Candace Robb - A Trust Betrayed

She had been her most gullible with Jack. He had won her heart as a good friend, trustworthy factor, appearing more caring and understanding than her husband, than any man she had ever known. She had not loved him with anything close to Besseta’s passion, that was certain, but she had loved him. That was why even after so many hints that he had betrayed Harry and Davy she had held on to the belief that Jack had been Harcar’s dupe. But the things he had said to Besseta made it quite plain he had sought his own gain. Margaret could not find it in her heart to forgive him.

And Roger. Tonight his name conjured the scene Besseta had described, his shaking her, Besseta raking his cheek. Margaret had seen how his anger could explode, but she could not imagine what his attack on Besseta meant about his part in Jack’s duplicity, whether Roger had set him the task or whether he had not believed Besseta’s tale. If Roger were to appear at Margaret’s door now, she could not predict how she would receive him. Even beyond the pain of his neglect of her, she questioned his honor as well.

The abbey courtyard echoed with the sound of water dripping from eaves, gates, trees. Haloes of mist circled the lantern light. The soldiers from Soutra were already mounted. The horses were restless, their saddles creaking, their breath rising like clouds.

Andrew stood beneath the eaves, watching Matthew secure the packs to the horses. Soon it would be dawn. He had taken his leave of the abbot a moment ago, his parting words to him expressing gratitude for the pleasant weather. Abbot Adam had looked bored with Andrew’s barb. It would have been easier for Adam to have poisoned him and be done with it; this charade of sending Andrew to Soutra was solely for his sadistic pleasure.

Poor Matthew. His only offense had been loyalty to his master before his abbot, but the lad was to attend Andrew in exile.

The gate opened. A priest and another figure entered the courtyard.

“Who goes there?” Abbot Adam called from the doorway.

The abbot was frightened, Andrew realized. William Wallace had not yet been found. All on the English side in the conflict must be wondering whose throat he would slash next.

“Father Francis of St. Giles,” said the priest, as his companion ran to Andrew, her hood falling back exposing her hair.

“Margaret!” Andrew cried, reaching out to her.

“You did not think I could let you leave without a farewell?” She tried to smile up at him, but her eyes were already wet.

Andrew held her to him. God was with him, to grant him this moment.

“I shall pray for you,” Margaret said. “You will be ever in my prayers until we meet again.”

He stroked her hair. “And you in mine, dear Maggie.”

The soldiers called to him.

Father Francis pulled Margaret away, but she clutched Andrew’s arm.

“We agreed, Dame Kerr,” said the priest, putting his hand over hers. “You would see your brother to wish him godspeed and then depart without trouble. You will only make it worse for him if you detain him. Think of your brother. Not yourself.”

Margaret stepped back, but did not take her eyes from Andrew.

“God watch over you, Maggie,” he said.

“And you.”

“God go with you, Father Andrew,” said the priest.

“Bless you for bringing her,” Andrew replied.

Margaret let Father Francis lead her off to the side as the company began to move toward the abbey gateway. As Andrew rode past the two cloaked figures, he lifted his hand to bless them, then dropped it, fearing his blessing might anger God and curse them.

But Margaret and the priest crossed themselves as if he had finished the gesture.

He believes he is cursed, Margaret thought. My Lord God, show him that he is not. Forgive him.

Father Francis watched her closely until Andrew disappeared through the gateway, staying her with a hand when she would move forward.

When the sound of the horses faded, he said, “We must go, daughter. Before Abbot Adam puts us in chains.”

They were being watched by several of the larger brethren.

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

They trudged back up Canongate in the softening rain, saying little.

Murdoch had lighted the brazier in the tavern and opened the door to the wet morning. Margaret and Father Francis stepped within, stood close by the brazier, warming their hands.

The priest’s hawk face was softened by a gentle smile that wrinkled the flesh from brow to chin.

“You gave your brother great comfort this morning.”

“I thank you for escorting me, Father.”

“I am the shepherd of my flock. I do as God directs me.”

They had just settled at a table far from the draft when Celia came in. Her dark brows drew a straight line across her pale forehead as she lifted Margaret’s discarded mantle.

“Dame Margaret, you must have dry clothes.”

“I’ll follow you up by and by, Celia.” She wished to talk to the priest.

Celia hovered for a moment, then withdrew.

“Father, you have helped James Comyn as well as my uncle- and Andrew, whose actions on his abbot’s part I’ve no doubt you ken.”

“I have told you-I am the shepherd.”

“Would you have saved Will Harcar if you could?”

He dropped his head, shook it once. “He was an enemy to all in this town.”

“Who killed him, Father?”

The priest ran his hands over his bald head. “A loyal subject of King John Balliol.”

“MacLaren?” Redbeard seemed the obvious suspect to her now.

Father Francis bowed his head.

“Who was the Englishman?”

“The bait. He was no Englishman, but he convinced Harcar he was. And offered him money for information.”

While MacLaren waited down below in the inn yard, ready to cut his throat. Margaret crossed herself.

“And Agnes Fletcher-what of her?”

Francis raised his eyes, searched her face. “It is clear her troubles robbed her of her trust in God. But are you not truly asking, what of Jack Sinclair?”

“What of Jack?” she whispered.

“He is in God’s hands. As are we all.”

“That is not a comforting thought.”

“No, at the moment He is the God of Abraham, a smiting, terrifying power.”

Margaret saw images ofAndrew’s drawn face beneath his hood, Agnes’s wasted body, Jack’s bloated lyke, Roger’s wounds. She had no stomach for the ale Murdoch set before her.

“I’ll leave you now, Father. Bless you for your kindness.”

“Go in peace, my daughter.”

Once in her chamber, Margaret threw herself down on the bed and let the tears come. Celia came to sit beside her, quietly holding her hand. When Margaret began to shiver and rose to warm herself at the brazier, Celia helped her undress. Then Margaret slipped beneath the covers and pulled the bed curtains to block the morning light.

On the road south the soldiers were uneasy all the day, glancing back at every sound, watching the hills. When they stopped to rest their horses Andrew wandered toward the brush to relieve himself. A soldier was immediately by his side, dagger drawn.

“My lord abbot would reward you handsomely for using that on me,” said Andrew. “Say you were forced to subdue me.”

“Your abbot spoke well of you, Father Andrew. You do not know your own worth. We are sorely in need of you at Soutra: Father Obert is old, he falls asleep hearing our confessions.”

In the shadowy landscape of the hour after sunset the small party followed the road up to a height that gave them their first glimpse of the great Hospital of the Trinity astride Soutra Hill. It was just an outline in the deepening twilight. Except for the regular line of the high walls it could be an outgrowth of the stony hill. A spire was visible for a moment before they began their descent into a valley where night already held sway. Matthew began to pray aloud and did not cease until they reached the guard post at the foot of Soutra Hill.