Candace Robb - A Trust Betrayed

The sputtering candles burning at both ends of the shrouded corpse scented the air with beeswax but could not mask the other, stronger odor of decay. Dried herbs had been added to Jack’s shroud before it had been sewn shut, as was the custom, but they were no longer equal to the task.

Sewn shut. Margaret had only her brother Andrew’s terse description of Jack’s wounds-the slashed stomach and throat-related dispassionately. Not that Andrew had reason to sorrow, no more than for any man’s death. Her brother, a canon of Holyrood in Edinburgh, had brought Jack’s body home, but she doubted the two had ever spoken more than a few cordial words of greeting. It seemed to her that someone who had cared for Jack should witness his wounds. In fact, having had so little acquaintance with him, Andrew might even have made a mistake in identifying the body as Jack.

“How can I know it is him?” Margaret whispered as she stood over the shrouded figure.

“Father Andrew said as much, Dame Kerr,” said Celia.

Andrew had taken his vows before Margaret met Roger and his family. He had come to her wedding, where he would have met Jack, but she did not know of another time he might have seen him. A mistake was possible. Still, the prospect of opening the shroud filled her with dread.

If she had her mother’s gift of second sight she might spare herself this added grief of seeing Jack’s handsome face transformed by hideous death. But though Margaret looked much like her mother, she did not have her gift. She must deal with the world more directly. She must see the body.

“Bring my sewing basket to me, Celia. Make sure that my scissors and a good needle are in it.”

She saw Celia’s uncertainty. “I pray you, go.”

“Widow Sinclair will wonder why you want your sewing things.”

“Tell her I must occupy my hands.”

Celia looked doubtful, but with a nod she departed.

Once alone, Margaret knelt beside the bier and bowed her head. She prayed that God would not take offense at what she was about to do. She prayed, too, for Jack’s soul. And, as always, that Roger was safe. “Bring him home to me, dear Lord.”

Celia returned with the basket.

“I shall need the lantern,” Margaret said. “You are free to cross back to the house if you like, though it will be dark.”

Celia shook her head. “You need someone to hold the light for you if you mean to take the stitches out neatly.”

“It is best that no one knows of this but us.”

“I don’t gossip.” It was a statement, not a vow.

But Margaret was grateful. “God bless you, Celia.”

“Where would it be best for me to stand?”

Margaret indicated a place near the head of the shroud. “I need see only his face.”

Silently, Celia took her position. Margaret was grateful the maid asked no more questions. And why should she? It was reasonable to have some small hope that Andrew had made a mistake.

The stitches at the top of the shroud were tiny and even. Margaret worked to keep her hand steady. There was no cause to let others know she had unwrapped the corpse. As she picked at the stitches in the dim light and the cold, her sight blurred and her fingers grew clumsy. Celia took the scissors and handed Margaret the lantern.

“The lantern warmed my hands,” Celia said. “If you hold it while I finish the tearing out, you will have warm fingers to sew.”

The lantern did warm Margaret’s hands. And when Celia stood back, proclaiming the stitches all undone, Margaret thought herself ready to look at Jack, then sew the shroud closed. She pulled back the cloth.

The sight of him shattered her. Jack’s blond lashes should rest on pale, high cheekbones. Instead they were almost invisible in the folds ofbloated eyelids, cheeks. Ye’t she could not stop there. She tugged further at the shroud with stiff, impatient, careless fingers.

Celia grabbed her hands, but Margaret struggled to free herself. “I must see his wounds. I must see them.”

“Let me do it,” Celia said. “You will tear the shroud.”

His body was unrecognizable, the flesh discolored, the wounds gaping perversions of the body’s form, obscenely intimate, exposing the inner maze of blood and tissue. The odor made Margaret gag. Why had she done this? This was not Jack, but his lifeless, bloated shell. She lifted the shroud to begin rewinding it, caught his right hand in a fold of the sheet. Something slipped from his hand-a small stone with a hole in the center. She plucked it from the sheet, tucked it up the tight sleeve of her shift.

“Shall we add more dried herbs?” Celia asked quietly.

“What does it matter?”

Silently they bent to their work in the candlelit shed, the wind moaning and pushing at the fragile hut, the rain drumming overhead.

That Jack’s good deed should come to this. Margaret remembered the day, just over a month past, when the plan had been hatched. She was at home in Perth, making use of a rare dry afternoon in March with a tolerable wind. Margaret and her servant had strung rope in the garden between two apple trees and hung out the bedding to air. She was hanging some of Roger’s clothes as well. Four months he had been gone, and the clothes in the chest smelled musty. If the airing did not help, she would add them to next week’s laundry. Margaret’s hands were soon stiff with the cold, but the sunshine cheered her.

An errand, she could not recall what, brought Jack to the house. He strode into the yard, graceful and twitching with energy like a fine horse, wearing his best clothes, a green tunic with a white shirt beneath, brown leggings, soft blue shoes with long points and matching felt hat. How fine he looked. And she could tell by his posturing that he knew it.

“I am bidden to dine with Alan Fletcher.” Jack looked smug. Alan was a wealthy and influential merchant in Perth, and Jack had ambitions. “I told him that I thought it high time I went in search of Roger. Master Fletcher has proposed a bit of business for me to do in Edinburgh and will provide the horse for the journey.” A welcome offer. With no shipping from Berwick or Leith since the English had seized the ports the previous summer, the coffers were almost empty, and hiring a horse for such a journey was out of the question. Margaret needed her mare here.

Still, she had been puzzled. She had worried about Roger all this time, but all the while Jack had assured her Roger was not headstrong and he could take care of himself. “Why now?”

“I did not want- God help us, Roger is home.” Jack had just noticed the hanging clothes. “No wonder I confuse you.”

“No, Roger is not home. Tell me more about your plan.” Easter was upon them. Perhaps she might ride south with him to Roger’s mother in Dunfermline for the holy day.

But Jack said he must leave at once, and Margaret had much to do for the household before she could depart.

“Why this haste?” she asked.

“Seize the opportunity.” He had glanced round, then lifted her hand and kissed it. She pulled away from him, her face burning, and Jack grinned. “I cannot kiss my cousin?”

“It is good you take such an interest in searching for Roger,” she said rather more loudly than necessary, “but why search for him in Edinburgh? He would not ship from there.” His purpose in setting out had been to find an alternative port now that Berwick was in English hands. He had said he would begin with Dundee.

Jack still teased her with his eyes. “It was from Edinburgh he wrote to you. I may find a trace of him.”

It was true-she had received one letter from Roger in late November saying he would be home by Yuletide. The messenger had come from Edinburgh. “And if his trail leads you beyond Edinburgh, will Alan Fletcher approve your continuing with his horse?” Her father and Fletcher had long ago fallen out over the man’s miserly ways. He would expect a full accounting from Jack.