A Trust Betrayed (31 page)

“Jack said Harcar owed him some money, and as soon as he had it he would take me away from here. We would go to Carrick. Jack would fight for Robert Bruce. And we would have more riches when the Bruce became king. I was frightened, and I suppose I knew in my heart that he must have betrayed my trust—and that of my sister. But I loved him and I chose to trust him. I believed him when he said all would be well.”

Quite a damning conversation. “What happened then?”

“We fell asleep. Agnes was mad with grief over Harry and Davy, and now she knew it was Jack who had sold the information that had condemned them. Sometime in the night—”

Besseta stopped, staring at the horror as it unfolded in the air before her.

Margaret handed her the flask. Celia and the priest should be here by now. She prayed their arrival did not silence Besseta.

“He was already dead when Agnes slashed his stomach open, I think he died with her first blows. She was shouting the names of Tom, Davy, Harry, and ‘my baby.’ Would that I had killed her then.”

Margaret jumped as the door opened. Celia, Father Francis, and a clerk entered. The priest carried the sacrament. He was tall, his robes hanging loosely from broad but fleshless shoulders. His bald hawk face was solemn.

Besseta shrank from the priest.

“Where is Agnes?” he asked.

“I will take you,” Celia said, leading him through the inner doorway.

“He will curse me,” Besseta moaned.

“Did you starve your sister?” Margaret asked.

Besseta’s nod was jerky, as if uncertain. “I fed her a purge and then gave her nothing to eat or drink. I did dampen her lips when she slept, though she ordered me not to. They were so dry they cracked and bled. I could not bear it.”

Margaret crossed herself. “Agnes asked you to withhold food and water?”

Besseta looked surprised. “She was not a murderer by nature, Margaret. She could not live with what she had done. To me, to Jack. She asked me to help her die.”

How would God judge that? Margaret wondered. Who was guilty, Agnes or Besseta? Both? Neither? Margaret took a deep breath. “How did you get Jack’s body out to the tron?”

“I wanted all to see what Agnes had done. I dragged Jack out into this room. Agnes was hysterical. I locked her in the bedchamber with Jack’s blood soaking everything. I prayed that his spirit would rise up and kill her. But Comyn returned. He had been uneasy about Agnes, and he took charge here. He took Jack out to the tron late that night. He took the bloody mattress away, brought another.”

“How did Jack come to be clutching the loom weight?” “I pressed it into his hand to have with him in the grave.”

18

Remember This

In the long shadows of late afternoon the inn alley was dark, smelling of damp and urine. Margaret and Celia had left the Fletchers in the hands of Father Francis and two neighbor women who had agreed to prepare Agnes’s body.

Margaret’s stomach was queasy, her head pounded. Had she guessed at Besseta’s suffering she would not have pushed her so. But now she had the answers—once her mind could grasp all that she had heard.

“I’ll go and prepare a cool compress for you,” Celia said.

“What of you? This has been no easier for you.”

“I’m not ready to think about it. I want some work, to keep my hands and mind busy.” She headed for the tavern kitchen.

Sim lounged in the doorway of the tavern.

“Dame Kerr, Master Murdoch asked that you go to him as soon as you returned. He is in the storeroom.”

From forbidden to invited, that was puzzling, but perhaps now that she had seen the room Murdoch felt he did not need to hide it from her, as long as she was not left alone to explore. She wondered whether he had lured Comyn with the chance to see his spoils. “Is James Comyn there?”

“Aye .”

Margaret had mixed feelings about having so divined Mur
doch’s ploy. Perhaps she did have some of her mother’s Sight, though it was pitifully late in showing itself—she’d had need of it long before this.

Sim followed her.

She tried to compose herself to talk to the two men. The inn yard was quiet, dusty and dry in the sunlight. Just days ago she had picked her way between muddy puddles. How quickly the saturated earth gave up its moisture. Like Agnes’s body. Margaret shook the thought away, opened the storeroom door. A lamp burned within, but all was silent.

“Uncle?” she whispered.

“Have you found what you seek?”

It was a whisper. A man’s voice. She could not tell whether it was Murdoch. She took a step inside. Hearing a sound behind her, she was about to turn when someone pushed her by the small of her back. She fell to her knees. The door thudded closed behind her. The lamp winked out.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, watch over me.
The dark closed in round her. She fought panic, trying to think what to do. She felt a trunk in front of her, used it to help her rise without losing her direction.

“I’ll ask again.”

A scream caught in her throat. The voice was very near to her left.

“Have you found what you seek?”

It was James Comyn. He was now so near he might reach out and touch her. She took a step to the right, her heart pounding.

“What have you done with my uncle?”

“Has Besseta satisfied you?”

She tried to remember how many steps forward and to the right it was to a pillar she might put between them. She took a step, bumped the toe of her shoe against the trunk.

“I advise you not to explore in the dark, Dame Kerr. Murdoch has been shifting his treasures. But come.” He grabbed her by the left elbow. “I’ll guide you to a well-lit place.”

“I prefer to remain here.”

“But a moment ago you were moving.”

Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, which was not as complete as she had first thought. There was a glimmer of light in the left corner of the far aisle.

She tried to pull free of him.

“Do you wish me to carry you?” He reached for her waist.

“No.” She pushed his hands away and began to move toward the light. He caught her when she stumbled. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why did you want me out of the way today?”

She explored the next step with her toe before moving forward. “I wished to talk to Besseta Fletcher. Without you.”

“Why?”

“I had questions about Jack. And Roger.”

“What has she to do with your husband?”

They had reached the corner by the tapestries, where a lamp burned. Comyn’s blue eyes were pale in the flickering light, his face shaping and reshaping with the movement. She wondered where the draft was coming from.

“Celia will come looking for me,” Margaret said.

Comyn said nothing. The dimple in his chin was sinister in this light.

“Where is my uncle?”

“Where is your allegiance, Dame Kerr?” His voice was disturbingly caressing. “Murdoch wavers according to his comfort, but what of his niece?”

“You know why I’m here. To find my husband.”

“Perhaps. Yet you consort with English soldiers.”

“I did not choose to walk with them.”

“You do not prefer Longshanks?”

“John Balliol is our consecrated king. Longshanks’s soldiers do not change that.” Knowing her loyalties were the same as James Comyn’s did not comfort Margaret at the moment.

“What of Robert Bruce?”

“I don’t trust him.”

“What of your husband’s involvement in the Bruce’s scheming?”

“I have only just learned of it. I don’t know what will become of my husband and me.”

“You risked your life in coming to Edinburgh, seeking him.”

She would not risk her life for him again. “My uncle is sending me away. I’ll trouble you no more.”

“Murdoch cannot send you north. The Forth ferry is in the hands of the English and their forces are swarming through Falkirk and Stirling.”

So she was trapped here. She sank down on a chest. “Agnes is dead, did you ken?”

“Her death is not unexpected.”

Margaret saw the emaciated body before her. “It must have been terrifying for both of them. That is on your conscience. You left them alone together, trusting no one, hating each other.”

“Besseta will not be blamed, if that is what you fear for her. Father Francis will say Agnes died of sorrow. There was nothing Besseta could do.”

Margaret thought of Besseta’s staring eyes. “That does not undo the horror of what she’s lived through. It will destroy her.”

“I’ll find someone to take her in.”

“How kind of you.”

“What will you say of Agnes’s death?” he asked.

“Is that what worries you?” Margaret tried to chuckle. It did not ring true. “I’ve no cause to tell anyone what I learned today. But for what you did to the Fletchers, I might have been your ally.”

The storeroom door opened.

“Maggie?” It was Murdoch.

She rose.

“What is this?” Murdoch growled.

“Remember this,” Comyn said. “Remember how easily you can be silenced.” He gave her a little bow.

She forced herself to walk toward the door at a normal pace, negotiating the chests and barrels in the gloom. Murdoch muttered something unintelligible as she brushed past him.

*
      
*
       
*

By the time Murdoch came up to the chamber to ask after her, Margaret was lying down with a compress draped over her forehead.

“I hope he frightened some sense into you. You don’t walk into a dark room.”

“There was a light. And Sim told me you awaited me there.”

“So he’s in Comyn’s employ now, is he? Well, God grant them joy of each other.” Murdoch paced away and back to the bed. He carried a rolled paper that he slapped against his thigh as he walked. “There’s been nothing but trouble since you arrived.”

“I have not been the cause of it. Why does Comyn have a key to the storeroom?”

“He doesn’t.”

Another lock expert.

“You were to keep him occupied,” Margaret accused.

“I did. For a few hours. You were too long away.” Murdoch thrust the paper at her. “You have a letter from the abbey.”

“From Andrew?” Margaret sat up.

“No. From Abbot Adam.”

Margaret’s hands trembled as she broke the seal. “Will you tell me what it says?” She handed it back to Murdoch. She did not know how to read.

“Aye .”

It was difficult to hang together Murdoch’s halting sounding out of the words. But by his tone and the word “banished” Margaret understood it to be bad news. “Andrew is banished?”