by Candace Robb
She closed the door to the undercroft, secured the lock, and then headed for Janet Webster’s house.
2
A VISITOR
Leaving Janet’s, Murdoch hurried along beside Margaret in his smuggler’s rolling, ship-born gait, barking questions to which she had no answers and would not have responded to in public even if she did have them. By now all in the town would know of Old Will’s death and they would be eager to overhear anything concerning it, even Murdoch’s litany of questions. His foolhardiness in speaking so loudly did more to convince Margaret that his shock was genuine than did all his protestations that he had been far more patient with Old Will than anyone else in town had been, or Janet’s assurances that Murdoch had been with her all night. Janet often lied for him.
Once in the undercroft, Murdoch slammed the door, then commanded Margaret to open wide the shutter on the lantern. That he did not order her to leave was even more telling.
The light picked out the scar that split Murdoch’s thick eyebrows off-centre. ‘It was a brave thing you did, Maggie, opening this door.’
She basked for a moment in her uncle’s praise but as she surveyed the chaos in the aisled chamber, fear stole her breath. Barrels, caskets, chests, usually stacked in rows, some on trestles, were turned over, spilling their contents on the packed earth floor. Wine pooled nearby. What she had seen earlier in the light from the doorway had been nothing compared with this.
‘They spent a good long while here,’ Murdoch said, sounding weary. Most of the treasures in the undercroft were booty from his years as a smuggler. ‘They took a risk in staying so long, with folk passing down the wynd to the tavern all evening.’ He began to pick his way through the overturned barrels and chests.
‘Anyone passing by would think it was you they heard in here,’ Margaret said.
‘That may be, but it was still a risk, and someone thought it worth taking. I doubt they hesitated before cracking Old Will’s head open. It’s a wonder they let him crawl away.’
Margaret did not want to think about Old Will at the moment. When fear overtook her she was of use to no one, particularly herself. She watched Murdoch crouch to set a casket upright and scoop the spilled contents back in. The ring of the coins and trinkets sounded incongruously cheerful.
‘How will you ever tell what they took?’ Margaret wondered.
‘I can see already that a few costly items small enough to fit in a man’s palm are missing. But they left much of value, so it’s not trinkets and coins they were after.’ He set the refilled casket aside and waded further into the room. ‘Follow me with the lantern.’
Margaret tucked one end of her skirt into her girdle so that she could step over the tumbled items with the lantern in hand. Murdoch had paused to wait for her. When she began to move, he continued. He swung his head back and forth surveying the damage, but stopped for nothing, heading steadily towards the furthest corner.
Margaret knew what he kept back there. ‘You are thinking they were after the casket Da left in your care.’ Malcolm Kerr had left the casket of documents with his brother when he departed for Bruges the previous year.
Murdoch set a barrel upright to clear a path. ‘Or your husband’s. Or both.’ Roger had also entrusted to Murdoch the small document casket that he usually carried behind his saddle when he travelled on business.
‘Have you been expecting this sort of trouble?’
‘I’d be a fool if I hadn’t, lass. It’s no secret that your husband Roger is the Bruce’s man, or that my brother found it too easy to sail for Bruges, perhaps the result of some bargain with the devil himself. I’ve feared someone would tell the English or our own folk that they might find much of interest in here. Not to mention my smuggling spoil.’
‘Da bargaining with Longshanks? You’ve not said that before.’ Such a betrayal would be worse than Roger’s.
‘You didn’t ask and I’ve been gey glad for that. You’re learning that questions are dangerous.’
‘I think it more dangerous not to be aware that both my husband and my father are known to be caught up in all this.’
Murdoch grunted as he crouched by the small chests belonging to the family. Margaret’s father’s casket was closed, but when Murdoch touched the lock it sprang open. ‘Forced open. It’s of no use now.’
Margaret set the lantern on a ledge and joined him as he lifted the lid. Documents had been jammed in with no care.
‘They put these back in haste,’ she said, trying to steady her voice.
‘I agree. My brother Malcolm is tidy; it’s his only virtue. They also searched your husband’s casket.’ Murdoch turned it round to show her how the lid had been forced down on a parchment roll and the lock left unfastened.
Their eyes met. ‘They did not bother tucking anything else back,’ Margaret said.
‘You are right about that, lass. I regret my own honesty. Now I cannot tell whether anything’s missing from either casket. And I don’t like not knowing.’
‘Who do you think was here?’
Murdoch rose and shook out his legs. ‘My partner James comes to mind. He kens I have them here, and he might be spying for his kinsman.’
‘That is toom headed. He’s known all along you’ve chosen no side yet he’s never searched before.’
‘You’ve grown too fond of him, Maggie. I warned you.’
Murdoch did not know about Margaret’s pact with James, but they made no secret of being friends.
‘He would not force locks, toss goods about, spill wine.’
Murdoch grunted. ‘And why not?’
‘Why would he leave signs of a search? As your partner he knows whether you’re about the place and can explore as he pleases in your absence. He has no need for such haste.’
‘You said yourself that he followed Old Will out of the tavern,’ Murdoch reminded her.
‘I have you there,’ said Margaret, triumphant. ‘James was in the tavern at the time you suspect him of having searched the undercroft.’
‘He has many to do his bidding,’ Murdoch said with a little laugh.
Margaret realised her folly. ‘You aren’t serious.’
Murdoch shrugged. ‘You were so eager to defend him.’
‘I merely sought to prevent you from accusing an innocent man.’
‘Innocent is not a word I would use to describe Comyn,’ said Murdoch. ‘But this is not the place to discuss him. My real fear is that the English have been here.’
So he knew he was not invincible. But it seemed to Margaret that her uncle acknowledged it too late. ‘You have perhaps been careless to hide all your goods in one place and let so many know of it.’
‘What I’ve been a fool about is what I stored here.’ Murdoch sighed. ‘Come, let us go out into the sunlight and warm ourselves.’ He handed her father’s casket to her and then took up both the lantern and Roger’s casket. ‘I have a better place for these.’
A while later they sat outside Murdoch’s kitchen drinking ale with Hal, the sandy-haired groom on whom Margaret depended for much of the news gleaned in places where she would be conspicuous. He had little to do of late in the stable with so few coming to stay.
‘They say English soldiers have searched Old Will’s rooms,’ Hal said, his face averted as was his custom when speaking.
‘Searched his rooms?’ Murdoch looked bemused. ‘Couldn’t they see the rags he wore?’
‘He wore a good pair of shoes when I last saw him,’ Hal said.
‘When was that?’ Margaret asked.
‘A few days past.’ Hal looked up, and Margaret saw that he was pleased to have interested her. ‘The shoes fitted him.’
So unless God had guided Old Will to the shoes it was unlikely that he had stolen them. Coin for ale, for shoes. ‘Where did he find the siller?’ Margaret wondered, shading her eyes as she turned into the sun to see her uncle’s face. ‘When were you last in the undercroft?’
Murdoch studied her from beneath his bushy brows for a moment
. ‘You’re thinking that it was Old Will hunting for coins in there? And who attacked him? Someone defending my goods out of charity?’
‘He’d been in there before, taken some, and then returned at an unfortunate time?’ Hal suggested, his young face alight with interest.
Murdoch shook his head. ‘I cannot recall at present when I was last in there, but Old Will was no lock picker. Had he been he would have drunk himself to death long ago.’
Margaret reluctantly agreed.
‘I haven’t the head for such things,’ said Hal, rising. ‘I should groom the MacLaren’s horse. He’ll be wanting her soon.’
Margaret took the tankards into the kitchen.
Murdoch followed. ‘I don’t like how keen you are to solve my problems, lass.’
‘It would be unnatural for me not to want answers. My parents, my husband – what is someone looking for, and who is looking for it?’
‘I meant Old Will’s sudden wealth.’
‘He was attacked in your undercroft.’
‘You’d do better to wonder what your father’s doing in Bruges.’
‘Da has never confided in me. I might wonder all I like and never ken the truth of him.’
‘You’re curious enough about others, but not your family?’
‘Are you about to confide in me?’
‘No.’
But he was right, she should concentrate on what her family might possess that someone might want. ‘I should go to Perth,’ she said.
‘What?’ cried Murdoch.
‘I’m no use to you here, we’ve had few people staying of late and there’s little for me to do in the tavern,’ she reasoned.
‘Fickle woman,’ Murdoch growled. ‘In spring you cursed me for saying you should bide at home.’
‘I did, though it was my husband I should have cursed. You were but the messenger. Fergus’s letter has me worried, even more so after seeing the state of the undercroft. I should be with him.’
‘I don’t like it, Maggie. The English will be certain we had a hand in Will’s death if you suddenly run off.’
‘You’re never at a loss to find ways to ease their worries, Uncle.’ His was the only tavern still open in Edinburgh and she knew he traded something with the English in order to prevent their closing such a place where Scots gathered.
‘They grow greedier by the day,’ said Murdoch. ‘I doubt I’ll hold them off much longer.’
Margaret saw that he was serious.
James Comyn sat near the window in the hall of his house on High Street considering the conversation he’d just had with a messenger from William Wallace. He was not at all confident that the young man had understood James’s response. Once before he’d had this feeling, and indeed Wallace had taken offence in his reply and a long, inconvenient silence had ensued. Perhaps it was time James met with Wallace again. The messenger had said Wallace was headed for Kinclaven Castle, east of Dunkeld, to keep watch on the English garrison there.
As James stared out of the window, debating whether to risk such a journey, he watched Margaret Kerr striding up the hill. She wore her everyday gown, which hung from her strong bones of late – life in Edinburgh was more difficult than it had been at her home in Perth or with her goodmother in Dunfermline, and her curly red hair was caught up in a simple white cap. The clothes were not elegant but she carried herself with regal ease. A handsome woman, he thought, by any standards. She was talking to herself, apparently deep in argument. He wondered who was winning. Shortly after she passed out of sight at the front of the house, there came a knock at the door. Waving away the servant who’d rushed in to answer, James opened it himself, inviting Margaret in. He guessed what she wished to discuss – he’d heard about the old boller’s death – but she surprised him by handing him a letter.
‘Father Francis helped me read it,’ she said, explaining the lack of seal. ‘It’s from my brother Fergus. I hoped you might advise me on it. Would you read it?’
‘You trust me with such a personal letter?’
She glanced behind her. ‘Am I not alone? Who else might have placed it in your hand?’
Sometimes James did not know what to make of Margaret’s apparent trust in him. Had someone treated him as he had treated her when she first came to Edinburgh, he would have kept far away. He had bullied her and threatened her for discovering his part in a woman’s terrible death, then made a weak atonement by helping her meet with her brother Andrew on the morning he left for Soutra, where the English troops occupied the great Hospital of the Trinity. James had gone to some bother to arrange the meeting but it hardly made up for his earlier behaviour. On the other hand, he was her uncle’s business partner, and kin to the man she believed the rightful king. Margaret had changed so since the spring, becoming brusquer, more comfortable with him and many of the townsfolk. He liked her new manner, but he wondered how stable it was.
‘I merely thought to give you the opportunity to think again about the contents, embarrassing family secrets—’
‘I’m no fool,’ she said. ‘I’d not make the mistake of showing you such a letter. I pray you, read it and save me the breath.’ She stationed herself a little away from him, hands clasped behind her.
His curiosity roused, James settled back to read. In short order he saw the possible connection to recent events.
As soon as James put down the letter, Margaret said, ‘I’ve no doubt you are fully informed about Old Will, and my family’s caskets being searched in my uncle’s undercroft.’
‘Yes. I take it you think that last night’s search was a continuation of those in Perth.’
‘I cannot help but think so,’ she said with emotion, for a moment allowing him to see her fear.
‘You won’t find me disagreeing. What would you have me do?’
She placed her hands on the table at which he sat and leaned close. ‘My uncle swears he knew nothing of the contents of the caskets, so he cannot tell whether anything was taken. I would go to Perth, talk to Fergus and Mother. By now they might be aware of some missing items.’
James met her frank, almost eager gaze, but did not speak for a moment, wildly wondering whether she could have overheard his conversation with the messenger, for Perth was on the way to Kinclaven.
His silence made Margaret uneasy. She blushed and straightened, moving a little away from him. ‘I should not have left Fergus alone. He is too young.’
James sensed no artifice in Margaret. ‘Of course you are concerned. But such a journey is difficult in the best of times. Now it is difficult and foolhardy, particularly for a woman. The soldiers tire of their camp followers.’
Margaret blushed. ‘I do not suggest this lightly. My family – we must know whence comes this danger.’
‘There is a difference between possible danger and certain danger, Margaret. No one was hurt by the intruders.’
‘Old Will?’ she challenged, her eyes bold.
‘Of course, but none of your kin.’
She sighed with impatience but dropped her gaze. ‘I’d hoped you might escort me, or know of someone who might.’
James wondered whether the messenger had been fool enough to stop at the tavern. He hesitated.
‘I ask too much,’ she said. ‘I have nothing with which to repay you for the risk of such a journey, or the time away from more important matters regarding King John. I pray you, forget my request.’ She began to turn away.
‘Stay,’ said James. ‘What you propose is dangerous, but I understand why you wish to go.’ He did not want to part so uncomfortably. ‘I might find a way to do what you ask.’
Now she blushed for pleasure. Hope lit her eyes and turned up the corners of her mouth. He found himself wanting to agree right now even though he knew he should consider it with care. More than his own life was at stake.
‘God bless you, James. I shall be grateful for any help in this – advice, someone who might be travelling that way, anything.’
‘I’ll do what I can.’
/> She left him standing in the middle of the room feeling burdened by his duty as the deposed king’s kin.
By the following afternoon Margaret regretted having told her uncle of her wish to return to Perth. He had snarled and glared at her, told her blood-chilling tales of women attacked by English soldiers, ordered her about until she had shouted back at him, and then he had announced he was going to Janet’s and knew not when he might return. She was in charge and she had better not allow anything to happen that would bring the English to investigate.
‘As if I’d murdered Old Will,’ she’d muttered at the last.
‘You’ll be the death of me, and I’ve said that before.’
He had indeed, more than once, and she had begun to think it was her uncle’s perverse way of expressing affection, for most of the time they worked together in concord, each understanding their own limits and the other’s strengths. Perhaps she had been right, but it could be that her talk of leaving had hurt him. The thought cooled her anger, although she still resented her uncle’s announcing his departure in Sim’s hearing. When the tavern servant knew Murdoch was away he slowed so much in his work that Margaret lost her temper, which was exactly what he wanted. Sim would express righteous indignation and storm out, leaving her alone to do all the work. Margaret had complained to her uncle, but he had his own reason for keeping Sim at the tavern. He distrusted him and preferred to have his enemy in sight. Margaret comforted herself with the thought that with Angus MacLaren off to the Trossachs the tavern would empty early.
In late afternoon a tall man in travel-stained clothes came into the yard leading two sweating horses. Hal leapt into action, ever solicitous of animals. The man thanked him courteously and then enquired about a room for himself and his master – Margaret, overhearing, introduced herself.
‘Dame Margaret,’ he said, bowing. A fleeting expression on his moon-round face made her wonder what he had heard about her. ‘I am Aylmer,’ he said. ‘My master will pay you fairly for your best room.’
She could tell that by the quality of this servant’s clothing. Servant – no, she did not believe it. He did not bear himself as a servant. Unless his master was of a class that she never saw in the tavern. And she guessed he was English, for ‘Aylmer’ was not a name she’d heard before. ‘Whom do you serve?’