A Trust Betrayed (12 page)

“Why didn’t you tell me of Mistress Grey?”

St. Columba, Murdoch had told her of the woman so soon? “All merchants have mistresses, Maggie.”

“Do they?” she snapped, then her eyes widened. “So she
was
his mistress.”

The mysterious Mistress Grey was not someone he wished to discuss with Margaret. “Who told you about her?”

“What does it matter?”

“Uncle Murdoch?”

“He assured me she was too grand to be Roger’s mistress.”

Andrew would like to know what Murdoch thought Mistress Grey was to Sinclair if not a mistress. “I am sorry you heard of her all the same, Maggie.”

“She stayed in the room I slept in the past three nights.”

Here was safe ground. He told Margaret he had already discussed her lodging with one of the women of the parish. She was unable to accommodate Margaret, but there were others to ask.

“It is a steep climb from here to Edinburgh,” Margaret said, biting the inside of her cheek, an unbecoming habit. “And with a body found in the Tummel nearby, not a safe one, perhaps.” She nodded to herself. “All the more reason to stay in Edinburgh rather than risk walking through both Canongate and Edinburgh every day.”

“You are better off at home than in either of them, Maggie. In Perth. Once King Edward departed the men grew coarser. And you in a tavern. By all that is holy—”

“I have had no trouble, brother. Not here. It was not so at home when Edward came through with his men. Roger could tell you.” Her voice broke. She looked away. “Edward Long-shanks thinks we are beasts, and would treat us so.”

“Maggie.” Andrew reached for her.

She put on a brave face. “I’ll bide at Uncle Murdoch’s for now. Celia, however, is to return to Dunfermline. If you hear of a company in which she might travel, I pray you send me word.”

“Idle journeys are not common these days.”

“Idle maids are ever common. I need a laundress and a chambermaid. I have too much work and Celia will be useless.”

“You cannot work there.”

“I have no wish to live in filth.”

“You should have better lodgings.”

“I do not need them. I shall make the inn better lodgings.”

“Promise me you will not be seen in the tavern.”

“This is not a time for the manners of a fine lady, Andrew. I am strong and capable, and I cannot think that any man would risk Murdoch’s anger by laying hands on me. But I do need a laundress and a chambermaid.”

“Is that why you came? To tell me that? All that way?” She was impossible.

Margaret drew herself up, her sharp chin thrust out, the hazel eyes beneath the pale red brows hot with anger. “Why did I come? I hoped to find solace in my brother. Why, I cannot say. You have never comforted me. You did not even tell me what you knew of Roger.”

Perhaps Andrew had been wrong not to tell her. He could think of nothing to say that would calm her. He lamely asked, “What would Roger say about your being here?” He knew it was a mistake the moment he said it.

She caught her breath. Her fine eyes glistened. How like their mother Margaret was.
Does she know my secrets?

Softly she said, “It is because of my husband that I am here.” Catching her skirts, she swept out the door. Her footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Such a knot of feelings washed over Andrew as she departed. Their mother had predicted trouble for him, but she had not said it would touch every part of his life.

He had gone to Elcho Nunnery to see their mother on his way from St. Andrews, just before Jack’s death.

“You have betrayed your people,” she had said. “I knew this would come, but not why.”

“He is my abbot. I had no choice.”

Christiana had touched his face. “You are angry and frightened.”

“Tell me what is to come, Mother.”

Sadly, she stroked his cheek. “You will pass through fire, Andrew.” She would tell him no more.

He did not know what to do about Margaret. So proud, so fine, so reckless. He could not expect any woman to understand the complex dangers here, but he should be able to guide her. He must think how.

A servant announced that Andrew was summoned to Abbot Adam.

Andrew must put Margaret from his mind for the moment. Conversations with his abbot took all his concentration. It was difficult to hide all he felt. He prayed for calm as he walked.

“Benedicte, Father Andrew.” Abbot Adam’s smile was broad, his voice friendly. He motioned to Andrew to sit across from him at a table strewn with documents trying to curl closed. “I did not realize you had a sister in Edinburgh.”

“She traveled with me from Dunfermline.”

“In the midst of war?”

“Is it a war, My Lord Abbot?”

The abbot threw up his hands in mock confusion. Strangers sometimes thought him a gentle fool. “You have not been yourself since you returned from St. Andrews. What is troubling you, my son?”

“Today it is my sister who troubles me. She has learned her husband was unfaithful and now demands more information from me. But I am not so cruel as my uncle.”

“Murdoch Kerr. How much did he charge her for the information?” Adam attempted a joke.

Andrew could not force a smile.

The abbot shook his head. “I have offended you, though all say he is a conniver. Still, it is good you have such feeling for your uncle. I like that.” Adam settled his elbows on a small, cleared space and leaned toward Andrew. “But I remind you of your vow of silence.”

“If you think I am such a fool as to tell anyone what I know, you chose unwisely.”

“Still angry. That is what all this is about. There will come a day when you will be proud of what you have done for the king.”

Shame was all Andrew felt. And hatred, for the abbot and himself. “I am ever your obedient servant, My Lord Abbot.” And will be forever damned for that.

*
      
*
       
*

“We are travelers well met, Dame Kerr.” A man Margaret faintly recognized bowed to her and Hal as they passed through the abbey gateway onto Canongate. “James Comyn. I saw you with Father Andrew in the tavern the other evening.”

Margaret remembered—he had been one of the well-dressed men sitting near her brother. So he was a Comyn—they were one of the most powerful families in Scotland, and kin to John Balliol, the king Longshanks had betrayed. He was dressed in more somber clothes today.

“Good day to you, Master Comyn.”

“You were visiting your brother?”

“I was.” She was not in a mood to gossip or while away the time discussing the weather. Let him be useful if he wished to chatter. “Forgive me, you will think this a strange question, but do you know of a good laundress for my uncle’s inn?”

He had a pleasant smile and expressive brows. “An unusual conversational ploy, but I am equal to it. I fear that I do not, milady. Might you recommend a good bowyer?”

She could not help but laugh. “I am Murdoch’s niece.”

“I know.”

Quietly, suiting Margaret’s mood, Comyn walked with them to the crossroad with the Leith road, where he said, “I must bid you farewell for now.” He bowed to them and continued north.

Margaret and Hal crossed into Netherbow.

“He is a pleasant man,” she said as she dismounted in front of the stable.

“Pleasant enough, mistress, though I have seen him lose his temper.”

“Over what?”

“I should not gossip,” Hal said as he unfastened Bonny’s harness.

“Is he often at the inn?”

“Oh aye, mistress. All the time.”

“Then it would be a kindness to warn me of his temper.”

“He would not lose it with you. It is the master he argues with. And more than that I cannot say.”

Margaret did not press him. In any case, James Comyn had provided a much needed laugh. But as she faced the inn, all that she had learned today came rushing back. What a fool she was, and everyone in Edinburgh knew. She rushed to her chamber, not wanting anyone to hear the sobs that she could choke down no longer.

*
      
*
       
*

Andrew could not sit still. He kept remembering the time Roger Sinclair had surprised him in Edinburgh. He should have told Maggie of that at the time, but he had prayed it was still possible they might be happy.

Within a fortnight of the wedding, in late April two years ago, Roger had departed Perth, for Bruges, he had said, an important merchant to see. He had left Margaret alone in the partly furnished town house in Perth, and Jack Sinclair in charge of the business. Jack was a good factor. He could have made the trip for the newly wed man. Andrew had thought Roger just an overzealous merchant until he saw him in Edinburgh a week after he had supposedly sailed. Unfortunately, Roger had seen Andrew as well, concocted a plausible story, and hurried home to a delighted Margaret. But Andrew had lately learned that by June of that year Roger had again departed Perth, staying away until Michaelmas. Andrew saw that as indifference on Roger’s side. Margaret brought connections and a large dowry, and would decorate any gathering, being a lovely woman. Such reasons for marriage were not uncommon, but she deserved better. He must do something for her.

7

Her Marriage
’
s Great Chance

Margaret shooed Celia from her chamber. Her stomach burned, her breath came in gasps, she did not know whether to cry or scream. Damn the men in her life. Roger had abandoned her, Murdoch and Andrew had kept information from her, Jack had dallied with her, and none of them trusted that she had any wits.

No doubt Jack had also known of Mistress Grey. She feared all of Edinburgh knew; perhaps all of Perth had known. Margaret’s face was hot. She pounded her thighs with her fists. Damn them.

Roger had not been wounded, nor had he been dying somewhere without aid, as she had feared, but he had been helping a stranger flee Berwick before the summons to sign the Ragman Rolls. Perhaps not a stranger. Whether Andrew was right that Roger and Mistress Grey were lovers, or Murdoch that they worked together in some political scheme, the woman seemed of more concern to Roger than his own wife.

How foolish Margaret felt for hoping that she and Roger would grow closer, that her husband would come to value her opinion, her companionship. When Longshanks had arrived in Perth with his army in June she had been so afraid. Her father had already fled the country, her mother had retired to Elcho, Fergus threatened to join a group of young men who were hiding food and goods in the countryside, Jack had ridden to Dunfermline to see how his aunt fared. On the second evening Roger had returned, unexpectedly. He said he had ridden hard to be there to protect her. And when a few mornings later a soldier grabbed her as she walked to the kirk and demanded a kiss, Roger, departing the house a moment behind her, had fallen on the man with a fury that was frightening to behold. The town’s calamity had seemed her marriage’s great chance.

But at the beginning of August, when Longshanks had moved on, Roger had departed again.

Margaret slowed her pacing. In March Edward Longshanks had moved on Berwick with a large army and slaughtered a great number of the townsfolk. Ye t this Mistress Grey had not fled then, she had waited months. Until August—until Roger went for her? Margaret did not like all that implied.