Candace Robb - A Trust Betrayed

“At least I might see Andrew.”

“Ask Comyn.”

Margaret grabbed the letter from Murdoch. “I’ll ask him nothing.”

“There are times when it’s best to bury your pride, Maggie.”

She lay back down.

Murdoch leaned down close. “So Andrew is to be trusted by the English, eh?”

“Once at Soutra it won’t matter, will it?”

Murdoch took the letter that lay by her side. “I’ll talk to Comyn.”

The brief dry spell had broken with a thunderstorm in the early evening. Rain drummed on the roof, wind rattled the shutters, the thunderclaps and lightning bolts felt like God’s ire loosed on Edinburgh. For Agnes’s death? Andrew’s banishment?

Margaret sat in a corner of the tavern, watching the gloom spread as folk talked of Agnes Fletcher’s death, rumors of the fighting, north of the Tay for now, praise God, but that was temporary. Sim fought to avoid eye contact.

Murdoch joined Margaret.

“Comyn will find out what he can tonight.”

“Why would he do this for us?”

“He said you are a loyal subject of his king. He’ll not let your brother go to the devil if he can help it.”

“I don’t understand him.”

Murdoch pushed a tankard at her. “Drink this. From what he tells me of your day, you need it.”

He watched her lift her tankard. She trembled with weariness, but her mind was too unquiet to rest.

“I pray God you are satisfied now, Maggie, that you’ve asked your fill of questions.” He took a long drink.

“What will you do with Sim?”

“It’s best to have one’s enemies in sight. I can watch him here.”

Margaret studied her uncle’s face-he was serious. “Will you at least punish him?”

“Aye, I’ll do that. I’ll wait until he thinks I’ve let it go, then I’ll get him. It will be a pleasure.”

“I’d prefer not to see him again.”

“You’ll soon be away from here.”

“I think not. Comyn says the English have stopped the ferries.”

She saw that it was news to her uncle. But he quickly recovered. “Then stay out of the tavern, eh?”

How wrong she had been to think she might trust Murdoch. His wife’s family had been right to drive him out of Perth. He was a thief and a bully, nothing more. But if she was to survive, she must learn to live with him. Which was why she pressed forward with her plan rather than continuing the argument. “I have been thinking,” she began. “It seems to me if we are stuck with each other we should make the best of it.”

Murdoch eyed her warily. “Go on.”

“When you were away, I managed the inn and tavern quite well, I think.”

“Except for the corpse in the alley.”

“Neither of us could have prevented that.”

Murdoch grunted. “Perhaps not.” He squinted at her. “What are you proposing?”

“I want to continue to manage the inn and tavern.”

“What?”

“It would leave you free to disappear whenever you choose.”

Murdoch glanced round at the tavern, then quietly regarded the floor for a moment. “Why would you want to do that?” he asked at last.

“I want to stay busy. I want to feel I have a place.”

“You want the keys.”

“I don’t need them.”

Murdoch snorted.

Margaret took a deep breath, lifted her tankard to him. “Are we partners?”

He lifted his tankard, tapped hers. “You’ve a place as long as you stay out of trouble.”

They drank to their partnership.

It was hours later that Comyn arrived, long after the tavern had closed. The knock on Murdoch’s kitchen door was so light Margaret almost thought she imagined it. It did not even wake Murdoch, who had fallen asleep by the fire while they waited for the man.

Comyn stood in the doorway, disheveled and wet.

“Your brother leaves in the morning.”

“Sweet Jesus. I must see him!”

“What? Who?” Murdoch rumbled, roused by her cry.

“It is James Comyn, Uncle. He says Andrew departs tomorrow morn.”

“May I come in for a moment?” Comyn asked.

Margaret stepped aside.

Comyn took off his cap, shook it, then his mantle, laid them on a bench. “We have matters to discuss.”

“Aye,” Murdoch said, rubbing his face to wake himself. “The abbot wishes to be rid of Andrew so quickly?”

“So they say.” Comyn turned to Margaret. “I can do no more than help you speak to him before he departs. But tell me why I should make Father Andrew’s leave-taking easier for him. Do you know why he is being banished?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, I don’t,” Murdoch said.

Comyn ignored Murdoch, his eyes steady on Margaret’s. “Then tell me why I should care about him.”

“My brother is a good man,” Margaret began. She tried to think what she might say without revealing to Murdoch more than she wished. “He is in thrall to his abbot in some strange way that seems to exceed his vows. I don’t know why, I don’t understand the power Abbot Adam has over him. But the abbot has treated Andrew cruelly and in doing so he has shown my brother that Longshanks’s rule is a terrible thing for us. If Andrew were free, he would work to help your kinsman regain the throne. He believes now with all his heart that John Balliol is the king God chose for us.”

Comyn shook his head. “How do I know I can believe that? He could just be saying that.”

“ I believe him. He did not have to come to me and tell me what he had done. I think that was a part of a desire to do penance for it.”

“Penance for what, damn it?” Murdoch demanded.

Margaret realized the futility of trying to ignore her uncle. “Abbot Adam sent Andrew to gather the royal documents held by several abbeys. To be turned over to Longshanks.”

“Has he no spine?”

“And what would you have done in his place?” Margaret retorted. “He is under vows.”

“Enough,” Comyn said. “I must get some sleep. And so must both of you.” He swept up his cap and mantle.

Margaret joined him at the door. “At what time will he depart?”

“Father Francis will come for you just before dawn,” Comyn said wearily. “Perhaps your brother does deserve to see that you hold nothing against him.”

She was puzzled. It was plain to her that she had not convinced Comyn. “Why are you doing this for me?”

“You might be my ally, in time.”

Indeed she might-if he had not destroyed the Fletcher sisters. “God bless you for helping me see Andrew.”

“Would that I had such a sister,” Comyn said as he turned to depart.

When he had disappeared out into the stormy night, Margaret turned to Murdoch. “I do not understand your bond, you two.”

“We ask no questions.” Murdoch rubbed his face again. “Go to bed, Maggie. We’ll talk of this another day.”

In the dark, listening to Celia’s steady breathing, Margaret worried what would become of her. She could count those she trusted on one hand-Fergus, Andrew, Celia, Janet in certain things, Murdoch in fewer. She could not see how she and Comyn would ever truly become allies. She wished they could-he seemed to be the one man who stood firmly by John Balliol and had the influence to help his cause. But this afternoon she had seen Comyn’s dark side, both with the Fletcher sisters and his threat to her. And yet he had arranged for her to see Andrew in the morning. Her brothers-how she feared for them both. They would be constantly in her prayers. But tomorrow both would be beyond her reach. Not beyond James Comyn’s, though. She pushed that thought aside. She had been disappointed enough with men who had seemed absolutely trustworthy, Jack and Roger-she dare not take her chances with a man like James Comyn.