by Candace Robb
Murdoch thought it likely Harcar had been murdered because of his complicity with the English. Murdered in the alley next to this house in which she lay. The murderer might be as near as James Comyn. Or Roger. Neither supported Longshanks, for whom Harcar had spied. Yet each had cause to protect Murdoch—Comyn as his partner, Roger for the help Murdoch had given him. She did not think either would let the body lie in Murdoch’s alley. But Celia had come upon it so soon after the deed—perhaps there had not been time to move Harcar. The murderer might be anyone.
Celia entered the chamber balancing in one hand a tray with bread and a pot of something steaming and smelling of mint. She must have walked fast, to keep it so hot.
Celia set the tray on the table, turned round, gave Margaret a good look. ‘Your uncle says it’s best you don’t go with him to the smith’s burial.’
‘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.’
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 towards 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 towards 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 towards 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 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’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’s voice 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.
If there were rumours, 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 rumours about Jack.
‘I am glad abou
t 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.’
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.
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 the 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, signalling 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 in to 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.
Comyn invited her through to the main hall of the house, with a brazier near another long table, a few benches as well as one high-backed chair. Two tapestries graced the larger walls, one a hunting scene, the other of wine-making. Here, too, were candlesticks, some of a grey metal she did not recognise, some of silver. In a cupboard were handsome silver plates and two of the unusual metal, as well as a tankard.
Comyn must have followed her gaze. ‘Pewter. It is made with both tin and copper or lead.’ He handed one of the plates to her. ‘I bought them in York.’ It was a heavy plate, but the metal had a satiny finish and feel. ‘These were made in Paris. In York they make only items for the kirk. No one makes pewter in our country.’
‘Have you often travelled to York?’ It seemed as far away as Bruges.
‘I have property outside York, so I have lived there from time to time.’
Margaret noted a fine carved wood screen to one side of the brazier. This was the way she had dreamed her home in Perth would look in a few years, filled with treasures from Roger’s travels. She wondered in what coin Robert Bruce rewarded Roger’s service.
On one of the benches lay a fiddle and bow.
‘Do you play the fiddle?’ she asked, glad she was now on stone with scattered rushes, as she was still dripping.
‘Rather well. And you?’
‘No. Mother took our harp to the convent. But I played very little.’
‘Your mother withdrew to a convent?’ He sounded genuinely curious.
She reprimanded herself for mentioning Christiana.
‘It is not uncommon after a woman’s children are grown.’
‘But your father is in Bruges, I think?’
If he knew that, he most likely knew of her mother also. She was glad of the reminder to watch her tongue. Comyn changed his expression at will, and she had been fooled by his apparent interest. ‘Father agreed to her retirement before he departed. Uncle says to tell you this is a finer ale than the one that put him in your debt.’
Comyn laughed. ‘His always is, even if brewed the same day in the same house. I pray you, sit and we shall test it.’
She shook her head. ‘I have much to do.’ And no stomach for ale this morning.
‘Have you heard anything of your husband since the day you saw him?’
She tensed at the question. ‘No. Have you?’
‘Why should I hear anything? I asked because you look weary.’
She did not believe him. His attempt to eavesdrop the previous evening was just one more item on a fast growing list of things about which he was suspiciously curious. ‘There is much to do at the tavern.’
‘Ah.’
Her repetition certainly signalled her discomfort. He said no more.
Even that made her uneasy, his easy acquiescence. He enquired, but he never pressed. She took her leave with much relief, exiting through the study so she might collect Hal.
Abbot Adam had not asked about the rest of Andrew’s day the previous evening, but it was clear he meant to now. He had summoned Andrew to take a letter, but he had no documents spread before him, there was no sign he had been at work. Instead, he was kneeling at a prie-dieu in his parlour when Andrew arrived. Abbot Adam often put on a display of piety when he was about to impart bad news or make unpleasant demands.
Now he rose slowly, clutching at the prie-dieu for support, bowed slightly to Andrew with his hands still folded in prayer, sat down on a leather-seated, backless chair, tucked his hands up his sleeves, blinked his eyes several times as if bringing himself back to the mundane world.
‘Ah, Father Andrew. Sit, I pray you.’ He expounded on the rewards of prayer for a while.
Andrew patiently listened, nodding in the correct places, all the while tensed for the assault.
‘Indeed,’ Adam said, ‘I imagined you yesterday kneeling in prayer with the widow of the smith. All the day I pictured you there, through vespers, through the evening mea
l, enjoining her to pray for the soul of her departed husband. What a comfort Father Andrew must be to the bereaved woman, I thought.’
Andrew squirmed. ‘As I mentioned last evening, My Lord Abbot, I saw my sister afterwards and went to the castle on her behalf.’
A long, dramatic sigh. ‘So you did.’ The abbot touched his head. ‘I become forgetful. I pray you, tell me again whom you saw and what you discussed.’
Judging it unwise to argue that the abbot’s memory was excellent, that last night Andrew had told him only that he had made the journey, not what he had discussed, he launched into an account of his meeting with Sir Walter Huntercombe. He took care with his choice of words, his emphasis.
Adam listened with eyes closed, his head tilted slightly as if making an effort to hear clearly in his best ear. There was nothing wrong with the abbot’s hearing. He nodded now and then, clearing his throat delicately.
When Andrew was finished, Adam allowed a long silence. Then he said, ‘Interesting. Sir Walter did not mention what happened at Lanark yesterday?’
‘Something happened?’
‘William Wallace slit the throat of William Heselrig, the sheriff of Lanark.’
Andrew crossed himself. ‘Had he been provoked?’
The abbot looked at Andrew askance. ‘You know that Wallace needs no provocation. He believes he is John Balliol’s champion, and hopes to return him to the Scottish throne.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘No. And Heselrig was not the only one to die. The garrison marches from Edinburgh Castle today, to hunt down the murderer.’
And so the bloodshed began. Wallace and his men had moved against the English. The garrison had at last been set loose to pursue the quarry. Andrew prayed Wallace escaped. ‘You mentioned a letter. It is of this you will write?’
The abbot touched his temple as if thinking, then shook his head. ‘I have thought better of it. I shall speak to the brethren at Mass in the morning. I am commanding all the brethren to confine themselves to the abbey grounds. With the garrison’s protection gone, we must have a care.’
