by J. R. Tomlin
Meldrum knocked, and after a brief pause, Sir William called out, “Enter.”
A fire on a small hearth cast a flickering light across the room, and a couple of candles illuminated some parchments spread across the table where the lord sheriff sat, his bald head shiny in the muggy air of the office. A windowpane stretched with oiled animal skin allowed in yellowish light. In the corner, a torch added a bit of smoky light.
When Sir William saw the minstrel, he leaned back in his chair, scowling. “Why did you bring him?”
“He’s no harm.” Law shrugged, carelessly. “Just a minstrel wanting to learn more of his betters so he can sing of them.”
The sheriff snorted. “Letting Hieland scum dog your heels.”
Law walked to stand in front of the sheriff’s desk and look down at him. He casually scratched the back of his neck. “You had something on your mind, Lord Sheriff?”
When Sir William waved him to a chair, Law sat while Cormac stood near the corner, eyes fixed on his shoes, obviously regretting his decision to accompany Law. Meldrum took a position, arms crossed, before the door.
“You’re going to tell me what you’re holding back about these murders.”
“I said what happened at the assize, my lord.” Law kept his hands relaxed and open, his face blank, but his mind raced. John Cameron had been in Perth. Had he brought a reproach from the king that had so provoked the sheriff to action? “If you think I lied there, I give you my oath you are wrong.”
“And if you think yon knight’s spurs will protect you from hanging, you are wrong.” He leaned forward on his hands, lips pulled back into a snarl. “When he returned, King James made some foolish oath about peace in the kingdom, and he’s made forfeit more than one lord who he decided had failed him. Worse, he is more than passing fond of this St. John’s and intends to govern from here.”
“The murders are yet fresh. There is time to find who did them.”
Sir William studied Law’s bland expression. “When the king returns from putting down this rebellion, and he shall, I promise you that it will not be me who pays for allowing lawlessness in the burgh. The king will expect someone to hang for it. Someone will and I dinnae much care who. Now tell me what Duncan Leslie was doing outside Blackfriars that night.” He narrowed his eyes. “Spying perchance?”
“He was to meet me there. Neither of us has dealings with the English.” Law’s mouth twisted though he tried to stay expressionless. Telling what he knew about Wrycht and Marguerite might cause more problems than it solved. “Nor would.”
“Rubbish. There was more to it than that.”
Law shook his head.
The sheriff slammed a fist down on the table. A candlestick wobbled, its flame wavering, and parchments fluttered on the table’s surface. “I shall learn what was going on that night, and you are going to tell me—now.”
Law sighed as though hard-pressed by an unreasonable man. “I’ve telt everything that happened, my lord. If I kent more, I would say so.”
Sir William slowly turned his gaze toward Sergeant Meldrum and nodded. Law guessed what was coming. The sergeant stomped over to grab the front of his doublet and haul him to his feet. Law clasped his hands into fists to keep them off his sword. Meldrum backhanded him hard. He yanked Law’s doublet as though to shake him and backhanded him again. Law had the coppery taste of blood in his mouth and grimaced.
Cormac gasped from where he stood against the wall. Law closed his eyes, thinking keep quiet. Just keep quiet. He’d taken worse on the practice field, much less in battle. This was nothing, in spite of the humiliation of a mere sergeant laying hands on him.
Sir William said, “You’ll tell me the truth.”
Law could barely hear it over the rush of ringing in his ears. He shook his head to clear it and swallowed the blood where his cheek had ripped against his teeth. “I’ve told you already.”
This time Sergeant Meldrum drew his arm back as far as he could and slammed his ham-like fist into Law’s jaw. Law grunted, stumbling back. He caught himself with both hands on the back of the chair, and it nearly went over. After a gasping breath, he raised his head and looked Sir William in the face. He barked out a choked laugh. “Do you really believe you can do worse to me than the English?”
“Wait.” Sir William held up a hand to stop the sergeant. He stared into Law’s face for a moment and then looked to Cormac. A smile slowly formed on his lips. “I am sure I cannae. But he never saw battle. Methinks if he came with you, he is more of a friend than you say. If not, no one will care if a thieving minstrel loses a few fingers.” He nodded to the sergeant. “Meldrum…”
Meldrum gave the sheriff a puzzled look, which earned him a scowl.
“Take the forefinger first. But don’t make a mess when you do it.”
The sergeant dropped a hand to his sword and stepped toward the minstrel. Cormac made a strangled sound. Law turned his head painfully to look at him. The young minstrel’s face had gone milk-white and he had both hands pressed to the wall as though he could cling to it, but his chin was raised in defiance.
Law breathed a sigh through his nose. “Wait.”
The sergeant grabbed Cormac’s bicep and jerked him away from the wall. When Cormac writhed to wrench free, the sergeant grabbed him by the throat.
“I said wait!” Law yelled.
“Not even a single finger?” Sir William shook his head. “Very well. Let us hear it.”
“Loose him first.”
“I think we’ll hold onto him until I’ve heard what you have to say.” He made a circling sound with two fingers as though to hurry Law up.
Law sank wearily into the chair and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “We were hired, both Duncan and me. It was a well-dressed man, wore a braw black gown, said his name was Lord Blinsele. He hired us to follow this man, de Carnea. He said he believed the man was staying at the Blackfriars’ guesthouse but was not certain. Duncan went to watch for him there whilst I checked Whitefriars.” Law shrugged. “I wasnae happy taking the job, but we needed the coin. Anyroad, I was supposed to meet Duncan to see if he had spied the man. When I got there, Duncan was dead.”
Sir William’s mouth was drawn into a tight line with anger. “Why didn’t you tell this story at the assize?”
Law wiped his mouth, stalling for time as his mind raced. He had no reason to protect Wrycht, but knowing more than the sheriff might later give him an edge. “I was hired to keep my mouth shut, so I did. But then I started looking for this Lord Blinsele, and if there is anyone by that name in Perth, I cannae tell it.”
“And the other body is…?”
“I think it was de Carnea, but since I never saw him in life, there is no way I can be certain.”
Sir William’s lips were white from being pressed together so hard, and he glared at Law. “And did this…this supposed lord give you a reason for seeking the man?”
“Lies. I was sure of that from the start.” Law brushed his fingers over his throbbing jaw. “The whole thing was a pack of lies, but he was well enow dressed and had money to pay, so I ignored my suspicions.”
“And what was this lie that he telt you?” the lord sheriff barked.
“As I said, not one I believed. He said the man had absconded with his wife. No lord would have brought a stranger into such a privy matter. I kent that. He was searching for something valuable. That I am sure of.”
“This whole story sounds a tarradiddle to me. But I’ll give you a chance.” Sir William leaned forward and jabbed a finger at Law. “I’ll give you two days to bring me a good reason not to hang you. If you don’t, I shall have no problem finding an assize to find you guilty to please me—as I mean to please the king. I shall have a hanging and care little who dangles from the rope.”
Law stood, still lightly fingering his jaw. “Oh, I shall find you someone to hang. You have my word on it.” He caught Cormac’s gaze and nodded towards the door.
The minstrel hurried
out, and Law closed the door behind them.
“Are you all right?”
“Aye.” Cormac clutched his hands and looked down at them. “I meant well coming with you, but I made it worse.”
Prodding him with a hand in the middle of the back, Law said, “I shouldn’t have allowed it. He was bound to see me as an easy target to blame. But dinnae worry. One of these liars is the killer, and I’ll yet ken which.”
Obviously, Sir William wasn’t going to let the matter go although Law wondered if the king would really put that much pressure about the murder of two unknown men. Most kings or lords wouldn’t. But then King James had spent years in a dungeon himself, locked up by the English, and had been home only a year from his captivity. Apparently, he had something to prove or thought that he did. The strange story about King James imprisoning a lord who’d abused an old woman, though the tale was hard to believe, might be true. The sheriff seemed convinced.
The next morning, Law took his time dressing. He prodded the bruise, but it was only a little swollen and tender. It was not much noticeable, mostly hidden by his short beard. Doubtful anyone would even notice it. He buckled on his sword belt but also dug his dirk out of his kist. Downstairs, he motioned to Cormac to join him. The minstrel raised an eyebrow in evident surprise but followed along. Law would have preferred not to involve him further but needed help with his plan. It shouldn’t put the minstrel at any risk—he hoped.
Rain pelted down in heavy sheets. Law pulled up his hood and strode up the rain-slick street, grateful when the Reidheid Hostelry appeared through the curtain of water. In the heavy weather, the hostelry only had a few customers who huddled over their mugs. Law shook a shower of droplets out of his cloak and scanned the room until he spotted the innkeeper talking with one of the servers. “Wait here,” he whispered to Cormac before he walked over and said, “A word, Innkeeper.”
The man turned, looking startled. “Certes, good sir. How may I help you?”
“I was wondering if my friend Maister Wrycht is still lodging here.”
The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed. “Since he is a friend, then I think you would ken if he bides here.”
Law slipped his fingers into his purse and palmed a merk, making sure the innkeeper saw it. “Mayhap he is not that good a friend, but I would know if he still bides here.”
The man drew his face into an indignant scowl, glancing around at the watching customers. “I dinnae gossip about my guests. I’d soon have none if that was how I ran my business.”
“I am sure you do not.” He twitched a faint smile. “But I would have a word with you more privily if I may. Though I ken you will not gossip.”
He reached into his purse for another coin. The innkeeper eyed his hand for a moment.
“Not in here,” he said and turned to lead Law through a door opposite the entrance.
A round, gray-haired woman stood stirring a huge kettle that hung over the fire. The scent of mutton, onion, and thyme arose in the thick steam. Two boys chatted in loud voices as they stood over a washtub, clattering iron pans against it as they scrubbed. A girl stood at a long, scarred oak table, chopping a pile of leeks with a large knife.
The innkeeper pulled him with a grip on his arm to the side so they could not be seen through the doorway. He leaned close so Law could hear over the hubbub. “Yesterday, he specifically paid for his comings and goings to be private and said someone might inquire, but I saw he talked with you, so I don’t mind telling.”
Nodding, Law slipped the man the two merks.
The host slipped them under his apron. “His rent is paid for three more days, but he wasnae here last night, and I’ve nae seen him the day.”
“But his belongings are still here?”
Shrugging, the innkeeper said, “I think I would have seen him carry out his kist, but I cannae say that I’m sure.”
Law patted the man’s shoulder. “Just to be sure, I’ll go up and clap on his door. Busy as you are, you could have missed his return.”
The innkeeper clutched Law’s arm. “There’s no need to tell him we spoke aught about it.”
Law loosened the man’s hand and went to find Cormac. “You saw him when he came to my room. If he comes through the door, give a whistle. And keep a sharp eye for him.” He looked around the inn to be sure no one was paying them any heed, then led the way up the stairs, motioning for Cormac to stay at the top to keep watch.
He pressed his ear to the door. It was silent within. A knock drew no response. He waited a moment and knelt. He’d never stayed at an inn with a good lock, and many poor ones had no lock at all. He had however opened one on a certain drunken night in Touraine when he’d lost his key. He took out his dirk and slid the narrow point between the door and the jamb. It took a few fumbling moments until he pushed the point behind the bolt and carefully forced it back into the lock. It gave a soft click. He huffed in relief as he stood and shoved the dirk back into this belt.
He didn’t expect Wrycht had this mysterious cross and certainly not a bloody dagger proving he was a murderer. But he might have something to show what they were really up to. Of course, he might have it on him, but eliminating the easier possibilities first seemed a good plan.
A wooden kist rested at the foot of a four-poster bed with threadbare drapes pulled back. A brazier sat cold in the middle of the room. A quick glance showed, as he expected, nothing to be seen on the bed. An empty flagon sat on the windowsill that served as a sort of table. He wanted to groan at dealing with another lock and wondered if he should have trained as a thief instead of a knight. The same method dealt with the lock on the kist as it had the door, although it left scratches around on the lock. That couldn’t be helped.
When he threw back the lid, a waft of pennyroyal and camphor from a sachet on top hit his face. The black houppelande the man had worn that day in Law’s room was carefully folded on top. He set that aside along with a set of rough workman’s clothes and a sturdy blue woolen gown such as any merchant might wear. Law shook his head at the proof of one thing. Wrycht was a swindler. With the kist empty and a pile of clothes on the floor beside him, Law worked his fingers around the cloth that covered the inside until he found a loose edge. He slipped his fingers under to find the crinkle of a piece of parchment.
He was, for a change, in luck!
Law pulled the folded parchment out and sat back on his heels. As he carefully unfolded it, a bit crumbled off the browned edge. The ink was faded though he could make out the letters. He let out a sigh at the Latin words scrawled across the page. It was many years since a fragment of that language had been beaten into him by a tutor in the earl’s household, though little more than enough to read his prayers.
The greeting was easy enough: Salutem…
The word Templar was clear enough and a reference to a crucifix.
There was no one he could ask to translate it, so he’d have to manage somehow. He slid the letter into the breast of his doublet and carefully replaced the clothes as he’d found them and relocked the kist. It wouldn’t keep Wrycht from realizing the kist had been searched, but if it delayed it, all the better. Wrycht would suspect that Law had the letter, but there was no way he could be sure. A sharp whistle from the hall made him jump to his feet, hurry out the door, and close it, only to whirl and raise his hand as though knocking. He looked over his shoulder for Cormac, but the minstrel was gone. However, Wrycht was walking up the stairs toward him.
Wrycht’s face scrunched into lines of anger.
Law put up his hand and strode to Wrycht. “Good. I thought I had missed you. Let’s find a quiet corner. Something happened I want to talk to you about.” He motioned downstairs, wondering as he did so where Cormac had hidden. “Forbye, I want ale.”
They found a corner table, told a servant to bring them a pitcher of ale and two cups, and when the boy had left, Law filled the cups. He swirled the ale in the cup, considering it before he spoke as Wrycht glared. “The lord sheriff has demanded that I find
him a killer.”
Wrycht’s eyes widened slightly. “What did he say?”
“That if I didnae find one for him, he would hang me for the murders.” Law took a leisurely sip of his ale. “I have no intention of hanging.”
He leaned closer to Law and whispered, “I swear on my mother’s grave, I had nothing to do with it. And you cannae possibly think that Marguerite is a killer.”
“Then someone in the burgh kens more than you’ve told me. It could not have been by chance that they were both murdered the same night.” He stood up and gave Wrycht a long, hard look. “Someone will hang for the murders, and it shall nae be me.”
As he stepped out into the misty rain and closed the door of the inn, a voice in the shadows said, “Hoi, Sir Law.”
Heart racing, Law spun as he grabbed for his hilt, but it was just Cormac giving him a roguish grin. “What the devil are you doing out here?”
Cormac laughed. “I was afraid he’d recognize me and be suspicious, so I hid around the corner and climbed out a window.”
“Fast thinking.” Law gave the closed door a glance. “Let us be off in case he decides to try to follow me.”
Law knew he was too easy to find at his own room or the inn below, so he walked three blocks to the nearest tavern. The air was thick with peat smoke and the smell of stale ale. He tried to convince Cormac that he should return to perform at Cullen’s tavern as usual, but the minstrel gave him a stubborn look, so they settled in at a table. Law pushed back his hood and ran his hand to push the blond, dripping strands of hair out of his eyes. Cormac chattered about Perth and his adventures as a minstrel. Law listened, smiling at the young man’s cheerful tales. Let the lad talk, he thought, because his stories were better than thinking about battles and bloody death. But he could only put off trying to decipher the letter so long, and at last, he pulled it out to bend over the faded lettering. Word by word, he tried to work it out though at least half the words were ones that he had no clue of. But there were some he did know, “sub simulacrum Dominae Nostrae …” he understood to mean under the statue of Our Lady and “ecclesiam Sancti Johannis Baptiste in paradiso…” he was fairly sure meant in the garden of the Kirk of Saint John the Baptist.
