Candace Robb - A Trust Betrayed

Margaret followed the man’s progress through the small crowd, saw yet another man join him. It was a moment before she registered her surprise. “The Bishop of Glasgow and the Steward of Scotland? What would they want with a thief like William Wallace?”

“Thief?” Andrew looked down at Margaret, droplets of rain falling from the edge of his hood to his beaked nose. “You have confused him with someone else,” he said.

Margaret thought it rewarding to know something Andrew did not for once. “He robbed a wealthy widow of Perth of food and ale. His slow companion was caught. He named his accomplice as William Wallace.”

Andrew grunted. “Young Wallace a thief? Foolish talk. I do not believe it.”

Margaret felt the friar’s eyes upon her. He studied her so closely she dropped her head, sorry to have spoken.

Fortunately, they had begun to board the ferry. Andrew and Matthew took charge of the party’s horses, coaxing them aboard and into the enclosed space for beasts, where they could be restrained with harnesses. As they boarded, a wave caught the vessel, panicking Celia’s horse. The friar, leading his horse behind them, called out to the foot passengers to help. One grabbed the reins of the other horse in Matthew’s charge.

Margaret pushed through the crowd, climbed up onto the deck of the bucking vessel. “Matthew, let me have the reins while you cover his eyes.” She took the bridle firmly in hand, talked to the horse, calming him as Matthew blindfolded him with a strip of cloth.

The cold rain stung Margaret’s face and the fierce wind that carried it tore at her breath. She was grateful to have both cloaks and held them close to shield her face, but she lost hold of them whenever a wave tossed the ferry and she was thrown against Celia’s horse. The beast had responded to her gentling murmurs and did not panic again, God be praised. Margaret glanced round to see how the others fared. Celia stood beside the elderly woman and boy, all three hanging on to the side of a cart. She seemed to ride the rolling boat well. There was hope for her.

Turning the other way, Margaret found the friar’s eyes on her.

He nodded. “That was brave, what you did. You have a calming way with a horse.”

“It is what was needed. I thank you for your concern.”

The friar bowed slightly. “Travelers help one another. You are kin to Father Andrew?”

“His sister.”

“He escorts you to some happy event?”

“No, he does not.” She turned away, not liking his interest. Friars were known to prey on women and to be the confidants of thieves. Fortunately, Andrew was making his way to her, balancing himself like quite the seaman. He looked grave.

“You heard that there are soldiers at Dalmeny. Keep your eyes downcast, speak only to answer if necessary.”

“What are you afraid I shall say? Tell me of what I should not speak.”

“It is best to let me speak for you.”

He was so solemn he frightened her. “I shall be silent. But I cannot learn what is unsafe if you tell me nothing.”

“Just do as I say. And if a horse frights while we are in their sight, let the men handle it.”

Andrew was angry she had come to the rescue of his servant? Sweet heaven, he could be such a fool. But Margaret was too uneasy now to argue or ask more questions.

Her wet, cold clothes clung to her. Doubt churned her stomach. She dreaded their arrival in Edinburgh-the soldiers, the occupied town, the uncertainty of Uncle Murdoch’s reception.

As a child in Perth she had been a favorite with her uncle, and he with her. He understood how much her mother’s fits frightened her and took the time no other adult had taken to explain that Christiana was seeing things that were occurring at another time, like a vivid memory, but in the future. All Margaret could see was that her mother would stop in mid-gesture and stare, sometimes shake her head and speak gibberish, sometimes laugh or weep, occasionally shout or scream. Murdoch Kerr had been living in Perth at the time. He told her that he for one thanked the Lord that his little Maggie was not to follow Christiana’s path.

It was because of that long-ago kindness that Margaret now expected her uncle’s cooperation in her quest. He would be proud of her taking action like this; he would commend her on being so much more practical than her mother. Andrew seemed compelled to remind her that she had not seen much of their uncle since his late wife’s family drove him away from Perth. Smuggling was fine when their kin were reaping the rewards, but once Murdoch’s wife was dead his reputation embarrassed them. Still, Margaret believed that Murdoch was a man constant in his affections.

“Time will tell whether you can count on him, Maggie,” Andrew had said just before shuttering the lantern last night. She blamed him for her wakefulness.

The road from Dalmeny led round Castle Hill to the West Port gate of Edinburgh. Andrew showed his abbot’s letter of protection, as he had when they disembarked. Margaret kept her eyes downcast and let Andrew answer the soldiers’ queries about her and Celia. She wondered whether all who came to the town must submit to this, if all townspeople who had business without the town faced such inquisitions at the portals. She felt like a sheep being tagged and herded from field to fold.

Once within the gate, Margaret lifted her eyes, curious to see the Grassmarket lacking stalls, tents, crowds, livestock. To her, Edinburgh had always meant fairs and feasts. This Edinburgh she had never seen. The knoll was rutted and pitted and puddled. In one corner a siege engine warped in the rain. The echoing emptiness seemed diminished and ugly. It felt as if the market had been reduced to its other function-the place of execution-yet even the gallows tilted drunkenly.

“Where are the people?”

“In their houses,” said Andrew.

Celia stumbled as she craned her neck to gaze up at the battlements. “It is a dreary place.”

Margaret wished they had entered the town on the far end, away from the castle. Murdoch Kerr’s inn was at the bottom of High Street, just before Netherbow and the Leith road across which the burgh of Canongate began, in which Holyrood Abbey ruled. But Andrew had said the English might be suspicious if they skirted Edinburgh coming from Dalmeny, which was the direction they watched most carefully.

His anxiety heightened Celia’s and spread to her horse, who whinnied and danced. The town was eerily silent. Margaret imagined every head in every house glancing toward the horse’s whinny, though the wind and the rain might muffle much of their passing. She was glad when Matthew took the reins and steadied the animal, quieting it.

Many houses below the castle were damaged, some blackened and stinking of charred wood, others lacking doors or shutters. Bits of furniture lay strewn about the doorway of one of the burned houses. The front wall of another was stained with blood. A baby’s cry sent chills down Margaret’s back. This was no place for a child. Armed men moved about their business, as did some townsfolk, though Margaret saw no children and few women.

At St. Giles Kirk she handed her horse’s reins to Matthew and invited Andrew to step within to say a prayer of thanksgiving for their arrival.

“We are not yet at the inn. You can walk up to the kirk later,” Andrew said with a shake of his cloak as if to remind her that he, too, was soaked to the skin. “Move on, Matthew.”

Margaret could walk here, true enough, if she could still stand once she felt some heat. And if she dared venture out again so soon.

A few hardy souls huddling beneath the eaves against the north wall of St. Giles called out their wares as the four travelers passed, but otherwise the street was deserted.