Candace Robb - A Trust Betrayed

“When did you last see him?” Margaret asked, willing to risk irritating her uncle for news of Roger.

“Save your gossip for later,” Murdoch growled.

Margaret murmured a farewell, vowing to seek out the brew-ster another time, and left the tavern.

Out back once more, she noticed a stable off to the left, beside Murdoch’s kitchen. Moving closer, she saw that it was conveniently at the edge of Netherbow. It had a large yard, but as she stepped within she saw that the stable itself was small, with room for no more than six horses. The air was heavy with the dust of hay. A young man sat beneath a hole in the roof that let in light. He hummed as he combed the mane of a large-eyed ass. Sensing someone approaching, he shook his head to clear his hair from his eyes, glanced up at Margaret, then dropped his gaze back to the ass. He had stopped humming.

A horse snorted in the opposite corner. Margaret approached the ass, holding out her hand. The animal sniffed it with interest, then dropped her muzzle so that she might be scratched between the ears. Margaret obliged. The ass was a gentle, lovely animal, well cared for.

“Are you Murdoch’s groom?” Margaret asked the lad.

He had stopped combing and watched her through the unruly fair hair.

“Who is asking?”

“Dame Margaret Kerr, Master Murdoch’s niece.”

“God bless.” He gathered his long legs and stood up to make a little bow, keeping his gaze toward the packed-mud floor. “I am Hal, mistress.”

Margaret still scratched the ass’s head. “She is well cared for.”

“Bonny. She is the master’s, and proud of her he is. She likes you.”

She was the first in Edinburgh to do so. “Does my husband ride her when he’s here?”

“Master Murdoch keeps Bonny to himself.”

“Have you met Roger Sinclair?”

“I meet only the folk who come in to see to their beasts themselves, mistress.”

A sly response.

“I am not spying on you. I have come to Edinburgh searching for my husband. Any word of him, any memory of his time here might help.”

Hal raked a hand through his hair, peered at her intently before his eyes were hidden once more. “I didn’t hear he was missing. I don’t ken much about him, Dame Kerr. He’s never been sharp with me, that I can say.” His mouth twitched into a smile, and Margaret realized she was still stroking Bonny’s soft muzzle. “You’ve a gentle touch with animals.”

“I like them. They’re often kinder than people.”

“Och, aye.”

Margaret heard Mary the brewster call out a farewell as she cut through the backland toward Cowgate. “Can I trust her, Hal?”

“Mary? Most times.”

Margaret took her leave of Hal and Bonny, returning to the tavern.

Murdoch now had the bench overturned. He was cursing under his breath as he tightened a leg with a bit of straw.

An elderly man sat on the fetid floor watching a slow drip from the ceiling near the street door. Margaret guessed from his age and his drink- and sleep-flushed face that this was Old Will.

“She’s a splasher, that one,” he said.

Murdoch muttered a curse.

“Such language afore your niece, Murdoch?” Old Will gathered himself and rose with a grunt and a moan.

Murdoch glanced up at Margaret. “Tell that maid of yours to keep the water in the basin.”

The old man tottered over to Margaret. “The young weaver might ken where your Roger is. She had an eye on his cousin.”

“Will!” Murdoch shouted. “I told you to be off.”

It rang true, a woman attracted to Jack. “What is the weaver’s name?” Margaret asked.

Old Will licked his lips, shook his head to help his memory. “Bess, is it? Aye, Bess.” He shuffled on out the back door.

Murdoch shook his head as Old Will stumbled on his way to the alley. “That was his wife’s name, Maggie. He calls most women Bess. See to your maid. She’ll be the ruin of me.”

“Was his wife a weaver?”

“She might have been. It’s long ago.”

“But he said she had her eye on Jack.”

“Old Will dreams in his tankard, and he likes a pretty face- he wanted to keep you talking.” Murdoch shook his head at the wet spot on the ceiling and moved toward the stairs.

“I’ll see to her.” Margaret pushed past him and hastened up to her chamber.

Celia knelt over a basin kneading her gown and splashing water as she cursed.

Margaret walked over to where the maid could see her. Celia looked up, her eyes flashing.

“Your wash water is dripping through the floorboards,” Margaret said.

Celia yanked her hands out of the basin and sat back on her heels. “That filthy cook told Master Murdoch he should order me to do all the laundry.”

“It is not my uncle’s place to give you orders. He knows that.”

“He agreed that I should.” She lifted her red hands to Margaret. “How can I handle fine fabrics with rough hands?”

“Stop your fretting and hang your gown to dry. It is surely clean by now.”

It was not a good beginning.

On the following morning the rain poured down in sheets, soaking Margaret in the short walk between the house and Murdoch’s kitchen. She shook herself as she stepped across the stone threshold. The room was unoccupied, but a pot of broth simmered over the fire circle in the middle of the room and from the oven near it came a welcome warmth and an equally welcome aroma of fresh bread. Margaret walked slowly round the room, looking for a sense ofher uncle in it. The wattle and daub walls had been much repaired, with patchwork plaster from which radiated hairline cracks, and watermarks where the walls met the slate roof. A boarded-up window on the wall opposite the oven hosted a vine that twisted in through the slats and disappeared into the roof. The remaining window was on the wall with the door, looking out on the chambermaid’s cottage and the tavern kitchen, not toward the tavern. Dried herbs hung from the rafters. Roots were stored in a shallow pit beneath a trapdoor far from the fires. This had not been fixed up by the same hand as Murdoch’s bedchamber. There was no feel of a woman here.

“Bring that lopsided pot over for these, would you?” Murdoch stood in the doorway with an apronful of dried apples.

Margaret found the pot, held it for the tumble of fruit.

Murdoch took the full pot from her, carried it to a trestle table. “Is your curiosity about my kitchen satisfied?” He picked up a knife, turned his back to Margaret, and began to core.

“You wield that knife so well. I cannot recall Father ever picking up a knife in the kitchen.”

“Nor did your mother, I would wager. Too busy with her prophecies.” He sounded angry.

Margaret thought he still fumed about Celia’s washing. “I’ll not allow Celia to wash up above again.”

“It was my fault,” he said, surprising her. “I had forgotten Roy would likely be unfriendly.”

“You could predict he would not like Celia?”

Murdoch shook his head. “Women. He was unfortunate in loving Belle, the chambermaid. She went off with a man who offered her safety to the north.”

“And Roy blames all women?”

“He’ll mend in time.”

“You’ve been unable to find another chambermaid?”

“Aye. You have complaints about the bedchamber?”

“No. I thought that if you or someone else would show me the guest chambers, and where you keep mops, rags, brooms, and buckets, I could be of use to you.”

“As you can see, I am busy.”

They were dried apples and could keep. Unless he meant to toss them in the pot. But what was in there did not smell like it would mix with the fruit.

“Then let me help you with the apples.”

“Sweet Jesus.” He threw down the coring knife. “Can a man have no peace?” His eyes glared beneath the uneven brows.