A Trust Betrayed by Candace Robb

raised him, returning to Dunfermline for feast days several times a year.
     
    Margaret fought past the memory of Jack’s corpse, back to an evening a few months past. He had arrived at her house to dine, his cheeks bright from the cold, his blond hair glistening with melting snowflakes. When the maid left them to take Jack’s cloak to the kitchen to dry, he had grabbed Margaret’s hand, holding it for a long moment with his head bent to it. She remembered the feel of his breath tickling her. She had been in a reckless mood and had let him take his time kissing her hand. He had been so close she could smell wood shavings from the warehouse on his boots and wine on his breath.
     
    “You opened a shipment of wine and brought none for me?” she had teased when he at last let go of her hand.
     
    When Roger was away Jack dined with Margaret on Saturdays and told her how the business was going. What merchandise had arrived from Germany or the Lowlands—wine, finished wool cloth, pottery, how much wool and leather goods they were shipping out. She enjoyed the dinners, feeling more a part of Roger’s business than when he was at home.
     
    It was after Martinmas that she had begun to notice how often she thought of Jack, and how she looked forward to Saturdays, fussing over her dress, helping the cook make Jack’s favorite dishes. He was a handsome man with a cheerful humor who appreciated her intelligence. And yet he could be an exasperating tease; he enjoyed the effect he had on her as he did all women. She should not have encouraged his attentions. But it was difficult to separate all her feelings for him into proper and improper. She had not wished to offend him; she valued him too much as a good and loyal friend. And truth be told, she had enjoyed being appreciated as a desirable woman.
     
    She fought the vision of his bloated body in the shroud, the horrible wounds. Holy Mother of God, Roger must be alive. They must be given a chance to have children, to have joy of each other. They had been separated so often she felt she had only begun to know Roger, only just stopped being tongue-tied and in awe of him.
     
    Margaret did not know what would become of her if her search led to a corpse. Her father was in Bruges, her mother at Elcho Nunnery, Andrew in the Kirk, Fergus so young. Her heart lurched as a new fear arose. If Jack’s murder had any connection with Roger’s trading, Fergus might be in danger, all alone in Perth. Sweet Jesus, watch over Fergus. Help him know his enemies.
     
    But none were safe with Edward Longshanks set on claiming the kingdom of Scotland. All knew how the Welsh had suffered. Many Scots had fought on Longshanks’s side in that slaughter. She had heard it whispered that it was God’s retribution for that they were now slaughtered in turn. But the dead of Berwick had been traders, merchants, not soldiers. And the English went unpunished. Folk said Longshanks was old now, and bitter with disappointment in his heir, which made him cruel. Dear Lord, let him die and his weak son turn his eyes inward, give up this battering of Lothian, the humiliation of our king, John Balliol.
     
    And bring Roger home. Her greatest fear was of being left alone, penniless and with an overwhelming grief, of use to no one and without even the means to withdraw into a nunnery. I am too young for this, Lord, I’ve had no life yet. Foolish prayer. Babies died every day. And young mothers. Who was she to expect any different treatment from God?
     
    She glanced round at her fellow worshippers. The English lived in their midst now. She wondered what their thoughts were this morning. The man with the scab on his bald pate. Wa s he mourning someone killed in the fighting, praying for deliverance from the English, or merely trying to keep himself from scratching the tender spot? What of the woman in the fine mantle beside her? She kept her eyes down, but her hands moved as if she were examining them. They looked