Candace Robb - A Trust Betrayed

“Such a fuss! Do you not wish to find Roger?”

“Sweet heaven, you know that is not why I ask.”

But it had been the way of arguments with Jack. Teasing, playful. He had been such a vital presence.

And now here he lay.

Margaret’s vigil began in tears. But as the hours slipped by her eyes dried, her sorrow replaced by a more selfish emotion. Fear. For herself, for Roger. Whoever had so savagely murdered Jack might be after Roger. After all, Jack’s business had been Roger’s business, Jack’s kin were Roger’s kin.

In the early morning Margaret’s brother Father Andrew relieved her at the watch. After Celia took her leave, Margaret watched Andrew for a sign that he noticed the shroud had been opened and resewn.

He knelt beside it, said a prayer, then settled on the stool Celia had vacated, rubbing his hands together. “I don’t need to tell you it’s a cold morn. You must have frozen in here all the night.”

“I preferred that to warming the lyke. Jack is four days gone.”

“Aye.” Andrew ran his hands through the dark hair that curled round his tonsure. He could be handsome if his mouth did not have such a downward curve, if his deep brown eyes met one’s own more often.

Margaret was relieved he noticed nothing untoward. He had grown into such a humorless and judgmental man. She did not know whether she could have explained herself to his satisfaction. And she did not have the stomach for a sermon.

“Be off with you,” Andrew said. “Fergus awaits you in the house.”

Fergus was Margaret’s younger brother, whom she had left in Perth to see to the business and take care of her house. “How can that be? It is at least a day’s ride here.”

“I sent word with a messenger from Edinburgh before I began the journey.”

“It was good of you, Andrew.” If anyone could empathize and in doing so cheer her, it would be Fergus. The brothers were perfect examples of the melancholic and the choleric- Andrew cold, Fergus hot, Andrew dark in mood and appearance, Fergus aglow in all things.

“He can escort you home.”

“Home? But I cannot leave at a time like this. Roger’s mother needs me.”

“You have much to do in Perth. Find a new factor.”

“Fergus has been doing the work since Jack left. He will continue.”

“Uncle Thomas expects him in Aberdeen.” Their father had arranged for Fergus to become secretary to his uncle, who had a fleet of merchant ships.

“He will not go now.” He could not. He must not. “He will be Roger’s factor.”

“He is too young, Maggie. Younger even than you. He wants training,” Andrew replied firmly.

Margaret felt her face growing hot. Fergus was young, seventeen. But Margaret had no money with which to pay a factor. “It is not for you to decide.” The Church saw to all Andrew’s material needs. He knew nothing of what the merchants suffered with the English blocking the shipping. He could not possibly understand her situation.

Their eyes locked. Margaret prayed Andrew could not see how close she was to tears.

He was the first to look away. “Go, break your fast, Maggie. The burial is set for nones.”

Fleeing the hut, she slipped on the rutted ice, steadied herself against the wall. The morning was cold but dry. She stood a moment in the sharp air, letting it cool her burning cheeks. She must calm herself and think what to do.

Fergus jumped up from his seat by the fire circle to embrace Margaret.

“I am so sorry, Maggie. Jack was a good friend to you.”

Fergus had thought Jack a difficult boss, ever finding fault, never praising, but he was aware how much Margaret had valued her husband’s cousin.

“You should come back north with me,” he continued. “Far as you can from the English soldiers. Better yet, close up the house and come to Aberdeen. Aye, that’s best.”

It was good advice, but Margaret was not free to agree to it. “How would Roger find me?” She fought tears, but they already streamed down her face. She was tired, hungry, frightened.

“Oh, Maggie, I didn’t mean to make you weep.”

But as he stood before her she saw that Fergus was truly a very young seventeen, not yet experienced enough to handle the responsibilities of a factor without guidance. He did need time with Uncle Thomas. She did not know how she was to manage without either Roger or Jack.

“Have any ships come through while I’ve been away?” she managed to ask.

“Nay. Things are no better than when you left.”

Perhaps it did not matter. She was not likely to find a factor even had she the money to pay one. All the young men were slipping away to fight the English. Another good reason to tie Fergus to the business-he might yearn to be a soldier, but he would not desert her.

By late morning the sun shone on mud brittle with frost. Jack’s coffin was to be placed in one of the shallow winter graves until the earth thawed and he could be moved to a permanent grave. Standing in the doorway of her goodmother’s house, Margaret shivered and pulled her plaid mantle close about her, shifting from one foot to the other in an attempt to keep some feeling in her toes. She said good morrow to some neighbors and a priest from another parish, pressed the hands of an elderly goodwife in tears.

“Dame Kerr.” It was the hoarse voice of Jack’s father. Will Sinclair bowed his shriveled head to her; the stench of stale wine lingered in his wake as he entered the house. Jack had hated his father, a drunkard who had begotten eight children on two wives, both of whom had died of his neglect. Then he had worked two daughters so hard they, too, had fallen with fevers. Being the youngest, Jack had been taken in by his aunt Katherine.

The mourners had been congregating without the house after expressing their sorrow to the family. There was no room for all of them within. Now they milled about, soberly greeting neighbors.

Margaret’s good mantle was suddenly placed on her shoulders. Fergus squeezed her shoulders and whispered, “No need for you to freeze, Maggie. Jack is on his own now, doing his own penance.”

“What do you mean?” Margaret asked rather sharply.

Fergus moved beside her. “Surely he has not become a saint in your mind now he’s dead? If ever there was an unsaintly man it was Jack with his schemes and his small lies, his flirtation with all females younger than Mother. But no, I recall he even flirted with Mother for a time, until she had a damning dream about him.”

Margaret blushed at the memory.

“Look at all the females in this crowd, eh?”

“Aye,” Margaret whispered.

“Well?” Fergus asked. “Why did you snap at me?”

“I am tired, that is all. And I do mourn him, Fergus. He was a great help to me and a good man.”

“Oh, aye, I know that. But he was a knave as well.”

“I’m much better since you joined me. And warmer.”

“Your goodmother should have thought of the mantle.”

Folk came up to speak with them, but Margaret responded with only half her attention. She kept looking for Roger’s arrival at the edge of the crowd. Had he heard about Jack’s death, he would have come. So he did not know. She would not let herself think of the other possibilities, that he was prevented from coming by illness or death.

The tolling bell stilled the voices, calling the mourners to the kirk. It kept the pallbearers’ steps slow and steady. The priest’s incense spiced the wintry air.

In the kirk Margaret’s breath rose in frosty clouds as she prayed, steadying her goodmother beside her.

Once more the pallbearers lifted Jack. Katherine straightened, shook her head at Margaret’s offer of support. For this last walk with her nephew she would be strong.