by Candace Robb
The black cat rubbed against her legs, butted his head against the hand hanging idle at her side. She crouched to pet him.
‘Well, Agrippa, what do you make of it?’ she whispered.
The cat purred and presented each side of his neck in turn, then the top of his head.
‘Should I beware James Comyn, or should I trust him? He is my king’s kinsman.’ And he seemed to be the link in all this.
Leaving the kitchen, Margaret was thinking where to look next when she noticed Roy’s voice raised in anger, answered by a woman’s voice. Concerned that Celia might be at odds with the cook again, she hurried to intervene.
Geordie and Sim sat outside the tavern kitchen, leaning their heads against the wall of the house, eyes closed, listening.
‘Whoring queyn, why would I take you back?’
‘You love me is why. I went with him for your sake. For the wean’s safety.’
‘You carried no bairn of mine when you left with your farmer.’
Sim opened an eye, elbowed Geordie. They stood up with guilty blushes and moved away from the house.
‘It’s Belle and Roy,’ said Sim. ‘Her farmer left her for soldiering.’
By now Margaret had guessed that. ‘Does your master know she’s here?’
Geordie shook his head. ‘The master’s in his storeroom.’
The padlock was not on the door. Margaret pushed gently. The door swung open with a faint creak. To one side of the door an oil lamp on a shelf illuminated part of an aisled room. The pillars and the walls were stone. But from without, the undercroft looked wooden. Murdoch’s secret. Several chests rested on trestles in the centre. On one of them burned another lamp. Barrels stood in a neat line beyond the chests. In the far aisle yet another lamp burned. Against that wall hung what looked like a tapestry. She stepped farther into the room, drawn by the flickering colours, looked up. The ceiling was plastered.
‘What are you doing in here?’ Murdoch roared.
Margaret dropped down into a crouch beside one of the chests, startled by the loud sound in this dark place.
‘I know you’re here, Maggie.’
Her heart pounded. Best to stand. He must know where she was. But she could not make her legs move. This was his secret place and she was trespassing.
Beyond the chest by which she crouched was one with a thistle carving on the side. She knew that chest. It was her father’s. He had taken it with him to Bruges.
Murdoch’s footsteps approached. He must be by the barrels now. She wished she had not been such a fool as to hide.
He grabbed her by the back of her gown, dragging her up to her feet.
‘I told you not to bother with this room.’
He was so close she could smell the garlic and ale on his breath.
It took her a moment to find her footing. ‘I was looking for you.’ She shook out her skirts. ‘Geordie said you were here.’
‘What did you need of me?’
‘I’ve hired Rosamund.’
‘You broke into my storeroom to tell me that you hired a laundress?’ he shouted.
‘I did not break in. The door was unlatched.’
Murdoch ran a hand through his hair. ‘How much?’
‘A farthing a pound of laundry.’
‘You’re robbing me!’ He walked away from her, then turned, hands on hips. ‘Why did you hide?’
‘Because I could see I was being a fool.’ She pointed to the deeply carved thistle. ‘That’s my father’s chest.’
‘Aye, it is Malcolm’s.’
‘Why is it here?’
‘My brother brought it to me for safekeeping while he is in Bruges.’
‘What is in it?’
‘Records of his trade, his lands and possessions.’ Murdoch folded his arms before him. ‘Now you’ll be going out that door behind you while I see to the cruisies.’
As Margaret left the storeroom she met a young woman coming down the alley pouting and muttering to herself. Her dress was of good cloth, loosely laced up the front with the cleft between large breasts well exposed. She would give birth by midsummer by the look of her. She wore neither mantle nor shoes. Dark, lustrous curls tumbled down about her neck from a threadbare cap. Her colour was high—perhaps from her encounter with Roy. She had a rosebud mouth and blue eyes heavily lashed. Noticing Margaret, she paused, smoothed the front of her gown.
‘Dame Kerr?’
‘Aye. And you are Belle, I think.’
The blue eyes rounded as Murdoch came out the door behind Margaret.
‘Count everything you give that laundress, Maggie,’ he said as he closed the door. ‘God’s blood!’ he exclaimed as he turned and saw Belle. ‘Has Roy seen you?’
‘Master Murdoch—’
‘There’s no welcome here for you, Belle. Get you gone.’
She pouted prettily.
‘Go!’
Belle’s bottom lip trembled and the great eyes welled with tears, but she raised her chin. ‘You’ll come begging. You’ll see. You need Roy, and he needs me.’
‘I don’t need Roy, and there’s your mistake. I’m a better cook than he is.’
‘Hah!’ she said loudly, and headed off down the alley to the High Street.
‘I must see to Roy,’ Murdoch said, and left Margaret standing by his storeroom.
The padlock was still not on the door.
15
Honour
Margaret must have flustered Murdoch more than she had guessed. Or Belle had. But Margaret had no time to question God’s purpose in throwing this temptation in her path. Her uncle might realise his mistake at any moment. She slipped through the storeroom door, pulled it to. Darkness. She felt round the inside of the door, hoping the padlock would be hanging on a hook as it did in the kitchen. Nothing. Crablike she moved to the opposite side of the door, felt round, found the padlock.
But it would be of no use to take it. Murdoch would know she had it, and he would replace it. He seemed to need many locks—no doubt he hoarded a goodly number.
A noise outside the door alerted her. She pressed back against the wall, watched the line of daylight grow along the items to the left.
‘Mistress?’
‘Celia?’
The maid stepped into the room pulling the door closed behind her, opened the shutter on a lantern.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Whatever you want to see, do it quickly. Your uncle is in the tavern kitchen with Roy.’ Celia produced a twig, lit a lamp from the lantern.
Margaret made her way around the chests, past the barrels, to the tapestry on the far wall. There were several, hung one over the other. Loot, she guessed. Beneath them sat another chest. She knelt down, lifted the lid, inhaled a lavender scent. A woman’s gown lay on the top, made of scarlett, the costliest wool cloth.
‘Someone is coming!’ Celia said.
Beside the woman’s chest was a smaller one, a size that fitted behind a saddle. Margaret had seen Roger strap it on many times. It was locked.
The light dimmed behind her. Celia had blown out the lamp by the door. Margaret shuttered the lantern. The door opened slowly.
‘You must be more careful about the wick if you wish to be a spy, Maggie,’ said Murdoch. ‘It is still smoking.’
She opened the lantern shutter, unwilling to be locked in here as a lesson.
‘Do you have the key to Roger’s lock?’ she asked.
‘What took you to his chest so quickly?’
‘It is where you were standing.’
Murdoch shook his head. ‘I do not have the key. For all I did for him, the man still does not trust me.’
‘I don’t believe there is a lock you cannot pick.’
‘Come out of there. I must get back to Roy. That whore has him in a drunken rage, destroying the kitchen.’
Andrew prayed that the Almighty would grant him the freedom to prove to himself he was not the puppet of Abbot Adam. He was done with that. He intended to warn Murdoch o
f the abbot’s intention to close the tavern. And he must talk to Margaret—there were things she must know. His honour towards his family was so far intact, let it remain so, please God. He had borrowed a pilgrim’s robe and wide-brimmed hat that had been left at the abbey by a hastily departing guest. So disguised, he passed out the gate without notice. Once in Canongate he forced himself to continue up the road at a solemn pace.
He felt exposed walking alone, without Matthew. He had not realised how accustomed he had become to the young man’s presence, that now to walk by himself seemed unnatural, something all would notice. Matthew was a good lad, quiet and self-effacing. He wished more than anything to be a canon, but he seemed incapable of learning to read. His eyesight was good enough. Alas for Matthew, though the lad might be correct in his assertion that his parish priest did not know his letters, an Augustinian Canon must be able to read and write. His best hope was as a lay brother in one of the Austin hospitals. Perhaps Soutra.
In all his agonising 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 south-west 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 was 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.’
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 afterwards he had returned. But now that Edwina was gone and Margaret was here, Roger avoided the inn. She was less to him than Edwina of Carlisle was.
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 second-hand.’
‘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. Yet 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 honour him. I do honour 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 honoured to be chosen.’ Andrew laughed as he said the word ‘honoured’. ‘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 realised 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 dishonour 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.’
