by J. R. Tomlin
Cormac squinted at him thoughtfully. “You just dinnae want to tell me what is going on.”
“Some things are best not telt for the nonce.”
The inn next to the Speygate Port had no name that Law had heard but was the only other in Perth that took guests. There were not all that many places in Perth with rooms to let. It was all the way down Watergate near the south wall. He trod over icy cobbles and pulled his cloak tight around him against the stinging wind that gusted through the streets. Brown leaves flew in eddies before it and swirled around his feet with a rattle like bones. He looked up at the louring sky. The dead leaves would soon be decently interred beneath winter snows.
Spey Tower, guarding the Speygate Port, rose in sight, and he glanced over his shoulder at a corner. A man trudged behind him, head drawn down into his hood. People were sparse on the street in the chill. Anyone who could stayed inside by a fire. The figure was taller than the ratcatcher and heavier through the shoulders than Wrycht, so it was a new spy. Under cover of his cloak, Law loosened his sword in its scabbard and walked on.
Law reached the inn and chafed his cold hands in relief in its warm interior. The smoke from the fire obscured the men who sat near the hearth, and the ones at further tables gave him a brief glance before they bent back over their cups.
He stood for a moment, scanning the room, looking for the innkeeper. The scrawny man in a stained apron bobbed his head when he saw Law walking toward him.
Law handed him a merk, which raised his eyebrows. At this rate, his money would run out sooner than he’d like, but what good would money do him if he hanged? “An ale would warm me up,” Law told him, “and a word with you if you’ll have a mug as well.” When a server handed him a horn cup, Law took an experimental sip. It was watered-down but not so much as to be undrinkable, so he smiled. He stepped close to the innkeeper and said, “I heard that you had a guest a few days ago, someone with words not like a Scot and remarkable blond hair, almost white.”
“Whisht.” The man grasped Law’s arm and pulled him into a corner. “I ken that he was murdered and dinnae need the sheriff poking about my business. But…” He shot his gaze back and forth to be sure no one was listening. “He stayed here two nights and never returned.”
“Did he leave any belongings?”
The man scowled. “Are you accusing me of stealing?”
Law glanced quickly around for his follower, but the man wasn’t in sight. “Not at all, man. If he left anything, it might be a clue as to who slit his throat. I did not expect it, but I’d be a fool not to check since the sheriff looks to blame me for the murder.”
The man shrugged. “Unless small clothes and a pair of patched hose are clues, nothing he left here will help.”
Law drained his cup. “No more than I expected to hear. I thank you.” He put the cup down and made as if to turn, but paused. “I dinnae suppose anyone called on him whilst he bided here. A dark-haired woman mayhap?”
The innkeeper said no with no change in his face. He told the truth or was a good liar, so Law walked briskly out of the inn, thinking it was about time to pay Wrycht and Marguerite another visit. It was time to talk about the two deaths; he could drop a hint that he’d gained more information and see how they reacted. Though a stabbing with a dagger might be more in the line of the ratcatcher. But would Duncan have ever let the man within reach of him? Perhaps if he spun a good enough story.
As he crossed the street, Law sidestepped out of the way of a horseman. A man within shouting distance was staring at him, the same man who’d been watching him earlier. The man’s broad shoulders and heavy arms under his oiled leather jerkin were those of a fighter. A sword hung at his belt. Law dodged between two carts to cross opposite him as another man, wirier but also in a leather jerkin, joined the first. The two followed after him.
His mouth went dry, and the back of his neck prickled. He started striding up Watergate when he spotted a man ahead of him, nearly as muscled as the first. A deep scar slashed across his cheek. He was staring at Law, not even bothering to disguise his attention. If it was going to be a fight, Law didn’t want it to be in the middle of one of the busiest streets in Perth. If he survived the fight, he could end up in the tolhouse dungeon, so he turned onto South Street. He walked for a way and then ducked into Meal Vennel. A quick look over his shoulder showed him the wiry man scurrying after him. He dodged into an alley, hurried through, and came out into another vennel that was overshadowed by the jetties of buildings on both sides. He hurried down a few houses and squeezed through an alley that was barely wide enough for his passage. His breath came fast, and his leg was beginning to burn. He came out on St. John’s Street then he took another alley that led to Red Brig Port, zigzagging away from his chamber in order to lose his pursuers.
When he looked behind him, the three had been joined by a fourth. Cursing under his breath as he went, he dodged into a wider alley and found himself at a dead end with the city wall at his back.
The first man Law had noticed led the group. Thick of neck, he had a chest like a barrel. His nose had been flattened, probably in a fight, and his cheeks bristled with dark stubble. “You have something that belongs to our employer,” he said in a gravelly voice.
“Who are you?”
“We’re men with a job,” the wiry one said, his lip twisted into a sneer.
“Wait,” the man in front said. “Our job is to take back our employer’s property. I’m Thom of Bondgate, and these are my friends. Now hand it over before we have to take it from you, and you’ll be alive to walk away.”
Law slowly slid his blade from its sheath. “I have no idea what you are talking about.” He pressed his back hard against the wall and kept his blade low, but ready. Four against one were not odds he would rush into, not with a leg that might give out from under him.
“Our employer says that you do.” The man worked his massive shoulders and fingered his sword hilt. He half-drew the sword. “So we will have it. And if we must take it, well, I don’t mind a fight.”
When he moved, Law thought of the parchment he’d burnt, but he had no idea if that was even what they were after. Or did they think he was carrying the cross around with him? He was sure these weren’t in the employ of Wrycht. The man did not have the coin to hire bully boys. Would Marguerite have known where to hire such men in Scotland? He doubted it. He just shook his head. “You’ll have to look elsewhere for what you’re seeking.” They were professionals, he was sure, but they were overconfident, facing only one man.
For a second, he considered telling them where the cross was, but once he divulged it, they’d be as like to try to kill him anyway whatever they said now. And if whoever was seeking the cross was the killer, then he needed it as a lure. He licked his lips; sweat trickled down his back. Och! I’ve survived worse odds, he thought.
Thom drew his blade and came at him. They were closing in from both sides. Law dared not turn his back on the other blades, so he let Thom come at him. In his gut, Law knew he would lose, but they would hurt first. He blocked a savage blow that would have split his head like a melon; the jolt of the impact made him grit his teeth. He threw Thom back. The man’s feet slipped on wet cobbles, leaving him open. Law slammed a sidestroke into the man’s ribs, cutting through leather and skin all the way to the bone, and was rewarded with a shout of pain. Thom stumbled to his knees, wrapping his arms around himself. Blood dripped down his side.
Another man ran at him. Law blocked a swinging blow and gave him a kick to the balls. There was a high yelp, and his sword clattered to the ground. Law saw a sword coming at him from the side and whirled to catch it, but that left his back open. He gasped at a blinding pain in his back. His leg gave under him. As he went down, he managed to catch a blade with his own. He fell to his knees. Tried to use his sword to stay upright, but somehow, he was facedown on the ground. A foot swung at his head. Stars exploded behind in his eyes. They were the last thing he saw for a time.
Law choked.
He jerked awake, snorting. For a moment, he thought he was in the river until his hand slapped against a wet, ice-slick cobble. His face was in a puddle of cold water. He spit out a mouthful and hawked. When he rolled onto his side, pain sliced into his back and side. Stifling a groan, he stared into the murk, trying to see if his attackers were still near. The night was silent except for the patter of rain.
He curled into a ball, shivering from cold and loss of blood, and pressed a hand to the slice from his back around his side. The cobbles pressed uncomfortably, but it was nothing to the throbbing pain from the wound. Finally, he rolled over onto his hands and knees. He felt for the city wall and used it to laboriously work his way to his feet. Panting, he leaned against it and pushed his dripping hair out of his face.
He pulled up his hood and wrapped his sodden cloak around himself though it was as icy as the rain that splattered around him. “Hell mend them,” he cursed when he realized his sword was gone. He kept his hand pressed to the wound in his side. It was sticky with blood, but the flow seemed no more than a dribble now. Had they thought he was dying? He must have been deeply unconscious for them to make that mistake. And perhaps once they had searched him, they hadn’t looked very closely. If he was still bleeding a little, he must not have been out more than an hour or two. He had to get warm and bandaged. That meant reaching home. With a groan, he straightened and staggered through the alley. A brazier on the corner of the Red Brig Port sputtered in the rain. He had a long way to go to reach the tavern.
Law hunched his shoulders against the cold and pain. He forced one foot wearily in front of the other. Briefly, he considered looking for help, but the windows were dark and doors no doubt barred. It was unlikely anyone would risk opening the door to a stranger. The wind whipped his cloak, and the dark night wrapped around him like a dank shroud.
He could no longer feel his fingers where he held his cloak closed. It seemed to have been hours that he had taken one lurching step after the other. Had it been hours? He leaned a shoulder against a wall and allowed his head to loll. Then he shook himself. He had been through worse. He wouldn’t allow this to kill him.
He almost fell into the vennel where the tavern was located. He was done by the time he reached the door and uncurled his stiff hand to pull on it. It was barred. He leaned his forehead against it and croaked, “Wulle.” Pounded on it with a fist. He tried to pound on it again but found himself sinking to his knees.
Wulle opened the door, and Law tumbled inside on the floor.
Law tried to open his eyes, but the lids were gummed together. He lifted a hand to rub them and grunted at the pain when it moved the muscles in his side. Then he remembered why it hurt. “Wulle?”
“No, it’s me.” Cormac patted his arm. “I’m glad to see you coming around. At first, we thought they had killed you.”
“I’m not easy to kill.” Law tried to push himself up, but it hurt too much. He grabbed Cormac’s arm, frowning. “There were four of them. Keep an eye out for a burly man, nose smashed in.”
Cormac put a firm hand on his shoulder to hold him still. The early morning light was filtering into the room, and Cormac had built the fire in the brazier as large as it would go. “Lie still. We washed that slash with uisge beatha and bandaged it up. It just hit the meat, but you must have bled like a stuck pig from the looks of your clothes.”
Law rubbed weakly at his face. Thankfully he had another doublet but replacing that one would cut into his stash of coins. Then he wondered how many coins he yet had. “Did I still have my purse?”
“Not the purse at your belt, but I found the one in your boot top when I pulled them off.” Cormac rose and went to the table where Law saw the purse he’d stuffed into his high boot tops, a bowl sending up a tendril of steam, and a pitcher he hoped was ale. “Mistress Mall sent up a good, rich broth for you and some ale to build your strength.”
That purse had most of his coin in it, but…the costs and additional loss meant he would be short on coin for the winter. He glanced towards the floorboards where the cross was hidden. Finding a buyer would not be easy, but perhaps he should consider at least moving it. He shook his head, sending his vision spinning. That would have to wait.
After Cormac helped him sit up, Law slurped down the mutton broth, not bothering with a spoon. Then he held the mug of ale and stared up at the odd-shaped stains on the ceiling. The lord sheriff had only given him a few days, and there was no way he could do anything today. He would have to be up on the morrow however much it hurt. He had only two days left before the sheriff would be after him. This was spiraling out of hand fast. He sighed and looked at Cormac. “Would you do me a favor?”
“Certes.”
Law narrowed his eyes at the minstrel. He’d never meant for the young man to become his friend, but he was. And now Law was going to put him at even more risk. “Do you have a doublet a bit less…colorful than that one?”
Cormac ran a fond hand down the striped doublet that was his usual attire. “I have a tunic I wear when this is being washed. But it’s dull, a boring brown.”
“You have a plaid?” When Cormac nodded with an insulted look at the idea of a Highlander who had no plaid, Law went on. “Wear that as your cloak. You’ll look completely different than the minstrel they’ve seen here. I need you to check the house where I found Johne Wrycht and Marguerite de Neuillay. See if anyone is there, but by the love of the Blessed Virgin, be careful.” Law ran his hand over his face again, horrified at involving the minstrel further in such danger. “If you even think they might have spotted you, come straight back. Just…just watch if you see either of them coming or going, nothing more. I especially want to ken if the men who attacked me report to the two of them.”
Cormac looked delighted at what he seemed to think was a grand adventure. He poured Law another cup of ale, and after Law gave him directions to the house, gamboled out with a wave over his shoulder.
Alone, Law pushed back the covers to examine the injury, but his midriff was completely wrapped in linen bandage. As far as he could see, twisting around, there was no blood on the bandage, so that was a good sign. He got up from the bed and lurched against the wall with a wave of pain. After a couple of deep breaths, he limped to the stool and sat down. He drained his cup. Even on the morrow, it would be hard for him to get around, but he’d have to manage the strength for it. How was he going to force answers out of anyone when he couldn’t even stand upright? With a sigh, he went back to his narrow bed to crawl carefully under the woolen blanket. He pulled it around his shoulders and allowed himself to drift off.
When Law awoke the next morning, Cormac still had not returned. The fire in the brazier had gone out. He wrapped the blanket around himself and staggered to the basket that held pieces of peat. He put a couple in the brazier along with some sticks and got it lit. Wobbling a bit, he stared at the flames and hoped that Cormac had not found himself in trouble. Was he mad to have involved a minstrel in this murderous business? He touched the painful injury in his side. Had they been after the letter? Had they thought he had the devil-spawn cross everyone was seeking?
He threw off the blanket and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his stubbly jaw. Keeping the cross here was risky, but where else could he hide it? He had nowhere that might be safe. As well the risk of being attacked again whilst he was carrying it couldn’t be dismissed. There was no way he could possibly fight off an attacker in his present condition. As he pulled clothes from the kist to dress, his legs trembled from weakness. But once he had food in his belly, he’d be strong enough to manage, he was sure. His leg stiff from the unaccustomed workout, he limped down the stairs, legs shaky, and halfway had to lean against the wall for a moment. Keeping a hand on the wall, he managed the rest of the way into the tavern.
Mistress Mall exclaimed when she saw him. “Ach, what do you mean rising from your bed? You’ll undo all my work bandaging your wound. Sit you down before you fall.”
Law twitched a smile at the woman’s in
dignation as he lowered himself gingerly onto a bench. She thumped a bowl of thick porridge on the table in front of him, sprinkled a pinch of salt onto it, and thrust a horn spoon in, muttering all the while about men who are too stubborn for their own good. After he ate, Law put the cup down and belched, amazed at how much better he felt. The door opened, and the wind caught it to bang it against the wall. Cormac sauntered in, smirking with satisfaction.
A smile of relief spread across Law’s face. “You were gone for a long time!”
Cormac sat down across the table from him, still grinning. “You dinnae look nearly so much like a bogle as you did yesterday.”
Waving away the minstrel’s comment, Law demanded, “What about Marguerite and Wrycht? Were they there? Did you see anyone looking like mercenaries, like my friend with the smashed nose?”
“She was the only one there, or at least I think she was. I borrowed a piece of tack from a fisherman. So I sat not far from the house and pretended I was mending it. Someone was inside. I just saw their shadow passing behind the shutters, pacing it seemed like. It had just gone dusk when Wrycht came but no one else. Then the lights went out.” He wriggled his eyebrows and gave a sardonic grin. “I saw no more of them, so they must have been cozy.”
“You watched all night?”
“Well, I thought I would see if anyone joined them the morn or if anything happened, so I found myself a place beneath an oak, wrapped in my plaid, though it was a dreich night. This morning that sleekit Dave Taylor sneaked to the door when it was barely light. He stayed not even long enough for a Pater Noster and was off again.”
Law tugged on his lower lip as he tried to decide his next action. It would most certainly not involve the minstrel, whatever it was. He did not think that Wrycht had set the assassins on him. Now the woman was another matter. She had the nerve for it. She’d convinced him of it that day in his room, but that many assassins would cost a good deal of coin. How could his death possibly be worth it? He was sure that any murder she did would be purely for profit. The ratcatcher did not seem to have the coin and hiring English mercenaries would not have come cheap. He rubbed his head. Sassenachs could not be hired in Scotland. Nor would one be allowed to cross the border or travel in Scotland without a warrant from the king. There was something he was missing—perhaps another player in the game he had not yet found.
