Authors: Candace Robb

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Crime

A Trust Betrayed (19 page)

“How would it look?”

“At the abbey we strive to favor neither Edward’s nor John Balliol’s rule.”

“But all that you said about our countrymen supporting King John. What you called Longshanks—”

“My own beliefs do not count. I am God’s instrument. I cannot show favor.”

“Concern about your family shows favor to one of them?” His courage was selective. “What of the foot soldiers? What harm would it be to speak to one of them? All hear the gossip, surely.”

“I am obedient to my abbot.”

“I am not asking you to disobey! He cannot have ordered you to put your family aside.”

“All Christianity is my family now, Maggie.”

“Words. Just words.”

“It is a vow I took.”

“Other priests care for their families.” Damn him. He could so easily do this without declaring a side.

“Maggie, do you realize the English don’t even use us as confessors? They bring their own priests on campaign. Do you know why? Because they fear what a confessor might hear and divulge to others. Oh, yes, we take vows not to speak of anyone’s confession, but in time of war men are wise to have doubts.”

“That has nothing to do with what I ask of you.”

“You do not listen!”

“I am an excellent listener, Andrew. I had to be, with Mother and her vague pronouncements. What you have lost is your heart.”

“I brought your husband’s factor to Dunfermline, remember? I ’d not call that no heart.”

They drank their ale in hot silence. Margaret could not accept Andrew’s excuses. If he loved her as she loved him, he would do this small thing for her. How was she to learn anything about Roger and Jack if even her brother would not risk himself to help? When Andrew had drained his cup, he rose, retrieved his cloak.

“I have heard one thing of use to you, Maggie.” He looked apologetic. “Widow Smith said a woman on Cowgate takes in laundry. Rosamund is her name. Her house is almost directly across from the smiddie.”

“Let me walk you down,” she said, having cooled a little.

When they reached the end of the alley, Andrew put his hands on Margaret’s shoulders, shook his head, and sighed deeply. He kissed her forehead. “I shall go to the castle for you, Maggie.”

“Oh, Andrew.” She hugged him tightly. “God go with you.”

“And with you, Maggie.” Andrew called to his servant Matthew and started up High Street with long, strong strides.

Margaret watched until she could no longer distinguish him from the others in High Street. She wished she knew what had changed his mind. And what was on his mind. He was so full of contradictions. What he had said earlier had made it clear he had chosen a side, that he was for King John. Ye t he had so adamantly denied his right to support his king when she asked her favor. And then agreed. Belatedly, she hoped she had not pushed him too far. He was such an unbending man—if ever he decided to take a stance, he would risk all for it. And being so high in Abbot Adam’s favor, he could not easily hide his new
allegiance.
Dear God, watch over him. For he is one of your most loyal servants.

She walked back down the alley. Glancing into the tavern through the open door, she saw Murdoch in there, talking sternly to Sim. Hoping that would keep her uncle occupied for a while, she retrieved her tools from his kitchen. Celia muttered a greeting from her seat by the fire, then bent to her work.

“You might go back if you like.”

“I’ll bide here awhile.”

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 colorful wool, draped and belted, when doing physical work or traveling. 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 honor. 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 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 traveled 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 eyes as he resumed his seat. Another servant 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 antagonize 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 jewelry 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 naive. He had not believed Edward Long-shanks 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. Ye t 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 brandy-wine?”

“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.

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.”