by J. R. Tomlin
Law picked up his sword belt to buckle it on before he remembered the scabbard was empty. Some filthy scum had stolen his sword, whether the men who attacked him or a thief taking advantage of his lying unconscious. He knew he should be grateful he’d survived the attack, but the loss of his sword made him angry. He swallowed down an unmanly burning behind his eyes. It made no difference now that the sword had been a gift and a prized one.
When he closed his eyes he could smell the torn earth, the sweat of their horses, the copper scent of blood as he knelt on the field of Baugé to be knighted. The earl had used his own sword for the accolade and with his own hands had buckled a sword belt around Law’s waist. Law fingered the worn leather of the belt, squeezing his lips tight. It was far better not to think of all he had lost. So first, he would make his way to a hammersmith for a new sword. Without a sword, he was defenseless, nor could he defend a friend if he needed to. Besides, he might barely still be a knight, yet he was one.
He limped slowly, favoring his bad leg and trying to ignore the throb in his side, down to the Speygate and the imposing Spey Tower that guarded it. The hammersmith’s cobbled yard was up a vennel within a wooden fence. It held a large shed where a forge gave off a fierce, hot scent and two leather-aproned, burly hammersmiths worked over anvils. The yard rang with the blows of their hammers. Huge piles of charcoal lay in one corner of the yard. Stacks of black iron and steel awaited work in another. Through the door of a storeroom, Law could see stacks of finished work, helmets, armor, sword, pikes, and shields. A scrawny apprentice was shoveling charcoal into a bucket to carry to the forge. Beside the wide gates, a cart laden with ingots was being unloaded by two men while another lumbered into the storeroom carrying a finished sword. Clearly, it was a prosperous weapon smithy. It would cut into his purse, but a decent weapon was a necessity.
When the apprentice noticed him, he dropped his shovel and scurried into the storeroom. A moment later, he emerged with a tall, bald, neat-featured man wearing a leather jerkin beneath a worn leather apron. The man marched toward Law and looked him over with a merchant’s eye. Law could see himself being dismissed as too poor to be a buyer, but the man still said politely enough, “I’m Maister Cochrane. Is there aught I can help you with?” The man’s face brightened when Law said he was in need of replacing his sword. He looked Law up and down, judging his size. “Let me show you a claidheamh mòr that should do well for your needs.”
In the storeroom, weapons hung on pegs, swords of several shapes and styles, while pikes and armor were stacked in bins and helmets lined a shelf. The smith took down from a peg a double-edged sword some forty inches long with a v-shaped guard. Its elongated, leather-wrapped grip would allow its use with one or two hands.
Law examined it closely. The metal rippled in the light as he swung it. The sword felt different in his hands, not the old friend he had carried so long. But with a sigh, he bought it. It might be different, but at least he no longer felt naked, and his mind didn’t itch as though he were missing a limb.
For a while, Law wandered around the burgh. He circled the Mercat Square, spent a pence on a bannock that he munched. Everywhere he kept an eye out for the men who attacked him or any of the others. Finally, his side pained him so badly it made his stomach roil, and he returned to his chamber.
The day had faded to dusk as Law stared out his window at the jagged line of the roofs, black against the slate sky. Mist had risen from the wet ground and wrapped like a damp shroud around the walls of the houses. His chamber felt like a tomb, his grim mood only made worse by the plink of Cormac’s clàrsach and a faint rumble of voices through the floor. Going over and over the murders in his head had solved nothing, and he felt ready to climb out of his skin.
The cover of the murky dusk would allow him to move about unnoticed. Perhaps it was a good time to check if all of the suspects were where he expected them to be. There had to be a good chance that whoever had ordered the attack on him was connected to the murders. He had nothing else to do, and besides, he needed to move to take his mind off his frustration and anger. Law grabbed his cloak and hurried down the stairs.
Cormac was bent over his harp as he picked out a tune. Wulle was carrying ale to a table of customers. None of them paid Law any mind as he slipped out the door and stepped into the pall of the fog. The town seemed to have drawn into itself. The street was silent except for his footfalls. An owl hooted overhead. He passed a house where the sound of a couple quarreling seeped through the closed shutters.
At the house where Marguerite was staying, he hunkered down in the darkness. The fog turned the faint lines of light from the shutters into a vague glow. Obviously, though, at least one of them was there. He rubbed the ache in his thigh muscle, and it occurred to him that he was behaving even more suspiciously than his quarries. What would the watch say if he was caught spying in the darkness? What did he think he was going to find? Then a faint movement showed in the doorway as it opened. In the hazy light, a slight figure stepped outside, and the door closed.
Marguerite?
The figure glided through the murk like a wraith, a dark cloak drawn around her and over her head, walking so softly, her footsteps made no sound. Yet her direction seemed certain as though she knew exactly where she was going. There was something distinctly secretive and furtive in the way she was walking close to the buildings to avoid being seen. She stopped and turned in a slow circle, looking for watchers. Law threw himself flat on the ground, pain shooting through the slash in his back, but after a moment she went on.
Law waited for a few heartbeats to follow, knowing his footsteps were not as silent as hers, and his slight limp made them distinctive. He walked as quietly as he could through the fog, trying to keep his quarry within sight without giving himself away.
Pausing at a turn, he peered around the corner into the sinister darkness that smelled of dead leaves and wet earth. A house loomed like a large black hump beyond the low stone fence. He could hear Marguerite a few yards ahead open a gate that gave a metallic creak. She disappeared within and closed the gate behind her.
He crept slowly to the gate and crouched beside it. Cautiously he peered through the metalwork. Marguerite had paused and was looking around. Law ducked back, waiting, breathing as softly as he could so that the sound of his breath did not give him away in the eerie silence.
Long minutes passed. There was a voice and the bang of a door. Peeking through the gate once more, Law saw that Marguerite was speaking to someone in the deep shadow of a birch. He could make out nothing of the newcomer. Wrycht? He couldn’t tell from here.
By the Holy Rood. Now what? There had to be a reason for sneaking around at night. A house so large—whoever owned it might have the coin for hiring mercenaries. Through the branches of the birch, he saw their silhouettes as they walked toward a summerhouse. He looked up at the top of the garden wall, only five feet high. It would be easy to climb over. Keeping close to the wall, Law sneaked to a far corner of the wall, and grabbed the top of the wall, scrabbling to make his way over. His boots slipped on the slick stone, but then he found a crack for his toes and hauled himself up. Lying atop the narrow wall, he waited, sweating from having jerked on his injury, to see if the sounds had alarmed his quarry, but all was quiet. Moving silently, Law let himself down from his perch and edged to the tree where they had met, and from whence he should be able to see into the open shelter.
Staying on the far side of the tree, he climbed into the branches, his leg and back injuries jolting with pain, and found a sturdy branch, though it was slippery from the damp. From his perch, he had a clear view into the simple, open building. He slid so that the branches hid his shape should they look his way and through their lattice; he saw a gleam as the newcomer lit a lantern.
Not Wrycht.
It was impossible to make out what they were saying. The fog seemed to even muffle the sound, but the light gleamed on a man with fair hair, young, Law thought, from his slight build and his lithe w
ay of moving. Law strained to try to hear, but it was no more than an indistinct murmur over the creak of branches in the slight breeze.
The youth took her hands in his. Was it a romantic tryst? From his experience of Marguerite, she would have a motive beyond the allure of a bonnie face. She seemed to be talking at some length, the young man nodding several times. At last, he kissed both her hands.
Law’s leg had a sharp cramp from being bent under him and pulling on the bad muscle for so long. The slice in his side burned like fire, and his hands ached from his tight clutch on a limb to keep from slipping from the slick branch. He loosened one hand and rubbed at his thigh to ease the pain. He was considering if he should climb down and risk crawling close to try to hear what they were saying when Marguerite pulled her hands free.
“Marguerite,” a young voice called, startling Law so much he nearly slipped from his perch.
Law grabbed the branch as Marguerite turned back and replied, “Not now, mon cher. We shall meet again soon.”
He watched Marguerite’s slender figure hurry away as she held her cloak tight around herself. The lantern was blown out, and dead leaves rustled and crunched under swift footsteps as the young man muttered curses beneath his breath. After a moment, he strode towards the house where only a few faint bars of light were shining through the shutters.
Several minutes elapsed before Law felt sure it was safe to gingerly let himself down from the tree. He dropped into the soggy leaves that covered the ground and went to the summerhouse. It was small with six posts that held up the simple roof. The wooden floor was scattered with leaves and bird droppings. There was nothing here to give any clue to the reason for the strange tryst. Nothing more was to be learned here if he had learned anything in the first place.
There had to be a reason she was trysting so secretly in the night. Law slipped from bush to bush until he could peer between the slats of the shutters. Inside, he could see the young man who was speaking and waving his arms about, arguing it looked like with someone who was just out of sight. There was a raised voice. He made out a deep voice, shouting, “Shut up! It’s none of your business, you useless popinjay.” Law leaned sideways, trying to see who the man, actually little more than a lad, was arguing with. His leg, shaking with fatigue, slipped. He banged into the shutter. The shouting stopped for a moment, and then the young man asked, “What was that?”
There was a curse, and Law ran for the fence. He heard a door slam behind him as he scrambled over. A glance over his shoulder showed the light of a torch moving. He dropped to the ground and ran toward the nearest alley, and to hell with the pain in his leg. A few twists and turns through the dark street, and he leaned against a wall, listening for pursuit. Hearing nothing, he hoped they’d given up. He limped toward home. Once he ducked into a vennel to avoid the watch, but at last, he climbed the stairs and sat to lever off his boots and stretch out on his bed, for now every bit of his body ached.
Chapter 7
The long walk had left him aching all over, but somehow he had to buy himself time to meet Sir William’s deadline. It felt like thrusting his head into a noose, but calling upon the man was the only possible way to do that. He would tell the sheriff he had a lead but needed an extra day. At worst, Law decided he would hang a day earlier.
Law opened the door to the Tolhouse and nodded to the guard in boiled leather who stood inside. In the past week, the place had become so familiar as to be almost comfortable. The guard apparently knew that the sheriff had had some dealings with him. They gave him a knowing look.
“Is Sir William in his privy chamber?” Law asked the man.
The guard eyed Law. “He is. Did he send for you?”
Law nodded as he started for the door to the back hallway. “He expects me.” Law made his way through the large chamber and up the stairs to the sheriff’s privy chamber. At his knock, the sheriff barked out an order to enter.
Law stepped across the threshold as the sheriff looked up.
Sir William scowled. “What is to do?” His desk was still strewn with parchments, and he threw down his quill pen as he spoke, splattering ink across one of them. The man shook his head. “From the look of you, you’re nae a popular man, Sir Law.”
Law shrugged. “Or too much so. You commanded that I find you a murderer.”
“And did you?”
Giving a crooked grin, he asked, “Why take such an unfriendly tone with me? I’m nae so bad, I give you my oath.”
“I dinnae care what kind of fellow you are. I shall have a murderer before the return of the king.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Law sank down into a chair and put a careful hand on his throbbing side. “I want you to have this murderer even more than you do. The whole mess got me a blade in the back last evening. So, believe me, I’ll find you the culprit.”
Looking at him steadily, the sheriff said, “But you have not found him yet.”
“I admit that the blade slowed me a mite.” At the sheriff’s severe expression, Law sighed. “I ken that several people are in Perth looking for some lost valuable. But I am certain that neither de Carnea nor Duncan had it. So why kill them? It makes no sense, but it is the only thing that connects the two men. I cannot believe it was a coincidence that they were both stabbed on the same night.”
“And you ken who these people are and what this ‘thing’ is that connects them?”
“Only some of them. The man who called himself Lord Blinsele and a Frenchwoman. There is at least one other I’ve seen, but dinnae yet have a name.”
“His doxy?”
Law shrugged. “More like an accomplice if it matters. They seem to have hired a sleekit creature here in Perth by the name of Dave Taylor. But whoever hired the assassins that came after me—four of them—” Law stared into the wide hearth. He once used to sit over a long game of cards with a companion in such a chamber, a fire crackling, a flagon of red wine at hand. He shook off the memory. “Whoever sent those is a different party and spent good money on attacking me. More, I think, than they have.” He looked back at Sir William, who’d crossed his arms over his chest and raised his eyebrows with a skeptical look. “The King will surely be gone for a few weeks. I give you my word, I’ll have this murderer in your hands before he returns.”
“Those are a great many facts you had not shared with me.”
“I thought that you wanted the murderer, not my musings on the matter.”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair. “So there is someone involved with enough coin to hire four killers. That puts a different face on it.”
“The assassins who came after me didnae do the killings. They’re swordsmen, not assassins who used daggers. But it still could have been whoever hired them.” It burned like bile in Law’s belly to beg, but he had to. “I need time, my Lord Sheriff.”
Sir William rose and sauntered to the sideboard to pour himself a cup of wine. He drank slowly, savoring the beverage before he turned back to Law. “I shall allow you a week, but do not mistake. I willnae hesitate to hang you if it comes to that.”
Law strolled to the house where he’d followed Marguerite the previous night and ambled past. It was quiet. If anyone was within, Law couldn’t tell. The nearest vennel didn’t allow sight of the gate, so Law paused to listen to a Blackfriar who was praying on the street corner for the health and safety of the king. After a moment, Law realized it was the brother who had been sent to bring the sheriff, so Law cleared his throat when the man paused.
“I wondered if you’d include a prayer for my friend who died near your abbey a few nights ago?” Law asked.
The man’s eyes widened. “Aye. Poor soul dying unshriven as he did.”
After Law handed the man a pence, he continued, “I wondered if you’ve seen anyone going to or from that house.” When the friar raised his eyebrows, Law hastened to say, “I heard they’re looking for a man-at-arms, so if they’re about, I might find myself work.”
“Ach, I’m sorry.” The
friar tucked the coin into his belt. “I’ve seen no one the day.”
Law walked casually away as the friar bent his head and once again began intoning a prayer. Just out of the friar’s hearing, Law stopped a baker’s boy crying out that he had fresh bread for sale, sighing that every step seemed to cost him something out of his own purse. He bought a bun wrapped around a sausage and nodded to the house. “Do you ken who might live there?”
“Nae one did for a time, but a few days ago, someone came with a wagon.” The boy grimaced. “They’ve bought none of my bread, though.”
He leaned against a wall as he munched on the bun, but there was nothing to see. Hanging about asking questions any longer would only look suspicious on a prosperous street like this one. He could look around better after dark, so he headed for the house where he’d found Wrycht and Marguerite.
He squatted in the shadow of an out-thrusting jetty and out of the bite of the stinging wind. Keeping his hood down and his cloak wrapped around himself, he used his sgian-dubh from his boot to casually shave slivers off a stick. The morning dragged out into afternoon and was nearly spent when two familiar figures came out of the house, a dark-haired man with a build like Wrycht and a heavily cloaked woman. Law let them walk a block past before he stuck the small knife in his boot top and followed. When he turned the corner of a narrow vennel, he saw them go into the Blindman’s tavern.
