A Trust Betrayed (15 page)

And Margaret was trying to be more patient. “I spoke to Comyn.”

“I’ll bolt the door, no matter,” Celia said as she did so.

Margaret dropped down onto the bed and closed her eyes. Her feet and her head ached, her eyes burned from wind and smoke. But she could not rest. Behind her eyelids lurked James Comyn, Besseta Fletcher, Roger, Murdoch, Janet Webster, Mistress Grey.

She rose, reached beneath the bed for her card weaving. She pulled out the bag. Her hands felt chaos where there should be thirty threaded wooden cards in a neat stack, the warp ends tied in an overhand knot, and all secured with cord. She held the bag up to the lamp beside the bed. The knot and the cord had come undone. The cards were jumbled in the bag, the thread twisted every which way.

Celia shook her head at the confusion. “You need someone good with card weaving to sort that.”

With her hand still bandaged, Margaret did need help. She thought of Janet Webster.

8

This Is No Life

Over the alley that stretched along the inn’s backlands the glow of sunset was fast fading into peat-smoke-thickened evening. Still stiff from the journey and limping slightly from her fall a few days before, Celia made the lantern light lurch as she negotiated the infrequently used alley. But when Margaret offered to carry the light she was rebuffed.

Stepping out onto Cowgate, Margaret noticed someone standing in the smiddie yard across the way. She wondered whether Davy the smith had returned. But the fire was not lit, and the person stood unmoving. As they drew closer she recognized Janet Webster’s bulk. The woman cradled something in her arms.

“That is a queer object of affection,” Celia whispered when they drew close enough to see it was a large hammer.

“Her husband the smith is missing.”

“She is gey worried.”

The weaver looked up at the light and the murmur of voices, then hurriedly put the hammer on the anvil. “Who is it?”

Margaret identified herself, introduced Celia. “I hoped you might help me untangle a quantity of thread.”

Janet led the way into the house. It was cold and dark but for the central fire, which had clearly been untended for a while, perhaps since Margaret had departed in the afternoon. Celia held the lantern steady as the weaver stirred the fire to life. When it was burning well she invited them to sit near it.

“Now. Show me what you brought,” Janet said, easing herself down beside Margaret.

“It is to be a border for bed curtains,” Margaret explained. She described the intricate diamond pattern, and the colors. There was no question of cutting the thread and beginning again—the goods were too precious.

“Best not to look for the pattern in this, but follow the threads,” Janet said. She told Celia to fetch the light from the far corner. Then the three sat at the small table, Janet and Margaret unwinding the threaded cards, Celia lending a hand when directed.

While they worked at untwisting the cards the three women spoke in bursts about patterns, thread, some of the fine cards they had seen. The silences were comfortable, until Margaret said, “My uncle has been gone since last night. The cook and James Comyn are worried about his absence on market day. Is it such an odd thing?”

Janet leaned closer to the work, said nothing for a long while. But she grew clumsy, and finally, as she paused to wipe her eyes, she whispered, “God help us.”

“What is it?” Margaret asked.

“A man is gone for a night and a day and we fear him dead. This is no life.”

“They are right to worry?”

“Your uncle never did bide by the laws of others. In such times as these that is dangerous. He could be taken for a spy.”

“How long has your husband been gone?”

“Not two weeks. It feels a long while.” Janet, her head down to hide emotion, gathered the cards already unwound, knotted their warps. “We need daylight for this.” She shoved the work into the bag, handed it to Margaret. “Come back tomorrow.”

Shaken by Janet’s reaction, Margaret appreciated Celia’s silence as they walked back to the inn. She tried to calm herself, reasoning that her presence was the cause of her uncle’s unusual behavior, that he had felt he could leave the inn and tavern in her hands, but it was a futile effort, she did not believe it.

As she and Celia were passing the tavern kitchen, Roy came hurrying out the door.

“You must go to the tavern.” His hair stood on end. His beard was crusted with oat flour. “You must decide where tonight’s boarders will stay.”

“Murdoch has not returned?”

“No.”

Margaret considered the choices. “The chamber to the left of mine. Two will be comfortable in there.”

Roy shook his shaggy head as he started back to the kitchen. “They won’t share a roof much less the same room,” he called over his shoulder. “One is an Englishman, so the other says.” He turned as he reached the doorway, hands on his hips. “Each wants the other sent away.”

“
Is
the one an Englishman?”

“I cook here, that is all.”

“Yes. I see. I’ll talk to them.”

At the tavern doorway, Margaret handed the bag of weaving to Celia. “Go on up to our chamber.”

Margaret stood a moment in the tavern doorway, blinking. Her eyes had already been tired before the close work on the cards.

Sim had sidled over to her. “The leather-clad man and the bare-legged redbeard,” he said, “they are the troublesome ones.”

It was no chore to pick out the Englishman. He was clad all in leather, his clothes well made but caked with mud, gray hair trimmed about his forehead and ears, and short in back. The other, wrapped in a plaid, his rough beard redder than the hair atop his head, sat glowering at a table with some of the regular patrons.

“We will put the Englishman in the chamber beside me. Redbeard will stay in the other house. I shall ready the chambers for them. Tell them they are both welcome, and there is no need for them to stay under the same roof.”

Sim was not happy with the assignment, but said only, “Aye, mistress.”

Margaret went to find Celia and prepare the rooms.

When they were finished, Margaret sent Celia to the kitchen for food, and she stepped into the tavern for a pitcher of ale.

She noticed that James Comyn was talking to Redbeard.

He glanced up, met her gaze.

She sat down at the edge of the table near the door, waiting for Sim. Comyn said something to Redbeard, who nodded into his tankard, then joined her.

“Your uncle would not like you here unescorted.”

Margaret had not noticed the deep dimple in his chin before.

“You take uncommon interest in my uncle’s business.”

“Your presence worries him. As for the business, it is partly mine.” At her exclamation he frowned. “He did not tell you?”

“No. A Comyn owning part interest in a tavern? The world turns strangely these days.”

Comyn lifted his tankard, nodded to Margaret, and drank.

“How did you come to be partners?”

After some silence Comyn said, “It was not your uncle’s choice. It is for him to tell you how it came to be. If he has a mind to do so.”

“You thought the English soldier might have hurt me. Why?”

“We all worry about our women with the garrison perched above us.”

“You thought my uncle had gone to defend my honor?”

Sim set the pitcher on the table.

Comyn began to rise.

If Comyn and Murdoch were partners, Margaret thought perhaps she might trust him with her growing concern about her uncle’s absence. “My uncle disappeared after telling me of Mistress Grey. Could that be cause to worry?”

Comyn sat back down, searching her face.

She would be damned if she would lower her gaze in discomfort.

In a while Comyn closed his eyes, freeing hers.

She took that to mean he suspected a closeness between Roger and Mistress Grey. She glanced round the tavern, looking for something to rest her eyes on. She watched Sim balance four tankards on a tray.

“I saw my husband the other day,” she said.

“Here?” Comyn asked. “In the town?”

Sim made it through the door. Feeling calmer, Margaret faced Comyn. He stared at her with urgency now.

“Yes. Near the tron.”

“Are you certain? Did you speak to him?”

“No. I was not close enough, and the men he was with pulled him away from me. They ran and I could not follow.”

Her heart pounded, Comyn’s look was so dark as he rose from his stool, downing his drink.

“Should I be worried for my uncle? Or for Roger?”

“For us all.” Comyn strode out of the tavern.

Most of
 
the others paid no heed to the man’s abrupt departure. But Redbeard watched the door for a moment, then rose and followed.

Margaret was surprised her hands did not tremble as she lifted the pitcher and departed.

*
      
*
       
*

“The pie is now cold,” Celia said.

A pie. Margaret cared nothing for the pie. She poured herself a cup of ale.

“I ate my portion while it was yet warm,” Celia said. “But I had no ale.”

Margaret pushed the pitcher over to her.

“You should eat.”

Margaret tasted the pie—pastry stuffed with cooked roots and a bit of salted beef. It might as well have been ashes in her mouth.

“You’ve said not a word since you returned.”

“I am frightened, Celia.”

“About Master Murdoch’s being away?”

Margaret nodded. “Pray he returns safely. And soon.”

“Aye. What would you do now?”

“Go to bed. What else can I do but wait?”

Celia had begun to unlace Margaret’s shoes when a commotion began beneath them in the tavern. Voices raised in argument.

“I must see what it is,” Margaret said.

“Should you go down there, mistress?” Celia’s eyes were on the bolted door.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll attend you.”

“Stay here. Bolt the door behind me.” Margaret slipped out before fear clutched her, made her way down the stairs expecting at any moment to see someone come sprawling out the back door of the tavern. But now that she could better hear individual voices, it seemed excited chatter, not an argument. And many exclamations of distress. She prayed it had nothing to do with Murdoch’s disappearance.

Roy, Sim, and Geordie stood just within the doorway.

“What is it?” Margaret asked.

“Davy the smith,” said Roy. “They have found his body. In the bog where the Tummel streams meet. Right north of the abbey.”