Candace Robb - A Trust Betrayed

“I thought therein lay his honor, that he was committed to his kinsman’s right to the throne.”

“It has become that, I think. But it began as a mission for another.” Janet rose, pressed her hands to the small of her back, arched to consider the light coming through the roof. “I must get further today.” She glanced down at Margaret. “Do you really think Comyn murdered Jack? Is that why you are so curious about him?”

“I don’t know. I hoped to learn something I could use to keep him away from the Fletchers tomorrow. I need to speak further to Besseta.”

“Ask Murdoch to help. He’s taken in ill part the cruel murder of Jack Sinclair.”

“He doesn’t behave so.”

“He thought if he seemed indifferent you would give up your mission. Tell him this will allow you to leave all the sooner.” She tilted her head, studied Margaret for a moment. “Murdoch tells me you pick a lock as well as he does.”

Much good it had done her. She would do better to unlock the secrets of the men in her life.

Back in their chamber, Margaret drew the wool comb from her scrip. “This I did not show Janet.”

Four long, narrow bone prongs with tapered edges. If one were to stab at flesh and drag the prongs down they might make a wound like Roger’s. It nauseated Margaret to hold it.

“I believe this is what someone used on the side of my husband’s face.”

Celia crossed herself.

Abbot Adam knelt at his prie-dieu, his Paternoster beads wound in his long, slender fingers. Andrew, settled into his customary chair, folded his hands in his lap, bowed his head.

Adam rose, still holding his beads. They swung in rhythm to his graceful walk as he joined Andrew. His eyes twinkled. Like Griselda’s. Cat and master were of a kind, Andrew thought. But quickly the abbot’s expression changed to one of sadness.

“Father Andrew.” He shook his head as at a troublesome child. “You disobeyed your lord abbot.”

“My Lord-”

The abbot put up his hand, silencing Andrew. “Of course you have prepared an excuse, and you might even believe it. But it does not change the matter of your disobedience.”

“I pray you forgive me, My Lord Abbot.”

“Forgiveness comes in many forms, Father Andrew. Apology and a penance of prayer or fasting.” Adam tilted his head back, studying the ceiling. “That would be the easiest path for me.” He lowered his head, smiled briefly at Andrew. “For I do love you, Andrew, like a son you have been to me.” He dropped his head, moved his beads through two Hail Marys, whispered tranquilly. “I have been praying over it, you see.”

“I believe the Lord would wish me to help my sister.”

“You took a vow of obedience.”

Andrew said nothing, but he could not take his eyes off Adam’s face, nor could he hide his loathing.

It was the abbot who looked away first. He shook his head over his beads. “I was mistaken about you, and now I pay the penalty.”

Make your point! Andrew wanted to shout. But he did not. He sat and suffered, as ever a pawn in his abbot’s hands. Except that he ceased to listen.

Until the abbot roared, “Have you heard anything I have said?” His color was high, his eyes burning.

“I was praying, My Lord Abbot. You seemed to be arguing with yourself, and I thought it more polite not to listen.” Andrew trembled as he said it, but the abbot’s look of disbelief offered a strange comfort.

Adam’s expression soon turned to scorn. “You wish to make me think you mad so that I will not send you to Soutra? I see it now. It will not avail you.”

So he had been right, Soutra was to be his sentence. It shook Andrew, but he was determined not to let the abbot witness his fear. “How soon do you send me?”

“I cannot say. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next week. I must pray over it.”

Soutra. “I shall be confessor to the English soldiers?”

“Do you have an objection?”

My life! My name! But Andrew chose not to answer that aloud. “For how long, My Lord Abbot?”

“Forever, if it suits me.”

Eternity stretched before Andrew.

He did not bother to wait for more of Abbot Adam’s scorn or venom. Bowing respectfully, he rose and left the room. He walked slowly. There was no hurry now. His fate had been decided for him. To the abbey kirk he walked, hands tucked in his sleeves to hide his trembling. Within the kirk he knelt at Our Lady’s altar.

Help me, O Mother. Help me open my heart to the English soldiers. Help me hear their confessions and give them absolution. Help me see them as God’s children. In this he could disappoint Abbot Adam by staying alive. And if he found a way to help John Balliol’s cause, all the better.

The wool comb sat on the table between Margaret and Celia as they ate.

“How do you know that was the weapon used on Master Sinclair?” Celia asked.

“If you had seen the wound, you would ken.” Margaret pushed away from the table. “But was it Besseta who wielded it? Or Agnes? And why?”

“You must eat.”

“Besseta trembled so. What if she takes too much of the sleep draft?”

“She will curse me for the time spent at the midden. There is little valerian, but much mallow root in it.”

“Celia!”

Margaret expected laughter. But Celia did not smile. Her great dark eyes were quite solemn, her pale face pinched as usual. “It was a way in, that is all.”

Margaret did not know quite what to make of her new ally, whether she would later regret the lesson in lock picking she must give her. But Celia’s assurance comforted Margaret enough that she could eat, fortifying herself for a negotiation with Murdoch. She went in search of him after supper.

She caught Geordie headed to the tavern with a trencher.

“Is my uncle in the tavern?”

“No, mistress. In the kitchen shouting at Roy.”

As Margaret approached, she could hear it.

“The crops have been trampled by the troops,” Murdoch bellowed. “We must conserve, damn you.”

“You’ve coin enough for extra mouths and laundry,” said Roy.

“You’ll be the ruin of me, you and your temper. Feel this floor-that’s where the oats have gone. You wonder why I don’t trust you with a key?”

She decided to wait until morning.

The dawn brought fog from the firth but blue patches showed through the low clouds promising another sunny day. Margaret attended Mass to pray for guidance.

Afterward, she found Murdoch in his kitchen. He sat with his chin on one hand, thinking. Grim thoughts, by the look of him. The cook fire needed stoking.

“Do not touch it,” he warned as she leaned toward it.

“So you are not ill?”

“I don’t like the heat.”

It was far from hot. She settled beside him.

“I have not meant to cause you trouble.”

“You’re not the faulter. It’s that Belle.” Murdoch pressed his palms against his thighs, stretched his back. “Been to the kirk?”

“Aye.”

“Well, it’s not the scent of my cooking that drew you here. What is it?”

“I tried to talk to Besseta Fletcher yesterday. But James Comyn interrupted. I do not think it was by chance. He must be watching her.”

Murdoch took off his cap, scratched his head. “Why Besseta Fletcher?”

“l thought you might ken-he is your partner.”

“I ken as much as I need about him. He contributes to my stores, I turn a blind eye to his dealings in the tavern.” He replaced his cap, leaned toward her, eye to eye. “What are you after?”

“She and Jack were lovers. His body was found close to her lodgings. I would speak with her.”

He sat back with a grunt. “Let it be, Maggie.”