by Candace Robb
A young man appeared in the doorway, a bowl cradled in one arm. He stirred the contents with the opposite hand. He was the one who had brought the peat for the brazier the previous day. Dark hair, dark eyes, solemn. His clothes were shabby, but clean. The cook’s helper, she guessed.
He withdrew into the kitchen, but the argument did not falter.
‘Surely it is Master Murdoch’s kitchen,’ Celia was saying quite steadily, in the tone of the righteous.
Margaret stepped across the threshold. The wild-haired man waving floury hands at Celia must be Roy, the cook.
‘How can I work with your clothes flapping about?’ He matched Celia’s righteous tone.
The room was indeed crowded, with several small tables, a large fire circle, a wall of shelving, several benches, and the two men moving about their work. Murdoch must not have considered that when he suggested Celia do her laundry here.
‘I see the problem,’ Margaret said from the doorway. ‘Send a basin of warm water, some soap and a cloth to our chamber and we’ll manage there. Come, Celia.’ And before the imperious pair could continue their argument Margaret grabbed her maid by the elbow.
‘Send a basin of warm water?’ Roy exclaimed in disbelief.
As Margaret shoved Celia through the door she said, ‘As soon as the water is warm.’
Celia trembled with rage. Margaret did not let go of her until they gained the stairs. ‘Now go up and wait, Celia.’
Two spots of colour and eyes that seemed to be generating heat dominated Celia’s thin face. ‘That man.’
‘He is the cook, not a servant under you. Do not make me regret bringing you here.’ It was too late for that, but Celia might not yet realise it.
Her eyes widened, but she said nothing, just turned and gathered her skirts, mounted the stairs.
Margaret peered into the tavern. Murdoch was bent over someone lying on a bench by the cold brazier.
‘Murdoch wastes his time,’ a woman spoke softly behind her. ‘There’s no waking Old Will till he’s sober.’
By the speaker’s breath, she was not sober either. Margaret turned in the little space the woman allowed.
A piece of dirty plaid kept most of the woman’s dark hair in check, though a long greasy strand hung down over her left eye. ‘You don’t look like a Kerr.’
‘Do you have business with my uncle?’
The woman lifted dirty, large knuckled hands. ‘These make the finest ale in Edinburgh. Ask your uncle about Mary’s ale.’ She looked Margaret up and down, grinning. ‘Roger Sinclair’s wife, eh?’
Margaret felt a shiver down her back. ‘Do you know my husband?’
‘I ken all who come to the tavern.’
‘So there you are, Mary,’ Murdoch interrupted. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘When did you last see him?’ Margaret asked, willing to risk irritating her uncle for news of Roger.
‘Save your gossip for later,’ Murdoch growled.
Margaret murmured a farewell, vowing to seek out the brewster another time, and left the tavern.
Out back once more, she noticed a stable off to the left, beside Murdoch’s kitchen. Moving closer, she saw that it was conveniently at the edge of Netherbow. It had a large yard, but as she stepped within she saw that the stable itself was small, with room for no more than six horses. The air was heavy with the dust of hay. A young man sat beneath a hole in the roof that let in light. He hummed as he combed the mane of a large-eyed ass. Sensing someone approaching, he shook his head to clear his hair from his eyes, glanced up at Margaret, then dropped his gaze back to the ass. He had stopped humming.
A horse snorted in the opposite corner. Margaret approached the ass, holding out her hand. The animal sniffed it with interest, then dropped her muzzle so that she might be scratched between the ears. Margaret obliged. The ass was a gentle, lovely animal, well cared for.
‘Are you Murdoch’s groom?’ Margaret asked the lad.
He had stopped combing and watched her through the unruly fair hair.
‘Who is asking?’
‘Dame Margaret Kerr, Master Murdoch’s niece.’
‘God bless.’ He gathered his long legs and stood up to make a little bow, keeping his gaze towards the packed-mud floor. ‘I am Hal, mistress.’
Margaret still scratched the ass’s head. ‘She is well cared for.’
‘Bonny. She is the master’s, and proud of her he is. She likes you.’
She was the first in Edinburgh to do so. ‘Does my husband ride her when he’s here?’
‘Master Murdoch keeps Bonny to himself.’
‘Have you met Roger Sinclair?’
‘I meet only the folk who come in to see to their beasts themselves, mistress.’
A sly response.
‘I am not spying on you. I have come to Edinburgh searching for my husband. Any word of him, any memory of his time here might help.’
Hal raked a hand through his hair, peered at her intently before his eyes were hidden once more. ‘I didn’t hear he was missing. I don’t ken much about him, Dame Kerr. He’s never been sharp with me, that I can say.’ His mouth twitched into a smile, and Margaret realised she still stroked Bonny’s soft muzzle. ‘You’ve a gentle touch with animals.’
‘I like them. They’re often kinder than people.’
‘Och, aye.’
Margaret heard Mary the brewster call out a farewell as she cut through the backland towards Cowgate. ‘Can I trust her, Hal?’
‘Mary? Most times.’
Margaret took her leave of Hal and Bonny, returning to the tavern.
Murdoch now had the bench overturned. He was cursing under his breath as he tightened a leg with a bit of straw.
An elderly man sat on the fetid floor watching a slow drip from the ceiling near the street door. Margaret guessed from his age and his drink- and sleep-flushed face that this was Old Will.
‘She’s a splasher, that one,’ he said.
Murdoch muttered a curse.
‘Such language afore your niece, Murdoch?’ Old Will gathered himself and rose with a grunt and a moan.
Murdoch glanced up at Margaret. ‘Tell that maid of yours to keep the water in the basin.’
The old man tottered over to Margaret. ‘The young weaver might ken where your Roger is. She had an eye on his cousin.’
‘Will!’ Murdoch shouted. ‘I told you to be off.’
It rang true, a woman attracted to Jack. ‘What is the weaver’s name?’ Margaret asked.
Old Will licked his lips, shook his head to help his memory. ‘Bess, is it? Aye, Bess.’ He shuffled on out the back door.
Murdoch shook his head as Old Will stumbled on his way to the alley. ‘That was his wife’s name, Maggie. He calls most women “Bess”. See to your maid. She’ll be the ruin of me.’
‘Was his wife a weaver?’
‘She might have been. It’s long ago.’
‘But he said she had her eye on Jack.’
‘Old Will dreams in his tankard, and he likes a pretty face—he wanted to keep you talking.’ Murdoch shook his head at the wet spot on the ceiling and moved towards the stairs.
‘I’ll see to her.’ Margaret pushed past him and hastened up to her chamber.
Celia knelt over a basin kneading her gown and splashing water as she cursed.
Margaret walked over to where the maid could see her. Celia looked up, her eyes flashing.
‘Your wash water is dripping through the floorboards,’ Margaret said.
Celia yanked her hands out of the basin and sat back on her heels. ‘That filthy cook told Master Murdoch he should order me to do all the laundry.’
‘It is not my uncle’s place to give you orders. He knows that.’
‘He agreed that I should.’ She lifted her red hands to Margaret. ‘How can I handle fine fabrics with rough hands?’
‘Stop your fretting and hang your gown to dry. It is surely clean by now.’
It was not a good beginning.
&n
bsp; On the following morning the rain poured down in sheets, soaking Margaret in the short walk between the house and Murdoch’s kitchen. She shook herself as she stepped across the stone threshold. The room was unoccupied, but a pot of broth simmered over the fire circle in the middle of the room and from the oven near it came a welcome warmth and an equally welcome aroma of fresh bread. Margaret walked slowly around the room, looking for a sense of her uncle in it. The wattle and daub walls had been much repaired, with patchwork plaster from which radiated hairline cracks, and water marks where the walls met the slate roof. A boarded up window on the wall opposite the oven hosted a vine that twisted in through the slats and disappeared into the roof. The remaining window was on the wall with the door, looking out on the chambermaid’s cottage and the tavern kitchen, not towards the tavern. Dried herbs hung from the rafters. Roots were stored in a shallow pit beneath a trapdoor far from the fires. This had not been fixed up by the same hand as Murdoch’s bedchamber. There was no feel of a woman here.
‘Bring that lopsided pot over for these, would you?’ Murdoch stood in the doorway with an apron full of dried apples.
Margaret found the pot, held it for the tumble of fruit.
Murdoch took the full pot from her, carried it to a trestle table. ‘Is your curiosity about my kitchen satisfied?’ He picked up a knife, turned his back to Margaret and began to core.
‘You wield that knife so well. I cannot recall Father ever picking up a knife in the kitchen.’
‘Nor did your mother, I would wager. Too busy with her prophecies.’ He sounded angry.
Margaret thought he still fumed about Celia’s washing. ‘I’ll not allow Celia to wash up above again.’
‘It was my fault,’ he said, surprising her. ‘I had forgotten Roy would likely be unfriendly.’
‘You could predict he would not like Celia?’
Murdoch shook his head. ‘Women. He was unfortunate in loving Belle, the chambermaid. She went off with a man who offered her safety to the north.’
‘And Roy blames all women?’
‘He’ll mend in time.’
‘You’ve been unable to find another chambermaid?’
‘Aye. You have complaints about the bedchamber?’
‘No. I thought that if you or someone else would show me the guest chambers, and where you keep mops, rags, brooms, and buckets, I could be of use to you.’
‘As you can see, I am busy.’
They were dried apples and could keep. Unless he meant to toss them in the pot. But what was in there did not smell like it would mix with apples.
‘Then let me help you with the apples.’
‘Sweet Jesus.’ He threw down the coring knife. ‘Can a man have no peace?’ His eyes glared beneath the uneven brows.
‘I would like to help.’
Murdoch stirred the pot, took off his apron. ‘Come on, then. I see you must not be idle.’
He hurried her through the rain to a lean-to on the corner of the tall house across the alley from the tavern. Opening a poorly fitted plank door, he stepped aside to reveal a collection of sorry-looking brooms, buckets, rags (she was certain they were home to a nest of rats or mice) and a ladder.
‘Roy keeps the soap.’
Murdoch closed the lean-to, slogged through a puddle to a short stairway leading up to a door that opened onto the first floor.
‘This house is part of the inn?’
‘Aye.’
‘What is down below?’
‘A storeroom.’
The landing above the stairs was broader than in the other house.
‘Three rooms up here,’ Murdoch said, opening the first door. It was larger than either of the guest chambers next door, with two beds and a shuttered window facing the backlands. A wall of wattle hurdles separated one room from the next so that the shape of the room could easily be changed. The second room was also configured to be large, with many pallets and a tiny window high up, shuttered also. The third was a smaller room with a window towards the back and a fair-sized bed that took up most of the space.
‘I am sleeping here at present,’ Murdoch said.
‘You could plant a garden in the dirt and dust.’
‘I would not mind some tidying.’ He caught her eye. ‘I would be a fool to turn down your offer, eh?’ He did not smile, but his anger had cooled.
‘What of the storeroom?’
‘We shift things often enough it needs no cleaning. Tend to what is suitable, the guest rooms. While they are empty!’
They descended to the backlands and bowed their heads against the rain that pelted them on their way to the stairway that led to her chamber. The stairway was roofed, praise God. Margaret already felt the damp soaking through her clothes and shoes. On the floor on which she was staying, Murdoch showed her the room to the right, which was the chamber in which they had talked on their arrival. The bed had been tidied, a man’s tunic lay on an ancient chest, a pack lay on the floor. It was a wide enough bed to sleep two or three. The room opposite was much larger, with several pallets and one substantial bed without bed hangings. A man snored beneath a tattered hide. Two cloaks hung on hooks on the wall, some clothes were strewn on one of the pallets. The air in the room was stale—surprising with the draught from the doorway. Both doorways were covered by hides, not wooden doors. How cold it must be to lie on the floor in the draught.
‘You will not interfere with the business of the tavern, Maggie.’
‘This will be sufficient. I have a husband to find.’
‘If it’s too much work, find a good replacement for me, eh?’ At last Murdoch smiled. ‘Now I have work to do. And so do you.’ He bowed to her and headed down the stairs.
She thanked God her uncle had accepted her offer. It would buy her time.
5
A Face in the Rain
Margaret tucked her hair up in a cap and the front hem of her gown up in her girdle, wrapped cloths round her forearms to protect her sleeves, and set to cleaning Murdoch’s temporary chamber. Celia daintily dusted the doorway, the furniture.
‘For pity’s sake, clean the rest of the room before cleaning the furniture,’ Margaret said, losing patience. ‘The ceilings and the wattle walls are full of dust that will just settle again on the furnishings.’
‘I was sent here to be your maid, not a chambermaid.’ Celia flicked dust off her shoulders.
Margaret fought the urge to slap her. ‘Neither am I a chambermaid, eh? But as my uncle was good enough to give us his room, this is the least we can do for him.’
‘I would as lief stay in a less favoured room at such a price.’ Celia regarded the rafters with a grimace and a shudder.
‘You would speak to me in such a manner?’ Who did she think she was? ‘I am done with making apologies for you. You’re of no use to me and you never will be. I don’t know what my goodmother sees in you. You do nothing for your keep.’
Celia had dropped her gaze to the floor.
‘Get yourself off to the chambermaid’s cot. You will sleep there until I arrange an escort for you back to Widow Sinclair, where the work is more to your liking. I’ll ask my brother to make arrangements.’
Celia glanced up at that, her jaw dropping unbecomingly.
‘Get you gone,’ Margaret repeated, waving the maid on with a dusty cloth that produced a cloud she thought certain to disgust the dainty woman.
Celia tossed her cloth to the floor. ‘Look at my hands.’ She held them out, palms down. The nails were even and clean, the skin unbroken.
‘A lady’s hands,’ Margaret said. ‘I am not surprised.’
Celia turned her palms up. ‘It took a long while to soften and smooth them so my mistress would let me touch her silk gowns.’
‘So be off in search of your lady.’
‘I thought as Master Roger’s wife you would at least live as well as my mistress.’
The comment brought Margaret up short of a retort. It was in truth a reasonable expectation—in other times, with ano
ther husband. ‘So did I.’ Caught off her guard, Margaret spoke more from the heart than she had intended.
Celia dropped her hands, looking confused.
‘Go now.’
Bobbing an awkward curtsy, Celia hurried out.
Climbing up onto a stool, Margaret snapped her cloth at a cobweb, angry that she had lost her temper and revealed her pain to the woman. She swung at another web. The dust caught in her throat, made her eyes teary. Two years of marriage had brought her to this. It was Roger’s fault that she had half fallen in love with Jack, Roger’s fault that Jack was dead, Roger’s fault that she was childless. In what way was she a wife? She shoved the cloth along the rafter.
Blood bloomed on the cloth as a sharp pain reached her consciousness. She dropped from the stool, sank down on it, examined her hand. A large splinter lay beneath the fleshy base of her thumb inside her palm. She held her breath as she drew it out. Sweet Jesus. It was worse in the coming out than in the sinking in. She sank her hand into a bowl of rainwater that had collected beneath a drip and said several Hail Mary’s, then tore a strip from the cleanest side of the cloth protecting her left sleeve and wrapped her hand.
It throbbed, and her mind was unquiet. She needed air. A walk was what she wanted, but the rain dripped steadily into the now bloodstained water and drummed on the roof above her. No matter, it would wash away her thoughts, her irritation, cool her hot hand.
Donning her old plaid mantle she slipped down the stairs, through the alley and on to the High Street.
The rain slanted down, making her blink. She pulled the edge of the mantle forward on her head and splashed up the street through puddles. Her toes were soon wet and cold, then her heels, then her ankles. New boots had been out of the question this autumn when money dwindled. She wished she had thought to bring pattens; but the idea of sitting idle in her chamber was too dreary.
So she moved on. Beneath the tron in the marketplace she could not help but pause. Here was where Andrew heard Jack had lain, somewhere beneath this weigh beam, nine days ago. Discovered early in the morning, he must have been murdered during the night. Someone who lived within sight of the tron might have seen something, at least heard a cry. Jack would not be struck down without a struggle, without a shout of anger or terror. Surely someone remembered that night, such a violent attack. She backed beneath the eaves of the nearest house and considered the houses that clustered round. Light shone through the shutters of one just opposite her, directly across from the tron. She should ask her uncle who lived there.