silent. But I cannot learn what is unsafe if you tell me nothing.’

  ‘Just do as I say. And if a horse frights while we are in their sight, let the men handle it.’

  Andrew was angry she had come to the rescue of his servant? Sweet heaven, he could be such a fool. But Margaret was too uneasy now to argue or ask more questions.

  Her wet, cold clothes clung to her. Doubt churned her stomach. She dreaded their arrival in Edinburgh—the soldiers, the occupied town, the uncertainty of Uncle Murdoch’s reception.

  As a child in Perth she had been a favourite with her uncle, and he with her. He understood how much her mother’s fits frightened her and took the time no other adult had taken to explain that Christiana was seeing things that were occurring at another time, like a vivid memory, but in the future. All Margaret could see was that her mother would stop in mid-gesture and stare, sometimes shake her head and speak gibberish, sometimes laugh or weep, occasionally shout or scream. Murdoch Kerr had been living in Perth at the time. He told her that he for one thanked the Lord that his little Maggie was not to follow Christiana’s path.

  It was because of that long-ago kindness that Margaret now expected her uncle’s cooperation in her quest. He would be proud of her taking action like this; he would commend her on being so much more practical than her mother. Andrew seemed compelled to remind her that she had not seen much of their uncle since his late wife’s family drove him away from Perth. Smuggling was fine when their kin were reaping the rewards, but once Murdoch’s wife was dead his reputation embarrassed them. Still, Margaret believed that Murdoch was a man constant in his affections.

  ‘Time will tell whether you can count on him, Maggie,’ Andrew had said just before shuttering the lantern last night. She blamed him on her wakefulness.

  3

  We Are Not So Fine

  The road from Dalmeny led round Castle Hill to the West Port gate of Edinburgh. Andrew showed his abbot’s letter of protection, as he had when they disembarked. Margaret kept her eyes downcast and let Andrew answer the soldiers’ queries about her and Celia. She wondered whether all who came to the town must submit to this, if all townspeople who had business without the town faced such inquisitions at the portals. She felt like a sheep being tagged and herded from field to fold.

  Onc
e within the gate, Margaret lifted her eyes, curious to see the Grassmarket lacking stalls, tents, crowds, livestock. To her, Edinburgh had always meant fairs and feasts. This Edinburgh she had never seen. The knoll was rutted and pitted and puddled. In one corner a siege engine warped in the rain. The echoing emptiness seemed diminished and ugly. It felt as if the market had been reduced to its other function—the place of execution—yet even the gallows tilted drunkenly.

  ‘Where are the people?’

  ‘In their houses,’ said Andrew.

  Celia stumbled as she craned her neck to gaze up at the battlements. ‘It is a dreary place.’

  Margaret wished they had entered the town on the far end, away from the castle. Murdoch Kerr’s inn was at the bottom of High Street, just before Netherbow and the Leith road across which the burgh of Canongate began, in which Holyrood Abbey ruled. But Andrew had said the English might be suspicious if they skirted Edinburgh coming from Dalmeny, which was the direction they watched most carefully.

  His anxiety heightened Celia’s and spread to her horse, who whinnied and danced. The town was eerily silent. Margaret imagined every head in every house glancing towards the horse’s whinny, though the wind and the rain might muffle much of their passing. She was glad when Matthew took the reins and steadied the animal, quieting it.

  Many houses below the castle were damaged, some blackened and stinking of charred wood, others lacking doors or shutters. Bits of furniture lay strewn about the doorway of one of the burned houses. The front wall of another was stained with blood. A baby’s cry sent chills down Margaret’s back. This was no place for a child. Armed men moved about their business, as did some townsfolk, though Margaret saw no children and few women.

  At St Giles’ Kirk she handed her horse’s reins to Matthew and invited Andrew to step within to say a prayer of thanksgiving for their arrival.