Candace Robb - A Trust Betrayed

Perhaps it would be better to leave this place. It would not be so awful to return to her goodmother’s house. Edinburgh was a dark town choking with suspicion and hate. Ifever she had done a pointless thing it was coming here, searching for a husband who did not wish to be found by her, grieving over another man who had not been the man she had thought him, seeking help from a selfish, spineless thief. She would be better away. She took some deep breaths, gazed round, wondering whether anyone had witnessed her collapse-not that it mattered.

Beyond the tavern kitchen stood a few sheds, then a paddock outlined with wattle hurdles. Behind the house that faced Cowgate was an old shed with a collapsed roof. Agrippa sat on the crumbled roof material, cleaning himself. His fur was a deep red-brown in the sunlight, not black at all.

Like Andrew’s hair. Oh, what a handsome man her brother was. And so unhappy.

So was she. She wondered what her mother would make of her prophecies now-pouring over maps before a battle, holding her babe in her arms, her husband by her side. If the contrast were not so painful Margaret might laugh at it. Her goodmother had been silly to believe Christiana. And what would Katherine make of all this? Pray God she did not turn Margaret away. Her stomach clenched to think on it. A week ago she would not have feared rejection there, she would have been confident of being received by her goodmother with open arms. But Katherine might prefer not to know all Margaret had learned of Roger and Jack. That would require a silence Margaret feared she could not maintain. And once told, there would be no erasing it.

And so to Perth? She had a house there, at least. Ye’t there were rumors that William Wallace was in Scone a few miles up-river-that would not make for a safe or peaceful place.

Margaret had risked everything in coming here to seek out the cause of Jack’s death, she had not seen that before. And still she could not name Jack’s murderer. Well, as long as she was still here, she might continue to work at unraveling Jack’s murder; perhaps she might learn something of use to her. It was obvious she had only herself to depend on. She still believed there was more to Jack’s death than Comyn’s men seeking vengeance. There was the loom weight. And Besseta Fletcher, daughter of the man who had sent Jack to Edinburgh, was a weaver.

Margaret found Celia in their chamber, spinning. The bedchamber seemed chilly and dim after the sunshine.

“Was it darksome news, from Father Andrew?”

Margaret hesitated by the door. She had come to a decision, but did not know how to begin. “Thank you for coming to my aid in the storeroom.”

“I was gey glad to help. Did you find something of use to you?”

Here was the invitation Margaret sought. She sat down across the table. “It is time you knew everything.”

Celia pursed her lips, dropped her eyes to her spindle. “We’ll be bound if I do.”

“Aye. But you’ve already risked danger to help me. You’ve already bound us.”

The maid lifted her dark eyes to Margaret’s. “Tell me.”

Not knowing how much Celia already grasped, Margaret began from the beginning, with the loom weight. It was a long telling, punctuated by pauses when Margaret lost her way in her own thoughts. Celia listened with rapt attention. At the end, there was silence.

Margaret felt as if she had confessed her sins. Andrew must have felt this way.

“I am sorry for any trouble I have caused you,” Celia said at last.

“You’ve helped. Surely you can see that.”

“What will you do?”

“My husband wants me to go back to Perth and wait there until he has nothing better to do than resume his business and his marriage. But before Murdoch finds us safe passage, I wish to see the Fletcher sisters. I want you to accompany me on a visitation tomorrow. I thought we would offer one of your remedies to Agnes. And while you have them distracted I shall look at Besseta’s loom weights.”

The warm day allowed Andrew to do his copying in the cloister, away from the abbot and his knowing eyes-though he could not escape his words. Andrew was making a fair copy of a letter Abbot Adam was sending to Bishop Wishart regarding some old business. In an incidental remark at the conclusion Adam complained of Andrew’s treatment by the English soldiers. Andrew had protested the passage when taking notes this morning, but Abbot Adam said his feelings were too delicate on this. Andrew cursed as a cat jumped up onto the table and jarred his arm.

“Damn you!” He jerked the parchment out from beneath the cat’s large white paws. The cat hissed at him and retreated to the corner of the table. Andrew disliked the creatures, and they knew it.

“Cursing Griselda.” The abbot softly chuckled. “It is no wonder she torments you.”

A chill ran down Andrew’s back-he had not heard the abbot’s approach. He put down his pen and rose to bow to the abbot.

“Forgive me, My Lord Abbot. She surprised me.”

“As have I, apparently. Return to your work. I did not mean to disturb you, merely to ask you to see me after nones.” The abbot nodded to Andrew, then, calling to Griselda, walked slowly away.

Andrew broke out in a sweat. Adam played with him like a cat with its prey.

This morning he had been certain the abbot would challenge him about his absence the previous afternoon, but he had not mentioned it. All was as usual, the abbot dictating, Andrew scribbling. If Adam did not broach it at their next meeting, Andrew must bring it up himself. He could not bear this game.

In the warmth of the sunny afternoon the upper stories that leaned crookedly over High Street blocked the air. But it was her mission, not the spring sunlight, that had Margaret sweating as they turned down the alley to the Fletchers’ door. She prayed for success, raised her hand, rapped sharply. Waited.

“Someone is there,” Celia whispered.

Margaret nodded, rapped again.

Besseta opened the door just enough to peer out. The room behind her was dark, as was the shade of mid-afternoon. “Margaret. So you have found me.” She peered out farther. Her neck looked fragile beneath the cap that covered her hair. “Who is with you?”

“Celia, my maid. She is skilled with herbs and roots. I thought if she could see Agnes, she might be able to mix something to help her.”

“Agnes is sleeping. She must not be disturbed.”

“Perhaps if you described Agnes’s illness to us?”

Besseta shook her head, began to close the door.

“I have an excellent sleep potion,” Celia said.

Besseta checked the movement of the door. “A sleep potion?”

Celia pulled back the cloth on the basket she carried, lifted a packet.

Besseta opened the door wide. “It is a hellhole in here,” she said, stepping aside as if to let them see for themselves. But their eyes could not adjust to the indoor dimness so quickly. “You are welcome if you do not mind it.”

There was no question of refusing the offer. Margaret stepped within, Celia following on her heels.

It was not a pleasant room, but hardly deserved the comparison with hell. A loom at the far right caught the north light from a high window-surely not enough light in which to weave for long in most seasons. A tattered cloth covered an interior doorway to the left of the window. Though the house sat on a hill dropping off north and east and should have excellent drainage, the beaten-earth floor smelled damp, and the warmth of the day made pungent various cellar odors. Margaret prayed that Celia would not wrinkle her nose. But if she had, Besseta did not notice.

Margaret wandered toward the loom as Besseta and Celia arranged a bench and stools. The weights tied to the warp were larger than the one she had in her scrip. But on the floor near the loom were several piles of loom weights of various sizes. The smallest were much like the one Jack had clutched in death.