Candace Robb - A Trust Betrayed

But worse than the weather was her belated fear. Saturday night she had been so sure this was what she must do. But that clarity had abandoned her, replaced by the clamor of all she had heard about the cruelty ofEdward Longshanks, his governors and soldiers. If they were behind Jack’s death, she did not know what justice she could hope for.

Her uncertainty about her husband haunted her, too. Though Roger had been horrified by the slaughter in Berwick, she was uncertain what he might be willing to do in exchange for an English governor’s turning a blind eye as his ships approached Scotland. She would never have wondered but that one of his ships had arrived in Dundee in early autumn. Roger had proclaimed it a sign of a good captain, no more, and set his sights on Dundee as an alternative port, but folk had whispered at his long absences and the ease with which he had found a solution. And the longer Roger was away the more Margaret brooded on his contradictory behavior. He had cursed Edward Longshanks when his army slaughtered the people of Berwick, but then he had subscribed to the Ragman Rolls, swearing his loyalty to the English king. He had been summoned to swear, it was true, but he was no one of importance, the King of England would not have wasted troops to pluck him from Perth if he had not gone. He need not have sworn loyalty to the murderer.

She glanced at Celia to see how she fared.

Katherine had not warned Margaret that Celia had little experience on horseback. The maid had required assistance this morning in mounting and staying astride. On the journey her hood had been blown back and her white headdress was askew. Her horse flicked his tail and danced. Celia fussed nervously with the reins. Despite all this, her expression was one of determination.

As they approached Inverkeithing Matthew spurred his horse and rode ahead for news of the ferry. The timing of the crossing was unpredictable in the stormy weather and with the English occasionally shutting down the ferry. In a short while, the lad reappeared, sodden and flushed by the ride, shaking his head at Andrew’s shouted query. The news drew a curse from Margaret’s impatient brother.

“Do we return to Dunfermline?” Celia asked Margaret tremulously.

“That would be foolhardy,” Margaret said. “My brother will have arranged a room at a hostel near the ferry landing.” He was nothing if not organized. “He knows how uncertain the crossings are in this season.”

“But he did not plan for us.”

“We may all four crowd in one room, Celia. It is the way of travelers. Matthew will wake early and take up watch on the ferry landing.”

Margaret was gey glad when they gained the inn yard, looking forward to dry clothes, a fire, and something warm to drink. Dismounting, she took the reins from Celia’s icy hands. Andrew’s servant Matthew assisted the maid in dismounting.

“Forgive me for my awkwardness,” Celia said to Margaret. “I shall improve.”

“You sat your horse all the way-I applaud you,” said Margaret. “Now-do you have Paternoster beads?”

Celia shook her head.

“I shall loan you mine. I want you to pray for God’s help in calming yourself while we cross in the morning. Your mount senses your fear. That is why he dances.”

“I am not afeart.”

“You cannot lie to a horse.”

Celia turned away, tidying her cap as best she could. It was not easy. The linen was limp and damp.

The hostel was small, and crowded because of the storm. Margaret did not see many of their fellow travelers, for Andrew hastened them into a private room, arranged by a letter from the Abbot of Dunfermline-the landings for the ferry had been carved from his lands, the ferry operated on his munificence. The four huddled round a smoky brazier, steaming in the welcome warmth.

Though she was already so deeply chilled that even changing into dry clothes did not abate her shivering, Margaret vowed to be first awake in the morning. She was disappointed in that. Sleep held off until just before dawn, and then she fell into a deep slumber from which Celia had to shake her awake. It added to Andrew’s already foul mood regarding the delayed crossing, and as he rode beside her to the landing he leaned over every few feet to urge her forward. “The ferry approaches.” “Let us make haste.” “You might have caused us to miss it.”

“I did not even stop to break my fast,” Margaret snapped finally. He was so impatient. He had a schedule and all must fall in line. No doubt he thought unless she strained forward in the saddle she was being too easy on the horse.

The stormy day afforded no view of Dalmeny on the far bank. A huddle of cloaked figures, some with carts, a few horsemen, stood on the ferry landing. Seagulls circled above them, their cries a bleak accompaniment to the wind and the crashing waves. The large ferry, oars lifted, bobbed on the choppy water of the firth. Soon she would be bobbing with it, colder yet than she was now. She thought back to her days seated before her goodmother’s hot fire working on the altar cloth and wondered when next she would be so warm and dry.

They dismounted at the edge of the crowd.

“Matthew will tend your horse until we reach Dalmeny,” Margaret said to Celia’s back.

The maid nodded, securing her hood over her cap. She seemed quite subdued this morning, and moved stiffly.

The vessel bumped against the dock, frightening some of the horses. A man on the shore called to those waiting on the landing to open a path for those disembarking, then he hurried forward to take the ropes, tie up the ferry. The passengers came off, a bedraggled dozen, stumbling on the solid earth. Two horses were led off by servants, one of the men wearing the evidence of a weak stomach on his mantle.

Margaret glanced round at her fellow passengers. There were several merchants, fat-bellied and well-dressed-no ostentation in their garb, of course, no need to call attention to themselves in such times; an elderly couple, with a boy of ten or so who complained loudly that his boots were wet, all three wrapped in fine mantles held shut with silver brooches; two servants who accompanied the three; two clerics, both quite humble, one a lay priest in patched clothing, the other a Dominican friar; several young men with the stony expressions of soldiers-Scots, but, as they were heading south, perhaps hoping to join the English.

The friar stood beside Andrew. They had talked a little, as strangers do in such places, discussing the weather, the crossing. The friar’s hood was so wet it clung to his head, and it and the rest of his black habit was mud-stained and much mended. He was unshaven and encrusted with more dirt than the rain could rinse away.

“You have journeyed far, Brother?” Andrew said now.

“What is far to one of my order, Father? Dominicans travel everywhere there are souls to save.”

One of the seven crew members stepped out onto the dock, eyed the waiting crowd, and shouted for attention-he had to shout to be heard above the wind, the crashing waves, the shrieking gulls.

“All you who would board this ferry beware. This is a treacherous water.”

One of those disembarking said to the friar as he passed, “Some might find the English soldiers at Dalmeny a greater danger than the sea.”

“Soldiers at Dalmeny?” a woman moaned.

Had she no sense? Of course the English would guard the ferry-they would be fools not to.

A man armed with a broadsword withdrew from the cluster waiting at the dock. Margaret had noted the weapon when the wind caught the man’s cloak. It had been covered quickly. Now one of the men who had disembarked bowed slightly toward the armed man and joined him. A murmur went through the crowd.

“The man with the broadsword is William, the younger son of Malcolm Wallace,” said Andrew, speaking softly. “He has been at St. Andrews. Bishop Wishart and James the Steward have had words with him.”