A Trust Betrayed by Candace Robb Read Free Book Online Page B

a little while Celia crawled into the bed from the other side, but she said nothing.
     
    *        *         *
     
    Church bells woke Margaret. For a moment she lay still beneath the piled coverlets getting her bearings. Her eyes were swollen from weeping and burned when she blinked. Her head pounded. She must do better than this. Her time here might be brief if Murdoch did not soften toward her presence. She must put her fears aside and plan her search for Roger.
     
    A full bladder sent her sliding out of the warm bed down to the cold floor, where she fumbled about for the chamber pot.
     
    “I put the chamber pot outside the door,” Celia said in a drowsy voice. “I shall fetch it.”
     
    “I can fetch my own chamber pot. I mean to go to Mass at St. Giles if I can dress quickly enough.” Margaret hoped it might comfort her, give her strength.
     
    “Widow Sinclair would not want her gooddaughter handling a chamber pot.” Celia groaned as she sat up. “I must dress you. You must make a good impression.”
     
    “There is no need. None will mark me.”
     
    “I need to move about.” Celia rose with much effort, lit another lamp from the brazier.
     
    The light gave Margaret a better view of the wooden bolt that secured the door from within. The wood was worn smooth where it slid across the braces. To protect her uncle as he slept? She unbolted the door, peered without, and found that the full pot had been exchanged for an empty one. The servants at least understood that basic service.
     
    Celia groped at her cap, stuffing her hair inside, tugging at her dress to smooth it. It had fallen from its hook in the night and dried wrinkled. “This evening I shall take more care with my gown.” She looked disheveled and sleepy. She winced as she moved about.
     
    “You need not accompany me,” Margaret said, feeling her own stiffness from the saddle.
     
    But Celia insisted, and fussed with Margaret’s attire.
     
    The wind caught their skirts on the stairs and tugged at Margaret’s veil. A cat streaked across the yard, vanished. Old bean vines rattled over new growth. The two women slipped out to the alley between the two tall houses, emerging on High Street. On the climb to St. Giles in the early morning gray the only living creatures they saw were rats and a well-bundled person sweeping the street outside a shop. It was too early for shops to be open or the market set up, but not too early for market carts to be arriving in the town, or for folk to be leading their livestock to graze, and there were none of those. It felt as if everyone in the town held their breath.
     
    The Mass bell rang as they were halfway up the hill. Margaret gathered her skirts in her hands and walked faster. Celia tried to keep up, but eventually fell back, complaining that she was out of breath. Ignoring her, Margaret arrived at the kirk door, tidied herself, and slipped in. She hurried to join the worshippers standing toward the choir, where the rood screen separated them from the clergy. Celia limped to her side a moment later.
     
    Her fellows numbered less than on a typical day in St. John’s, her kirk in Perth, and far fewer than in the abbey at Dunfermline. From the crowd in the tavern the previous evening, Margaret had expected more. Perhaps the folk who stayed in town preferred to get their courage from ale, not prayer.
     
    The singing calmed her, as if the voices moved through her. She bowed her head, prayed for God’s help for her mission, for Roger’s safety, and for Jack’s soul. For Katherine, her goodmother, who must be feeling quite alone with Margaret and Celia away. There were other servants in the house, but none with whom her goodmother might talk about her grieving for Jack. Fifteen years Roger’s junior, Jack had been a comfort to Katherine when her own son had gone out into the world. Though Jack had been living in Perth the past six years as Roger’s factor, he had not forgotten the aunt who