A Trust Betrayed (26 page)

In all his agonizing over this venture, Andrew had not thought about Abbot Adam’s mention of Soutra the previous day. A confessor for the English soldiers. Andrew could think of no one in the order he would recommend for that duty—it might be a death sentence if this conflict did not end soon.

In fact it might be Andrew’s. It would be in character for Abbot Adam to turn the request into an order. Once committed even further to the English cause, Andrew would find it impossible to retreat to his private preference. No one would believe him. No Scot would trust him.

Neither would any Englishman. After all, a priest, though he was God’s anointed, was yet a man with man’s frailties. Only God knew who might break the seal of confession when tortured.

There were no guards at Netherbow. Wallace had done this much for the town, a moment of calm, while the garrison marched southwest to Lanark. Andrew thought back to the ferry crossing, the last time he had seen Wallace. His bearing had seemed different then from the deferential man who had attended the meetings from which Andrew was shut out on that humiliating trip to St. Andrews. As if Wallace were already envisioning the battles ahead.

Murdoch frowned at Andrew as he appeared at the steps leading to Margaret’s chamber. “Do you look for me, pilgrim?”

Andrew took off his hat.

“Holy Mother! Why do you wear such garb?”

Andrew told him why, and of the abbot’s threat.

“You crossed your abbot just to warn me of that, nephew?”

“No. I must talk to Maggie.”

“She’s above.”

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*

Margaret stared at the patch of sky out the small window of her chamber. Seeing their things side by side had turned the knife in her heart. Roger had gone to Berwick and brought Edwina here before answering Edward’s summons. And afterward he had returned. But now that Edwina was dead and Margaret was here, Roger avoided the inn. She was less to him than Edwina of Carlisle had been.

There was a knock on the door. She opened it to find Andrew in pilgrim’s garb. He was hollow-cheeked, looking tense and weary.

“Why are you dressed so?”

“I must talk to you.”

“My ears are tired, Andrew. We’ll talk another day.”

“No. There may not be another day.” He pushed past her into the room.

“I cannot bear more terrible news, Andrew.”

He stepped out of the pilgrim’s robe, laid it and the hat on the bed. “There are things you must know.”

“I pray you—”

“About the incident at Holyrood. And other matters.”

That caught her interest. “Tell me about that night.”

“I arrived back the next day, in the midst of the confusion. What I know is secondhand.”

“The abbot confides in you.”

“No more, Maggie. He did then. But no more.” Andrew fingered the bed curtain. “Have you heard what happened on Sunday?”

“Heselrig. Wallace’s attack.”

“Aye.” Andrew turned. “It has truly begun, Maggie.”

“What, Andrew?”

“The routing of the English.”

“It will take more than Wallace the thief.”

“You must get that out of your head. He is a brave man, fighting for our king.” Andrew sat down on the bed. “Do you remember how we played in our parents’ bed when we were little? It was a ship, a vast estate . . .”

“. . . a castle, a cave.” A sweet memory. But Andrew was not given to reminiscing.

“Family comes first after God, Maggie.”

He had truly changed since Sunday. “I am sorry we argued.”

“I would not have brought Jack’s body to Dunfermline if he were not now part of our family.”

“And I have thanked you for it.” She drew the curtains aside, sat down beside him, took his hand. So cold. Like the dead. Ye t he was sweating. “Andrew, if this is about Roger, he did not die on the border. I did see him last week.”

“So said your messenger. You have this on good authority?”

“I do. He was also seen by another.”

Andrew pressed her hand, drew his from hers, touched the side of her face. “That is good news, but you do not look glad.”

“He is working for Robert Bruce. I do not know how I feel about that—or why he did not tell me. If he does not feel he can confide in me, how can he love me?”

“Roger is not good enough for you, Maggie. But if he is caught up in the fighting, God help him.”

Margaret did not repeat the prayer. “Why were you dressed so?”

“I come here against my lord abbot’s wishes, but that does not matter. I do not honor him. I do honor and love you. All my kin. Even Murdoch, because he has welcomed you here.”

“Why this change of heart, Andrew? Why have you disobeyed your abbot? What will be your penance?” Margaret feared the serious consequences of disobeying such a powerful abbot, who might draw on support from Longshanks to punish Andrew.

“God has shown me the true way, Maggie. Do not think of my penance. I can bear anything now. But I need to tell you everything. I may not see you again for a long while, Maggie. So hear me out.”

Her stomach clenched. “Why won’t you see me?”

“Hear me out.”

The tension in Andrew’s voice silenced Margaret. She crossed her legs beneath her on the bed.

“I must begin at the beginning. You will know everything. You can be my judge and jury.”

“Me?”

He put a finger to her lips to silence her. It was like a children’s game. Secrets in the sheltering curtains of the great bed. But this was real and he frightened her.

“I write Abbot Adam’s letters. His is a prodigious correspondence. I was honored to be chosen.” Andrew laughed as he said the word “honored.” “By his dictation, I am privy to his thoughts, his arrangements.”

“And he is King Edward’s man.”

Andrew shushed her as he nodded. “This is difficult for me. Let me speak as it comes.”

“I meant nothing.”

“He is King Edward’s man, and with access to many documents that should have been in the royal archives of Scotland but had been scattered among the abbeys. When King Edward ordered that the Stone of Scone, the emblems of the King of the Scots, and the royal archives be sent to Westminster, Abbot Adam saw his chance to improve his status. As he handed over the archives in his care, he informed Edward that there were other documents. He offered to send emissaries to collect them from around this kingdom. Edward did not trust that—he wished his own soldiers to go. But he needed someone who could both read and be trusted to attend them.”

“You, Andrew?”

He looked her right in the eye and acknowledged it. “The soldiers were not by their nature gentle, you understand. When the clerics and their lay servants fought to protect the items from the English, they were brutally subdued. And I stood by, mute with fear. I am anathema now among my countrymen. I am Judas.”

“Why do you—?”

“I had a choice, Maggie. I might have refused my abbot, taken my punishment. But I am weak.”

“You took a vow of obedience.”

Andrew pressed his hands to his eyes. “Our Lord God granted us free will with which to choose the path of grace. When I saw what was happening I realized that this was the work of Satan. Lucifer!” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “Yet I was too weak to rise against him.”

Margaret could see Andrew truly believed he had done wrong, though in the eyes of the Kirk she was not so certain. “Did many die?”

He shook his head. “At least I do not have that on my conscience. It is the dishonor I cannot bear. I did not know how unbearable it would be to me until it was done.”

He was quiet again. His eyes closed, he seemed to be praying. Margaret wanted to comfort him. It was difficult to keep her silence.

“You asked about that night at the abbey,” he said at last. “When Harry and Davy died. I will tell you. Only today I learned of the last link. I believe it was Harcar who betrayed them to the sheriff. On Jack’s information.”

Dear God, another who accused Jack. “Do you know that?”

“I know that Abbot Adam paid Harcar for something recently. And there is talk of Jack and Harcar drinking together.”

Margaret bowed her head. Although she had never met the men, she still found it hard to think of Jack being responsible for Harry’s and Davy’s deaths.

“The abbot told the brethren of Holyrood to expect several Dominicans in the evening, and to allow them entrance. What he did not tell them was that some of the supposed Dominicans purposed to create chaos and draw the brethren away from their fellows, who would come in after them to steal the documents that had been collected in the abbot’s chambers for the couriers. Harry and Davy were caught before the others arrived.”

“How did the intruders know where the documents resided?”

“I do not know how it was planned.”

“Were the men murdered in the abbey?”

“No. The soldiers dragged them away to execute them.”

“This happened the night before you returned from St. Andrews?”

“Yes. I believe they thought I had gone to St. Andrews for the last documents, that someone would be traveling south with the archives soon.”

“Were you still gathering documents?”

“No. The abbot sent me to St. Andrews to complain to Bishop Wishart and James the Steward, who were meeting there, about my rough treatment by King Edward. I was to say I had been forced to accompany the soldiers in gathering the documents, that I had helped them because I was weak and feared for my life, which was of course true.” Andrew pressed a hand to his forehead. “I was to beg forgiveness.”

“But you had done what your abbot wanted. Why did he seek then to humiliate you?”

“He saw my misery and thought to use it, that I would be quite convincing and would gain their confidence and, perhaps, access to the talks from which he was excluded.”

“What happened?”

“I went to St. Andrews, was told that the bishop and the Steward were unable to see me. I stayed for a few days, but my reputation had preceded me and I was shunned by all, to them I was a traitor. And then I understood the other piece of my abbot’s plan—he sought in this way to show me that I could never go back, I could never desert his cause, for no one would believe me. So I went to Elcho and confessed to our mother, the
blessed
Christiana, one who could not deny me an audience.” All Andrew’s bitterness went into the word “blessed.”

He had always believed in Christiana. Obviously that had changed. “Why did you confess to Mother?”

“I wanted absolution.”

“Did she absolve you?”

“No one can, Maggie.”

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Neither of them moved for a long while. A church bell tolled, but Andrew noticed it only as it ceased. What it had signaled he did not know, did not care. But it woke him from his breathless wait for Margaret’s response. It was as if he had expected that she would shrive him when his mother could not. Ye t more so than after his meeting with Christiana, he felt lighter of heart, having confessed all to his sister.