A Trust Betrayed (22 page)

“The burial.” Margaret had forgotten that was this morning. “Why should I not?”

“For the same reason you’re still abed.”

After what Margaret had learned last night she was loath to be in Janet Webster’s company on such a day, when folk were meant to offer her comfort. Perhaps she should use the excuse to stay away.

“Come, mistress, sit up and drink this mint and honey before it gets cold.”

The sweet drink lured Margaret. It soothed her raw throat and warmed her. Celia knew much about the art of comfort. She had proved her mettle and her usefulness over the past days. It occurred to Margaret that Celia might be in danger—the Englishman’s failure to raise the hue and cry upon finding the body might mean he had been involved, and he might have been aware she followed him.

The dark eyes regarded Margaret beneath the white cap. “I have never seen my mistress in such a state as you were last night.”

Margaret could not imagine her goodmother Katherine imbibing so much. “Nor will you see me in such a state again.” She pulled the small loaf apart, chewed on a piece. It was difficult to swallow. She washed it down with more of the sweet drink. There were still reasons to accompany Murdoch—it was a chance to meet the town folk who did not frequent the tavern. It would not do to stay cloistered for fear of danger—there was no place without danger now.

“Dress me, Celia. We shall join in the prayers for Davy Smith’s soul.”

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*

The morning mist was cool and refreshing on Margaret’s face. She and Celia paused by the place in the alley where Harcar had lain. Both crossed themselves. He, too, would be buried today.

They both started at the sound of someone following them at a run. Margaret gathered her skirts to flee, grabbed Celia’s hand, but it was Hal who came round the corner of the inn.

“The master is already gone,” he said, gulping air. “I do not think he expects you there.”

“Then he’ll be surprised.”

By the time they reached St. Giles kirkyard the priest was concluding his prayers over the coffin. Margaret joined Murdoch, who stood across the open grave from Davy’s family.

“Did Celia not give you my message?” Murdoch hissed under his breath.

“Aye, but I disagreed.”

Across from them, Janet, head bowed beneath a hooded cloak glistening with the morning moisture, stood between a young woman wrapped well in a mantle and a young man who had fixed his gaze on two English soldiers standing at the edge of the small group of mourners. Other folk raised their eyes to the soldiers as the service ended.

To one side of Davy’s family a woman sobbed into the shoulder of another woman. Margaret could not distinguish much about them.

Four men stepped forward to lower the coffin into the grave.

“The coffin is not just for the ceremony. He is being buried in it,” said a gruff voice beside Murdoch. “James Comyn’s generous gift, that coffin.” The speaker was Mary the brewster, wrapped in a coarse-woven mantle that seemed to exude peat smoke as she leaned toward Murdoch.

Margaret glanced round the crowd for Comyn. She did not find him.

“Belle has returned, did you hear?” the woman said to Murdoch.

The chambermaid.

“I’ll not have her back,” Murdoch growled. “Roy be damned.”

“He went off to fight, her Perthshire farmer,” Mary said, then slipped away to join the mourners who had begun to move away from the soldiers.

“Go back to the inn, Maggie,” Murdoch said as she began to follow.

She ignored him and kept walking. He grabbed her elbow. She tried to shake him off. One of the soldiers moved toward them. It was the one who had walked her back to the inn.

“Is he hurting you?”

“God’s blood,” Murdoch growled. “Reassure him.”

Margaret felt the eyes of all the mourners on her as she met the soldier halfway across the graveyard. “My uncle fears I am not well, that is all.”

The soldier had gentle eyes, a kind smile. Margaret doubted he was much older than her. “It must be a catarrh from your walk in the rain. Have you found your husband?”

She shook her head, wiser now to the danger of alerting the English. “I must have been mistaken in thinking it was him. God go with you.” She fled across the kirkyard to where Hal, Celia, and Murdoch awaited her. The rest of the crowd had departed.

“He behaves like he is your protector,” Murdoch said, casting an angry look toward the soldier, who had now rejoined his partner.

“Why are they here?” Margaret asked.

“The garrison keeps the king’s peace,” Murdoch said with a snort. “They watch gatherings for signs of trouble. And they watch who attends. Many stayed away for that reason. And they’ll not come to Janet’s house either.”

“Because Davy was murdered by soldiers? They know that?”

“It is most likely.”

“Will soldiers be in her house?”

Murdoch shook his head. “But mark me, they will be watching without. You should return to the inn.”

The rain came down harder now. Margaret felt the damp entering her shoes. She doubted she would be welcome at Janet’s after calling attention to herself in the kirkyard. But she must face the folk sometime.

“I’m going to Janet’s.”

Murdoch grumbled, but said no more.

All heads turned when Margaret, Murdoch, Celia, and Hal arrived at Janet’s door.

“What is she doing here?” a woman cried, pointing an accusing finger at Margaret. “You saw her in the kirkyard, the English ready to protect her. She’s just like her husband’s cousin.”

“Maud, Harry the cobbler’s widow,” Murdoch whispered. “The weeper in the kirkyard.”

“What does she mean about Jack?”

“I told you no good would come of your being here.”

For the sake of Janet’s family Margaret agreed, and turned to go. At the door Janet caught her. “Come after vespers.” Her face was drawn; in her eyes Margaret noted a guardedness that had not been there before.

“What right had she to come here?” Maud cried out.

Janet glanced over to the woman, then back at Margaret.

“I’ll come,” Margaret said.

Janet hurried back to Maud. Margaret departed, Celia and Hal close behind.

At the alley to the inn, Margaret paused. “What did she mean by that, Hal?”

He hunched his shoulders.

She could not believe Jack guilty of murder, nor that he wanted Longshanks for his king, but having lately learned how little she knew her own husband, Margaret did not doubt there were parts to Jack’s character of which she was ignorant as well.

If there were rumors, Andrew would know them. She might send a messenger telling him that Roger was alive, and ask him what he knew about Jack. She asked Hal to take a message to Andrew.

Hal raked back his wet hair and glanced at the sky. “Aye,” he said without enthusiasm.

She gave him the message, telling him to describe what had happened at Janet’s house as the cause for her need to know of any rumors about Jack.

“I am glad about your husband,” Hal said, then bobbed his head and departed on his mission.

“You show better sense today,” Celia said, “sending him rather than going yourself.”

*
      
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*

Hal returned by midday, his face red from the journey, his clothes soaked. Andrew had received her messages, praised God for the news of Roger, promised to discover what he could about Jack .

*
      
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*

In the early afternoon the rain had the inn roof leaking in all the bedchambers. Margaret and Celia used some of the cleaner straw from the stables to patch a few leaks that threatened to enlarge. For once, Celia worked without complaint.

As they headed from their building to the other, they saw Murdoch and Hal loading a barrel of ale onto a cart. There was much shouting and grunting. Murdoch’s and Hal’s wet hands slipped on the bent staves of the barrel, their feet lost purchase in the mud. Bonny waited patiently, head bowed, ignoring the two men and all the shoving and jolting going on behind her.

“For James Comyn,” Celia said. “I heard them talking.”

Accompanying Hal might provide an opportunity to see Comyn’s home. It was a brief walk—his house was just across High Street and up a few doors. The cart was necessary only because the barrel must be taken from one backland to the other, a long way to balance it in the mud.

“Fetch my mantle.”

Celia withdrew, returned with the mantle, which she slipped over Margaret’s shoulders.

“I’ll go with you.”

“No. Stay here.”

Margaret descended the steps, waited until all was settled and Hal was leading Bonny to the alley. Then she lifted her skirts and made her way through the mud to join him.

“Where are you going?” Murdoch demanded.

When Margaret did not answer, Murdoch splashed through the mud, grabbed her by the elbow.

It was becoming a habit with him.

“What now, Uncle?”

“You’ll not say a word about Harcar?”

“I hoped by now you would know I’m not a fool.”

“You might have saved yourself much trouble if you’d listened to my warnings this morning.” But Murdoch let her go. Raising his voice, he called to Hal, “Tell Comyn it’s a better ale than what we’re replacing.”

Hal waved his hand, signaling he had heard.

When he and Margaret were out of range of Murdoch, Hal cleared his throat. “You might wish to know before you speak with Master Comyn that he was prowling round the kitchen when you and Master Murdoch were talking last evening.”

Keeping up with Hal’s long stride so that she avoided falling back to where the cartwheels churned up the mud took most of Margaret’s concentration. “You saw him?”

“I was sitting by the door,” he said, “guarding it.”

She glanced over, saw that Hal’s expression was grim beneath his hair.

“I thank you for that. Do you think he heard anything?”

“No. Nor did I.”

“I know that anything you might have heard will be safe with you.”

Margaret had noticed James’s house before. It was half timbered on a stone base. There were few houses of such sturdy construction in Edinburgh. It presented a modest whitewashed exterior to the street except for a glazed window on the first floor, another above the door in the alley. Two glazed windows meant wealth. Hal led Bonny down the alley past the main door, stopping along a wicket enclosure to the rear. A servant pulled aside two of the wattle wickets so that the cart could pull up to the back door. James Comyn called to Margaret from the doorway, welcoming her into his house. She hesitated but a moment.

It was a study into which she stepped from the back garden, with a long table, several cushioned chairs, silver candlesticks, a stone floor with a rush mat over it, and a brazier in the corner by a small window. The man was wealthier than she had imagined. The inner walls were painted and outlined with flower borders. Margaret was conscious of her mantle dripping on the rush mat. Behind the study door there were pegs, she guessed, for she could see the edge of something black with a tattered hem.