A Trust Betrayed (9 page)

Murdoch took the full pot from her, carried it to a trestle table. “Is your curiosity about my kitchen satisfied?” He picked up a knife, turned his back to Margaret, and began to core.

“You wield that knife so well. I cannot recall Father ever picking up a knife in the kitchen.”

“Nor did your mother, I would wager. Too busy with her prophecies.” He sounded angry.

Margaret thought he still fumed about Celia’s washing. “I’ll not allow Celia to wash up above again.”

“It was my fault,” he said, surprising her. “I had forgotten Roy would likely be unfriendly.”

“You could predict he would not like Celia?”

Murdoch shook his head. “Women. He was unfortunate in loving Belle, the chambermaid. She went off with a man who offered her safety to the north.”

“And Roy blames all women?”

“He’ll mend in time.”

“You’ve been unable to find another chambermaid?”

“Aye. You have complaints about the bedchamber?”

“No. I thought that if you or someone else would show me the guest chambers, and where you keep mops, rags, brooms, and buckets, I could be of use to you.”

“As you can see, I am busy.”

They were dried apples and could keep. Unless he meant to toss them in the pot. But what was in there did not smell like it would mix with the fruit.

“Then let me help you with the apples.”

“Sweet Jesus.” He threw down the coring knife. “Can a man have no peace?” His eyes glared beneath the uneven brows.

“I would like to help.”

Murdoch stirred the pot, took off his apron. “Come on, then. I see you must not be idle.”

He hurried her through the rain to a lean-to on the corner of the tall house across the alley from the tavern. Opening a poorly fitted plank door, he stepped aside to reveal a collection of sorry-looking brooms, buckets, rags (she was certain they were home to a nest of rats or mice), and a ladder.

“Roy keeps the soap.”

Murdoch closed the lean-to, slogged through a puddle to a short stairway leading up to a door that opened on to the first floor.

“This house is part of the inn?”

“A y e .”

“What is down below?”

“A storeroom.”

The landing above the stairs was broader than in the other house.

“Three rooms up here,” Murdoch said, opening the first door. It was larger than either of the guest chambers next door, with two beds and a shuttered window facing the backlands. A wall
of wattle hurdles separated one room from the next so that the shape of the room could easily be changed. The second room was also configured to be large, with many pallets and a tiny window high up, shuttered also. The third was a smaller room with a window toward the back and a fair-sized bed that took up most of the space.

“I am sleeping here at present,” Murdoch said.

“You could plant a garden in the dirt and dust.”

“I would not mind some tidying.” He caught her eye. “I would be a fool to turn down your offer, eh?” He did not smile, but his anger had cooled.

“What of the storeroom?”

“We shift things often enough it needs no cleaning. Tend to what is suitable, the guest rooms. While they are empty!”

They descended to the backlands and bowed their heads against the rain that pelted them on their way to the stairway that led to her chamber. The stairway was roofed, praise God. Margaret already felt the damp soaking through her clothes and shoes. On the floor on which she was staying, Murdoch showed her the room to the right, which was the chamber in which they had talked on their arrival. The bed had been tidied, a man’s tunic lay on an ancient chest, a pack lay on the floor. It was a wide enough bed to sleep two or three. The room opposite was much larger, with several pallets and one substantial bed without bed hangings. A man snored beneath a tattered hide. Two cloaks hung on hooks on the wall, some clothes were strewn on one of the pallets. The air in the room was stale—surprising with the draft from the doorway. Both doorways were covered by hides, not wooden doors. How cold it must be to lie on the floor in the draft.

“You will not interfere with the business of the tavern, Maggie.”

“This will be sufficient. I have a husband to find.” “If it’s too much work, find a good replacement for me, eh?” At last Murdoch smiled. “Now I have work to do. And so do you.” He bowed to her and headed down the stairs.

She thanked God her uncle had accepted her offer. It would buy her time.

5

A Face in the Rain

Margaret tucked her hair up in a cap and the front hem of her gown up in her girdle, wrapped cloths round her forearms to protect her sleeves, and set to cleaning Murdoch’s temporary chamber. Celia daintily dusted the doorway, the furniture.

“For pity’s sake, clean the rest of the room before cleaning the furniture,” Margaret said, losing patience. “The ceilings and the wattle walls are full of dust that will just settle again on the furnishings.”

“I was sent here to be your maid, not a chambermaid.” Celia flicked dust off her shoulders.

Margaret fought the urge to slap her. “Neither am I a chambermaid, eh? But as my uncle was good enough to give us his room, this is the least we can do for him.”

“I would as lief stay in a less favored room at such a price.” Celia regarded the rafters with a grimace and a shudder.

“You would speak to me in such a manner?” Who did she think she was? “I am done with making apologies for you. You’re of no use to me and you never will be. I don’t know what my goodmother sees in you. You do nothing for your keep.”

Celia had dropped her gaze to the floor.

“Get yourself off to the chambermaid’s cot. You will sleep there until I arrange an escort for you back to Widow Sinclair, where the work is more to your liking. I’ll ask my brother to make arrangements.”

Celia glanced up at that, her jaw dropping unbecomingly.

“Get you gone,” Margaret repeated, waving the maid on with a dusty cloth that produced a cloud she thought certain to disgust the dainty woman.

Celia tossed her cloth to the floor. “Look at my hands.” She held them out, palms down. The nails were even and clean, the skin unbroken.

“A lady’s hands,” Margaret said. “I am not surprised.”

Celia turned her palms up. “It took a long while to soften and smooth them so my mistress would let me touch her silk gowns.”

“So be off in search of your lady.”

“I thought as Master Roger’s wife you would at least live as well as my mistress.”

The comment brought Margaret up short. It was in truth a reasonable expectation—in other times, with another husband. “So did I.” Caught off her guard, Margaret spoke more from the heart than she had intended.

Celia dropped her hands, looking confused.

“Go now.”

Bobbing an awkward curtsy, Celia hurried out.

Climbing up onto a stool, Margaret snapped her cloth at a cobweb, angry that she had lost her temper and revealed her pain to the woman. She swung at another web. The dust caught in her throat, made her eyes teary. Two years of marriage had brought her to this. It was Roger’s fault that she had half fallen in love with Jack, Roger’s fault that Jack was dead, Roger’s fault that she was childless. In what way was she a wife? She shoved the cloth along the rafter.

Blood bloomed on the cloth as a sharp pain reached her consciousness. She dropped from the stool, sank down on it, examined her hand. A large splinter lay beneath the fleshy base of her thumb inside her palm. She held her breath as she drew it out. Sweet Jesus. It was worse in the coming out than in the sinking in. She sank her hand into a bowl of rainwater that had collected beneath a drip and said several Hail Marys, then tore a strip from the cleanest side of the cloth protecting her left sleeve and wrapped her hand.

It throbbed, and her mind was unquiet. She needed air. A walk was what she wanted, but the rain dripped steadily into the now bloodstained water and drummed on the roof above her. No matter, it would wash away her thoughts, her irritation, cool her hot hand.

Donning her old plaid mantle she slipped down the stairs, through the alley, and on to High Street.

The rain slanted down, making her blink. She pulled the edge of the mantle forward on her head and splashed up the street through puddles. Her toes were soon wet and cold, then her heels, then her ankles. New boots had been out of the question this autumn when money dwindled. She wished she had thought to bring pattens; but the idea of sitting idle in her chamber was too dreary.

So she moved on. Beneath the tron in the marketplace she could not help but pause. Here was where Andrew heard Jack had lain, somewhere beneath this weigh beam, a little over a week ago. Nine days, she counted. Discovered early in the morning, he must have been murdered during the night. Someone who lived within sight of the tron might have seen something, at least heard a cry. Jack would not be struck down without a struggle, without a shout of anger or terror. Surely someone remembered that night, such a violent attack. She backed beneath the eaves of
 
the nearest house and considered the houses that clustered round. Light shone through the shutters of one just opposite her, directly across from the tron. She should ask her uncle who lived there.

She moved farther beneath the eaves as a half dozen men approached the market area, voices low. There was a stealth in their movements. When they were almost past her, she felt her eyes drawn to one of them. It was difficult to pick out features with the veil of rain and gloom, but the man’s stride, the way he leaned forward with his upper body as he walked was familiar—dear God, Roger held himself so. The man moved out from the shadow of the overhangs. “Roger,” she whispered, taking a step forward. He could not have heard her, but he glanced her way, then turned more fully toward her, walking backward a few steps. She reached out to him. Sweet Jesus, the left side of his face was striped with wounds. “Roger!” Margaret called out and ran toward him. He hesitated, but two of the other men grabbed him and pulled him with them. They ran across the street and disappeared down a close.

Margaret pursued, increasing her speed until her lungs hurt.

“Halt!” a man cried behind her.

She heard more than one set of boots chasing her, but she kept running. A piece of cloak fluttered behind one of the men ahead as he turned into a wynd. She slipped, caught herself, hurried round the corner. Empty. She wept, kept running, sobbing, “Roger!”

A hand grabbed her arm, jerking her to a halt. She turned and blindly struck out with her fists, not caring who it was. Damn him for stopping her. Damn him!

“That was my husband,” she cried. Her blows made contact with a fleshy face before her arms were pulled behind her, causing her mantle to fall away. She screamed with pain. The man in front of her shook her by the shoulders until she stopped struggling and quieted.

“Why were you chasing those men?” Water dripped down the soldier’s forehead. He shook it away.

“One of them was my husband. I have not seen him for months. I did not even know whether he was alive. You made me lose him.”

“In this gloom how can you be certain it was him?”

“A woman kens her husband,” she said through chattering teeth.

Her arms were released.

“They cannot be far,” one of the soldiers said.

Margaret rubbed her upper arms as both men took off in the direction in which Roger had disappeared. She closed her eyes, trying to remember every detail of what she had seen. Four gashes on his face, perhaps more. He had stopped, looked at her. It was the others who pulled him away. Was he a prisoner? Had the men with him wounded him? But he had not seemed a prisoner when they approached, only when he hesitated as if meaning to turn back to her. Why? Damn those soldiers for stopping her. She might even now be with Roger. Would he embrace her? He had not seemed indifferent, he had stopped, had not tried to ignore her.