A Trust Betrayed by Candace Robb Read Free Book Online

She was almost certain it was a loom weight. A weaver would tie the end of the warp to this to keep it close to the floor, the thread taut. It was not something she would expect Jack to clutch as he died, nor was it something he was likely to have clasped in a fight.
     
    “Your hands are so cold,” Celia said, rubbing them, knocking the stone to the floor.
     
    Slowly, stiff from the saddle, Margaret stooped to retrieve the weight. The movement made her dizzy.
     
    “You have not eaten in hours.” Celia helped her to her feet, untied the laces at Margaret’s back and wrists, let the gown slip to the floor. “Step out of it,” she said softly.
     
    Margaret moved because she was told. “You have not eaten either.”
     
    “I am not eager to taste the food down below.” Celia straightened with a wince.
     
    Of course. It had been a long ride for anyone, let alone one who had apparently never sat astride a horse before. “I’ll send up ale and food—you won’t wish to climb stairs tonight,” said Margaret.
     
    “I have a salve for saddle sores.”
     
    Margaret shook her head at the proud woman. “The sores are the least of it.”
     
    *        *         *
     
    The tavern was welcomingly warm and busier, now it was early evening, cheering Margaret despite the ripe odors. A rowdy dice game attracted a crowd round the table by the door. Margaret was glad to see two other women in the room. At one table an elderly woman wrapped in a much mended plaid quietly reasoned with a bald man who pounded the table to emphasize his argument. Another woman sat nodding by the brazier, leaning against a man who was listening intently to the other men sitting there. At the third table a man sat hunched over an ale, listening to the diatribe of the man across from him. Both were dressed well, and both occasionally stole glances at Andrew.
     
    Her brother was the only solitary figure in the tavern, sitting at the table nearest the back door, through which Margaret had just come.
     
    Nodding in greeting, he poured her a cup of wine from a flagon.
     
    “I must be off to the abbey as soon as Murdoch returns,” he said brusquely. “He is fetching food for you and Celia.”
     
    “If you must be off, be off.” Though grateful to him for escorting her, Margaret wearied of his stern manner. “There are other women here, I can”—a hush fell over the room as the street door opened—“manage.” A few heads turned as her last word rang out in the sudden silence.
     
    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