Candace Robb - A Trust Betrayed

Though it was mid-afternoon, none of the shop front counters had been unhooked from the houses to display goods. From the looks of them, Margaret guessed the shop fronts had not been opened for a while. A shutter off one of its hinges hung down over one of the shop fronts, on another house a counter hung askew and cracked. A pile of refuse rose too high to allow the neighboring shop front to open. None of the doors stood ajar to invite custom.

In Perth and Dunfermline the shops had stayed closed for a time after the English had come through, but within a month or so trade had resumed, albeit modestly. Margaret had not considered how much worse it would be here, with the garrison in the castle above the town. She had not considered whether her uncle would have food for two more.

Andrew brought them to a halt just before the arch of Netherbow. Tw o tall, weather-beaten houses leaned slightly toward each other across an alley. A pole decorated with leaves projected above the ground-floor door of the house nearest Netherbow, letting passersby know they could find wine and ale within.

“Will there be soldiers in there?” Celia asked.

“No, they have been ordered to keep well away from this lot,” said Andrew. He handed the reins of all four horses to Matthew. “I’ll ask Murdoch to have his groom help you down to Holyrood with the horses.”

The young man’s shoulders slumped.

“Surely Matthew deserves a cup of ale first,” Margaret said.

“A tavern is no place for a cloistered lad,” Andrew said.

“Still, he needn’t go thirsty. I’ll ask Uncle to bring ale to the stable,” Margaret said, and entered the tavern.

At first she welcomed its warmth, the still air, the roof shielding her from the incessant rain. But two or three deep breaths later, her body rejected the air and she began to cough. Smoke was thick in the air. The room reeked of stale ale, sweat, rancid fat, vomit, urine-Margaret stopped herself from identifying any more. Andrew guided her farther into the room. The rushes were piled so deep on the floor that her footing was unsteady, her shifting feet stirring the odors. There were two shuttered windows that seemed to do little to vent the smoke and provided no light, a weak glow from the brazier and four oil lamps, one on each of the four trestle tables that lined the walls.

A half dozen men sitting on benches surrounding a small brazier in the center of the room turned toward the newcomers. Their expressions were difficult to make out in the dim light, but their sudden silence felt hostile.

Celia stepped closer to Margaret. “Mistress, we cannot stay in such a place.”

Thinking much the same, Margaret’s instinct was to turn and run. But she had nowhere to go. “This is but the tavern,” she said, “the inn rooms must be cleaner or surely my uncle would have no custom.”

“Men do not care about such things,” Celia persisted.

Margaret could not allow herself to lose heart now. “We are not so fine we cannot clean a room to suit us.”

A man moved toward them from the far end of the tavern, wiping his hands on his tunic. Margaret’s heart lifted as she recognized her uncle’s rolling sailor’s gait-from a career of smuggling. Murdoch Kerr was the fourth son, youngest brother to Margaret’s father. He was broad-shouldered, bow-legged, with a barrel of a stomach. His nose hugged his face unevenly, the result of many a drunken brawl, and his thick brows parted not over his nose but rather over his right eye, where a scar prevented new growth. He wore a felt cap-Margaret guessed that his pale red hair was thinning, or gone. Not a handsome man, but as a girl Margaret had prayed her husband might be just like Uncle Murdoch. He always had a smile and a tale for her, and though he thought Christiana’s visions were the dreams of a madwoman he was one of the few people who could make her mother laugh. He was strong and quick. And Margaret had always felt safe in his company-for which she was particularly grateful at the moment, as the others in the tavern continued to stare. She smiled and held out her arms to her uncle.

He ignored them. “Nephew, God help me, you’re a fool to bring Maggie here in this storm. You did not cross the firth in this?” Murdoch was not smiling.

“We did, but it was not my choice to bring her, Uncle.”

“He is not to blame,” Margaret said, searching Murdoch’s face-it was familiar in feature but alien in mood. His scowl frightened her. “Will you not greet me, Uncle?”

Grudgingly, Murdoch came forward and hugged her. “You are soaked through, Maggie,” he said as he stepped back. Glancing from Andrew to Margaret, he gestured to a doorway toward the rear of the large room. “Come away in. If it is weighty enough to bring you all this way, it is not to be discussed in a public room. Though none other are so warm as this. Sim,” he called to a man wiping one spot on a table as he stared at them. He was tall and skinny, with fair hair thinning early. “Bring peat for the brazier above, and some ale.”

Murdoch led them out the unlatched door and up an outside flight of stairs to the first floor. Celia stayed close to Margaret as if fearful of being left behind. Murdoch hustled all three through an outer wooden door and into a vestibule with a hide-covered doorway to each side and a wooden door ahead. He lifted the hide to the right and Margaret and the others stepped into a bedchamber, the bed a solid structure heaped with soiled linens. If her uncle had servants, whatever he paid them was too much. But, sweet heaven, it would be good to rest her head.

“It is filthy,” Celia whined.

Murdoch growled. “I have lost my maidservant. It is difficult to find the time to come up here to sort things out.”

Margaret signaled to Celia to hold her tongue. She felt suddenly very unsure of their welcome and thought it unwise to fuss. She hung her wet cloak on a peg by the door, pushed the soiled bedding to the floor, and sat down on the mattress- which had little stuffing, and none of it sweet. She gestured to Celia to do likewise. Andrew perched on the edge of a table.

Murdoch folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the wall near the hide-covered doorway. “Now what is this all about?”

“I must find Roger, Uncle,” said Margaret. “I fear for him after Jack Sinclair’s murder. I must warn him.”

“You call it murder, eh? What says murder and not a fight lost?”

Margaret could glean nothing from her uncle’s expression. Feeling as if she were edging out onto thin ice, she tested it with, “What can you tell me of his death?”

“Naught, but I’ve seen worse wounds from a brawl.”

“I never knew Jack to brawl,” she said softly, but firmly.

Murdoch snorted. “All men like a fight.”

That was nothing Margaret was ready to judge, but she did not believe Jack had been brawling on the occasion of his death. “I saw his body. His throat and his belly were slashed, Uncle. He was murdered.”

“How did you see?” Andrew asked, horrified.

She did not meet his eyes. “I had to be certain it was him.”

Murdoch shook his head, pushed himself away from the wall. “A fine job of consoling and reassuring her you did, Andrew.” He lowered his voice. “You cannot poke about in these times, Maggie. You’ll get yourself and me in trouble.” His voice at last held a flicker of warmth, which encouraged Margaret.

“I must find my husband,” she insisted.

“For all you know he found passage to Bruges and is with your father.” Malcolm Kerr had settled his affairs and fled to Bruges after the slaughter at Berwick the past spring, worried that Perth might be next.

“Roger thought Father’s flight cowardly. He would not follow.”

Murdoch raised his uneven brows in doubt.