contents with the opposite hand. He was the one who had brought the peat for the brazier the previous day. Dark hair, dark eyes, solemn. His clothes were shabby, but clean. The cook’s helper, she guessed.
He withdrew into the kitchen, but the argument did not falter.
“Surely it is Master Murdoch’s kitchen,” Celia was saying quite steadily, in the tone of the righteous.
Margaret stepped across the threshold. The wild-haired man waving floury hands at Celia must be Roy, the cook.
“How can I work with your clothes flapping about?” He matched Celia’s righteous tone.
The room was indeed crowded, with several small tables, a large fire circle, a wall of shelving, several benches, and the two men moving about their work. Murdoch must not have considered that when he suggested Celia do her laundry here.
“I see the problem,” Margaret said from the doorway. “Send a basin of warm water, some soap, and a cloth to our chamber and we’ll manage there. Come, Celia.” And before the imperious pair could continue their argument Margaret grabbed her maid by the elbow.
“Send a basin of warm water?” Roy exclaimed in disbelief.
As Margaret shoved Celia through the door she said, “As soon as the water is warm.”
Celia trembled with rage. Margaret did not let go of her until they gained the stairs. “Now go up and wait, Celia.”
Two spots of color and eyes that seemed to be generating heat dominated Celia’s thin face. “That man.”
“He is the cook, not a servant under you. Do not make me regret bringing you here.”
Celia’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, just turned and gathered her skirts, mounted the stairs.
Margaret peered into the tavern. Murdoch was bent over someone lying on a bench by the cold brazier.
“Murdoch wastes his time,” a woman spoke softly behind her. “There’s no waking Old Will till he’s sober.”
By the speaker’s breath, she was not sober either. Margaret turned in the little space the woman allowed.
A piece of dirty plaid kept most of the woman’s dark hair in check, though a long greasy strand hung down over her left eye. “You don’t look like a Kerr.”
“Do you have business with my uncle?”
The woman lifted dirty, large-knuckled hands. “These make the finest ale in Edinburgh. Ask your uncle about Mary’s ale.” She looked Margaret up and down, grinning. “Roger Sinclair’s wife, eh?”
Margaret felt a shiver down her back. “Do you know my husband?”
“I ken all who come to the tavern.”
“So there you are, Mary,” Murdoch interrupted. “What have you got for me?”
“When did you last see him?” Margaret asked, willing to risk irritating her uncle for news of Roger.
“Save your gossip for later,” Murdoch growled.
Margaret murmured a farewell, vowing to seek out the brew-ster another time, and left the tavern.
Out back once more, she noticed a stable off to the left, beside Murdoch’s kitchen. Moving closer, she saw that it was conveniently at the edge of Netherbow. It had a large yard, but as she stepped within she saw that the stable itself was small, with room for no more than six horses. The air was heavy with the dust of hay. A young man sat beneath a hole in the roof that let in light. He hummed as he combed the mane of a large-eyed ass. Sensing someone approaching, he shook his head to clear his hair from his eyes, glanced up at Margaret, then dropped his gaze back to the ass. He had stopped humming.
A horse snorted in the opposite corner. Margaret approached the ass, holding out her hand. The animal sniffed it with interest, then dropped her muzzle so that she might be scratched between the ears. Margaret obliged. The ass was a gentle, lovely animal, well cared for.
“Are you Murdoch’s groom?” Margaret asked the lad.
He had stopped combing and watched her through the unruly fair hair.
“Who
He withdrew into the kitchen, but the argument did not falter.
“Surely it is Master Murdoch’s kitchen,” Celia was saying quite steadily, in the tone of the righteous.
Margaret stepped across the threshold. The wild-haired man waving floury hands at Celia must be Roy, the cook.
“How can I work with your clothes flapping about?” He matched Celia’s righteous tone.
The room was indeed crowded, with several small tables, a large fire circle, a wall of shelving, several benches, and the two men moving about their work. Murdoch must not have considered that when he suggested Celia do her laundry here.
“I see the problem,” Margaret said from the doorway. “Send a basin of warm water, some soap, and a cloth to our chamber and we’ll manage there. Come, Celia.” And before the imperious pair could continue their argument Margaret grabbed her maid by the elbow.
“Send a basin of warm water?” Roy exclaimed in disbelief.
As Margaret shoved Celia through the door she said, “As soon as the water is warm.”
Celia trembled with rage. Margaret did not let go of her until they gained the stairs. “Now go up and wait, Celia.”
Two spots of color and eyes that seemed to be generating heat dominated Celia’s thin face. “That man.”
“He is the cook, not a servant under you. Do not make me regret bringing you here.”
Celia’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, just turned and gathered her skirts, mounted the stairs.
Margaret peered into the tavern. Murdoch was bent over someone lying on a bench by the cold brazier.
“Murdoch wastes his time,” a woman spoke softly behind her. “There’s no waking Old Will till he’s sober.”
By the speaker’s breath, she was not sober either. Margaret turned in the little space the woman allowed.
A piece of dirty plaid kept most of the woman’s dark hair in check, though a long greasy strand hung down over her left eye. “You don’t look like a Kerr.”
“Do you have business with my uncle?”
The woman lifted dirty, large-knuckled hands. “These make the finest ale in Edinburgh. Ask your uncle about Mary’s ale.” She looked Margaret up and down, grinning. “Roger Sinclair’s wife, eh?”
Margaret felt a shiver down her back. “Do you know my husband?”
“I ken all who come to the tavern.”
“So there you are, Mary,” Murdoch interrupted. “What have you got for me?”
“When did you last see him?” Margaret asked, willing to risk irritating her uncle for news of Roger.
“Save your gossip for later,” Murdoch growled.
Margaret murmured a farewell, vowing to seek out the brew-ster another time, and left the tavern.
Out back once more, she noticed a stable off to the left, beside Murdoch’s kitchen. Moving closer, she saw that it was conveniently at the edge of Netherbow. It had a large yard, but as she stepped within she saw that the stable itself was small, with room for no more than six horses. The air was heavy with the dust of hay. A young man sat beneath a hole in the roof that let in light. He hummed as he combed the mane of a large-eyed ass. Sensing someone approaching, he shook his head to clear his hair from his eyes, glanced up at Margaret, then dropped his gaze back to the ass. He had stopped humming.
A horse snorted in the opposite corner. Margaret approached the ass, holding out her hand. The animal sniffed it with interest, then dropped her muzzle so that she might be scratched between the ears. Margaret obliged. The ass was a gentle, lovely animal, well cared for.
“Are you Murdoch’s groom?” Margaret asked the lad.
He had stopped combing and watched her through the unruly fair hair.
“Who
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