by Candace Robb
Her Marriage’s Great Chance
Margaret shooed Celia from her chamber. Her stomach burned, her breath came in gasps, she did not know whether to cry or scream. Damn the men in her life. Roger had abandoned her, Murdoch and Andrew had kept information from her, Jack had dallied with her, and none of them trusted that she had any wits.
No doubt Jack had also known of Mistress Grey. She feared all of Edinburgh knew; perhaps all of Perth had known. Margaret’s face was hot. She pounded her thighs with her fists. Damn them.
Roger had not been wounded, nor had he been dying somewhere without aid, but he had been helping a stranger flee Berwick before the summons to sign the Ragman Rolls. Perhaps not a stranger. Whether Andrew was right that Roger and Mistress Grey were lovers, or Murdoch that they worked together in some political scheme, the woman seemed of more concern to Roger than his own wife.
How foolish Margaret felt for hoping that she and Roger would grow closer, that her husband would come to value her opinion, her companionship. When Longshanks had arrived in Perth with his army in June she had been so afraid. Her father had already fled the country, her mother had retired to Elcho, Fergus threatened to join a group of young men who were hiding food and goods in the countryside, Jack had ridden to Dunfermline to see how his aunt fared. On the second evening Roger had returned, unexpectedly. He said he had ridden hard to be there to protect her. And when a few mornings later a soldier grabbed her as she walked to the kirk and demanded a kiss, Roger, departing the house a moment behind her, had fallen on the man with a fury that was frightening to behold. The town’s calamity had seemed her marriage’s great chance.
But at the beginning of August, when Longshanks had moved on, Roger had departed again.
Margaret slowed her pacing. In March Edward Longshanks had moved on Berwick with a large army and slaughtered a great number of the townsfolk. Yet this Mistress Grey had not fled then; she had waited months. Until August—until Roger went for her? Margaret did not like all that implied.
Murdoch had asked what she knew of Roger. So little, she realised now. But she had not felt the lack until after they were wed. When he had approached her father about a possible match Roger already owned his house and had established his business in Perth. She had often wondered at his settling in Perth when it was Berwick that was vital to Roger’s trade. His explanation was that many merchants sold the same wares on the east coast, but Perth reached a needier market to the north. She had known from the beginning that there were parts of his life he did not mean to share with her. He had assured her that his mother had never bothered herself with much knowledge of the family business. Margaret had used Jack’s willingness to explain the importing and exporting, the shipping agreements, to learn more. But it had not occurred to her to question others about Roger.
Mistress Grey might be the wife of a merchant of importance to Roger, even a friend. Margaret would not know.
She sank down at the table. She might confront Roger, but she could not force him to confide in her. She tried to think of an instance in which he had expressed a need of her beyond her housewifely skills.
Though she had had glimpses of Roger when he consulted with her father on trade, greeting him at the door, offering refreshment, bringing his mantle, Margaret had known nothing of Roger’s temperament until the afternoon he settled in a chair near hers and asked how her mother fared. A frightening vision had sent her mother to bed for several days. All Perth knew of the incident.
‘She rests comfortably.’ Margaret had been particularly exasperated by the incident, which left her to manage the household at the busy time of airing before Easter.
‘As you are the only daughter in this household, much falls to you at a time like this, I should think.’
An intuitive comment that had surprised her enough to lift her eyes from her needlework. ‘Who has told you that?’
‘I see it with my own eyes.’
‘Needlework is not my complaint.’
‘I know. But you have just this moment sat down after rushing about seeing to the servants.’
‘It is a daughter’s duty, nothing more.’ But she liked him for noticing.
After that day it became his custom to stop and talk to her before he left the house. She was flattered by the attention. And yet he did not speak of undying affection, made no claims that he could not go on without her, urged no assignations. Her friends thought perhaps such things could not be expected from a man of his age and stature—twenty years her senior and well placed in the community. But despite his reticence they all envied her. In time he spoke with her father, and then he kissed her when she acknowledged that she was willing. It was a long, sweet kiss, and she had loved the scent of him, his warmth. Thereafter until their wedding they stole many kisses, and once she had come unlaced as they tumbled on the lawn of her mother’s walled garden. She looked forward to more of that once they were wed.
But after their wedding he was so often away. And his presence meant long days without him as he saw to his business and entertained in the evenings—she was seldom included. I am not accustomed to having a wife, he had explained. You must give me time. At night he was often quite tender, but he said little, and was soon asleep. Her mother counselled patience. Margaret wondered how often he thought of her when she was not lying beside him. From recent events she guessed not at all, damn him.
Roger knew she was here, that she had chased him proved he was not mistaken in thinking it was her, he knew Murdoch Kerr’s inn full well, and that she would be here. Just as she had faithfully waited for him for two years in Perth.
Perhaps Roger believed Mistress Grey had greater need of him. Margaret tasted bile in her throat. What of her needs? It was not fair, her present lot, a married woman without a husband, without children, yet without the freedom to remedy her loneliness.
She almost laughed. As if there were a man with whom she might remedy her solitude. As if she were likely to find another attentive companion like Jack. All the men were now too caught up in their hatred of Longshanks or Balliol.
But the real barrier to her freedom was that she loved Roger, and prayed that it was him she had seen, that they would be reunited.
Margaret slept poorly, but Saturday was market day in town and she might hear some gossip at the stalls. Collecting Hal, she headed up the High Street. With the English troops buying most of the goods at their own prices, if they paid at all, it was not a bustling market. But some desperate farmers were there, as well as fishmongers, fleshers and artisans. Margaret saw only sickly livestock. Wherever Murdoch was finding the supplies for the tavern it was not here. Near the market cross the street was far livelier than she had yet seen it, with women moving about with baskets, children clinging to their skirts, some clerics. She searched the crowd for Roger with both hope and dread, though he had not behaved like a man who would risk such a public place. So far she saw no knowing smirks, no folk whispering behind their hands as she passed. She was much relieved.
She considered who might know of weavers and laundresses. She noted two women haggling with a man over a length of cloth. It was undyed wool, poorly woven. Margaret waited until the women departed, then stepped forward to ask the merchant if he knew of a laundress in the town. It was a good opening, she thought.
‘The soldiers, curse them, have the best of all.’ He had few teeth, wore a russet tunic.
Not a wool merchant but a weaver, perhaps. And from the countryside not the town by the looks of him.
‘Do you know a young weaver called Bess?’ she asked.
‘If you don’t want my cloth, be off with you, goodwife. I have mouths to feed. My daughter was widowed in the slaughter in Berwick and she and the children must eat. You’ve a nice blue gown and your face is full, you’re not wanting.’ He turned sideways on his bench signalling he wished her gone.
‘God bless you for taking them in,’ Margaret said. ‘How much is the cloth?’ It would make scratchy but warm bedding.
&nb
sp; Hal tapped her arm, motioned her aside. ‘The old man makes much of other folks’ misfortune.’ As usual, Hal addressed his feet. ‘He collects their stories. He lives on mead and he bides alone.’
The gummy grin of the old man was only what she deserved for being so gullible.
Margaret moved over to the cobblestones where a woman was arguing with a flesher about the price of his pork.
Just beyond them she caught sight of the woman in the delicately woven mantle with whom she had tried to speak at Mass that first morning. She had paused in front of a trinket seller who huddled beneath a makeshift tent. Margaret approached them.
‘God be with you this fine morn, goodwife,’ said the trinket seller.
The gaunt woman in the mantle glanced up at Margaret, then looked quickly away.
Suddenly Margaret placed her. Besseta Fletcher. They had played together as children, during a brief period when their fathers had entered into some shipping contracts together. It was her father, Alan Fletcher, on whose business Jack had come to Edinburgh. Margaret did not know the woman well any more. Their fathers had fallen out over the loss of a valuable shipment and the families had severed contact. It had been a long time since the two women had spoken more than civil greetings. But Margaret remembered her fondly. ‘Besseta! I’m gey glad to see a face from Perth.’
Besseta turned slightly towards Margaret, but she barely raised her eyes from the table of pins and combs. ‘Good day, Margaret.’ She was no older than Margaret, but she looked unwell—shadowed eyes, a sharply gaunt face, trembling hands.
‘Have you come to Edinburgh to see about the business Jack was transacting for your father?’ Margaret asked—perhaps too bluntly, but she feared Besseta would bolt before she could approach the subject tactfully.
Besseta met Margaret’s gaze momentarily, with a puzzled squint. ‘Father’s business?’
‘Then what brings you—?’
‘My sister Agnes is unwell and I am here to care for her.’ Margaret had not known Besseta’s sister well. A few years ago she had left Perth to be married, but Margaret had not known she had come to Edinburgh. ‘In faith,’ Besseta continued, ‘I have left her alone too long. God go with you.’ She bobbed her head to Margaret and hurried away.
‘No trinkets?’ the merchant called after Besseta. She shook her head at Margaret. ‘A nice bauble for you, mistress?’
Margaret fingered an ivory comb.
‘Lovely comb,’ the woman crooned. She beckoned Margaret closer. ‘You seek news of Jack Sinclair, eh?’
From so little the woman had guessed that. Margaret’s first impulse was to deny it, but the damage had been done. ‘Do you know something?’
‘Aye. Name of the lad who found him. For a price.’
‘Tuppence for the comb and the name.’ As she dug in her scrip Margaret hoped it was accurate information, worth her precious pence.
The woman flicked her tongue across her lips as she grabbed the money out of Margaret’s hand. ‘Will Harcar, the lad who fetches for Guy the fishmonger. Over yon.’ She nodded towards a young man talking to another his age.
Margaret picked up the comb, headed towards the young man.
Will Harcar glanced at her, said something to his companion, who nodded and scooted away. When Harcar lowered the foot he’d had propped on a sack of roots, that hip dropped a hand’s breadth beneath the opposite. A porter with a short leg. What his back must suffer. His arms looked strong, however, and the expression on his face menacing.
Hal fell into step beside her. ‘Dame Kerr, this is not wise.’
The same thought had pricked Margaret’s mind. It was not advisable to question the man in public. It might pose a danger to both of them. She put a hand on Hal’s arm to stop him.
‘Aye, you have the right of it. Take me to Janet Webster.’ Perhaps the weaver might recognise the weight. Margaret’s tuppence would not be wasted—she could seek out Harcar later, without an audience.
Hal led her down a narrow wynd between two houses and their assorted buildings and plantings in the backlands. This was the way Roger and the men had run the other day. But it was a large area and Margaret could not guess where they might have gone once she lost them. After the noise of the market the backlands seemed quiet. Too quiet. She found herself straining to hear footsteps following. She was glad of Hal’s company.
They came out on Cowgate, the well-trodden lane along which livestock were led out to pasture. Across the way were smaller houses than those off the High Street. Hal turned left and stopped at the corner of Potter Row, across from the enclosure of Blackfriars.
It was a smiddie, with a mud and wattle house behind.
‘Janet Webster is wife to Davy the smith, who is missing,’ Hal said.
‘What do you mean, missing?’
‘Just that. For a fortnight, more or less.’
The house was whitewashed, thatch-roofed, and boasted a wooden door. Hal knocked, greeted a portly, white-wimpled goodwife and introduced Margaret. Deep-set, sad eyes looked her up and down, then the woman nodded and stood aside, inviting her in.
‘I’ll wait without,’ said Hal.
The one room was dominated by several looms. A fire pit smoked in the centre. Two box beds took up the far corners. A bench was drawn up to the largest loom. Janet had attached the beginning hem to the cloth rod, one end of which sat atop a support rod. The other end rested on one of the supports for the heddle rod.
‘I must settle the rod.’ Janet turned back to the loom. Lifting the rod off the support, she stretched awkwardly. She was a head shorter than Margaret.
‘Let me help.’ Margaret mounted the bench, slipped the right end of the cloth rod onto the support beam.
‘Your height is useful. I thank you.’ Janet slipped off the bench and perched on the edge of a stool, watching Margaret. ‘Murdoch has a large spot in his heart set aside for you.’
The comment certainly surprised Margaret. Murdoch might have told her he knew the woman so well.
Janet sighed. ‘I mind when I was so young.’
She did not seem old, though there was a weariness in her movements. The wimple hid her hair, but the fine down on her chin and cheeks looked blonde. Margaret wondered what their relationship was that Murdoch had not mentioned it.
‘It is not a new mantle you’ve come for. That is fine work. Good cloth and dye.’
Margaret had not planned her speech. She moved towards the smaller loom, studying the weights that kept the warp taut. None seemed quite like the one in her scrip, but then they varied a great deal, some with centre holes, some bone-shaped, with the thread wrapped round the waist.
Margaret had a thought. ‘My uncle has new bed curtains in his chamber, made of fine twill. Is that your work?’
‘It is.’ Janet dropped her gaze to her hands.
‘For Mistress Grey?’
Janet looked up, searching Margaret’s face. She nodded once.
‘Did my uncle order them?’
Janet shook her head. ‘Mistress Grey ordered the curtains.’
‘She must have paid a bit of siller.’
‘Aye. And she had no need to ask the cost, just wanted the finest and the warmest, but of cloth, not skins, and light enough to pull aside.’
‘She sounds a grand lady.’
‘This I tell you, young Margaret, should you be wondering, she is not one who would dally with a merchant from Perth.’
Margaret sank down on the edge of one of the beds. If the weaver understood so much, it was pointless pretending indifference. ‘What is she like?’
‘A queen should carry herself so.’ The weaver rolled her eyes. ‘Half again your age—my age, more like. Fine wool clothes.’ She twitched her skirts. ‘A red underskirt.’ Lifted a foot. ‘Well-made shoes of leather to walk in the countryside.’ Janet’s were simple leather shoes, soft soled, tied with strips of hide. ‘Plucks her dark hair to broaden her forehead. She might be handsome but for her skin. Pox pitted. She uses a paste to smooth it
. It gives her an unhealthy pallor. She does not go to such trouble for the likes of your husband.’
But he is good enough for me, Margaret thought. ‘He brought her to Edinburgh.’
Janet sniffed. ‘I say she brought him.’ She eased back in her chair, arms folded across her ample chest, nodded at Margaret’s surprise. ‘That is how I see it.’ A draught blew the peat smoke into her eyes. Janet coughed and changed seats. ‘You don’t seem a woman to make unnecessary journeys. You must have believed you would find your husband here.’
‘I wearied of sitting and waiting. Forgive me—I understand that you, too, wait for your husband.’
‘Davy, aye.’ Janet sniffed as if impatient with her emotion. ‘Tell me your story. Murdoch has given it to me in pieces.’
The request, so frankly and simply made, reached into Margaret’s loneliness. With so little encouragement, she blurted out her whole sorry tale, even to her mother’s prediction.
‘And what was that?’
Margaret told her.
‘A daughter in your arms and the King of Scots in Edinburgh. It sounds a fine future to me.’
‘It does not seem likely at present.’
Janet fussed with the fire in the centre of the room. ‘Your mother has the Sight?’ she asked as she poked.
‘She does.’ Margaret shifted uneasily on the bed, drew the loom weight from her scrip. ‘I have another question. A friend was clasping this in his hand when he died.’ She placed it in the woman’s outstretched hand.
Janet fingered it, held it up to the light from a high window, shook her head. ‘Not one of mine. Too new.’ She dropped it into Margaret’s palm, pressed her hand with both of hers. Her expression was unreadable. ‘Jack Sinclair, your husband’s factor?’
‘Yes. Did you know him?’
‘You hope I ken whose this is, and why Jack carried it.’ Janet shook her head. ‘I cannot say. He might have found it lying in the gate.’
‘Old Will said a weaver named Bess might know something.’
‘Poor old man.’ Janet rose. ‘I’ll see what I can find out for you.’