by Candace Robb
‘You might go back if you like.’
‘I’ll bide here a while.’
Margaret mounted the steps quietly, stole past MacLaren’s room. She needed to discover what Murdoch kept in his chest, but she would not welcome another encounter with Redbeard.
Entering Murdoch’s chamber, she saw that the soiled clothes he had worn in the early morning were not lying on his bed, nor were they tossed on the floor or hanging on a hook. A leather pack on a bench beneath the window contained only a piece of iron apparently broken from something and a pair of gloves, so often worn they retained the shape of Murdoch’s hands. Margaret moved the lamp from the plain chest beside the bed to the floor, took the slide key and slowly, holding the padlock in one hand, slid the key in, holding her breath as she strained to sense the second it touched the springs. After a few unsuccessful tries, she rose and walked back and forth, loosening her hands and her back—she was forced to kneel in a cramped position. When she returned to it, she at last managed to hook the key into the holes in both springs, compress them, and push them through, opening the latch.
In the chest she found unlaced leggings, soft shoes, a clean shift—who had washed that for him, she wondered—a length of plaid, muddy along part of one side. Murdoch had lived in the highlands for a time as a young man and had taken to wearing their long lengths of colourful wool, draped and belted, when doing physical work or travelling. She lifted it. Still damp. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of tidal mud. Something sticky matted the wool in another spot. She stepped over into the light from the window. Mud and slime with the distinct stench of low tide. Smuggling, she guessed. That is what he had been up to. It was a wonder there were ships with cargo worth stealing at present, unless he was boarding English ships. Murdoch might be so bold as that. Andrew had said something about thefts on English ships.
She unwound the plaid. A shirt fell to the floor. This is what she had noticed in the morning. The sleeves were caked with mud. Drying, the mud cracked and crumbled, littering the floor. The left sleeve was torn near the shoulder. There was blood above that, and on the chest. If the injury was Murdoch’s, he hid it well.
Abbot Adam be damned. Sitting there with Margaret, seeing the yearning in her eyes, the strain in her voice, Andrew had felt something shift in his heart—or perhaps just right itself. His family came before all but God, that was the right way, that was the only way of honour. What he had said to Margaret about his countrymen—that had come from his heart, not the pit of his stomach, where the abbot held him. But no more—he would not cower before Abbot Adam again.
With Matthew trotting behind, Andrew walked with purpose up the High Street, past the tron, the market cross, St Giles’, across the well-trodden mud of Lawnmarket, to the first guard post. It must have been a shock for Margaret to think she saw Roger after all this time only to lose him even before they spoke, before she could be certain it was him. Andrew doubted that she had seen him, but he would do what he could to help her find Roger. Because it was what she wanted and Andrew loved her, not because he thought the man good for her.
He explained to the guards who he was, that he knew Sir Walter Huntercombe, and that he wished to speak with the sheriff about a private matter.
Not so long ago Andrew knew the guards, two of them from Perthshire. Now they had been replaced by English guards, younger men, glowering, expecting trouble. Even so, Andrew and Matthew were passed through to Castle Hill.
Here those houses not burned in the fighting had been taken over by King Edward’s army and those who fed it, clothed it, repaired weapons, stabled and cared for the horses. Tents and long, low buildings of hasty construction cluttered the area. A blast of heat smote them as they passed the castle smiddie. The track began to wind to the north, climbing gradually to the citadel. The Firth of Forth glistened in the pale sunshine of the afternoon. Ahead, due west, rose the faint outlines of the mountains.
‘Father,’ Matthew gasped. He held his side, his face red. ‘I pray you, Father, I cannot walk so fast for so long.’
Andrew had been unaware of walking quickly. Until Matthew’s reminder, he had not felt his own state. His left heel ached, sending a pain up his leg. The wind chilled his damp temples. Despite the cold, his habit clung to his sweaty back.
‘There is no need for such haste. We will stop a moment.’
At the inner gatehouse, Andrew requested a meeting with Sir Walter. A bench inside the gatehouse was offered for their wait. Matthew gladly slumped down on the end. Andrew settled beside him.
A servant came to lead them to the sheriff’s lodgings in a half-timbered house on the slope above the chapel of St Margaret. The quarters were exceedingly modest compared to what Andrew remembered of Sir Walter’s manor house near Oxford. A tapestry was drawn over the doorway to a small chamber. It would take more than that to protect one against the braw winds that howled without. Andrew ducked beneath the tapestry, Matthew after him.
Sir Walter rose from a leather slung chair, arms spread in welcome.
‘Father Andrew, it is good to see a friendly face.’
After exchanging news of their families, Andrew returned to Margaret, whom he had mentioned in passing.
‘It is about my sister that I have come. Her husband has been missing for a long while. She expected him in Perth at Christmas, but he did not come. She has not seen him since Martinmas.’
Sir Walter sat back in his chair, spread his arms. ‘In time of war…’ he shook his head.
‘He is a merchant, not a soldier.’
‘Is she certain of that?’
‘She has no cause to believe otherwise.’
‘Then it is a long absence.’ Sir Walter looked sympathetic. ‘But I do not see what I might do.’
‘My sister believes she saw her husband three days ago—here in Edinburgh. The men who accompanied him pulled him away before he could speak to her. He was badly cut on the left side of his face. I hoped you might know something of this. Roger Sinclair is his name.’
‘She expected him in Perth, you said. Your sister has come all the way from there?’
‘From Dunfermline, where she has been staying with her goodmother.’
Sir Walter asked for Roger’s name again. Andrew repeated it.
‘Sinclair.’ The sheriff pondered. ‘The Sinclairs are friends of John Balliol, are they not?’
‘The wealthier, more powerful members of the family are, yes. But Roger comes from a family of merchants from Fife, traders across the North Sea.’
‘Traders. Sinclair knew folk from Berwick?’
‘He shipped from Berwick.’
‘Ah.’
‘I pray that God has not changed His mind about saving him from that massacre.’
Sir Walter shook his head at mention of the slaughter. ‘Though some might call it treason to say it, I cannot think other than that it was a terrible thing that King Edward allowed at Berwick. I have not known my liege to make such a misstep before.’ The sheriff was quiet for a moment, lost in his own thoughts. ‘Sinclair is a familiar name. It was a Sinclair who escorted Edwina of Carlisle to Murdoch Kerr’s inn.’
‘I do not know that name. Roger travelled with a Mistress Grey who lodged there…’
Though the sheriff studied his hands, Andrew could see the look of concern on his face.
‘I shall return in a moment.’ Sir Walter rose. His servant lifted the tapestry, opened the door. The sheriff nodded to Andrew and left the room.
The story Andrew had heard was that Roger had helped Mistress Grey escape from Berwick, her husband a victim of King Edward’s slaughter. So she had claimed. That had bothered Andrew when he heard it. It felt wrong that she had taken five months to leave Berwick. Edwina of Carlisle. Andrew rose, fingered the carving on the back of his chair. Edwina was a Saxon name, common in the north of England.
A servant opened the door. Sir Walter entered the room, his face solemn. His chin tucked in, he avoided Andrew’s eye as he resumed his seat. Another servan
t brought a tray, poured wine into cups, offered one to Andrew. Brandywine.
‘Do you have news of Roger?’ Andrew asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Sir Walter said, his head down, the cup untouched beside him. ‘Mistress Grey was Edwina of Carlisle, a lady of noble birth who lived in Berwick until recently. The terrible massacre there forced her, finally, to decide to leave her home, but she feared her Cumbrian name would antagonise the people of Edinburgh while she awaited safe conduct across the border. She claimed that her husband, William Carlisle, a merchant of Berwick and landholder in Cumbria, had sent money north for her escort back to England. She came to Edinburgh under the mistaken belief that the money had arrived at the castle. It had not.’
‘What became of her?’
‘In the end she sold some jewellery to fund the expedition back to England. Three men, including Roger Sinclair, were in the escort. A week ago the bodies of Dame Edwina and one of the men were found near the border. I do not know which of the men was slain.’
‘He was escorting a wealthy Englishwoman across the border?’
‘I see that surprises you. Roger Sinclair is not loyal to King Edward?’
Andrew did not like the interest Sir Walter exhibited. ‘In faith I do not know which way he turns. But having known so many in Berwick…’
‘I understand.’
‘Were they robbed?’
‘Jewels, much of their clothing, horses…’ Sir Walter studied the signet ring on his finger, as if noting what he might lose in such an attack.
‘My sister will surely ask whether it was just theft or something more.’
‘One never knows on the border. Robert Bruce has close ties to Carlisle, you know.’
First he had mentioned John Balliol, now the Bruce. It sounded to Andrew as if Sir Walter was not at all sure it was a simple theft. ‘I thought Mistress—Dame Edwina was a widow.’
‘Part of her guise as Mistress Grey, I should think.’
‘Did you not wonder about her? Why she had stayed so long in Berwick after the siege of the town?’
‘In such times I would be negligent of my duties not to wonder.’ Sir Walter spread his hands. ‘Her tale was that her husband had gone south to see to their property in Cumbria, while she had remained to see to their land up here. But of late he had felt it was no longer safe for her in Scotland. Both were rightfully fearful that she might be in danger, being English. And her husband is indeed in Carlisle—that much at least is certainly true. But I know no more.’
Andrew’s stomach knotted. What a miserable tale to take back to Margaret. More uncertainty.
‘It is a difficult time for all the people of this country,’ said Sir Walter, his voice suddenly gentler. ‘And the north of England. When people turn against their king, violence follows. King Edward has done well by us. Your country would enjoy peace and order under his rule. Being Abbot Adam’s man, I doubt you would deny that.’
Any king who had to go to such lengths to subdue those he ruled was no good king, but Andrew had come to that opinion late. He had been naïve. He had not believed Edward Longshanks meant to depose their king. As for being Abbot Adam’s man, he had been, to his shame, far longer than his conscience should have tolerated. Yet the abbot was his lord. Even so, his mouth would not form the conciliatory words. ‘We had a king who suited us well enough.’
Sir Walter seemed startled by the words, but merely pressed his hands together, shook his head. ‘I wish I could give you more definite news.’
‘My sister was so certain she had seen him on Thursday.’
The sheriff downed his wine. ‘So you said, but I would expect to know of his presence, if that were true. She has come all this way seeking him. It is no surprise her eyes tricked her.’
‘Are you certain it was them?’
‘Dame Edwina carried letters identifying herself.’
‘They left a letter identifying her?’
‘It was sewn into her shift. They did not strip her completely.’
Both men bowed their heads.
Andrew said a prayer for the woman’s soul—if the man were Roger he deserved no prayers, leaving his wife to go to the aid of an Englishwoman. ‘Where is the man’s body?’
‘I was not informed. It was part of a larger report from Glasgow of risings in the west.’
‘So you don’t think it an ordinary theft?’
‘The king’s warden of Galloway and Ayr, Sir Henry Percy, does not. As for myself, I see no clear evidence.’ And yet he had suggested Robert Bruce.
‘Did you arrange the escort?’
‘No. Sinclair did, but I do not know how he came to be associated with the lady. Apparently neither do you.’
Andrew shook his head. At least this was something, he could tell Margaret that Roger had been acting on his own will.
‘We must talk about your journey to St Andrews,’ said Sir Walter. ‘Another time, of course. Can I offer you more brandywine?’
‘I must go to my sister,’ Andrew said, rising.
‘Of course. It will be a difficult meeting.’
Andrew closed his eyes. Holy Mother, guide me in telling Maggie, he prayed. ‘I thank you for seeing me. It will be some little comfort, to hear it from her brother rather than a stranger. God go with you, Sir Walter.’
‘God go with you, Father Andrew.’
Andrew hastened down the hill, Matthew pounding along behind him.
11
It Is a Difficult Time
Margaret sat by the fire with her spindle, watching Murdoch prepare the meal.
‘You will not tell me where you were for two nights?’ she asked again.
‘Are you my keeper?’
‘James Comyn and Roy both thought it unlike you and worrisome.’
‘Bothersome to Roy. But Comyn—what did he say?’
‘He asked where you were, that is all. But I could see how it troubled him.’
‘With my mistress.’
‘You’re a better liar than that.’
Murdoch snorted. ‘It is the truth.’
‘Who is she?’
‘I’ll not say. You’ll not like that I was with her.’
‘Even Janet Webster seemed worried for you.’
Murdoch splashed himself with an overhasty stir.
So that was the closeness she had sensed. ‘I was with Janet twice yesterday. You were not there.’
‘I did not say she was my mistress.’
‘I saw mud on you, and blood, Uncle. You wore the plaid. You do not wear that clothing in the town.’
‘I told you—’
She stared at him until he dropped his gaze.
‘You are too curious, Maggie.’
‘You do not appear injured. So who’s blood was it, Uncle? Harcar’s?’
‘No! I’ve told you I had no part in that.’
‘So?’
‘I took too much of a risk boarding a ship. It is possible I killed someone—but he attacked me first. I’m not a murderer.’
Like Roger, he had his own moral code. Margaret understood that in times like these a certain ruthlessness might be necessary, but it still chilled her.
The cat rubbed against Murdoch’s leg. He dropped a piece of fish for him.
‘You spoil the cat, feeding him scraps of food. He’ll never be a good mouser if so well fed.’
‘Agrippa is good company,’ said Murdoch. ‘And a good mouser. If you were a cat, so would you be, I think.’
She was not sure she liked that. But cats had been much on her mind. ‘Might it have been a cat that wounded Roger? No man’s fingers could dig such wounds. Not four of them. But such great claws they must have been. A far larger paw than I have ever seen.’
Murdoch blew on a spoonful of stew, tasted it, tossed in a pinch of savoury. ‘You are sure of what you saw, Maggie?’
‘For a few breaths I was close enough. He must be in great pain.’
Murdoch shook his head as he sliced bread. ‘No man would stand still for four s
wipes of a knife. You are certain of four?’
She was not certain about any of it any more. ‘I might be mistaken about the number.’
‘Four claws, that’s what you were thinking, eh?’
‘You don’t believe me.’
‘Believe you I do, Maggie. But to the counting of the wounds…’ he shook his head.
She tugged at the wool spun out below the spindle.
‘Maggie, have you ever had a vision, like one of Christiana’s?’
The question surprised and annoyed her. ‘You know that I’m not like my mother. I did see him.’
‘How can you be certain it wasn’t a vision?’
She wished she had moved more quickly. If she had touched Roger she would be more certain. ‘The soldiers saw him.’
‘Did they say they saw him? Or a group of men?’
Murdoch was confusing her. ‘The men.’ Margaret tried to recall her mother’s descriptions of her visions. Outwardly, it was clear that Christiana was staring at something that was not there, or that did not warrant such an expression as she wore. She might move towards it, or reach out to it imploring, or behave as if someone had touched her. Once she had bled from the touch of steel in her vision. Andrew had borne witness. He had sworn that she had not moved, the blood had just appeared. She did not see Christ or the Blessed Virgin or the saints. She saw ordinary people in scenes from the past or the future. If that had happened to Margaret, it was possible that Roger’s wounding was something yet to happen.
Murdoch grunted as he set a trencher with stew in the centre before her. ‘It is something to think about on a full stomach.’ He sat down, started to eat at once.
Margaret had no appetite. ‘What will happen if the English hear you found Harcar? Father Francis might have been seen moving him to St Giles’.’
He frowned up at the ceiling. ‘With Sim’s tongue we’ll soon ken. I caught him telling a stranger that Harcar was killed on his way from the tavern this morning. I do not ken what is stuffed betwixt his lugs, but it’s not a brain.’ Murdoch stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth, chewed energetically. ‘But it’s only to be expected of the son of a flyting fishwife,’ he continued after swallowing. ‘Thrice brought up before the magistrate for it.’