Candace Robb - A Trust Betrayed

“After I talk to her, I’ll let it be.” She held his gaze.

“You expect me to help in this?”

“I’ll not be bothering you much longer. I ask just this favor, that you find a way to keep Comyn away from her house for a few hours today. Will you do it?”

Murdoch considered. “He’s truly watching it?”

“I believe so, Uncle.”

“What’s he up to?” He stared at his bare feet for a few heartbeats, then looked up through his uneven brows. “You’ll tell me what you learn?”

“Aye.” As much as suited her.

“I’ll start an argument he’ll not wish to walk away from. Midday. Go then.”

Margaret thanked him, rose to leave him in peace.

“And Maggie.”

She turned.

“Have a care.”

Besseta’s eyes were shadowed, but wide and staring, her cap crumpled as if she had slept in it, though she did not look otherwise as if she had slept.

“You are back?”

“I worried about the sleeping draft-that you might not measure it properly,” Celia said.

“It is untouched.”

“Agnes did not need it?”

Besseta flinched, began to close the door.

“I pray you,” Margaret said. “I have something to ask of you. I could not yesterday, not with James Comyn here, but he is busy with my uncle now.”

“What would you ask of me?”

“May I come within?”

Besseta glanced back into the room, hesitated, then opened the door. She looked weary to the bone.

The seats were still arranged as they had been yesterday. The weaving on the loom had not been touched.

Margaret settled on the bench. “I saw my husband a few days past, Besseta. Very near this house.”

Besseta separated her hands, clutching her skirt on either side. “I thought he was away.”

So she had known of Roger’s previous presence in town. But of course she would-from Jack.

“He had a terrible wound,” Margaret said. “Four long slashes on his left cheek. He told Janet Webster he had been attacked by a wolf.”

“A wolf?” Besseta whispered, nervously smoothing out her skirt.

“But I did not believe the wolf story. And now I think I have found the weapon used against him.” Margaret brought out the wool comb from her scrip.

“My wool comb?” Besseta shook her head, glanced over at Celia. “She mocks me.”

“Why should she do that?” Celia asked.

“Besseta, what happened here?” Margaret asked.

“I shall scream.”

“For James Comyn’s men?”

Besseta jerked her head toward the door. “What do you mean?”

“They watch this house.”

“What?” Besseta jumped up, hastening to the window to close the shutter. “Why do they watch?”

“Why did you slash my husband’s face? What did he do to you?”

Besseta stood by her loom, shaking her head. “I know nothing.”

“But you do. Else why would this house be surrounded by James Comyn’s men? I must know, Besseta. Why did you injure Roger?”

Besseta checked the door, resumed her seat. “Jack is dead. Why should they care?” she asked dully.

“Harcar is dead, too,” said Margaret.

Besseta hugged herself and began to rock. “God grant him a long, frightening plunge into the eternal flames.”

“Why?”

“I know nothing.”

“What do you know of Harcar? You must know something to condemn him to hell.”

Celia began to rise.

“Don’t you move,” Besseta commanded. “You are taking advantage of my hospitality, both of you. Prying. Spying.”

“You give me cause, Besseta. You attacked my husband.”

“Why should I not protect myself?” Besseta cried. “He shook me. He shouted and shook me until I thought my head would snap off. Then he dropped me like a sack of goods.”

“What was he shouting?”

“”Jack loved you!“” Of course Jack loved me. He was my life and I was his. Of course he did. But Roger would not listen. He would… not… listen. I grabbed the wool comb and when he yanked me up again I raked him. I aimed for his eyes, but he moved too quickly.“ Besseta was by turns sobbing and shouting by now.

Celia rose.

“Yes, see to Agnes if you can,” Margaret said softly. She did not know how she could speak so calmly. Her heart was pounding so hard it almost deafened her. Roger so violently attacking a woman? “Why was he angry, Besseta?” She could not see how Jack’s love for Besseta would drive Roger to lose control so.

“Jack is dead,” Besseta sobbed. “Nothing will bring him back. Nothing.”

There was a noise behind the draped doorway, a little cry.

Besseta’s head shot up. “What is that?” Her eyes were wild. “Do not touch her!” she shrieked as she lunged for the doorway.

Margaret grabbed her.

“Do not give her water!”

Besseta’s body was so taut in Margaret’s arms she wondered how the woman could still summon the breath to shout.

Celia suddenly burst from behind the cloth, her cap slightly askew, her hands flung out, palms forward. “Do not come, mistress.”

“What is it?”

“You did not feed her!” Besseta shrieked.

“Of course I did not feed her,” Celia said in a quiet but tremulous voice. “She is dead. And has been for many hours, by the looks of her.” She said more quietly to Margaret, “The lock on the door was simple, as you hoped.”

“Hold her,” Margaret said, shoving Besseta at Celia.

Margaret took up the lamp, ducked through the curtain. The light danced on the wattle walls, no daub to smooth the surfaces. The odor was stronger back here. Celia had left the door ajar. Margaret stepped within. The sound of her skirts brushing against the door made her jump. Was Agnes still breathing?

Only the woman’s arms and head were visible above the covers. The mouth was slightly open, the eyes staring. At Margaret? She crossed herself and moved closer, the lamplight flickering and giving life to the lyke of Agnes Fletcher. There-did her eyelids blink? Did her lips move?

Margaret forced herself to breathe and stand still long enough to prove to herself that the lyke was not stirring beneath the light. The cheeks had collapsed inward, the eyes had sunk in their sockets, the long bones of the fingers seemed to stretch the paper-thin flesh. Margaret hesitated, then pulled down the sheet, searching for wounds or scars that would explain the woman’s death. Agnes lay naked beneath the covers, her hipbones protruding, her knees like growths in the middle of her skinny legs. Just months ago this woman had carried a child in her womb. There were neither bruises nor wounds, no signs of boils or infection.

Besseta had starved her, of both food and water, Margaret guessed. How could she do such a thing? Besseta had been a gentle child, God-fearing. And she had come all this way to care for Agnes. But though Margaret could not fathom what might turn one sister against the other in such a horrible act, she could think of no other answer. She must be missing something.

The atmosphere in the room choking her, Margaret said a brief prayer over Agnes and then gratefully withdrew.

Besseta was now sitting on the stool on which Celia had sat. She stared at the floor, shoulders hunched.

“Shall I go for a priest?” Celia asked, hovering close to the seated woman.

“Father Francis,” Margaret said, making a great effort to keep her voice calm. “Is it Father Francis you would like to see, Besseta?”

The woman shook her head. “No one.”

Margaret nodded to Celia to go. Devil or not, Besseta’s fate was not in Margaret’s hands.

She forced herself to resume her seat across from Besseta. “Come, tell me what happened so that I can know what to do.”

Besseta raised her eyes. “You have seen her?”