by Candace Robb
At last it was out. ‘You were here in the dark, hiding.’
‘By God!’ Murdoch shouted. ‘Oh, Maggie, you ken me not a whit if you think so.’ He shook his head at her. ‘But I tell you this, if I was wont to murder someone I would not hesitate over the likes of Harcar.’ He gulped down his ale, sprang up and went for more.
‘If you hadn’t just come from Harcar, why did you fly at me like that? You thought you were followed.’
‘I’m always followed, woman. You asked about my pact with the English. My pact is my innocence. They can accuse me of nothing. I keep the peace in my inn and tavern, and when evil is done I always have proof of where I have been.’
‘Harcar spied for the English,’ Margaret whispered.
‘Did you not wonder how he came to find Jack in the middle of the night? Course not. You pitied him, aye, that’s a woman for you. Cripples are saints.’
‘He killed Jack?’
‘Not with his hands. You ask me about pacts with the English? Harcar spied on us all for the captain of the garrison.’
‘So that is why he was in the Englishman’s chamber.’
‘You’re daft. A man in the pay of Longshanks would not stay here.’
‘But Redbeard refused to sleep under the same roof.’
‘Who?’
Margaret described the man.
Murdoch dropped his chin, shook his head. ‘I see.’
‘What do you see?’
‘Leave it be, Maggie.’
‘You say you always have proof of where you’ve been when trouble occurs. Then what would you say if asked where you were yesterday and last night?’
‘Leave it be, Maggie.’
‘I saw the stains on your clothes.’
‘You see too much. But they were not his blood.’ He rose. ‘I’ve wasted time. I should speak to the Englishman.’
‘He’s well away. Celia followed him as he departed—that is how she came to find the body.’
‘She witnessed the murder?’
‘No. But she said the Englishman was not surprised when he came upon the body.’
Murdoch grunted and went out the door, leaving Margaret with more unanswered questions than when she had arrived.
She searched the kitchen for his soiled clothes. They must be either in here or in Murdoch’s room. Nothing came to light.
Outside the kitchen Margaret found Hal sitting by the door, bent over a harness, working oil into the leather in brief, even strokes over a small area.
‘Did you hear anything last night?’ she asked.
Hal pushed his hair back with an oily hand. It stayed put for once. He addressed Margaret’s hem rather than her face. ‘Not until Celia cried out.’ He met Margaret’s eyes for a moment, allowing her to see how troubled he was. ‘It is a terrible thing, the murder of a man, no matter if he was a spy.’ Then he dropped his gaze to his work, moved farther down the length of leather, scooped up more of the oily mixture from a bowl, began to rub and knead.
She guessed he was of an age with the dead lad. ‘Did you know Will Harcar?’
‘Not well.’
Murdoch came round the side of the kitchen, muttering an oath. ‘The guest who sounded like an Englishman—where’s his horse?’ he asked Hal.
‘Don’t know who you’re talking about. I don’t often meet the riders.’
‘Show me the horses that have been stabled here since yesterday.’
Hal picked up the bowl, rose with harness in hand, followed Murdoch to the stable. Margaret followed them at a little distance, stayed out of sight, listening.
‘This belongs to a red-bearded MacLaren,’ Hal said. ‘From the Trossachs, a day’s ride from Stirling Castle. He came with it to see it was stabled well.’
So that was Redbeard’s name—MacLaren. And he was still here. She remembered him following Comyn out of the tavern the previous night. Nervous, she glanced behind her.
‘This belongs to someone who does not come far to Edinburgh and comes through often.’
‘Ian Brewster,’ said Murdoch.
Margaret had put him in the room opposite the Englishman last night.
‘No other?’ Murdoch demanded.
‘Not last night.’
Margaret withdrew before they came out.
10
We Have Not Begun to See
Margaret had the card weaving spread out on the table, trying to unravel more of the thread. Her hand had healed to the point where she no longer needed a bandage. The work was a good use of her hands while trying to quiet her mind enough to search for connections between what was going on around her. She saw Roger’s presence in town, his running from her, and Comyn’s reaction to the news that she had seen him as a set. But she did not know what to make of it. For it had not been clear whether Comyn saw Roger’s presence as dangerous or as a sign of danger. Harcar’s murder the night of the discovery of Davy’s body might mean that someone blamed Harcar for Davy’s death. She feared that someone had seen her begin to approach Harcar and killed him before he could tell her about finding Jack’s body, which would mean she was being watched, and that someone did not want her to learn anything about Jack’s murder. She did not know how to interpret MacLaren’s antagonism towards the Englishman, his following Comyn out of the tavern, his stealth outside Murdoch’s room last night. Then there was Murdoch’s absence just as all this took place, and Comyn’s concern about it. If only she knew where her uncle had been. Yet even that might tell her little. There were too many pieces, and she did not know whether they were all connected. Certainly James Comyn figured largely. She wished she knew more about him. He was like an object in the night, seeming clear when seen from the corner of her eye, but insubstantial straight on, impossible to focus on. That made her very uneasy.
Celia sat across from Margaret darning some bedding. A knock on the door brought her quickly to her feet. She crossed herself before she asked who was there.
‘Father Andrew.’
Celia unbolted the door.
Shaking his cloak, Andrew asked if he might come in.
Margaret knotted the warps together and tied a cord around the cards, sorted at last. She would begin again on the border when she could pay it her full attention.
‘Celia, take your work to my uncle’s kitchen. It will be warm in there.’ She could not speak plainly with Andrew if the maid were in the room, and she had a favour to ask of him.
‘Master Murdoch will not be pleased,’ Celia said.
‘Tell him I sent you.’
Celia took her mantle and her sewing and departed, slamming the door behind her.
Andrew had gone straight for the brazier. He stood there rubbing his hands together close to the heat. His curly hair clung damply to his temples; his beaked nose was red.
‘You have had a cold walk up here.’ Margaret took his mantle—such heavy wool it always surprised her—hung it on a peg near the brazier to dry.
Andrew’s forced smile did not distract Margaret’s attention from his eyes, which looked desperate. She prayed Abbot Adam had not already heard about Harcar, that Andrew had not been sent as his emissary. She tried to hide her anxiety as she offered him the high-backed chair.
He dropped into it with his hands folded, his elbows close to his side, like a lad awaiting a lecture. ‘I have been with Janet Webster.’ A weariness in his voice seemed at odds with the tension in his body.
So it was that business, not Harcar. Almost gasping with relief, Margaret sat on a stool, took out her spindle to keep her hands busy. ‘How is she?’
‘Widow Smith is strong. She did not collapse with grief though it’s plain she feels it.’ Andrew had unclenched his hands, shifted in the chair. He looked calmer. ‘She wished Davy’s body brought to the smiddie this morning. While she stood watching the servants shift him from the cart to the house she asked at last what our infirmarian had said about the body.’
Widow Smith. That is how people would know Janet now, until she remarried. If Marga
ret were widowed, she would be Widow Sinclair, just like her goodmother. ‘What had he noted?’
‘He saw no marks on the body but a head wound.’
‘And poor Davy ended in the Tummel naked like Harry the cobbler.’
‘Perhaps they fell into an argument beside the river.’
‘Naked?’
Andrew threw up his hands. ‘I don’t claim to ken how they came to be there.’
Margaret ignored him. ‘Was Davy wounded in the front or the back of his head?’
‘Why? What does it matter?’
Margaret tugged at the wool, said nothing.
‘Davy’s injury was to the back of his head, at the base of the skull.’
‘So he was hit from behind.’ Margaret thought about that. ‘How did Harry die?’
‘His neck had been broken. But not simply snapped. Crushed. A strong man like Davy could murder a man so.’
‘And then Davy hit himself in the base of his skull? Or perhaps Harry was yet so strong after a fatal wound?’
Andrew’s full, handsome face looked grey, despite his recent travels, which would normally put colour in a man’s cheeks. ‘Perhaps there was a third man.’
‘Forgive me. I should not argue with you as if you had cause to lie. I am only trying to make sense of all this. You look weary. It is good you are through with your travels for a while.’
Andrew ran a hand through his tonsured hair. ‘Our people are stirring all round us, Maggie. Raids on English ships, attacks on the king’s messengers, the barns burned in which they stable their horses.’ He dropped his head to his hands and was quiet a moment. ‘We have not begun to see the bloodshed. When I was at Elcho I heard the rumours. I prayed I would reach Holyrood before the uprising began.’
There had been many rumours of skirmishes, particularly up north, around Aberdeen—she worried about Fergus—but the tales were of individuals fighting to keep their provisions, cattle, horses—that was a far cry from a rising. ‘You believe the people will fight for John Balliol?’
Andrew said, ‘I do,’ without hesitation. ‘Our countrymen may fight among themselves, but they will not support a soulless murderer like Edward Longshanks. They will be loyal to their king.’
‘And you think this uprising could happen any time?’
‘Andrew Murray in the north, William Wallace down here.’
‘Sir Andrew Murray? But he was sent to England with King John.’ He was of one of the noblest Scots families, with lordships north of the Forth.
‘No, his son.’ Who had also been imprisoned in England. ‘He has fled Chester Castle and headed home with a will to oust the English.’
‘You ken far more about this than I imagined. But of course—you were in St Andrews. Was it for the meeting you spoke of, between Bishop Wishart and the Steward?’ From what he had said at the ferry crossing, the bishop and the steward had consulted William Wallace.
The question seemed to make Andrew uneasy. He waited so long to respond that Margaret had just opened her mouth to apologise if she pried when he spoke.
‘I was—I happened to be there at the time. But I was not privy to their discussions.’
She did not like that answer if it meant he had been there spying for Abbot Adam and had been discovered. But she had not intended to make Andrew uneasy. ‘When you returned to Dunfermline with Jack’s corpse you were taking a greater risk than I knew.’
‘It was the right thing to do.’
‘Brave, nonetheless.’
They were quiet a moment, each lost in a place the other could only guess at.
‘Do you think Jack’s death had anything to do with the deaths of Harry and Davy?’ she asked in a while.
‘I see nothing to connect them.’ Andrew seemed distracted, studying his hands, gazing round at the room.
‘I have blethered on without asking your news. Did you find lodgings for me? Did you come to argue me away from biding here at the inn?’
‘No. Everyone is frightened. I do not think anyone will come forward to accept a stranger, despite your being my sister.’
‘Because of the murders on the River Tummel?’
‘No!’ It was almost a shout. Even Andrew seemed taken aback by the vehemence of his denial. ‘Because of the trouble all round us,’ he said softly. ‘Might I have some ale?’
‘I’ll fetch it.’
Margaret pondered Andrew’s mood as she went down to the tavern kitchen. It was not his usual bristly irritation, but something much deeper, and not aimed at her. She wondered how she seemed to him, weighing her words as she was, fearful of mentioning the corpse in the alley that was so much on her mind.
Andrew was pacing the length of the room when she returned with cups, followed by Geordie with a heavy pitcher.
‘A nice, large chamber,’ Andrew said when Geordie had gone. ‘Well fitted. This was Mistress Grey’s?’
‘Yes. She fixed it up to suit her.’
‘I am sorry about her.’
‘Let’s not talk of it. There are those who say she was not Roger’s paramour.’ She poured the ale. ‘You have said little about your time with Mother before Easter. Has she embraced a more purely Roman worship?’
Andrew thought Christiana’s second sight was a pagan thing, not a gift from God as the sisters thought.
‘We did not discuss it. She looked well.’ His eyes roamed the room again. ‘Did you find an escort to Dunfermline for your maid?’
‘Not yet.’ She saw no need to admit she had not tried. ‘You have not heard of anyone travelling north?’
Andrew shook his head. ‘I doubt I shall find someone suitable.’
This banter was irritating. Margaret had a favour to ask. ‘Andrew, as a priest you have freedom to move about the town, to mingle with your countrymen and the English.’ She shook her head as he opened his mouth to speak. It was time to tell him about Roger. ‘Hear me out. I saw Roger on Thursday.’
‘Here? In Edinburgh?’
She told him what had happened. ‘He had such wounds on his face. I can’t bear not knowing whether he is still in the town, whether someone is seeing to his injuries. I hoped you might ask at the castle.’
Andrew frowned at her as if she had suddenly begun to talk in tongues.
‘He is your sister’s husband,’ she said. ‘It would not be unseemly for you to enquire about him. And Jack’s death. If you could just ask whether he had been in trouble with the soldiers.’
Andrew had begun to shake his head as if trying to dislodge the words from his ears.
‘It cannot be such an impossible request,’ she cried. ‘He is my husband. Jack was his factor. You are—’
‘I am a canon of Holyrood, Maggie. Not one of the priests the English brought with them. I can go to the castle, yes, and I might mention Roger, but both of them? Surely you see how that would look?’
‘How would it look?’
‘At the abbey we strive to favour 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 favour.’
‘Concern about your family shows favour 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 realise 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 anyon
e’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. ‘A woman on Cowgate takes in laundry. Rosamund is her name. Her house is almost directly across from Davy’s 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 the High Street with long, strong strides.
Margaret watched until she could no longer distinguish him from the others in the 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. Yet he had so adamantly denied his right to support his king when she asked her favour. 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 favour, 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 in to the open tavern 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.
