by Rowan Keats
The herald shrugged. “I’ve named my price, and I’ll now reveal what I know. If you agree it’s worth the price I ask, then pay me. If not, perhaps I can be of further service in the days to come.”
“Fair enough. What have you discovered?”
Rose dipped his hand into the front of his tunic and withdrew a remnant of cloth, which he handed to Dunkeld. “I believe you are familiar with this sigil.”
Dunkeld stared at the black-and-gold bear’s head. He did indeed know the symbol. It belonged to his longtime and faithful man-at-arms Artan de La Fleche. But Artan rarely wore the symbol, preferring to proudly display the arms of the house of Dunkeld, so it was surprising that this junior herald knew of a link between this sigil and him.
“Why would you assume such a thing?”
“It is the house symbol of a prominent French family from France, the Fougères.”
Dunkeld tossed the scrap of cloth back at the herald. “This means nothing to me.”
“The Fougère family resides in a great stone château east of La Fleche,” the young man continued. “I know this because my uncle is his herald.”
Dunkeld nonchalantly turned back to his platter of food and studied it, feigning an avid interest in what to eat next. But the food no longer held his attention. He had sent Artan to Dunstoras on a very specific mission, and it did not bode well that the only thing to return to Edinburgh was this scrap of cloth. Especially when that scrap of cloth was delivered by a herald—a man who by his very function spread word.
“I have no interest in your family history. Be specific. How does any of this concern me?”
“This sigil was given to me by a large man from Dunstoras who was making queries as to its origin. The man who wore this sigil is dead. I believe the large man was the one who killed him.”
A tight spot beneath Dunkeld’s breastbone burned like a hot coal. He trusted very few people in his life, and Artan was one of them. The man would willingly die for him—and it seemed he had. In and of itself a loss. Added to the recent loss of Daniel de Lourdes, his very handsome and talented lover, it was a heavy blow.
The young herald shuffled his feet in the rushes. “I am trusted by the man making inquiries. Should you desire it, I can ensure he never makes the connection between you and the sigil.”
Allowing his anger to slip the reins with which he normally held it, Dunkeld swept the platter off the table with his fist, sending it and its remaining contents crashing to the floor. The hounds by the fireplace immediately rose and scurried toward the food.
The herald was wide-eyed. Surprised, but not yet afraid. He had no idea of the importance of what he had shared, or how far Dunkeld was willing to go to keep the information secret.
“Here’s what you will do,” he said. “You will return to your home, and you will immediately pack all your possessions—everything you own—and gather your wife and servants. When you have done that, you will return here to the castle and my men will find you a place to hide for a short time. This man must find nothing when he comes looking for his information.”
The herald frowned. “But I cannot simply go into hiding, my lord. I have obligations.”
Dunkeld conjured a reassuring smile to his face. Charm was a skill like any other—perfected by regular use—and years of playing false confidant to his brother made such a smile easy to shape. “Fear not. You are henceforth employed as a herald in my house. I will see your wife and family settled on one of my estates. You will want for nothing.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Relief washed the furrows from the herald’s brow and he gave a short bow. “I knew you were a powerful man. It is my great honor to serve you.”
“Go,” commanded Dunkeld. “Settle your affairs quickly and return. This man must not have an opportunity to query you further.”
He allowed Marcus Rose to scurry away, and then he swung to face the shadow near the door at the back of the room. A blond man stepped out of the corner, an elegant Englishman with a penchant for silk doublets. Today’s doublet was dark green jacquard that shimmered in the candlelight.
“When he returns to the castle,” Dunkeld said, crossing the room, “make certain no one ever hears from him or his wife again.”
“Of course,” the blond man said.
“It would seem Artan failed to kill the MacCurran warrior.”
“For the second time,” agreed the blond man. “Had he ensured the man’s death last November, none of this would be necessary.”
As true as the words were, they angered Dunkeld. Artan had run the man through and left him bleeding on the shore of the loch. Who could have guessed that a man suffering from such terrible wounds would survive? “Nay, the true fault lies with the clan MacCurran. They have stymied my every attempt at justice. Duncan MacCurran swayed my father from acknowledging me as his firstborn son. If not for the MacCurrans, I would be king.” Dunkeld shook both his fists in the air as he felt his face turn red. “Heaven’s blood! Why can I not crush the MacCurrans into dust, as they deserve? All three of Duncan’s heirs yet live.”
“But only one of them has the power to derail your plans,” the blond man pointed out. “And he appears to be in Edinburgh seeking information.”
Dunkeld scowled. “It makes no sense. He saw my face the night we stole the necklace. Why would he simply not reveal my involvement to the king?”
“Perhaps his vision is faulty.” The blond man smiled. “Whatever the cause, it is moot. You may not have crushed the MacCurrans, but you have succeeded in tarnishing their reputation with the king. They cannot approach Alexander without irrefutable proof.”
Dunkeld nodded, but the mystery of why the man was in Edinburgh asking questions still plagued him. For a man who lived by his wits, as Dunkeld did, knowledge was power. “Take care of the herald; then watch the herald’s home for sign of MacCurran.”
The blond man put a hand to the hilt of his sword. “I will slay him when he appears.”
Dunkeld shook his head. “Not immediately. For the moment, just follow him. I would know if he’s alone in the city, or whether he has come with kin.”
The blond man nodded.
“As you wish.”
* * *
Master Seamus returned all too soon.
The portly wardrober marched up to Morag’s stall with two bolts of silk in hand, one a shimmering swath of white and the other a vibrant royal purple. “Well?” he demanded. “Can you produce your papers?”
She shook her head. “My husband has yet to return.”
Seamus snorted. “Like as not, he’s seen the guile is up and he’s run for the gate.”
She met his gaze evenly. “He will return.”
“Well, he can retrieve you from the bailiff,” the wardrober said. He waved a hand in the air. “Someone fetch the constable.”
To her amazement, the weaver next to her spoke up. “I’m not certain that’s necessary, Master Seamus. I’ve sent a lad for Master Parlan. As he’s head of the weavers’ guild, such matters are rightly his to settle.”
The wardrober lowered his hand. “A guildsman ought to be policing the sale of merchandise with more care. Did you ask this woman’s husband for his papers before allowing him to sell his woolens?”
“Nay. ’Tis the guard at the gate’s role to check papers, not mine.”
“I will not allow this woman to sell her goods until someone has verified her legitimate claim to the woolens.”
“Perhaps I can help,” came a deep voice from the other side of the crowd.
Morag looked up. The voice did not belong to Wulf. It belonged to a tall man with raven-black hair who pushed his way through the crowd and addressed Master Seamus with a rough smile. “Causing my weavers grief again, Seamus? Have you naught better to do with your day?”
Morag stared at the black-haired man, her throat suddenly tight and dry. He hadn’t changed much since she’d last seen him—he still had the same square chin and square hands. A few new wrinkles around his ey
es, perhaps, but that would be testing the memories of a lass of ten. Master Parlan of Edinburgh was none other than Parry Cameron, the man who’d deserted his wife and run off to parts unknown when she was a child.
Her father.
“You’re not doing all you can to prevent crime,” Seamus said. He pointed at Morag. “This woman is selling cloth that is clearly not of her own making.”
Her father’s vivid green eyes turned to Morag. He studied her for a long moment without comment, then said, “What cause do you have to call her a liar?”
Seamus scowled. “A woman does not have the strength to weave such tight and even threads. See for yourself. The cloths she sells are some of the finest I’ve seen.” He tossed Parlan a goading smile. “I’d say they’re fine enough to rival your own.”
The master weaver lifted one corner of Morag’s cloth, rubbing the smooth texture between his forefinger and thumb. “They are indeed fine,” he said slowly, a faint frown between his eyes. “The colors are a close match to my own, as well.” He lifted his gaze and gave her another stare. “But I must disagree with your assessment that she’s not the weaver.” He held up his hands, palms forward to the wardrober. “What do you see, Seamus?”
Seamus squinted. “Calluses on the thumb and forefinger of both hands.”
Parlan nodded. “From pitching the shuttle and lifting the heddle sticks. This woman bears the same calluses. You owe her your regrets for maligning her good name.”
Seamus glanced at Morag, and she held her hands up for his inspection. He huffed and turned sharply away, marching away through the crowd. Not a word of apology was heard.
Morag’s father fingered her cloth again. “May I ask what good name Master Seamus has so shamefully cast aspersions upon?”
“You already know,” she said tightly.
His gaze lifted to her black hair, a mimic of his own, then returned to her face. “Tell me anyway, else I will not believe it.”
“Morag Cameron. I am the daughter of Jeannie Cameron of Dunstoras,” Morag confirmed, afraid to look at him too closely for fear that it would tarnish all her old memories. Finding her father again after all these years was not the boon she had imagined. The tale of his desertion was more romantic with his disappearance into thin air.
“How is Jeannie?” he asked.
“Dead and gone these past nine years,” Morag responded coldly. Her mother had hoped right up to the end that her winsome Parry might return.
“A shame, that,” he said. “She was a fine woman.”
“Too fine for the likes of you,” Morag agreed.
“I had to leave, and she would not come with me,” he said. “But I do not expect you to forgive my actions.” Parlan heaved a heavy sigh. “I’ll leave you to the selling of your cloth. Perhaps we’ll talk again before you leave Edinburgh.”
Morag nodded sharply, unable to speak. She was close to choking on unanswered questions.
Then for the second time in her life, she stood silently and watched her father walk away.
* * *
A small, elderly woman in a blue gown and a snow-white headdress answered the door to Wulf’s knock. She took one look at him, burst into tears, and ran back into the house, leaving the green door swinging in the breeze.
Wulf stood there, rooted to the spot.
It was not a typical reaction. Most women, even older ones, seemed quite willing to engage him in conversation. To the best of his knowledge, he did not often drive them to tears.
A moment later, a white-haired man with an equally white beard replaced the woman at the door. “Wulf? We had no warning that you were coming. Please forgive Eleanor. She still grieves.”
Wulf let the awkwardness of the moment wash over him, then spoke candidly. “It is I who should make amends. It was not my intention to cause distress.”
“Nonsense. Come in, lad.” The old man opened the door wide and beckoned him inside.
Wulf shook his head. “I would be entering without right,” he said. “I do not remember you.”
The old man’s face lost all expression. “Not remember me? Do you jest?”
“Nay, I do not. A number of months ago I was attacked and left for dead. Although I have recovered most of my good health, my memories of the past have been lost. I do not know who you are, sir.”
The old man was silent for a long moment. Then he exited the house and closed the door behind him. The breeze caught at his fine red tunic, fluttering the hem of the heavy brocade.
“A part of me envies you,” he said. He pointed up the close. “Let us walk while we speak.”
Wulf nodded and accompanied the man down the path. He purposely shortened his gait to match his companion’s.
“How did you find us, if you have no memory?” the old man asked.
Wulf explained.
“What a curious thing,” the elder said. “You know the house, but not the family who dwells there.”
“How do I know the house?” Wulf asked.
“You’ve been here many times,” he said. “Not for some years, however. Not since you and Elen were wed.”
Elen was the name of his deceased wife. Wulf’s gaze met the old man’s. “You are Elen’s father?”
“Aye. Edmund MacBain, jeweler.”
Wulf allowed that to sink in. It explained the tears of the man’s wife, and the dark circles of sorrow that cradled the old man’s faded blue eyes.
“I regret that I failed them,” Wulf said honestly. He could not picture Elen’s face, nor that of their wee lad, Hugh, but he did sincerely regret not being able to save them from the cur who murdered them. The loss of his wife and son was a hard lump in his gut that never went away.
He knew the story of what had happened that night—Aiden had told him everything, answering every question Wulf had with quiet, painful truths. He knew that he’d rushed out of Dunstoras keep, mad with grief, determined to find and slay the bastard who’d murdered his wife and son. And he knew he’d met a group of men down by the loch and come out the loser.
“I’ve sworn to avenge their deaths, and I will not stop until I succeed.”
The old man put a hand on Wulf’s sleeve. “It must be difficult to make such a vow when you’ve no memory of those whom you are avenging.”
Wulf shook his head. “It is enough that they looked to me to keep them safe, and I let them down.”
The old man sighed. “Such a tragedy. And how does Jamie fare? We’ve not seen him since he was a bairn.”
“He’s a strong lad,” Wulf said. “He took the loss of his mum and wee brother hard, but he’s coming into his own now. He’ll make a fine warrior.”
“Good, good.”
They walked for a while in easy peace, and then Wulf said, “Tell me about Elen.”
“She was a good wife,” Edmund said. “Orderly. She managed your household by frugal means and still maintained a full complement of servants. And she made you smile. You were ever a serious lad, having to care for your sisters and your mother from a young age.”
Wulf halted abruptly. “I have kin in Edinburgh?”
Elen’s father shook his head. “No longer. Your mother and eldest sister passed the year after you and Elen were wed. An illness that also took a longtime retainer. Your other sister died in childbed. She was wed to a Macgregor.”
“And my father?”
Edmund frowned. “You rarely spoke of him. He was injured in the Battle of Largs, but the circumstances of his death I do not know. All I can say is that any mention of him made you angry. Perhaps because he left your mother without means.”
They circled a stone dovecote splattered with bird droppings and headed back the way they’d come. Wulf was grateful for the other man’s unique view into his past. His lack of memory, no matter how much the older man might envy it, was a knot in his gut he could not unravel. It prevented him from assuring the jeweler that the memory of his precious daughter would forever be honored—and it prevented Wulf from shouldering the burden of he
r loss.
“Elen lives on in Jamie,” he told the old man. “He is orderly as well, and commands respect from his peers. It might comfort you to know that the lad is faithful to her memory. We laid flowers on her headstone on her name date.”
Edmund smiled. “A fine lad indeed.”
They stopped before the bright green door of the cottage. Edmund turned thoughtful and then said, “I have something which rightly belongs to you. Give me a wee moment and I’ll fetch it.”
Wulf waited patiently, and when the old man returned he accepted the small wooden box. Inside were six small wooden horses, very similar to the one Jamie had given him at Dunstoras, but older and clearly worn from use. “Did you make these?” he asked Edmund.
“Your father fashioned them,” the old man said. “For you when you were a wee lad. Elen kept them, thinking to gift them to your firstborn, but they were left behind when you took Elen to Dunstoras.”
“Jamie’s a young man now,” Wulf said. “Too old to play with such things.”
Edmund shrugged. “Perhaps his son will enjoy them one day.”
Wulf closed the lid, nodding.
“Should you return to Edinburgh with young Jamie,” Edmund said, “I hope that you will stay with us awhile. I have no sons, and what I have will pass to him one day.”
“You have my word,” Wulf promised.
The old man smiled, patted Wulf’s arm, and then entered the house.
Wulf stared at the green door for a long moment before turning on his heel and leaving the small close behind.
Chapter 7
A handful of cold coins settled into Morag’s palm, and she barely restrained a grin as she handed off a half bolt of cloth in return.
“Five shillings,” she whispered to her stall companion. “She paid five shillings.”
“Aye, and you owe me a shilling eight,” he grumbled.
She gave him one of her shillings and dug into her purse for the pence. “But that still leaves me with three shillings four,” she said, amazed.
“No need to crow about it,” he said. “Adopt a more circumspect demeanor. The other weavers are already looking askance. I’ve no desire to end up in the middle of another row.”
