by Candace Robb
‘But the laundress has the bedding for washing,’ Margaret muttered to herself. ‘And we’ve not discovered who searched the undercroft.’ Her pulse pounded in her ears.
‘We may never find the intruder. As for the laundry, no one bides here now.’ Murdoch’s voice sounded as if it came across a great distance.
‘You bide here,’ Margaret said. ‘You need clean bedding.’
‘I sleep at Janet’s more than I do here. You need not worry about me, lass, or the bedding. It will be delivered whether you’re here or no.’
Margaret said nothing, almost choked by bile rising up from her roiling gut.
‘Och, Maggie.’ Murdoch’s hand was suddenly beneath her elbow. ‘Sit down, lass.’ He led her to a bench. ‘You’ve gone all pale. You can’t be with child already – Roger’s been here only a few days.’
‘No,’ she said softly. ‘I’m not with child.’ And if I were, what would we do? She struggled to think clearly. ‘Roger said nothing about departing in such haste. I can’t—’ Could not what? She could not grasp hold of her thoughts. ‘It’s happening too quickly.’
‘You’re no stranger to hasty departures, to hear your brother Andrew tell it. According to him, you decided between Jack’s funeral Mass and his burial that you would accompany Andrew from Dunfermline to Edinburgh, even knowing he meant to leave as soon as possible.’ Murdoch handed her a cup of watered wine. ‘Drink that down.’
He was right about her hasty decision to come here. ‘But that was different.’ Though she could not collect her thoughts sufficiently to explain how. The wine had soothed her stomach but had done nothing for the pounding in her head. ‘Why didn’t Roger tell me?’
‘I’d say he and his man learned today that it must be tomorrow night.’ Murdoch took the cup and refilled it.
Margaret refused it. ‘My mind’s scattered as it is.’
‘If I’m right, he’ll not change the plan, Maggie. Perhaps he knows that the most careless guards are on duty tomorrow evening.’
‘Why must our departure be so planned? Others depart Edinburgh without such thought.’
‘Horses don’t. Had you not noticed? The English are not keen for us to have mounts, and if Roger is carrying money and documents he’ll not wish to draw attention.’
Margaret had not thought of that. ‘I should make it clear to Celia how much we risk.’
‘You’ve escorts who ken the perils, Maggie.’
Pressing her cold hands to cheeks that were on fire, Margaret nodded. She was grateful that her uncle had warned her, albeit inadvertently, about her imminent departure before she made a fuss with Roger. They were in a tentative truce, Roger having conceded that Celia would perforce remain with Margaret rather than risk lengthening the journey in order to pass through Dunfermline. She wished to do nothing to change his mind.
‘You’ll not drink this?’ Murdoch asked, still holding the cup of wine.
‘No.’
He tipped back his head and emptied the cup in a gulp. ‘I’m no happier about this than you are, lass. In a short time I’ll be without all that has tempted me out of bed of a morning – the gossip of the tavern, the siller folks pay to bide here, you and all your fussing. I’ve no purpose of a sudden.’
He looked so sad she searched for something to cheer him. ‘You have skills from your smuggling days that our people need, Uncle. You’ll still be called upon to board and plunder the English ships anchored off Leith.’
He shrugged, nodded half-heartedly. ‘Not often enough to occupy me.’
‘And you have Janet.’
‘Aye. She’s a treasure.’ He forced a smile.
Margaret did not trust herself to say much more. ‘I must find Celia, ready our packs.’ She opened her arms to embrace her uncle. ‘I’ll miss you more than I can say.’
‘And I you, lass.’ He gathered her up and kissed her on the cheek.
She almost wept at the familiar scent of him – sea, smoke, sweat, ale, and stable. ‘God bless you for all you’ve done, Uncle.’
‘God will bless me for some things, condemn me for others. We’ll none of us ken till Judgement Day where we stand with Him.’ He stepped back, releasing her. ‘Now go, see to Celia. And to James. He wouldn’t take it well to hear you’d gone without a farewell.’
Margaret had forgotten about James. How she wished she were riding to Perth with him. She understood him – he wanted to restore his kinsman to the throne of Scotland. But Roger was a puzzle to her, his allegiance to the Bruce vague and his insistence on a quick departure frightening. Though it had been her idea to return to Perth, now she felt as if she were being wrest away from all she held dear. What had been her journey had become Roger’s, and she no longer knew the goal.
Ashen-faced, Celia gazed down at the clothes spread on the bed. ‘That one has a stain on the bodice. And there’s a tear on the hem of the gown you’re wearing.’
Margaret heard the echo of her own confusion in Celia’s voice. ‘As travellers we’ll not be expected to be tidy. Rest a while, and I’ll help you later.’
Celia regarded Margaret, her eyes dark beneath the heavy brows. ‘I see by your expression this haste is not your doing.’
Margaret told her of her uncle’s theory. ‘So it is for our own good.’
With an expressive sigh, Celia folded a corner of a gown and sank down on to the space so cleared, her small hands on her knees, studying the plank floor. ‘Tell me again what your house is like.’
Celia had never been to Perth. Margaret recalled how uneasy she had felt as a child travelling to Dunkeld to see her mother’s parents. Her keenest memory was how the alien smell of everything made her lose her appetite for a few days. Celia had not been interested in food when they’d first arrived in Edinburgh last spring, and though tiny the maid usually had a healthy appetite.
‘Are you certain you wish to come with us?’ Margaret asked. ‘I’ve just told you of the danger.’
Celia’s thick, dark, almost joined brows bunched beneath her broad, pale forehead. ‘I am in danger whenever I encounter a soldier in this town. I think nowhere is safe at present. Tell me about the house. It will give me something pleasant to think about.’
‘It’s larger and tidier than this, you can be sure,’ Margaret said, forcing a smile. ‘It is the second house from the market cross, near the river, but not too near. There is a large kitchen in the backland, and two small chambers over the far side of the hall. We have few furnishings, but it is solidly built to withstand the fiercest winds and the hall sits over an undercroft to protect us from the floods.’
‘Floods?’
‘Sometimes the mountain snows melt so quickly the Tay runs over its banks,’ Margaret said. ‘But the canals on three sides of the town catch most of the flood to turn the mill wheels and carry barges,’ she hastened to add, noting Celia’s apprehension. ‘And there are water meadows around the town, full of birds.’
‘You never want for water, then,’ Celia said, with an uncertain laugh.
Margaret thought it better not to speak of how floods might contaminate wells. ‘You’ll like my friend Ada. She is my mother’s age, but nothing like her – she’s practical and clever – in faith, she’s educated. She was the mistress of a great, generous lord. He bought her the home in which she lives on Northgate and the costliest silks.’ She was glad to see Celia’s eyes light up at that. ‘I have missed her good counsel.’
But the day would soon fade. ‘I must see James and Father Francis.’ She regretted deserting Celia when the maid needed reassurance, but there was so little time.
James guessed Margaret’s errand by her boldness in coming to his home, something she had not risked since Roger’s appearance. He was not surprised by her news, understanding the need to depart when the time was right. More interesting was Margaret’s distress. She looked ready to burst into tears, or to scream, neither of which he cared to witness.
‘It is what you wanted,’ he reasoned, offering her a chair.
/> Margaret ignored his offer, choosing to pace between the hearth and James, cupping one fist with the other, then reversing, as if warming her hands, though the room was actually stuffy. ‘Is it what I wanted, or have I walked into a trap?’ As soon as she said it, she pressed a hand to her mouth and shook her head as if arguing with herself. ‘I did not mean that.’
‘You did, I believe,’ said James. ‘What has happened?’
She turned away and bowed her head. ‘I caught Roger in a lie.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I asked what had happened between here and Dundee last summer.’
James heard with interest Sinclair’s tale of the Brankstons, how it was because of them that he’d gone to the aid of Edwina of Carlisle.
‘But he’d brought her to Edinburgh before he returned to Perth,’ Margaret said. ‘Before he knew of the Brankstons’ tragedy.’
‘Ah. She did come in summer. Did you point that out?’
‘He said he tells me “half truths” for my protection.’
James merely nodded. ‘I should be able to learn more of the Brankstons for you.’
‘You are a good friend. I wish …’ She stopped. ‘I’m making little sense. I decided to leave Edinburgh without thinking how I would miss my uncle. I might never see him again.’
James found it an odd shift in subject, but Margaret was overwrought. ‘If it is any comfort, I’ll shortly be travelling north. I’ve been summoned by Wallace. He’s meeting me near Perth. I’ll find a way to get word to you about how you might find me if you need to.’
James had expected Margaret to look relieved, but she disappointed him. She groaned as she halted a few paces from him and her eyes were dark with tears.
‘I counted on you to watch after Uncle Murdoch.’ The last word caught in her throat.
‘Your uncle is his own man,’ James reminded her. ‘I have no influence over him. And you’d get little thanks from him for assigning me as his caretaker. You should not worry about him.’
‘But of course I’ll worry about him.’ Her voice was almost shrill. ‘He’s not a young man.’
‘Calm yourself, Margaret.’ James set the chair behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, and pressed her down on to it. He felt the heat of her agitation through the thin cloth of her summer gown.
Margaret folded into herself, wrapping her arms about her middle. ‘God help me, my mind is full of such noise I cannot hear my thoughts.’
‘You must take some ease.’ Calling his servant, James ordered watered wine. He often forgot these days how young Margaret was, not yet twenty, and as the daughter of a merchant brought up to marry a merchant her background had ill-prepared her for her role in this contest of kings. As a Comyn he’d been born with a taste and a stomach for intrigue. His sister Eleanor could outwit the craftiest courtier. It was in their blood, and feuds between families had been their bedtime stories.
The servant delivered the wine and was dismissed. Crouching before Margaret, James offered her the cup. ‘You have a long journey ahead of you, exhausting enough without the added torment of worries and regrets about those you’ve left behind. Our king needs you to hear what he cannot be there to hear himself. He needs you alert and calm to observe all that happens in Perth.’
Her eyes were barely focused. He repeated some of his little speech and added that Wallace and Murray were pleased with their success in forcing the English from the north and once pushed south-east from Dundee they would make a more manageable target. Gradually she breathed more evenly and her eyes cleared. He admired how she fought to regain her composure.
‘Forgive my outburst.’ She took the cup in both hands.
James moved over to the fire and fussed with it, giving her some solitude. He congratulated himself on insinuating himself into her life in Perth by calling on her duty to John Balliol, though in truth he doubted that the townsfolk would confide in her. They would be wary of Roger, whose business and whereabouts must have been the subject of much gossip the past year, and of Margaret, too. But he intended to see her once they were up north in order to plant the suggestion that she discover for Balliol whether he was the rightful king in Dame Christiana’s vision.
With a rustle of her skirts, Margaret joined him at the fire.
‘What do you think Uncle Murdoch will do now?’ she asked, her voice not quite down to its customary timbre.
‘I know not his mind,’ James said. ‘Rest a while longer, Margaret. You are not yet at ease.’
‘There will be little ease for me until I am settled in Perth. And even then, what peace might we enjoy?’ She surprised him by slipping a long-fingered hand in his and looking him in the eyes. ‘We shall win back our land, James. God is on our side.’
‘May He watch over you on your journey, Margaret.’ He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it. He could not read her expression as she looked on him for a brief moment, but he saw her blush before she withdrew her hand and turned away. He should not have been so bold. But it was she who offered her hand.
‘I’m able to hear my thoughts now,’ she said, with a weak laugh. ‘God speed, James.’ She hurried out as if devil dogs were snapping at her heels.
James thought it would be interesting to meet with Margaret in Perth and see how she fared. He suspected she would be as much a puzzle to her husband as she was to him.
Margaret found Father Francis sitting outside St Giles, watching children taking turns riding a toy wagon down the steep wynd that led to Cowgate.
‘It’s good to see them playing,’ said the priest, ‘yet I watch and worry that some soldier will find fault with their game and beat them.’ He shook his head and turned to her.
‘Have the soldiers done such a thing?’ she asked.
‘Forgive me – I see you are already troubled, and I am adding to your anguish. What is it, Margaret?’
She watched a cloud’s shadow move slowly across the twin peaks of Arthur’s Seat south-east of Holyrood Abbey as she told Francis of her imminent departure. ‘I am anxious, and a little afraid.’
‘A journey is a perilous undertaking in these times, but you are on the right path, returning to your home in the protection of your husband.’
Margaret thought of the fear that had gripped her in the kirk.
‘Perhaps someone in Perth will help you with your reading and writing,’ Francis said. ‘Is Roger impressed with your letters?’
‘There has been no time to boast,’ she said. ‘In truth, I may keep it a secret for the time being. We may be husband and wife, but I do not share his allegiance.’ Although her reading ability was meagre, a few words from a letter carelessly left out might prove useful. Her stomach fluttered to think of spying on Roger, but she must.
Father Francis nodded solemnly. ‘I had almost forgotten that your husband is Robert Bruce’s man.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘It seems a long while since that morning months ago when I escorted you to the abbey to bid your brother farewell – it disheartened me. I brooded on Father Andrew’s plight for a long while. Too long. It ate into my soul that an abbot should so use one of his own. It left me hollow, despairing.’ The late-afternoon sun gave his bony, hawk-nosed face a rose glow and coloured the shadows beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks a bruised purple. ‘At least Roger is fighting for our people, not for the English tyrant.’
They talked a little more as the afternoon shadows grew long. She spoke of her fears for Andrew, and Father Francis assured her that if he heard anything regarding him he would get word to her. The children had quit their game by the time Margaret bade him farewell and headed down High Street to the tavern.
As she passed beneath the archway connecting the inn’s two buildings she heard unfamiliar voices coming from the house to the right, seemingly from Murdoch’s undercroft. Roger sat across the way, at the foot of the steps to their chamber, apparently asleep, but as soon as he heard her footstep in the yard he rose and, taking her firmly by the arm and pressing a finger to her l
ips, hurried her up the stairs saying nothing until he had drawn the bolt on the door.
‘The English are searching the undercroft.’ He crossed the room, closed the shutters, lit a lamp.
Murdoch’s respite had been brief.
Roger stood tensed, as if ready to spring at an intruder. It frightened Margaret.
‘Where is Uncle?’
‘He’s down there assisting the English in their search.’
‘Perhaps I should go to him.’
Taking her by the shoulder, Roger bent close. ‘We shall suffer this in silence, give them no reason to notice us.’
‘Why are they here now?’ Margaret whispered, imagining an ear pressed to the door. ‘Could they know about our departure?’
‘I pray God they don’t.’ Roger let her go, sat down beside the lamp.
Margaret put some space between them, settling on the edge of the bed.
‘Your uncle plays dangerous games,’ Roger said in a more normal voice. ‘He did not wake the guard in time for his relief. So now there will be more guards.’
‘What are we to do?’
‘As long as the English leave by the curfew, we can still depart without bloodshed.’
Margaret gasped. ‘You would fight our way out of the town?’
‘If necessary.’
‘Perhaps if we delay they will grow weary of watching an empty tavern.’
Roger seemed a stranger, sitting back, looking at her with an expression she could not decipher. ‘We risk our own people if our plans miscarry now, Maggie.’
‘There are others leaving with us?’
‘Meeting us. To assist us on the way.’
She nodded and studied her hands, embarrassed to have thought they were going quietly, peacefully to leave town with no one the wiser. ‘How long have the English been with Uncle?’
‘Not long.’
‘Where is Celia?’ It was unusual for her not to have checked by now whether Margaret needed anything.
‘In your uncle’s kitchen. What do you know of the night the old man died in the alley?’
‘Why are you asking about that now? What is Celia doing there?’
