A Trust Betrayed

by Candace Robb

  ‘Uncle?’ she whispered.

  ‘Have you found what you seek?’

  It was a whisper. A man’s voice. She could not tell whether it was Murdoch. She took a step inside. Hearing a sound behind her, she was about to turn when someone pushed her by the small of her back. She fell to her knees. The door thudded closed behind her. The lamp winked out.

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph, watch over me. The dark closed in around her. She fought panic, trying to think what to do. She felt a trunk in front of her, used it to help her rise without losing her direction.

  ‘I’ll ask again.’

  A scream caught in her throat. The voice was very near to her left.

  ‘Have you found what you seek?’

  It was James Comyn. He was now so near he might reach out and touch her. She took a step to the right, her heart pounding.

  ‘What have you done with my uncle?’

  ‘Has Besseta satisfied you?’

  She tried to remember how many steps forward and to the right it was to a pillar she might put between them. She took a step, bumped the toe of her shoe against the trunk.

  ‘I advise you not to explore in the dark, Dame Kerr, Murdoch has been shifting his treasures. But come.’ He grabbed her by the left elbow. ‘I’ll guide you to a well-lit place.’

  ‘I prefer to remain here.’

  ‘But a moment ago you were moving.’

  Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, which was not as complete as she had first thought. There was a glimmer of light in the left corner of the far aisle.

  She tried to pull free of him.

  ‘Do you wish me to carry you?’ He reached for her waist.

  ‘No.’ She pushed his hands away and began to move towards the light. He caught her when she stumbled. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Why did you want me out of the way today?’

  She explored the next step with her toe before moving forward. ‘I wished to talk to Besseta Fletcher. Without you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had questions about Jack. And Roger.’

  ‘What has she to do with your husband?’

  They had reached the corner by the tapestries, where a lamp burned. Comyn’s blue eyes were pale in the flickering light, his face shaping and reshaping with the movement. She wondered where the draught was coming from.

  ‘Celia will come looking for me,’ Margaret said.

  Comyn said nothing. The dimple in his chin was sinister in this light.

  ‘Where is my uncle?’

  ‘Where is your allegiance, Dame Kerr?’ His voice was disturbingly caressing. ‘Murdoch wavers according to his comfort, but what of his niece?’

  ‘You know why I’m here. To find my husband.’

  ‘Perhaps. Yet you consort with English soldiers.’

  ‘I did not choose to walk with them.’

  ‘You do not prefer Longshanks?’

  ‘John Balliol is our consecrated king. Longshanks’ soldiers do not change that.’ Knowing her loyalties were the same as James Comyn’s did not comfort Margaret at the moment.

  ‘What of Robert Bruce?’

  ‘I don’t trust him.’

  ‘What of your husband’s involvement in the Bruce’s scheming?’

  ‘I have only just learned of it. I don’t know what will become of my husband and me.’

  ‘You risked your life in coming to Edinburgh, seeking him.’

  She would not risk her life for him again. ‘My uncle is sending me away. I’ll trouble you no more.’

  ‘Murdoch cannot send you north. The Forth ferry is in the hands of the English and their forces are swarming through Falkirk and Stirling.’

  So she was trapped here. She sank down on a chest. ‘Agnes is dead, did you ken?’

  ‘Her death is not unexpected.’

  Margaret saw the emaciated body before her. ‘It must have been terrifying for both of them. That is on your conscience. You left them alone together, trusting no one, hating each other.’

  ‘Besseta will not be blamed, if that is what you fear for her. Father Francis will say Agnes died of sorrow. There was nothing Besseta could do.’

  Margaret thought of Besseta’s staring eyes. ‘That does not undo the horror of what she’s lived through. It will destroy her.’

  ‘I’ll find someone to take her in.’

  ‘How kind of you.’

  ‘What will you say of Agnes’s death?’ he asked.

  ‘Is that what worries you?’ Margaret tried to chuckle. It did not ring true. ‘I’ve no cause to tell anyone what I learned today. But for what you did to the Fletchers, I might have been your ally.’

  The storeroom door opened.

  ‘Maggie?’ It was Murdoch.

  She rose.

  ‘What is this?’ Murdoch growled.

  ‘Remember this,’ Comyn said. ‘Remember how easily you can be silenced.’ He gave her a little bow.

  She forced herself to walk towards the door at a normal pace, negotiating the chests and barrels in the gloom. Murdoch muttered something unintelligible as she brushed past him.

  By the time Murdoch came up to the chamber to ask after her, Margaret was lying down with a compress draped over her forehead.

  ‘I hope he frightened some sense into you. You don’t walk into a dark room.’

  ‘There was a light. And Sim told me you awaited me there.’

  ‘So he’s in Comyn’s employ now, is he? Well, God grant them joy of each other.’ Murdoch paced away and back to the bed. He carried a rolled paper that he slapped against his thigh as he walked. ‘There’s been nothing but trouble since you arrived.’

  ‘I have not been the cause of it. Why does Comyn have a key to the storeroom?’

  ‘He doesn’t.’

  Another lock expert.

  ‘You were to keep him occupied,’ Margaret accused.

  ‘I did. For a few hours. You were too long away.’ Murdoch thrust the paper at her. ‘You have a letter from the abbey.’

  ‘From Andrew?’ Margaret sat up.

  ‘No. From Abbot Adam.’

  Margaret’s hands trembled as she broke the seal. ‘Will you tell me what it says?’ She handed it back to Murdoch. She could not read.

  ‘Aye.’

  It was difficult to hang together Murdoch’s halting sounding out of the words. But by his tone and the word ‘banished’ Margaret understood it to be bad news. ‘Andrew is banished?’

  ‘Aye, to Soutra Hospital, to be confessor to the English soldiers. God help him.’

  Was that not the work of his order? ‘What is so terrible in that?’

  ‘Longshanks’ men are an invading army, Maggie. Once Andrew has heard their secret sins, how can they let him go out among his own people? He could be dangerously knowledgeable.’

  Margaret had forgotten what Andrew had said about the English, why they brought their own priests with them. ‘Dear God have mercy on him,’ she whispered.

  ‘What has he done, Maggie?’ Murdoch asked. ‘For what is he so punished?’

  She ignored the question. ‘When does he go?’

  Murdoch squinted back at the paper, moving his lips as he reread it. ‘A week hence, says Abbot Adam. Until then Andrew is cloistered, cannot see or speak to anyone other than his abbot and a few chosen brethren.’

  ‘You must do something,’ Margaret said. ‘Surely in that time you can think of a way to stop this.’

  ‘So that I can join Davy and Harry?’ Murdoch shook his head.

  ‘At least I might see Andrew.’

  ‘Ask Comyn.’

  Margaret grabbed the letter from Murdoch. ‘I’ll ask him nothing.’

  ‘There are times when it’s best to bury your pride, Maggie.’

  She lay back down.

  Murdoch leaned down close. ‘So Andrew is to be trusted by the English, eh?’

  ‘Once at Soutra it won’t matter, will it?’

  Murdoch took the letter that lay by her side. ‘I’ll talk to Comyn.’r />
  The dry spell had broken with a thunderstorm in the early evening. Rain drummed on the roof, wind rattled the shutters, the thunder claps and lightning bolts felt like God’s ire loosed on Edinburgh. For Agnes’s death? Andrew’s banishment?

  Margaret sat in a corner of the tavern, watching the gloom spread as folk talked of Agnes Fletcher’s death, rumours of the fighting, north of the Tay for now, praise God, but that was temporary. Sim fought to avoid eye contact.

  Murdoch joined Margaret.

  ‘Comyn will find out what he can tonight.’

  ‘Why would he do this for us?’

  ‘He said you are a loyal subject of his king. He’ll not let your brother go to the Devil if he can help it.’

  ‘I don’t understand him.’

  Murdoch pushed a tankard at her. ‘Drink this. From what he tells me of your day, you need it.’

  He watched her lift her tankard. She trembled with weariness, but her mind was too unquiet to rest.

  ‘I pray God you are satisfied now, Maggie, that you’ve asked your fill of questions.’ He took a long drink.

  ‘What will you do with Sim?’

  ‘It’s best to have one’s enemies in sight. I can watch him here.’

  Margaret studied her uncle’s face—he was serious. ‘Will you at least punish him?’

  ‘Aye, I’ll do that. I’ll wait until he thinks I’ve let it go, then I’ll get him. It will be a pleasure.’

  ‘I’d prefer not to see him again.’

  ‘You’ll soon be away from here.’

  ‘I think not. Comyn says the English have stopped the ferries.’

  She saw that it was news to her uncle. But he quickly recovered. ‘Then stay out of the tavern, eh?’

  How wrong she had been to think she might trust Murdoch. His wife’s family had been right to drive him out of Perth. He was a thief and a bully, nothing more. But if she was to survive, she must learn to live with him. Which was why she pressed forward with her plan rather than continuing the argument. ‘I have been thinking,’ she began, ‘it seems to me if we are stuck with one another we should make the best of it.’

  Murdoch eyed her warily. ‘Go on.’

  ‘When you were away, I managed the inn and tavern quite well, I think.’

  ‘Except for the corpse in the alley.’

  ‘Neither of us could have prevented that.’

  Murdoch grunted. ‘Perhaps not.’ He squinted at her. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘I want to continue to manage the inn and tavern.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It would leave you free to disappear whenever you choose.’

  Murdoch glanced round at the tavern, then quietly regarded the floor for a moment. ‘Why would you want to do that?’ he asked at last.

  ‘I want to stay busy. I want to feel I have a place.’

  ‘You want the keys.’

  ‘I don’t need them.’

  Murdoch snorted.

  Margaret took a deep breath, lifted her tankard to him. ‘Are we partners?’

  He lifted his tankard, tapped hers. ‘You’ve a place as long as you stay out of trouble.’

  They drank to their partnership.

  19

  A Valley Where Night Already Held Sway

  It was hours later that Comyn arrived, long after the tavern had closed. The knock on Murdoch’s kitchen door was so light Margaret almost thought she imagined it. It did not even wake Murdoch, who had fallen asleep by the fire while they waited for the man.

  Comyn stood in the doorway, dishevelled and wet.

  ‘Your brother leaves in the morning.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus. I must see him!’

  ‘What? Who?’ Murdoch rumbled, roused by her cry.

  ‘It is James Comyn, Uncle. He says Andrew departs tomorrow morn.’

  ‘May I come in for a moment?’ Comyn asked.

  Margaret stepped aside.

  Comyn took off his cap, shook it, then his mantle, laid them on a bench. ‘We have matters to discuss.’

  ‘Aye,’ Murdoch said, rubbing his face to wake himself. ‘The abbot wishes to be rid of Andrew so quickly?’

  ‘So they say.’ Comyn turned to Margaret. ‘I can do no more than help you speak to him before he departs. But tell me why I should make Father Andrew’s leave-taking easier for him. Do you know why he is being banished?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ Murdoch said.

  Comyn ignored Murdoch, his eyes steady on Margaret’s. ‘Then tell me why I should care about him.’

  ‘My brother is a good man,’ Margaret began. She tried to think what she might say without revealing to Murdoch more than she wished. ‘He is in thrall to his abbot in some strange way that seems to exceed his vows. I don’t know why, I don’t understand the power Abbot Adam has over him. But the abbot has treated Andrew cruelly and in doing so he has shown my brother that Longshanks’ rule is a terrible thing for us. If Andrew were free, he would work to help your kinsman regain the throne. He believes now with all his heart that John Balliol is the king God chose for us.’

  Comyn shook his head. ‘How do I know I can believe that? He could just be saying that.’

  ‘I believe him. He did not have to come to me and tell me what he had done. I think that was a part of a desire to do penance for it.’

  ‘Penance for what, damn it?’ Murdoch demanded.

  Margaret realised the futility of trying to ignore her uncle. ‘Abbot Adam sent Andrew to gather the royal documents held by several abbeys. To be turned over to Longshanks.’

  ‘Has he no spine?’

  ‘And what would you have done in his place?’ Margaret retorted. ‘He is under vows.’

  ‘Enough,’ Comyn said. ‘I must get some sleep. And so must both of you.’ He swept up his cap and mantle.

  Margaret joined him at the door. ‘At what time will he depart?’

  ‘Father Francis will come for you just before dawn,’ Comyn said wearily. ‘Perhaps your brother does deserve to see that you hold nothing against him.’

  She was puzzled. It was plain to her that she had not convinced Comyn. ‘Why are you doing this for me?’

  ‘You might be my ally, in time.’

  Indeed she might—if he had not destroyed the Fletcher sisters. ‘God bless you for helping me see Andrew.’

  ‘Would that I had such a sister,’ Comyn said as he turned to depart.

  When he had disappeared out into the stormy night, Margaret turned to Murdoch. ‘I do not understand your bond, you two.’

  ‘We ask no questions.’ Murdoch rubbed his face again. ‘Go to bed, Maggie. We’ll talk of this another day.’

  In the dark, listening to Celia’s steady breathing, Margaret worried what would become of her. She could count those she trusted on one hand—Fergus, Andrew, Celia, Janet in certain things, Murdoch in fewer. She could not see how she and Comyn would ever truly become allies. She wished they could—he seemed to be the one man who stood firmly by John Balliol and had the influence to help his cause. But this afternoon she had seen Comyn’s dark side, both with the Fletcher sisters and his threat to her. And yet he had arranged for her to see Andrew in the morning. Her brothers—how she feared for them both. They would be constantly in her prayers. But tomorrow both would be beyond her reach. Not beyond James Comyn’s, though. She pushed that thought aside. She had been disappointed enough with men who had seemed absolutely trustworthy, Jack and Roger—she dare not take her chances with a man like James Comyn.

  She had been her most gullible with Jack. He had won her heart as a good friend, trustworthy factor, appearing more caring and understanding than her husband, than any man she had ever known. She had not loved him with anything close to Besseta’s passion, that was certain, but she had loved him. That was why even after so many hints that he had betrayed Harry and Davy she had held on to the belief that Jack had been Harcar’s dupe. But the things he had said to Besseta made it quite plain he had sought his own gain. Mar
garet could not find it in her heart to forgive him.

  And Roger. Tonight his name conjured the scene Besseta had described, his shaking her, Besseta raking his cheek. Margaret had seen how his anger could explode, but she could not imagine what his attack on Besseta meant about his part in Jack’s duplicity, whether Roger had set him the task or whether he had not believed Besseta’s tale. If Roger were to appear at Margaret’s door now, she could not predict how she would receive him. Even beyond the pain of his neglect of her, she questioned his honour as well.

  The abbey courtyard echoed with the sound of water dripping from eaves, gates, trees. Haloes of mist circled the lantern light. The soldiers from Soutra were already mounted. The horses were restless, their saddles creaking, their breath rising like clouds.

  Andrew stood beneath the eaves, watching Matthew secure the packs to the horses. Soon it would be dawn. He had taken his leave of the abbot a moment ago, his parting words to him expressing gratitude for the pleasant weather. Abbot Adam had looked bored with Andrew’s barb. It would have been easier for Adam to have poisoned him and be done with it; this charade of sending Andrew to Soutra was solely for his sadistic pleasure.

  Poor Matthew. His only offence had been loyalty to his master before his abbot, but the lad was to attend Andrew in exile.

  The gate opened. A priest and another figure entered the courtyard.

  ‘Who goes there?’ Abbot Adam called from the doorway.

  The abbot was frightened, Andrew realised. William Wallace had not yet been found. All on the English side in the conflict must be wondering whose throat he would slash next.

  ‘Father Francis of St Giles’,’ said the priest, as his companion ran to Andrew, her hood falling back exposing her hair.

  ‘Margaret!’ Andrew cried, reaching out to her.

  ‘You did not think I could let you leave without a farewell?’ She tried to smile up at him, but her eyes were already wet.

  Andrew held her to him. God was with him, to grant him this moment.

  ‘I shall pray for you,’ Margaret said. ‘You will be ever in my prayers until we meet again.’