by Candace Robb
She moved farther beneath the eaves as a half dozen men approached the market area, voices low. There was a stealth in their movements. When they were almost past her, she felt her eyes drawn to one of them. It was difficult to pick out features with the veil of rain and gloom, but the man’s stride, the way he leaned forward with his upper body as he walked was familiar—dear God, Roger held himself so. The man moved out from the shadow of the overhangs. ‘Roger,’ she whispered, taking a step forward. He could not have heard her, but he glanced her way, then turned more fully towards her, walking backwards a few steps. She reached out towards him. Sweet Jesu, the left side of his face was striped with wounds. ‘Roger!’ Margaret called out and ran towards him. He hesitated, but two of the other men grabbed him and pulled him with them. They ran across the street and disappeared down a close.
Margaret pursued, increasing her speed until her lungs hurt.
‘Halt!’ a man cried behind her.
She heard more than one set of boots chasing her, but she kept running. A piece of cloak fluttered behind one of the men ahead as he turned into a wynd. She slipped, caught herself, hurried round the corner. Empty. She wept, kept running, sobbing, ‘Roger!’
A hand grabbed her arm, jerking her to a halt. She turned and blindly struck out with her fists not caring who it was. Damn him for stopping her. Damn him!
‘That was my husband,’ she cried. Her blows made contact with a fleshy face before her arms were pulled behind her, causing her mantle to fall away. She screamed with pain. The man in front of her shook her by the shoulders until she stopped struggling and quieted.
‘Why were you chasing those men?’ Water dripped down the soldier’s forehead. He shook it away.
‘One of them was my husband. I have not seen him for months. I did not even know whether he was alive. You made me lose him.’
‘In this gloom how can you be certain it was him?’
‘A woman kens her husband,’ she said through chattering teeth.
Her arms were released.
‘They cannot be far,’ one of the soldiers said.
Margaret rubbed her upper arms as both men took off in the direction in which Roger had disappeared. She closed her eyes, trying to remember every detail of what she had seen. Four gashes on his face, perhaps more. He had stopped, looked at her. It was the others who pulled him away. Was he a prisoner? Had the men with him wounded him? But he had not seemed a prisoner when they approached, only when he hesitated as if meaning to turn back to her. Why? Damn those soldiers for stopping her. She might even now be with Roger. Would he embrace her? He had not seemed indifferent, he had stopped, had not tried to ignore her.
Sweet Jesus, he was alive. She choked back a sob as she began to run again, then stopped, realising too much time had passed, she had no hope of finding him now. It was not such a large town, but big enough for a man who did not wish to be followed.
And then she realised: Murdoch must have known Roger was in Edinburgh. He heard all the gossip in the tavern. Yet he had not told her. She did not know what to make of that, but it frightened her. Everyone was turning on her. No one was as they had seemed. It was as Murdoch had said, she should trust no one.
Slowly, in a daze, she bent to pick up her sodden mantle, then headed down the High Street, shivering in her wet clothes. From behind she heard the soldiers returning, but she did not bother to look up.
‘We found no traces of them,’ one of the soldiers said as he fell into step beside her.
‘What did you expect? You wasted the time stopping me.’
‘It is our duty to question all those who disturb the king’s peace.’
Whose king? she wondered, but she was beginning to know better than to speak in such wise. ‘Why did you chase me? Why not them?’
‘They ran only when you shouted to them.’
Not true. Or was it? ‘My husband was wounded. Stripes of blood down the left side of his face, deep enough for me to see in the rain. Have you seen such a man?’
‘I do not recall a man with such wounds.’
Margaret did not even know whether Roger was their king’s prisoner or supporter. She knew so little about him.
The soldier asked pardon for hurting her, more kindness than she had expected.
‘My pain is in losing sight of him.’
The soldier declared he would escort her home, and insisted on giving her his mantle. ‘I am sorry about your husband.’
She walked in silence, wondering frantically about Roger’s wounds, the men accompanying him. In front of the alley between the inn buildings she paused, lifting the mantle from her shoulders and holding it out to the soldier with thanks.
‘If I see a man with a wounded cheek I shall direct him here,’ the soldier said, and with a bow he headed back the way they had come.
Margaret took the alley to the back.
Murdoch caught up with her. ‘God’s blood, escorted to my tavern by a man wearing the badge of an English soldier. Do you want me cursed by all my customers?’
‘I saw Roger.’
‘What? Is he now fighting in Edward Longshanks’ army?’ Murdoch touched the bandage on her hand. ‘Did they injure you?’
She glanced down, having forgotten why she had ventured out in to the rain. ‘I cut myself earlier.’ But everything had changed since then. ‘Roger is alive, Uncle. I saw him.’ She did not know whether to rejoice or weep.
‘You are shivering. Come.’ Murdoch put his arm round her and led her to his kitchen. She sank down on a bench he drew close to the fire circle.
‘What is this about seeing Roger?’
Haltingly, she began the story, but when Murdoch handed her a cup of mulled wine she stopped to drink.
‘Clouds, rain, the smoke from fires—how close did he come to you that you recognised him?’
‘I might have touched him in three strides.’
‘Fairly close, then. But are you certain it was him?’
‘He is my husband. I know him.’
‘It would not be the first time the heart betrayed the eyes, Maggie.’ He did not believe her—his gaze was soft with sympathy. ‘I pray you are right.’ He frowned down at her a moment. ‘Were they headed towards the castle or away?’
Perhaps he did not doubt her. Buoyed by the question, she stumbled over her words. ‘They were walking up the High Street, towards the kirk, the castle, how can I know? But when they ran it was towards Cowgate.’
Murdoch took her mantle, hung it over a bench by the fire. ‘Your bandage is bloody.’ He crouched down, began to unwind it.
Margaret embarrassed herself by beginning to weep afresh.
‘Och lassie,’ Murdoch gathered her in his arms. ‘He does not know how to be a husband.’
With a stern act of will she gradually stopped the tears, remembering her uncle might have known of Roger’s presence. ‘Did you know Roger was here?’ she asked.
Murdoch drew back from her, eyeing her with puzzlement. ‘Why would I keep that from you? I’d be free of you. I’ll fetch your maid to see to your wound.’
The earlier scene with Celia came flooding back. ‘I banished her to the chambermaid’s cot.’
‘What?’
‘She is of no use to me. She wishes to be a lady’s maid, handling silk, sewing pearls on scarlett. So I said I’d find an escort to take her back to Dunfermline.’
Murdoch snorted. ‘No wonder she has been searching for you. But she can at least see to your hand.’
He withdrew, leaving Margaret in a nauseating swirl of emotion. Might she have imagined it was Roger? But he had hesitated, turned towards her. A stranger would not do that. Holy Mother, help me find him.
Celia had apologised. Margaret had forgiven her and invited her back to the chamber. But Celia chose to stay the night in the chambermaid’s cot ‘in case your husband should come to you.’ Margaret tried not to hope that would happen.
At the moment she was trying to distract herself by examining her bedchamber. Except f
or a draught that ran across the floor, it was very comfortable. Not the sort of room Margaret imagined Murdoch in. The walls were plastered and had painted borders. Though creaky, the high-backed chair was a luxury. The bed hangings were fine twill. The pillows were down-filled and the linen covers were embroidered at one edge. The mattress had been aired recently. She wondered who the woman was who fussed with this room and no others that Margaret had seen.
With a pin Margaret worked at the lock on a chest in the corner, hoping to find some evidence of the woman in Murdoch’s life. Picking locks was a skill her uncle had taught her when she was small. Her mother would lock trunks of stores and lose the keys. He had given her tools for more complicated locks. When she opened the chest she was disappointed—inside were only her uncle’s clothes, more covers and an extra pillow. He must have already removed whatever had been valuable or revealing.
Or perhaps she was wrong about a woman. Perhaps her uncle was as alone as she was. And more fastidious than she had thought.
She had begun to doubt she had seen her husband. She cursed herself for calling out Roger’s name. She should have quietly followed the men. But she had been so astonished to see him, and she had not expected him to run from her. Perhaps the man had realised at that moment that he did not know her.
Restless, she paced from one end of the room to the other, from one corner to the opposite. A tread on the floor without her door made her heart race, but the footsteps continued into one of the other chambers. A shout down below pulled her to the window, but it was one man calling out to another. She cursed Celia for planting the hope in her head. Roger had run from her. He had been running from her ever since the day they had wed. Perhaps he had watched her enter Edinburgh, knew very well where she was. She must quit this foolish vigil and go to sleep. Her legs ached too much for such pacing.
At last she lay down on the bed, drew the curtains, but she lay awake listening to the sounds from the tavern below. She was still awake when Murdoch called the curfew. Soon all she heard was the rattle of empty tankards, the faint noise of tidying, Murdoch calling to someone, the front-door bolt clanging into place. In the young silence she heard a rat somewhere in the roof, the lonely wail of a cat defending its hunting ground.
Something scratched at the door. Margaret scurried to her feet. ‘Roger?’
A cat mewed.
A much more likely visitor than Roger. She threw on her mantle, slipped her feet into her shoes. She shoved the bolt aside, opened the door slowly. The cat’s eyes glowed. Margaret bent to pet it, but it led her across the vestibule to the opposite door, scratched to be let out. Men talked quietly in the guest chamber to the right.
She opened the door to the outside stairs. The yard was dark, quiet except for some skittering near the tavern’s back door. The cat rubbed against her leg, then slinked off down the stairs.
As she turned to go in, Margaret heard footsteps below. But she could see no one when she looked down. It sounded like several people. A knock on the ground-floor door of the other inn building startled her. A dim light appeared as the door to what Murdoch had called his storeroom opened. A man stepped aside, three men entered. The door shut.
Margaret returned to her room, closed the door and bolted it behind her.
She gave up trying to sleep before the bell chimed for Mass. Her aching hand and her confused feelings about Roger had given her a restless night. At one point she had stoked the brazier embers for enough light to check that her hand was not twice its normal size, but it was not as swollen as it felt. She was glad, for she had much work to do.
The bandage made her clumsy. Her clothes fought her. But she managed to dress warmly for morning Mass and took a lantern for the pre-dawn walk to St Giles’.
Past the other rooms she slipped, out the wooden door to the stair landing. Down below, the first step creaked. Margaret shuttered her lantern and backed against the door.
‘It is Hal, from the stable, Dame Kerr.’
She let out her held breath, opened the shutter and went down to him.
Hal watched her descent, but the moment she reached his level he dropped his head.
‘What do you want, frightening me like that?’ she asked.
He said something, but it was necessary to ask him to repeat it. He raised his chin just enough to be better heard.
‘I am to go with you wherever you wish to go, Dame Kerr.’
‘This is a turn. My uncle’s orders?’ She had not thought he would go to such efforts to protect her—or to know her movements.
‘Aye.’
‘How do you come to be here now?’
‘He said you might slip out for Mass.’
So her uncle did not wish her to be escorted by a soldier again. But she wondered how was this young man to prevent that. She opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of burdening him with her lack of faith.
‘Then I welcome your company to St Giles’,’ she said.
As they walked she enquired whether he could find some fresh straw for the tavern floor.
‘Difficult, mistress. The English soldiers have many beds to make and horses to stable.’
‘But not impossible.’
‘No.’ He did not sound happy.
‘Do you know of any weavers in the town?’ She had spent much of the night wondering about a connection between the loom weight and the young weaver Old Will had mentioned.
‘Goodwife Janet by Blackfriars.’
‘Another called Bess?’
‘Goodwife Janet would know.’
‘Then you must take me there later.’
6
He Might Have Warned Her
Celia had tidied the chamber and brought up food and drink for Margaret as soon as she returned from Mass. Margaret saw the question in the maid’s eyes but did not enlighten her about whether Roger had come in the night. No doubt she already knew he had not—servants had their ways of kenning.
The ale was just beginning to warm Margaret’s toes when Murdoch knocked on the door and told Celia he wished to speak to her mistress alone. As Celia slipped away, Murdoch settled himself across the table from Margaret, his chair set sideways.
‘Hal has asked permission to escort you to Janet Webster’s this morning. Why?’
‘You said he was to go with me where I wished.’
‘But why the weaver? Because of what Old Will said? He was drunk, Maggie, thinking of his dead wife.’
‘I have my reasons.’
Murdoch was not looking at her, but the floor, or perhaps his worn shoes from which one of his small toes stuck out. His sock was dirty.
‘You need a laundress,’ Margaret noted.
‘That is not news to me. Why would you speak with Janet?’
‘You know why I am here, Uncle. Is there something you should tell me before someone else does it for you?’
‘What do you know of your husband, lass?’ Now he looked her in the eye.
His look, his tone made her lose her appetite. ‘It is plain from your face that whatever I know, it is not enough.’
‘How often has he been at home for any time?’ Murdoch pressed.
Her heart pounded. ‘He is a merchant. He—’
Murdoch banged his fist on the table, his breath coming in angry bursts. ‘A merchant. An excuse for long absences and no one the wiser to his other life.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘He has used you ill, that is what I am saying. He has the prize of Perth, of all Scotland, and he stays away. Fie on him.’
‘Tell me what you know, Uncle.’ Margaret reached for her cup, but she did not trust herself to hold it steadily. She sat on her hands. ‘I must hear it. I must know what I face.’
Murdoch, elbows on knees, dropped his head to his hands for a moment. Then with a great sigh he straightened. ‘Just afore the summons to Berwick last summer, Roger brought a woman here, asked if she could bide at the inn until she found a more permanent home. She had fled Berwick.’
> Margaret felt the heat rise to her face. She took a great, long drink. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘I tell you this only because you will eventually hear of Mistress Grey.’
‘Is she here now? In Edinburgh?’
Murdoch shook his head. ‘She left the town after Christmas.’
‘Have you seen Roger since?’
‘Once. He did not speak of her.’ Murdoch rose to fetch the pitcher, filled her cup.
Beautiful, she thought. Younger even than me. ‘Tell me about her.’
‘She is his age, I would guess. Two score, I would say. Handsome of manner and dress, and speech, aye, she has a noble way of speaking. Not bonny. Dark hair. The gossips thought her a lady in disguise or a lord’s mistress. Mistress Grey she calls herself. No Christian name that she admits to.’
A lady in disguise or a lord’s mistress? ‘Is this how he spends our siller?’ Margaret would kill Roger if ever she saw him again.
‘She is not his mistress, if that’s what you’re thinking, and of course you are. Roger could not have dressed the woman in such finery, Maggie. Nor could he have paid for the food and drink she demanded.’
The costly curtains and bedding. ‘She stayed here, in your chamber,’ Margaret said dully. ‘It was she who had the bed curtains made, painted the walls.’
‘Aye.’
Margaret rose. ‘I cannot stay here another night. I must move my things.’
‘Sit down, Maggie. I thought of telling you last night, when it seemed Andrew had not yet told you, hoping you would turn round and flee to safety across the Forth.’
‘Did Jack know about her?’