Candace Robb - A Trust Betrayed

The newcomer smiled into the anxious faces as he drew a fiddle from beneath his cloak. It broke the spell-a few people called out greetings. Others merely returned to what they had been doing or saying. The fiddler leaned against the table shared by the elderly couple, resting one foot on a stool, tested the strings, adjusted one, and then began to play a jig.

“You’ll not sleep up above till these folk go home,” Andrew said. “I’ll find more suitable lodgings for you. It won’t be easy, mind you. Strangers are unwelcome. Anyone could be a spy.”

The fiddler’s entrance had made that clear. But Margaret saw no need for Andrew to make the effort-a tavern full of gossip suited her. “I am biding here.”

“You saw how he is-Murdoch is not the one to help you if you get into trouble or fall ill.”

The wine, the warmth, the comforting background patter, and now the music cheered Margaret. She took her brother’s hands in hers. “All this worry about me. What of you? Is it so what Uncle Murdoch said of your abbot? Is he King Edward’s man?”

Andrew squeezed her hands, then withdrew his. “Our uncle blethers about what he does not know.” He glanced over at the men who had been watching him, looked away as he caught one staring.

“Do you know them?” Margaret asked.

“Aye, of course. Edinburgh is smaller than Perth-and do you not know everyone there?”

That did not need an answer-he knew she did. “They do not appear friendly.”

Andrew snorted. “Men are ever uneasy near their confessors. I shall ask about Canongate for lodgings that would suit you.”

“I shall bide here until I either find Roger or learn where he is and what he is doing.”

“Our uncle might disagree.”

“Then I must persuade him.”

Andrew sighed one of his annoying sighs. She did not think he had even attempted to understand her need to know what had become of Roger.

Her attention was caught by a drunk who had walked into their table, then muttered, “Longshanks’s canons, all of you,” before lurching on to the back door. Murdoch was just entering. The drunk gave a cry of surprise as the innkeeper grabbed him by the arm and, with his other hand in the small of the man’s back, pushed him out the back door.

“Pay him no heed, Maggie,” Andrew said sharply, his face red.

“It would seem the clergy are the scapegoats for the town,” Margaret said.

“I told him he was better off at home,” Murdoch grumbled as he sat down beside Margaret. “Keep the peace, that is the duty of a taverner. I won’t abide such talk. It starts brawls. I’ll not have it.”

Andrew had already risen and was fumbling with his cloak. “Watch over Maggie, Uncle,” he said. It seemed to Margaret that he was trying to avoid looking anyone in the eye. He blessed them both, then with bowed head made his way through the crowd to the street door and departed.

Sim placed a trencher, the hollowed center filled with a milky oat and broth paste, before Margaret. “I took one up to your maid,” he said.

“That was kind,” said Margaret.

She had not known whether she could eat. But once she inhaled the steam rising off the oats, she could not help but break off a piece of the hard crust of bread and scoop up a mouthful. Her stomach received the hot food gladly.

“I thought you’d have an appetite after that journey,” Murdoch said. “It is the sort of thing your mother would do- making that journey in a storm.”

Margaret ignored him and ate.

Murdoch was quiet, tapping his feet to the music for a time.

“Are all the canons blamed for their abbot’s support of Long-shanks?” she asked him after a while.

Murdoch grunted. “If you would be wise, keep to yourself and trust none in this town, Maggie.”

Not comforting advice. But at least he seemed resigned to her staying. For the moment.

Murdoch had given Margaret and Celia his chamber. It was far cleaner than the room beside it, in which they had talked earlier, and boasted a shuttered window and a wooden door.

Celia stood ready to help Margaret undress. “Let me help you with your boots, mistress.”

Margaret’s boots had tightened as they dried. Now her feet hurt, though she had not noticed the pain until Celia mentioned the boots. She sat down on the one high-backed chair in the room-it squeaked when she leaned against the back. But her head felt so heavy she thought she would topple if she did not sit back. The chair held, but Celia was now ready for Margaret to stand to be unlaced from her kirtle.

At last Celia stood beside the curtained bed, a sheepskin in hand with which to crown the blankets and linens. As Margaret slipped her cold feet between the covers, she found Celia had warmed the bed with a hot stone and left it down at the foot. Margaret was grateful for the cosseting.

Lying there, feeling her tired body ease into the mattress, she prayed she would fall asleep at once. But the bed, though comfortable, was unfamiliar, the sounds from the tavern below intrusive and now and again jarring. All in all, conducive not to sleep but to worry. Her chest tightened and she had to will herself to breathe. With breath came tears. Useless, embarrassing tears. She tugged the curtains closed so Celia would not witness her weakness.

In a little while Celia crawled into the bed from the other side, but she said nothing.

Church bells woke Margaret. For a moment she lay still beneath the piled coverlets getting her bearings. Her eyes were swollen from weeping and burned when she blinked. Her head pounded. She must do better than this. Her time here might be brief if Murdoch did not soften toward her presence. She must put her fears aside and plan her search for Roger.

A full bladder sent her sliding out of the warm bed down to the cold floor, where she fumbled about for the chamber pot.

“I put the chamber pot outside the door,” Celia said in a drowsy voice. “I shall fetch it.”

“I can fetch my own chamber pot. I mean to go to Mass at St. Giles if I can dress quickly enough.” Margaret hoped it might comfort her, give her strength.

“Widow Sinclair would not want her gooddaughter handling a chamber pot.” Celia groaned as she sat up. “I must dress you. You must make a good impression.”

“There is no need. None will mark me.”

“I need to move about.” Celia rose with much effort, lit another lamp from the brazier.

The light gave Margaret a better view of the wooden bolt that secured the door from within. The wood was worn smooth where it slid across the braces. To protect her uncle as he slept? She unbolted the door, peered without, and found that the full pot had been exchanged for an empty one. The servants at least understood that basic service.

Celia groped at her cap, stuffing her hair inside, tugging at her dress to smooth it. It had fallen from its hook in the night and dried wrinkled. “This evening I shall take more care with my gown.” She looked disheveled and sleepy. She winced as she moved about.

“You need not accompany me,” Margaret said, feeling her own stiffness from the saddle.

But Celia insisted, and fussed with Margaret’s attire.

The wind caught their skirts on the stairs and tugged at Margaret’s veil. A cat streaked across the yard, vanished. Old bean vines rattled over new growth. The two women slipped out to the alley between the two tall houses, emerging on High Street. On the climb to St. Giles in the early morning gray the only living creatures they saw were rats and a well-bundled person sweeping the street outside a shop. It was too early for shops to be open or the market set up, but not too early for market carts to be arriving in the town, or for folk to be leading their livestock to graze, and there were none of those. It felt as if everyone in the town held their breath.