Sunday morning found Margaret on her way to town, misericorde tucked into her belt and crossbow concealed in her pack. A few coins clinked in her alms purse. Hamish trotted along beside her. It was a full morning’s walk to Redesdale. She’d made the trip often enough in her youth.
The weeks had passed uneventfully. The Halls had kept away since that first visit. The day she went to their house, Harry hadn’t shown any aggression toward her, so perhaps he had kept them at bay. Angus and Gillis had not even come calling. A fact that should’ve pleased her, save that she wouldn’t have minded another wheel of that cheese. It really was extraordinary.
Today was market day, and she had errands in town. She was settled into Hartfell and lacked for almost nothing. A trip to town would give her a chance to make inquiries about who had attacked her family—her primary purpose. Secondly, she could get some chickens. She greatly lacked for eggs.
As she neared Redesdale, the church bell clanged, announcing the end of service. The market would be crowded now that the congregation had been freed. She tugged her gloves higher up on her arm and secured her headwear close to her face. These little towns were nothing like London, where most merchants kept their shops open every day. Here in the north country, towns had markets on Sunday. That way the farmers and outliers need only make one trip to worship and take care of the weekly shopping. She would blend in with all the other strangers wending their way toward the market cross.
A group of children played fox and geese in the open ground at the edge of town. Under the overhang of the tannery, a circle of men cheered as they watched a pair of dueling cocks. Barbarians.
Just around the corner from the cobbler was the blacksmith’s place. Timothy Tilghman’s workshop. She made sure all her hair was tucked up into her hood so he wouldn’t recognize her in case he caught sight of her.
She had no desire to speak to Timothy, only a need to satisfy a curiosity. To see the boy and what had become of him.
The clang, clang of hammer on iron signified that someone was working the smithy. With Hamish on her heels, she peeked around the corner of the cobbler’s shop toward the forge.
Timothy leaned over the anvil, pounding out something too small for Margaret to make out. Nails, perhaps. Or another dagger. She could have sold the one he’d given her anytime for a handsome sum but could never bring herself to part with it. It had saved her life more than once. Perhaps he was fashioning more of those.
He was no longer a boy, of course. A grown man. Broad and solid from his trade. He looked well. His home was in good keep. His business must be prospering.
Hamish barked as a young lad galloped past on his hobbyhorse. Timothy glanced up, and his eyes fell directly on her. He looked away, not quite seeing her, but then his head swung back.
Margaret ducked behind the wall, then hurried past the cobbler’s shop and up the road toward the inn. She had seen all she’d needed. He seemed hale and hardy, and that was all she’d wanted to know.
She wove her way through town until she stood outside the door to the tavern, the Ginger Fox. Her father had visited the inn ofttimes to drink with the menfolk, but Margaret had never gone. As was proper for a lady. A small meal and hopefully some useful conversation was all she wanted from this visit.
“Wait for me here,” she told Hamish. He flopped his ruffled gray body down where he had full view of all the goings-on in the street. Margaret pushed through the door and into the dim room.
It was mostly empty, as everyone was out at the market. Three men sat at a table, drinking. She took a seat near them so she could overhear their conversation. A man with graying hair glanced up at her as she passed. She didn’t blame him; a woman dining alone warranted a second glance.
A young lass came and asked what she wanted. The meal was rabbit stew, and Margaret ordered a small bowl. The men eyed her with curiosity for a moment, then returned to their tankards, picking up their conversation.
“Made off with more than a hundred head of sheep,” the graying man said. “And at least two score of cattle.”
Sounded like they were discussing a raid. Margaret leaned closer.
“Aye,” an older man, bald and bent, said. “Halls had it comin’ to ’em, if ya asks me.”
The Halls? Another clan had raided the Halls?
The third man nodded and grinned, showing a near toothless mouth. “Far too greedy.”
The serving lass clunked an earthenware bowl of stew in front of her, along with a wedge of bread and a mug of drink.
Margaret picked up her food and moved to the table with the men. “May I join you?”
They gawked at her as though she had horns and a tail. More than likely, they took her for a light skirt, with such forwardness, but their opinion mattered not at all.
The toothless man nodded.
She sat, taking up her spoon and eating a mouthful of stew. It had been awhile since she’d had meat in her belly. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You say the Halls have been raided?”
“Aye,” the graying man said with a cautious voice.
Margaret swallowed another mouthful. “Was anyone killed?” Not all raids were as deadly as her family’s had been. Indeed, most of the time they involved nothing more than the carrying off of livestock in the dark of night.
“Nay,” he answered. “Naught but the woolies and the longhorns. Far as I heard.”
The bald man shook his head. “Jack Hall were walking off kilter, they says. But I were told he injured his foot in a hunting accident.”
Margaret smiled. Perhaps those Halls had learned their lesson, and all of Angus’s worry was for naught.
“I’m new here,” she said, scraping some stew from her bowl. “But I’ve heard talk about a vicious raid that happened some five or six years back. A whole family burned in the fire. Out west by the Rede.”
The men looked off, casting their minds about. “Seems I remember such a thing,” the bald one said. “Hard ta keep ’em all straight though.”
“Sir Godric Grey, I believe he were called.” The toothless man leaned forward, seeming to forget that he was speaking to an unknown woman who’d invited herself into their circle. “A real mess, that.”
The gray-haired man was nodding. “Burnt to the ground. Old place has been abandoned ever since.”
Margaret took a sip of her mead, set it down, and made eye contact one by one with the three aging men. They all moved in, waiting on her words. “Do you know the clan responsible for Grey’s death?” Their faces clouded over. Mayhap they paid black rent to the murderers who took her family. She wouldn’t be surprised if they held their tongues on the subject. These folk of the Marches were of two kinds: those who reived, and those who feared the reivers. They’d never understand her place in the middle.
“Don’t believe as I can remember that,” the gray-haired man said.
Their lips were sealed shut. Margaret pried at their mouths a few more times but got no answers. She glanced down at her gloved hand. She had another way to get information. All she need do was unglove her fingers, reach out, and touch one of their hands.
She wasn’t that desperate. Not yet. She’d take her queries elsewhere first. The priest, perhaps. And if that didn’t work, Angus. Besides, there were three of them. If she were to question and touch them each in turn, the pain might overwhelm her.
Hamish hadn’t moved from his place by the door. She tossed him a crust of bread. He fell into step beside her as she moved against the crowd toward the church. Inside was dim and cold, as it always was within the walls of the chapel. The priest was in the apse, prying melted candle stumps from their holders and replacing them with new pillars of ivory wax.
He nodded at Margaret as she approached. She did not recognize the man. He was younger than the last priest, perhaps in his early thirties. He might be too new to be of use to her. She nearly turned back but decided it was still worth a try.
“Good morrow,” the man said as Margaret came to a halt in front of him.
“Good morrow,” she answered. Now that she stood before him, she wasn’t sure how to begin. She’d never been one to beat around the bush. “I’m here seeking information.”
The priest dipped his tonsured head, taking in her dress and coarse linen coif. “Of course. Are you wondering about alms for the poor?”
“No.” Already, she was sensing the futility of coming to the priest. “There was a family that lived out along the Rede six or so years ago. A knight. I heard they were burned in a raid.”
He nodded. “What about them?” He went back to replacing the spent candles.
“I was just wondering if you know anything about that night. What happened? Who the reivers were?”
“And who are you to be asking about that?”
Perhaps this man knew more than she first thought. “I am new here, and I heard some talk is all.”
He stuck another candle into an iron holder. “As far as I know, none of the family survived.”
“Do you know the men responsible?”
He shook his head. “I do not. At the time, I was a pardoner and did not have dealings with a specific congregation.”
As a pardoner, he would have traveled the local countryside, selling indulgences—a document signed by the pope granting exemption from penance for your sins. Perhaps she ought to buy one and end her punishment for abandoning her family to the reivers, but she could never afford it. The grace of God was not intended for the likes of her.
She had strayed. “So you’ve never heard anything about the men who raided?”
“Can’t say as I have.” He walked to the other side of the nave and pried out another melted candle.
She could not tell if he knew nothing or if he didn’t want to say. Though he was a priest, she did not assume for a moment that meant he would not lie. Margaret tugged the glove off her hand. Enough time had been wasted here, and she wanted an answer. “Please,” she said, holding out her hand. “I need to know.”
The priest seemed surprised by her sudden plea. But he reached out anyway and took her fingers. Her own face filled her mind. Who is this woman? I do not know what happened to that family. I wasn’t here. What was their name? Grey, I think. Poor, beautiful thing—
Margaret pulled away. She pressed the heel of her hand against her scar, trying not to lose her balance in front of the priest. He didn’t know anything.
“Are you unwell?” he asked, setting down the candles.
“Thank you for your time.” Margaret hurried down the aisle and out into the warm sunshine. At least the priest had not lied to her. There was some comfort in that. It seemed this day was not going to get her any closer to finding the man responsible for raiding her family.
She snapped her fingers, and Hamish jumped up from his place in the sun, his tail wagging. He trotted along beside her as she strode through the town to the market square.
Cart after cart of merchants plying their wares filled the green. Thanks to Angus’s gifts, she had a few coins to spare. She passed a cart selling cloth. She fingered the wools and linens, a rich emerald damask. A new dress would be nice but not necessary for her needs. She had two sturdy, if worn, kirtles that served her well enough.
The aroma of spices danced in the air. It had been so long since she’d had food with cloves, cinnamon, cardamom. But those were not a necessity either.
She came to a man who had several crates stacked beside his cart, some containing chickens, some geese, some ducks. The one thing she desperately needed for sustenance at Hartfell Tower was eggs.
“How much for these two chickens?” She pointed at two plump and fully feathered hens.
The man eyed her, looking her up and down, then focused on her face.
She lowered her head, hoping not to be recognized.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
She shook her head, pulling her hood farther forward. It would be easier if she didn’t look the spitting image of her mother.
The man named his price. An exorbitant sum that clearly proved his ability to asses a person’s wealth was faulty.
Margaret offered him half the price, and after a few objections, he finally agreed. She handed him the coins.
“Where do you live, and I’ll have my boy deliver them. No need for a lady to be hauling her own fowl.” He smiled at her, still trying to place her face.
“Not to worry. I’ll take them.”
“Must not be too far, then, if you can make it yourself,” the merchant said, stuffing the chickens into a large sack.
She took the sack from him. “Thank you.” She hurried away before he could question her further.
She quickly circled the rest of the merchants and sellers and found a woman selling small vials of rose water. Perhaps after her soap ran out, she might purchase one of these. After the musty tower, she couldn’t resist a sweet-smelling fragrance. Though it was just her and Hamish, that was no cause for filth.
She continued on, past the market green and out of Redesdale, taking the road west. She cut across the heath, then the river, and then followed along its bank on a smaller, less-traveled path. The afternoon shadows fell across the lane like a caravan of pilgrims slowly making their way to some holy place.
When she came to a copse of trees, Hamish’s ears perked up. He tipped his head, intent on something within. Margaret squinted into the shadows. The sound of laughter echoed in the branches. Not merry laughter, like a group of friends sharing a jest, but that of mockery and scorn.
Hamish stalked into the woodland toward the noise, and Margaret followed.