Free A Trust Betrayed by Candace Robb Page A

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