A Trust Betrayed

by Candace Robb

  ‘The men who found him knew him well,’ said Sim.

  ‘Where has he been taken?’

  ‘The canons have him at the abbey,’ said Roy. ‘His wife is on her way down.’

  Poor Janet. ‘How did you hear of this?’

  ‘Men of the town have been watching that place ever since Harry was found downstream of it,’ said Sim. ‘It’s the abbot, they say. Edward Longshanks’ man. None of the English king’s men have been found murdered.’

  With a spreading chill she remembered the hostility Andrew had suffered in the tavern. So all the brethren at the abbey were under suspicion. She could not believe her brother would have any part in such an act. ‘Why would Longshanks' men murder a cobbler and a smith?’

  ‘You may as well ask why they murdered all the men of Berwick and left them in the streets to be eaten by the gulls and ravens,’ said Roy.

  Some of the drinkers sat sallow-faced and shocked, others drew heads together, talking earnestly. An argument had broken out near the door. ‘Will you close up when it’s time, Roy?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘Aye, mistress. This is no place for you.’

  9

  There Won’t Be Many Mourn Him

  The dark, silent backlands swallowed Margaret as she stepped out of the tavern. Anything, anyone, could hide behind a building, in the shadows beneath the stairs, against the houses. But that was not what she feared. To be alone, abandoned by all her kin—that was what she feared. And she feared Edward Longshanks. He had betrayed the trust of her countrymen, humiliated their king and stolen his crown, butchered the citizens of Berwick, and now his poison was seeping into all their lives. She would not believe that Andrew supported him. No matter what else he might lack, Andrew had a conscience. His abbot might be a traitor to this country, but not Andrew. If she was right, she feared for him.

  But what of Murdoch? All the other taverns in Edinburgh had been taken over by the English or closed because of trouble. Only Murdoch’s remained open to the folk. Might the same moral lack that drove him to smuggling and thieving lure him to treason against his people? No. She could not believe that of him.

  She shivered and thought to go up to bed, but her eyes were drawn to the lantern that hung over the doorway to the next house, the house in which Murdoch would rest his head if he were here tonight. Margaret headed for it. With the lantern in hand, she mounted the steps to her uncle’s temporary bedchamber. Slipping through the hide door she set the lantern on a small chest, considered the sparse furnishings. A bed, a shelf beside it with an oil lamp, a stool, the chest on which she had set the lantern. That was padlocked. Kneeling, she examined the lock. It looked like the sort opened with a slide key. Simple to open with the proper tool. She had a slide key and a notched post up in her room—they had served her well when her mother lost household keys and she carried them with her out of habit.

  Margaret stepped onto the landing and froze, sensing someone there.

  ‘Uncle?’

  Redbeard stepped into the light. ‘Murdoch’s not returned?’

  Seeing who it was did not ease her fear, even though his chamber was just behind him so he had cause to be here. Something in his manner frightened her, and she did not like that he knew Murdoch was away. ‘You made your way up without the light?’

  ‘A man who cannot pick his way in the dark is worthless, lass.’

  He seemed huge in this low, narrow space, and his calling her ‘lass’ meant to her that he knew the effect he had. He had approached so silently up a dark, unfamiliar stair. His stealth added to her uneasiness.

  Margaret shone the light towards his chamber. ‘You will find a cruisie in there with a twig for lighting from my lantern.’ She watched him use it.

  When he had lit the rush wick of his lamp he said, ‘God keep you,’ and bowed to her.

  Sweating with fear, Margaret hastened back to her own chamber.

  Celia opened the door before Margaret knocked.

  ‘You have been so long. Was it a fight?’

  ‘The body of Janet Webster’s husband was found in the bog.’

  ‘Holy Mother of God!’ Celia’s eyes were dark beads in the lamplight. ‘That poor woman.’

  ‘Aye. I cannot think how a wife looks on such a sight.’

  ‘Will you go to her?’

  ‘She has gone to the abbey.’

  They finished the pitcher of ale before retiring to the great bed.

  Margaret lay down only for the warmth—she would not sleep. Redbeard’s appearance without her uncle’s chamber had been the finishing touch for her. He might have snapped her neck without anyone knowing. She tried to push down such thoughts. She had no proof he meant her harm. He might simply have been headed for his chamber. But she had felt such a darkness in his presence, such a burning anger.

  She sat up in alarm each time one of the boarders mounted the steps. If Murdoch did not return, if his body was found somewhere…She tried not to think of that. And in truth, what need she fear, for Andrew would come to her aid. But if his abbot was a murderer…Celia moaned in her sleep.

  The Englishman came up quite late, just as Roy was shouting that all must leave. Margaret wondered why the men had tolerated him in their midst. Listen to her—she grew like the men in the tavern. Not all the English were like their king. Surely not. Still, any peaceable Englishman with sense was long gone from this place. She held her breath, listening for sounds from the man’s room, wishing she had put him in the next house. But then she would have had Redbeard next door to her. Come home, Uncle. Dear God, watch over Murdoch and bring him home safely. Andrew and Murdoch were right. This was no place for her.

  In the early morning Margaret bucked up her courage and resolved to examine her uncle’s kitchen and the chest in his chamber. He must have cause to lock them, and that cause might shed light on his disappearance. What she would do with the knowledge she had yet to figure. First she must have it.

  Celia woke at the noise Margaret made rummaging for the tools. She sat up, asked sleepily, ‘What is it?’

  ‘I am going to see if Uncle is in his bed,’ Margaret lied.

  She unbolted the door. But as she opened it, she heard the floorboards creak unevenly in the room she had given the Englishman. She heard voices, a pair. They quieted.

  ‘What—?’ Celia began, but stopped as Margaret shook her head at her.

  Halting footsteps approached the other doorway. Margaret shuttered her lantern, blew out the lamp beside the bed, kept the door open a crack.

  At the edges of the hide in the guest chamber she saw a light approaching, and prayed it did not illuminate her door.

  The hide lifted. The crooked torso explained the halting walk. Harcar, the fishmonger’s lad. The one who had discovered Jack’s body. His eyes swept over her doorway, then the doorway across the way, and lastly the doorway to the outside stairs. With a nod to the person holding the hide—Margaret could not see him—Harcar crossed in his awkward gait to the outside door and exited with caution. The hide curtain fell back in place over the Englishman’s doorway.

  It was a suspicious time for a visitor. All the fears of the night washed over Margaret. She shut her door and waited until her heartbeat slowed and she was calm enough to move quietly. She could hear Celia’s frightened breathing. The Englishman might be listening too. Margaret could not move past his chamber without some noise betraying her. So she must not steal past his door, but walk past as if nothing were amiss.

  ‘I am going to make some noise in leaving,’ she whispered to Celia.

  ‘You should come back to bed.’

  And lie there soaked in fear? She had borne enough of that for one night. ‘Bolt the door behind me when I go.’ Margaret pulled the bed curtains aside noisily, making one of the posts knock the wall. She relit the cruisie, carelessly drew the bolt on the door and cursed when she did not find a clean chamber pot. Shut the door. Opened the chest and let the lid drop.

  Noisy enough, she hoped. Now she left the room. Someone
grunted in the room to her right, but the Englishman’s room was silent. When she slipped through the outer door she resumed her earlier stealth, glad for the quiet stairs as she descended, and the thick fog that had rolled in as dawn approached.

  At the bottom of the steps she paused, listening. She did not want to be surprised while working on the lock. A rat scuttled across her foot, followed closely by the dark cat, which growled deep in its throat as it narrowed in on its prey. She crossed to the kitchen in their wake, waited yet again, then crept round to the door at the back.

  She shone the lantern on the lock. It was a padlock much like the one on which Murdoch had trained her. But she had no need for her tools—the lock hung open.

  She caught her breath, gently tried the latch. The door swung inwards. It was dark inside. She took another step forward, reaching out to feel for the window sill where she could set the tools and free a hand.

  Someone grabbed her from behind, twisting her left arm behind her. Margaret pressed back into him as she felt steel against her throat. She tried to move her right arm to shove the lantern back into his groin, but his arm pinned hers down.

  ‘Mother of God!’ she gasped, letting go of the lantern.

  ‘Maggie!’

  It was her uncle, not a murdering Englishman, not Redbeard. Murdoch let her go. She sank to her knees, weak and gasping for breath. The lantern. It would start a fire. She groped for it, praying that it had hit bare ground.

  ‘God’s blood, you’ll be the death of me.’

  Margaret found the lantern and opened the shutter.

  ‘No light, Maggie,’ Murdoch hissed.

  ‘Why such stealth in your own kitchen?’

  He was wearing a plaid, his legs and feet bare. His shirt was darkly stained, his eyes wild. He grabbed the lantern, shuttered it. ‘Get out.’ His voice was hoarse and shaky.

  ‘Where have you been? Do you ken how worried I’ve been?’

  ‘Get out.’ He pushed her towards the door, thrust the lantern at her. ‘I almost killed you, you foolish woman.’

  She reached out for him.

  ‘Uncle—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Maggie, go.’

  She backed out; he shut the door, sliding the bolt into place. She sank down on the bench outside to catch her breath. Her neck stung. She gently probed with her fingertips, found the spot sticky. Queasy at the discovery of how close she had come to being seriously injured, if not killed, she dropped her head into her hands. Murdoch was back, he was alive, praise God. But his presence did not mean safety for her. She had been mad to step within after discovering the door unlocked, the kitchen dark.

  The fog settled on her, and eventually dampened her clothes sufficiently to rouse her with the chill. Picking up the lantern, she opened the shutter enough to light the path just before her feet. Halfway to the house she heard a woman scream and nearly dropped the lantern. The fog played with the sound, but a second scream was closer. She shuttered the lantern, stood very still, trying to hear over her own terror. Uncertain footsteps approached from the direction of the alley, someone breathing quickly and moaning prayers. Margaret opened the shutter a little.

  Celia’s eyes were huge in a pinched white face. ‘Mistress, thank God it is you.’

  ‘What are you doing here? Why did you scream? Are you injured?’

  ‘There is a dead man lying in the alley.’

  Margaret heard someone behind her. She turned to blind them with the lantern. The light wobbled in her trembling hands.

  Hal shaded his eyes. ‘What has happened?’

  Murdoch was right behind him, his plaid arranged to hide the dirty shirt.

  ‘Come, Celia,’ Margaret said, managing to sound far steadier than she felt. ‘Show us the body.’

  ‘It is in the alley.’

  ‘Show us,’ Murdoch said.

  Celia led them to the alley between the inn buildings, slowly, for the fog was even thicker now and the pale lantern beam fell just beyond their feet. Halfway down the alley Margaret saw a man sprawled on the ground, face down, blood from his head mixing with the mud. It looked as if one leg was drawn up beneath him. But as Margaret let the lantern play over his legs she saw that one was shorter than the other.

  ‘Harcar,’ Margaret whispered.

  Murdoch had crouched down. ‘Aye. There won’t be many mourn him.’ He looked up at the sound of footsteps out on the High Street.

  Margaret shuttered the lantern and tried not to breathe.

  As soon as the footsteps faded, Murdoch headed back down the alley. All three stumbled after him in the dark. Once in the yard, Murdoch slumped against the stable wall, burying his face in one arm.

  Celia began to sob. Margaret held her and prayed—for them, not the dead man. Hal hovered next to his master as if waiting for a sign of what he was to do.

  At last Murdoch straightened, turned towards them.

  ‘This will go ill for us if discovered.’ He nodded to Hal. ‘We’ll move the body to one of the sheds behind the kitchens. Then you’ll fetch Father Francis from St Giles’. Tell him we found Harcar and took him in to shelter, but he was already dead. Tell Father Francis, mind you, no other.’

  ‘It would be better to fetch Andrew from Holyrood,’ Margaret said. She wanted to see her brother.

  ‘No!’ Murdoch said vehemently. ‘Not the abbey. St Giles’. Father Francis will not tell the English we found him. Abbot Adam would be only too happy to do so.’

  ‘What has this to do with the English?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘They will see his murder as a threat to them. He spied for them.’

  Celia whimpered.

  ‘Andrew would say nothing,’ Margaret said.

  ‘Nothing need be said. Abbot Adam knows all that passes in the abbey. You two women, go to your chamber, bar the door.’

  Margaret gave Celia the lantern, told her to go on.

  Murdoch shook his head, muttering to himself.

  ‘Uncle,’ Margaret said quietly.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Harcar left the Englishman’s room next to my chamber just before I came out to your kitchen.’

  ‘You saw him up in the room?’

  ‘I saw him leave it.’

  Murdoch crossed himself. ‘Get yourself up to your chamber, bar the door as I said. I’ll send for you.’

  Upstairs, Celia stood in the middle of the room clutching her elbows and whimpering like an injured pup.

  ‘Why were you in the alley?’ Margaret asked.

  Celia hiccuped as she tried to still herself, held her breath.

  Margaret poked at the embers in the brazier.

  ‘The Englishman left his chamber,’ Celia said at last, her voice rough. ‘I thought you’d wish to know where he’d gone.’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘That is all you can say?’ Celia took a step towards Margaret. ‘What is that on your throat?’

  Margaret touched the scratch. The blood was dry. ‘I cut myself. Where did he go? Did he see the body?’

  ‘He stopped by it, then walked on by. Like it was a sleeping dog. I bent to it, not expecting—Oh, dear Lord.’ She pressed her hands to her face.

  ‘Did you scream while he was yet in the alley?’

  Celia dropped her hands, shook her head. ‘Not at once. No. I stood over the body and prayed for us.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I must lie down.’

  The Englishman was not the murderer, then. But Murdoch might be. It might be Harcar’s blood she had seen on her uncle’s clothes. How she wished she had stayed in Dunfermline or returned to Perth. She felt as if she had walked off a precipice and had yet to stop falling.

  Murdoch sat by the fire, feet on a stool to warm, drinking ale. He had cleaned himself up, changed clothes. An empty tub was turned over near the fire. He glanced up, nodded to her, returned to his study of the fire.

  Margaret was about to sit down beside him, but changed her mind and sat where she might see his face. The fire played on his ruddy features, t
he pale brows that drew together in the middle, parted at the scar over his right eye, the often broken nose. She had never seen him so clean.

  ‘I did not think you a man overfond of a bath,’ she said.

  ‘You meant to break into my kitchen.’

  ‘You might tell me where you’ve been.’

  ‘I didn’t give you those tools to pick my locks.’

  ‘I didn’t know how long you’d be away. Yesterday James Comyn supplied the ale from his own stock because Roy could not fetch any from here.’

  ‘So what if he did? Comyn can spare it.’

  Margaret rose and poked at the fire, added a block of peat.

  ‘Damn you, woman, let it be!’ Murdoch dropped his cup, cursed her for making him spill his ale too.

  Margaret refilled his cup, and poured one for herself. In silence, she handed his cup to him. She lifted her own and drained it. The peat fire had begun to smoke. As she bent to see to it, Murdoch shifted in his seat. She prepared herself for another outburst.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I was a fool to walk into a dark place. But I was gey worried. I couldn’t sleep. Davy the smith is dead, did you hear?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Does Harcar’s murder have to do with Davy’s?’

  ‘Do you have lugs? I’ve told you not to ask such questions.’ Murdoch rubbed his forehead. He did look weary. ‘This is no place for you, Maggie. Go home.’

  ‘When Edward Longshanks moves north to Perth, where do you suggest I go then? To Elcho Nunnery with Mother?’

  Murdoch stared at her silently for several heartbeats. ‘If the English hear where Harcar was found, we’ll have no peace, Maggie. Better you were in Perth.’

  ‘I thought you had a pact with the sheriff.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘They closed the taverns in Perth when Longshanks was there. Why do the English allow this tavern to stay open?’

  ‘If Longshanks were at the castle they would close it.’ He sat back, frowning, tapping his fingers on the cup in an uneven rhythm. Suddenly he stopped. ‘You think I killed Harcar.’