by Candace Robb
Margaret gave up trying to eat, put down her spoon.
Murdoch held out a rough hand.
She grasped it.
‘They cannot prove a thing. We’ll talk of other matters.’ He frowned as he sought out a topic. ‘Do you remember your aunt, lass?’ He began a tale of romance that Margaret did not believe, but it distracted her enough that she finally picked up her spoon to eat.
A knock at the door brought both their heads up. Murdoch shook his. ‘Eat, lass. I’ll see who it is.’ He crossed to the door, opened it. ‘Andrew, good day to you. Or is it evening? Doesn’t your abbot fret when you are not there at vespers?’
‘I would see my sister, Uncle.’ Andrew’s voice was strained.
Margaret turned round in her chair. Andrew unwound his mantle, draped it over Murdoch’s arm. Her uncle grunted, then handed the mantle to Matthew, who had entered behind his master, wiping his forehead. His face was red from exertion.
Not so Andrew. Dear God, if Andrew had looked pale before, he looked far worse now.
Murdoch muttered to Matthew to hang the mantles on the pegs and take a seat by the door, and he would have some ale to fortify him for the rest of his journey.
Margaret pushed back from the table and rose to take her brother’s hands. They were dry and cold. He avoided looking her in the eye. ‘Andrew, what is it?’ She had to take a deep breath to manage more words, he frightened her so. ‘Did you go to the castle?’
‘I have just now spoken to Sir Walter Huntercombe.’ Andrew shook his head at Murdoch’s offer of ale, slumped down onto the bench farthest from the door, crossed his hands, stared down at them.
Margaret drew her chair over to him.
‘It is possible Roger is slain, Maggie.’
The choking sensation was now almost overwhelming. She stood, hand on her ribs, and forced herself to remember how to breathe.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ Murdoch shouted, running to Margaret, who pushed him away.
‘Do not silence Andrew now.’ Her words came in gasps. ‘Go sit.’
Andrew glared at Murdoch, hoping to push him back towards Matthew, but the stubborn man pulled up a chair near Margaret’s.
Andrew drew Margaret down on the bench beside him. She smelled like peat fires and rosemary. Her hair was undone, tumbling down her back. She was so young, and not even her mother here to comfort her. He saw her pain in her shadowed eyes, the lines of fatigue in her face, a stiffness of posture as she fought for control. She was not so faint of heart as most women, but to lose a husband must be a terrible thing to bear. He told himself that she would recover, she would remarry, it was not the end of happiness for her. But it would take time before she could see that.
‘What makes you think Roger is dead?’ She spoke more easily now.
Andrew felt her breath on his cheek. He could not remember when he had last been so close to anyone. How could he say anything but the truth when she was so close? ‘Roger accompanied Mistress Grey to the border.’ It was not the time to explain the names. ‘She and one of the men in the party have been slain. The man was not identified.’
Margaret crossed herself. ‘Since Thursday?’
That cursed vision of her husband. Andrew moved away from her, to the end of the bench, so that he could turn to face her squarely. ‘Perhaps a week ago, Maggie. On the border. You did not see him the other day.’
Her eyes narrowed. With distrust? Anger? ‘I did see him. I am certain of it.’
Andrew took her hands in his. They were warm. Her grasp was strong.
‘I did,’ she insisted. ‘It must have been another man in their company who was slain.’
Her eyes widened to contain tears. When they were young Andrew knew her bad days by the colour of her eyes—the same deep green as today. But what could he do but tell her the truth, help her accept it? She could not be spared the pain.
‘Maggie, the sheriff believes he would have heard if Roger was back in Edinburgh.’
Murdoch shifted on his seat. ‘How many men were in Mistress Grey’s company?’ he asked, his crooked brows drawn down in challenge.
Why would he not go away? ‘Three.’
Murdoch shook his head at Andrew. ‘Then there is more than an even chance he is not dead.’
Such unfounded optimism would not help Margaret face her possible loss.
‘Why was Roger escorting this woman?’ Margaret asked.
Once again Murdoch interrupted. ‘Indeed. The sheriff has nothing to tell you, so he tells a tale. Maggie—’
‘The woman’s real name is Edwina of Carlisle,’ Andrew said loudly, to drown out Murdoch. ‘Roger was escorting her to her husband in that town.’
‘Carlisle? Why?’ Margaret asked.
Andrew told her what the sheriff had told him, though not his mention of Robert Bruce. It did not seem as clear in the recounting as he had thought it when hearing it before. He still did not understand why the woman had remained in Lothian, why her husband was not with her.
Margaret withdrew her hands. ‘I do not understand Roger’s involvement. Does he think helping this English merchant’s wife will gain him a port?’
Murdoch snorted through his oft-broken nose. ‘Do you have a body to show for this story?’
‘No.’ God’s blood, the man irritated Andrew. ‘By now they will be buried.’ He prayed that they were, that they had not been left where they lay.
Margaret studied her hands silently.
‘I wanted you to know as soon as I heard,’ Andrew explained, wondering why she said nothing. ‘I did not want you to hear it from others. Not as you did about Mistress Grey—Edwina.’
Margaret clutched her elbows, tucked in her chin. She began to bite her cheek and tap one of her feet. Andrew moved to embrace her, but Murdoch’s arm was already circling her. What right had their uncle to comfort her when Andrew was here?
She shook herself loose from Murdoch, turned to Andrew.
‘How did the sheriff learn of their deaths? I want to talk to someone who saw them.’
‘He received a report from Glasgow. I doubt the messenger had witnessed any of it.’
‘How far is Glasgow?’
‘Too far,’ Murdoch said.
‘What would you accomplish?’ Andrew asked. ‘They would never agree to your opening the grave, Maggie.’
‘How am I to know whether to mourn him?’ she cried.
Andrew could not look at the pain in her eyes. It seemed a day of widows. His journey up the hill with the lyke of Davy the smith seemed so long ago, but it had been just this morning. The morning of a long day. And he must get back to Holyrood. ‘I must leave you now, Maggie. My lord abbot awaits word of my meeting with Widow Smith.’
‘Pray for Roger,’ Margaret said, still turned from him. ‘Pray that I saw him on Thursday.’ Her voice trembled.
Matthew jumped up to retrieve their mantles.
‘Godspeed to you,’ Murdoch said grudgingly.
‘I will pray for you and Roger all the night, I swear,’ Andrew said. Turning Margaret around, he kissed her on the forehead. She put her arms round him and held him tightly for a moment.
12
All the Difference
There had been a moment a year ago when Margaret sank into the abyss. Her flux had begun after two months—all that while she had happily believed she was with child. When she saw her blood, she fell into despair and walked in a colourless, silent land with an endless, bleak horizon. She walked there again now.
‘Maggie?’
Margaret turned into Murdoch’s arms.
He hugged her hard, then let her go. ‘We must talk, Maggie.’
Closing her eyes, she remembered the warmth of the bed when Roger was there, the scent of wine and spices that never seemed to fade in his clothes, his hair.
‘Maggie, are you taking a turn?’
She opened her eyes. ‘I’ll not faint here.’
‘Have I not asked you what you ken of Roger?’
‘Do you
remember how it felt when you lost your wife?’
‘I do, Maggie, that is why—’
‘Edwina of Carlisle—did you know that was her name?’
‘Maggie, if you will just be quiet I will tell you all—’
‘Now. Oh, yes, now I’ve lost him you’ll tell me all. Now I can’t bear to speak of him you’ll—’
‘It was Roger you saw, Maggie,’ Murdoch shouted, interrupting her. ‘It cannot have been him killed at the border.’
Margaret felt her world revolve and re-form itself once again. ‘What is this?’
Murdoch took off his cap, wiped his sweaty head with it. ‘We have much to talk about.’
Margaret fled to the door, swung it wide, gulping the evening air.
Murdoch stood behind her. ‘Come, Maggie,’ he said gently. ‘We must talk within.’
Gingerly, feeling she could not trust her own feet, she moved towards the table, sat down, poured herself more ale. Leaning her elbows on the table, she took a great drink.
Murdoch closed the door and eased down across from her. ‘You might put that aside. I have much to tell you.’
In a foolish act of defiance she drained the cup before putting it aside. Still leaning on her elbows, she asked with a slight slur, ‘Roger’s wound? Is that real, too?’
Murdoch looked up through his uneven brows. ‘Are you going to remember a word I say?’
She was certain she was hearing quite clearly. Pulling herself up to her full height, she repeated the questions, this time without any trouble.
‘Aye,’ Murdoch said. ‘I have heard of it.’
‘From whom? Who saw him?’
‘Janet Webster.’
‘Ye gods!’ It felt good to shout and hit the table with the side of her fist. And she had cause. Neither Murdoch nor Janet had deemed it a charitable thing to tell Margaret this news. ‘Both of you. How could you be so cruel?’ She was now fully sober.
‘I have told you all along, Maggie, there is no trusting anyone. Even now I fear not for myself but for all those others who are fighting for the same thing. What you know you can be forced to tell.’
‘You and Janet Webster can be trusted, but not me? Is it because you fight for something so awful I cannot possibly support it? Tell me. What are you fighting for?’
‘Freedom.’
‘John Balliol?’
Murdoch leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, watched her closely as he said, ‘I don’t much care who it is as long as it is not Edward Longshanks. But John Balliol has been taken to the Tower of London and we need a new leader.’
‘Who would that be?’
‘Roger believes it is the grandson of the Competitor, Robert Bruce. I helped Roger because he believed it so firmly. And I will do so again.’
She made a connection. ‘Robert Bruce’s father was constable of Carlisle.’
‘Aye. Edwina of Carlisle has known the Bruce for a long while. She believes he is the man who might rally the nobles.’
‘You have lied to me, Uncle. All this you might have told me. I knew you were a thief, but I thought you had honour when it came to family.’
He jerked as if she had slapped him, and looked pained. She hoped he took notice.
‘Maggie, listen to me.’
‘I have been listening to you. Much good it did me.’
‘I never chose to be a part of it and I have feared for my life, my tavern, my family ever since.’
‘Such noble feelings. My husband does not appear to have had them.’
‘They asked me for help stealing letters, any information we might find, from the English ships. I confess Roger spoke to my pride. I was honoured to be asked to use my skill for such a noble end.’
‘All this time Roger has been out there working for Robert Bruce?’
‘He takes great risks. With his silence, he hopes to protect you.’
Though Margaret wanted to believe her uncle, she found it difficult. Roger had not cared enough to make certain she understood that he loved her. ‘Why did he not speak to me when I saw him?’
‘I don’t know. He might have been with someone who would use you.’
Implications flooded her mind. She bowed her head and her throat tightened. ‘What sort of wife am I if I could not see his preoccupation, guess what it might be?’
‘It was the slaughter in Berwick, Maggie. So many people he had known. He had stayed in their homes, shared meals with them, danced with their wives and daughters. You must have noticed a change in him after that?’
‘Of course I did, but he said so little. I tried to talk about it, but he behaved as if I were merely curious, looking for gossip.’ He had treated her as a child. She did not believe she had given him cause to consider her such. ‘He left with the promise to return at Yuletide with no intent to do so.’
‘He did not know when he left that he would be caught up in it. He left intending to honour his promise. But something happened on his way to Dundee. I do not know what.’
‘It happened well before his journey to Dundee if he brought Edwina of Carlisle here before the summons to Berwick this past summer.’
‘Aye. But he left her then for a long while.’
‘He has left me for a long while.’
‘It was after Yuletide he returned, already travel-worn, and ready to escort Dame Edwina to Ayr.’
‘They were not on their way to Carlisle?’
Murdoch shook his head. ‘No, they were headed to the Bruce, the Earl of Carrick.’
‘I don’t understand. Robert Bruce is Edward’s man.’ The Bruces did not accept John Balliol as King of Scotland. They claimed to be the rightful heirs to the throne, and after Longshanks chose John Balliol as King of the Scots over the earl’s grandfather the family had refused to pay fealty to him or to support him in his belated uprising against the English. As constable of Carlisle the earl’s father had defended the English castle and town against King John Balliol’s forces. Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, was much at Longshanks’ court.
‘Robert Bruce has turned against the English,’ said Murdoch. ‘He is raising the men of Ayr against Longshanks’ warden in the west, Sir Henry Percy.’
‘Why should anyone believe Bruce will be loyal?’
‘He has everything to gain from supporting Longshanks, that is why.’
Perhaps Margaret had drunk too much. She did not understand the logic, nor did she care about Robert Bruce’s allegiance at the moment. ‘Do you think it was Edwina Carlisle’s body they found at the border?’
‘I doubt it was at the border. I doubt the sheriff told Andrew half what he kens about the killing.’
‘Did you lie about her too? Were she and Roger lovers?’
‘I never saw them together in such a way, Maggie. He did not spend the nights in her room.’
‘Did he mention me?’
Murdoch hesitated. ‘Not as often as I thought he should. But he had much on his mind.’
‘Yes.’ Margaret pushed herself up from the table, realised she was wobbly on her feet, and her stomach was queasy. ‘And now to bed. It has been a long and tiring day.’
She wove towards the door. Murdoch caught her round the waist, helped her out to the yard, where she promptly lost what little food she had managed to swallow. Then, a supporting hand beneath her elbow, he helped her to her chamber. She accepted his kindness, though she did not yet forgive him. It was merely expedient in order to make it across the darkening backlands and up the stairs.
Murdoch growled at the bolted door.
Margaret called to Celia.
It seemed a long while before the maid opened the door. She was a blur as Margaret made her way to the bed, dropped down onto it.
‘Mistress, what can I do for you?’
‘Let me be.’
Her thoughts were fluttering butterflies trapped beneath her ribs and in her skull, all trying to find a way out. Murdoch’s and Andrew’s voices vied for possession of her ears. Murdoch had kept all this from her.
She could think of no motive but distrust. She had been a fool to come to him, asking for his help, this man who believed she would betray him. She had remembered him from childhood as her hero, the one person who would always come to her aid. But he had lied to her from the moment she arrived.
As for Roger, she hated him. Yet she prayed that she had another chance with him, to convince him that she was as strong and admirable as Edwina of Carlisle. She had never had the chance to prove that. She had been a merchant’s daughter, raised to quietly stay in the background and care for a household. Her life had been uneventful until now, except for her mother’s Sight. She had had the charge of her father’s household when she met Roger, and then she had charge of his. No one had ever asked more of her.
She did not believe Roger had kept her ignorant to protect her. It would have made all the difference to her these many months to have known what he was about and any man in love would know that.
Perhaps worst of all, if she had known Roger was working for the Bruce she would not have fretted so much in Jack’s presence. She would have been frightened, but she would not have spoken of it. She would have put on a brave face. Jack would not have come to this cursed town. He would be alive.
13
The Murderer Might Be Anyone
Margaret lifted her head, then dropped it back down onto the pillow, rueing the quantity of ale she had drunk the previous evening. She smiled when she remembered that Roger was alive, that it had been him she saw in the town. Practical thoughts woke her more—perhaps she should return to Perth now, ready the house for him.
A vague feeling of dread insinuated, and then came memory. Roger was alive, yes, but her marriage was ashes. Her husband had not trusted her enough to explain to her what he was about, what he was willing to die for. She turned over onto her side, clutching her stomach.
She felt absolutely alone.
Four days ago her husband had been so near but made no effort to see her, speak to her. For two years she had shared her bed with a man about whom she had known nothing at all. Nothing. Yet she had worried so about him that his cousin had been moved to search for him—a kindness for which he had been rewarded by a violent death. A needless death. Roger’s danger had at least been of his own choosing.