by Candace Robb
‘We are not yet at the inn. You can walk up to the kirk later,’ Andrew said with a shake of his cloak as if to remind her that he, too, was soaked to the skin. ‘Move on, Matthew.’
Margaret could walk here, true enough, if she could still stand once she felt some heat. And if she dared venture out again so soon.
A few hardy souls huddling beneath the eaves against the north wall of St Giles’ called out their wares as the four travellers passed, but otherwise the street was deserted.
Though it was mid-afternoon, none of the shop front counters had been unhooked from the houses to display goods. From the looks of them, Margaret guessed the shopfronts had not been opened for a while. A shutter off one of its hinges hung down over one of the shop fronts, on another house a counter hung askew and cracked. A pile of refuse rose too high to allow the neighbouring shop front to open. None of the doors stood ajar to invite custom.
In Perth and Dunfermline the shops had stayed closed for a time after the English had come through, but within a month or so trade had resumed, albeit modestly. Margaret had not considered how much worse it would be here, with the garrison in the castle above the town. She had not considered whether her uncle would have food for two more.
Andrew brought them to a halt just before the arch of Netherbow. Two tall, weather-beaten houses leaned slightly towards one another across an alley. A pole decorated with leaves projected above the ground-floor door of the house nearest Netherbow, letting passers-by know they could find wine and ale within.
‘Will there be soldiers in there?’ Celia asked.
‘No, they have been ordered to keep well away from this lot,’ said Andrew. He handed the reins of all four horses to Matthew. ‘I’ll ask Murdoch to have his groom help you down to Holyrood with the horses.’
The young man’s shoulders slumped.
‘Surely Matthew deserves a cup of ale first,’ Margaret said.
‘A tavern is no place for a cloistered lad,’ Andrew said.
‘Still, he needn’t go thirsty. I’ll ask Uncle to bring ale to the stable,’ Margaret said, and entered the tavern.
At first she welcomed its warmth, the still air, the roof shielding her from the incessant rain. But two or three deep breaths later, her body rejected the air and she began to cough. Smoke was thick in the air. The room reeked of stale ale, sweat, rancid fat, vomit, urine—Margaret stopped herself from identifying any more. Andrew guided her farther into the room. The rushes were piled so deep on the floor that her footing was unsteady, her shifting feet stirring the odours. There were two shuttered windows that seemed to do little to vent the smoke and provided no light, a weak glow from the brazier and four oil lamps, one on each of the four trestle tables that lined the walls.
A half dozen men sitting on benches surrounding a small brazier in the centre of the room turned towards the newcomers. Their expressions were difficult to make out in the dim light, but their sudden silence felt hostile.
Celia stepped closer to Margaret. ‘Mistress, we cannot stay in such a place.’
Thinking much the same, Margaret’s instinct was to turn and run. But she had nowhere to go. ‘This is but the tavern,’ she said, ‘the inn rooms must be cleaner or surely my uncle would have no custom.’
‘Men do not care about such things,’ Celia persisted.
Margaret could not allow herself to lose heart now. ‘We are not so fine we cannot clean a room to suit us.’
A man moved towards them from the far end of the tavern, wiping his hands on his tunic. Margaret’s heart lifted as she recognised her uncle’s rolling sailor’s gait—from a career of smuggling. Murdoch Kerr was the fourth son, youngest brother to Margaret’s father. He was broad-shouldered, bow-legged, with a barrel of a stomach. His nose hugged his face unevenly, the result of many a drunken brawl, and his thick brows parted not over his nose but rather over his right eye, where a scar prevented new growth. He wore a felt cap—Margaret guessed that his pale red hair was thinning, or gone. Not a handsome man, but as a girl Margaret had prayed her husband might be just like Uncle Murdoch. He always had a smile and a tale for her, and though he thought Christiana’s visions were the dreams of a madwoman he was one of the few people who could make her mother laugh. He was strong and quick. And Margaret had always felt safe in his company—for which she was particularly grateful at the moment, as the others in the tavern continued to stare. She smiled and held out her arms to her uncle.
He ignored them. ‘Nephew, God help me, you’re a fool to bring Maggie here in this storm. You did not cross the firth in this?’ Murdoch was not smiling.
‘We did, but it was not my choice to bring her, Uncle.’
‘He is not to blame,’ Margaret said, searching Murdoch’s face—it was familiar in feature but alien in mood. His scowl frightened her. ‘Will you not greet me, Uncle?’
Grudgingly, Murdoch came forward and hugged her. ‘You are soaked through, Maggie,’ he said as he stepped back. Glancing from Andrew to Margaret, he gestured to a doorway towards the rear of the large room. ‘Come away in. If it is weighty enough to bring you all this way, it is not to be discussed in a public room. Though none other are so warm as this. Sim,’ he called to a man wiping one spot on a table as he stared at them. He was tall and skinny, with fair hair thinning early. ‘Bring peat for the brazier above, and some ale.’
Murdoch led them out the unlatched door and up an outside flight of stairs to the first floor. Celia stayed close to Margaret as if fearful of being left behind. Murdoch hustled all three through an outer wooden door and into a vestibule with a hide covered doorway to each side and a wooden door ahead. He lifted the hide to the right and Margaret and the others stepped into a bed chamber, the bed a solid structure heaped with soiled linens. If her uncle had servants, whatever he paid them was too much. But, sweet heaven, it would be good to rest her head.
‘It is filthy,’ Celia whined.
Murdoch growled. ‘I have lost my maidservant. It is difficult to find the time to come up here to sort things out.’
Margaret signalled to Celia to hold her tongue. She felt suddenly very unsure of their welcome and thought it unwise to fuss. She hung her wet cloak on a peg by the door, pushed the soiled bedding to the floor and sat down on the mattress—which had little stuffing, and none of it sweet. She gestured to Celia to do likewise. Andrew perched on the edge of a table.
Murdoch folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the wall near the hide-covered doorway. ‘Now what is this all about?’
‘I must find Roger uncle,’ said Margaret. ‘I fear for him after Jack Sinclair’s murder. I must warn him.’
‘You call it murder, eh? What says murder and not a fight lost?’
Margaret could glean nothing from her uncle’s expression. Feeling as if she were edging out onto thin ice, she tested it with, ‘What can you tell me of his death?’
‘Naught, but I’ve seen worse wounds from a brawl.’
‘I never knew Jack to brawl,’ she said softly, but firmly.
Murdoch snorted. ‘All men like a fight.’
That was nothing Margaret was ready to judge, but she did not believe Jack had been brawling on the occasion of his death. ‘I saw his body. His throat and his belly were slashed, Uncle. He was murdered.’
‘How did you see?’ Andrew asked, horrified.
She did not meet his eyes. ‘I had to be certain it was him.’
Murdoch shook his head, pushed himself away from the wall. ‘A fine job of consoling and reassuring her you did, Andrew.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You cannot poke about in these times, Maggie. You’ll get yourself and me in trouble.’ His voice at last held a flicker of warmth, which encouraged Margaret.
‘I must find my husband,’ she insisted.
‘For all you know he found passage to Bruges and is with your father.’ Malcolm Kerr had settled his affairs and fled to Bruges after the slaughter at Berwick the past spring, worried that Perth might be next.
‘Roger thought Fa
ther’s flight cowardly. He would not follow.’
Murdoch raised his uneven brows in doubt.
‘When did you last see Roger?’ Margaret asked.
Murdoch frowned down at the floor. ‘I don’t recall. Jack came here asking about him too. Why did you think Roger would be here?’
Margaret told him about the letter sent from Edinburgh.
‘He sent only the one message?’
Margaret cursed herself for blushing as she nodded.
Murdoch grunted. ‘You think to bide here while you look for a man who has no reason to be here and hasn’t seen fit to send word to you since before Christmas?’
Margaret had expected resistance, but not unkindness. She tried to keep her voice steady, confident. ‘I hoped my maid and I might be welcome.’
‘And why should I welcome you? You’ll be naught but trouble.’
Don’t drop your head, she thought. Don’t let him know how you doubt yourself. ‘Kin are always welcome in the house of a Kerr.’
‘In a house, mayhap. This is an inn. I depend on paying customers here. You two cannot bed with men—you need a chamber to yourselves. Two paying customers you lose me, or more.’
‘I shall pay you,’ Margaret said. She had thought he would not have much custom at present and could therefore spare the room. She felt very naïve.
Murdoch growled. ‘I cannot take your siller, Maggie.’
For that she was grateful, for she had little, but it was not the time to inform her uncle of her penury.
Murdoch’s voice softened. ‘You should not be in Edinburgh. What would your father say if he sailed into Perth and heard you were down here among the English soldiers? They will come sniffing about. They can think of only one reason women might come to the town—to service them. Oh, Maggie, you must be gone. Back to Perth with you. And your fancy maid.’
Had her father cared he would not have left Perth. As for the soldiers, she had not thought of them as a danger to her unless she threatened them. She must have a care. But it did not sway her. ‘I’ve sat at home since Martinmas, worrying. Imagining all the worst. That Roger is injured and has no one caring for him. Taken prisoner. That he has left me and begun another life.’
‘He will come home, I am sure of it,’ Murdoch said absently, turning his attention to Andrew. ‘Could you not find Maggie fit lodgings in Canongate?’
Andrew threw up his hands. ‘I did not know she meant to come until last night. I have not had time to make arrangements for her, but I shall do so.’
Risking irritating her uncle, but recalling how he had encouraged decisiveness in her, Margaret said, ‘I will bide here, Uncle.’
She watched for Murdoch’s reaction to her determination as Sim shuffled in with a flagon of wine and four cups. ‘I’ll bring a pie by and by,’ the man muttered as he withdrew. A lad carried in some peat, began to fuss with the brazier. Celia told him she could manage and quickly set to it.
Murdoch did not outwardly react to her comment. When the servants departed, he nodded towards the wine. ‘Drink up, Father Andrew. You will have little good wine at the abbey. Your abbot has no doubt sent it to King Edward’s captains at Soutra Hospital, and what is left will be rationed among their wounded troops.’ Edward had taken over the great Hospital of the Trinity on Soutra Hill, which straddled the highest point on the King’s Highway between the border and Edinburgh.
‘There is precious little good wine left this side of the Forth,’ said Andrew. ‘Where do you find yours—on Edward Longshanks' ships?’
Murdoch growled.
Margaret had had enough of their contention. ‘What say you, uncle? Will you turn us out, Celia and me?’
Murdoch dropped his eyes to hers, touched her chin with his rough hand. ‘I have not convinced you to go home, lass? What do you need to hear?’
‘News of my husband.’
A shadow flickered across Murdoch’s face. ‘We shall talk in the morn. You are a woman in need of bed.’
‘Do you have clean linen?’ Celia demanded.
The woman did not seem aware of how precarious their situation was. Margaret told her to be still.
Murdoch snorted. ‘Find me a laundress and I will. Women are fearful to go down to the water with all the soldiers about.’
‘Dry clothes, that is what I need,’ Margaret said. ‘And to warm myself down in the tavern for a while.’
The men withdrew so she might change. But when the hide fell in place over the doorway behind them, Margaret did not move. She had expected to fall back on the bed, exhausted. Instead she just sat there, benumbed by the horrible turn life had taken since she had last seen her uncle. Her husband was missing, Jack was dead, she had travelled a long way, with a difficult crossing, with little plan but to resolve Roger’s disappearance, the town was so changed, so broken and subdued, and her uncle, whom she had not seen since her wedding, plainly wished her anywhere but here. She could not remember a worse time in her life.
‘Mistress, you wished to change?’ Celia said.
Margaret shook herself. She unhooked her scrip from her girdle, drew out the few coins she carried and the weight she had found in Jack’s shroud. The coins she poured back in—she would keep the scrip hidden beneath her kirtle at all times, or beneath her pillow at night. Every penny was precious to her.
‘Pay my uncle no heed, Celia. He will come round to understanding why I came.’ She studied the weight. It might be a fishnet weight, though it was small and far too clean, unless it was new. It was also too small for a thatching weight. She was almost certain it was a loom weight. A weaver would tie the end of the warp to this to keep it close to the floor, the thread taut. It was not something she would expect Jack to clutch as he died, nor was it something he was likely to have clasped in a fight.
‘Your hands are so cold,’ Celia said, rubbing them, knocking the stone to the floor.
Slowly, stiff from the saddle, Margaret stooped to retrieve the weight. The movement made her dizzy.
‘You have not eaten in hours.’ Celia helped her to her feet, untied the laces at Margaret’s back and wrists, let the gown slip to the floor. ‘Step out of it,’ she said softly.
Margaret moved because she was told. ‘You have not eaten either.’
‘I am not eager to taste the food down below.’ Celia straightened with a wince.
Of course. It had been a long ride for anyone, let alone one who had apparently never sat astride a horse before. ‘I’ll send up ale and food—you won’t wish to climb stairs tonight,’ said Margaret.
‘I have a salve for saddle sores.’
Margaret shook her head at the proud woman. ‘The sores are the least of it.’
The tavern was welcomingly warm and busier, now it was early evening. A rowdy dice game attracted a crowd around the table by the door. Margaret was glad to see two other women in the room. At one table an elderly woman wrapped in a much-mended plaid quietly reasoned with a bald man who pounded the table to emphasise his argument. Another woman sat nodding by the brazier, leaning against a man who was listening intently to the other men sitting there. At the third table a man sat hunched over an ale, listening to the diatribe of the man across from him. Both were dressed well, and both occasionally stole glances at Andrew.
Her brother was the only solitary figure in the tavern, sitting at the table nearest the back door, through which Margaret had just come.
Nodding in greeting, he poured her a cup of wine from a flagon.
‘I must be off to the abbey as soon as Murdoch returns,’ he said brusquely. ‘He is fetching food for you and Celia.’
‘If you must be off, be off.’ Though grateful to him for escorting her, Margaret wearied of his stern manner. ‘There are other women here, I can—’ a hush fell over the room as the street door opened—‘manage.’ A few heads turned as her last word rang out in the sudden silence.
The newcomer smiled into the anxious faces as he drew a fiddle from beneath his cloak. It broke the spell—a few peo
ple called out greetings. Others merely returned to what they had been doing or saying. The fiddler leaned against the table shared by the elderly couple, resting one foot on a stool, tested the strings, adjusted one, and then began to play a jig.
‘You’ll not sleep up above till these folk go home,’ Andrew said. ‘I’ll find more suitable lodgings for you. It won’t be easy, mind you. Strangers are unwelcome. Anyone could be a spy.’
The fiddler’s entrance had made that clear. But Margaret saw no need for Andrew to make the effort—a tavern full of gossip suited her. ‘I am biding here.’
‘You saw how he is—Murdoch is not the one to help you if you get into trouble or fall ill.’
The wine, the warmth, the comforting background patter and now the music cheered Margaret. She took her brother’s hands in hers. ‘All this worry about me. What of you? Is it so what Uncle Murdoch said of your abbot? Is he King Edward’s man?’
Andrew squeezed her hands, then withdrew his. ‘Our uncle blethers about what he does not know.’ He glanced over at the men who had been watching him, looked away as he caught one staring.
‘Do you know them?’ Margaret asked.
‘Aye, of course. Edinburgh is smaller than Perth—and do you not know everyone there?’
That did not need an answer—he knew she did. ‘They do not appear friendly.’
Andrew snorted. ‘Men are ever uneasy near their confessors. I shall ask about Canongate for lodgings that would suit you.’
‘I shall bide here until I either find Roger or learn where he is and what he is doing.’
‘Our uncle might disagree.’
‘Then I must persuade him.’
Andrew sighed one of his annoying sighs. She did not think he had even attempted to understand her need to know what had become of Roger.
Her attention was caught by a drunk who had walked into their table, then muttered, ‘Longshanks’ canons, all of you,’ before lurching on to the back door. Murdoch was just entering. The drunk gave a cry of surprise as the innkeeper grabbed him by the arm and, with his other hand in the small of the man’s back, pushed him out the back door.
