by Rowan Keats
“I had hoped to speak with you alone,” she said, as the pair stopped in front of her stall.
Parlan shrugged. “This is my apprentice, Douglas. Where I go, he goes.”
She studied the young man’s face, trying to decide whether she could risk discussing the cloak in front of him. He was not an attractive lad; his ears were overlarge and his nose had a decidedly bulbous tip. But he had clear, open eyes that held no guile.
Morag leaned in. “I have need to identify the maker of a particular cloth,” she said. “But it must be done discreetly. Are you willing to help me?”
Her father frowned. “Of what importance is this cloth?”
Morag chewed her lip. She could lie and give the same story Wulf had given Marcus, but that had not served the herald well. “It is a cloak that once belonged to an assassin.”
Her father started, pulling back. “Surely you jest.”
“I do not. Nor will I hide the danger inherent in aiding me. If you choose not to help, I will not fault you, but you are my best hope of identifying who made the cloak.”
Parlan glanced around him, his gaze darting from face to face in the crowd of shoppers. When his view fell upon Douglas, he paled noticeably. “Dougie, get along back to the loom. We start a new cloth on the morrow. Tie and weight the warp in the pattern we discussed.”
“But you said I could see the market.”
Parlan’s expression changed from that of gentle teacher to uncompromising master. “Go.”
The corners of the young apprentice’s mouth drooped with disappointment, but he nodded and withdrew, his feet retracing the steps he’d just taken.
Parlan turned his glare on Morag. “Are you mad? How dare you involve me in such a quest?”
“Follow your lad, if that is your wont,” she responded. “I ask your aid only because as head of the weavers’ guild, you would surely recognize the talents of your best craftsmen.”
She did not mention the past; nor did she wield her claim as his daughter. Thinking of him merely as guild master was easier than stirring up those old memories. It meant less anger in her belly, less pain in her heart. And truthfully, she did not want him to think that all would be forgiven if he did her a good deed—her resentment ran too deep for that. He had never once sent word to her after abandoning her and her mother.
She returned his stare, calm and even.
He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Show me the cloth.”
“I do not have it,” she admitted. “If you are willing to examine it, I will meet you later, in a place of your choosing, to show it to you.”
A wave of obvious relief washed over his face. “Meet me at the alehouse in Beggar’s Close tomorrow eve. I’ll look at it then.”
“Thank you, Master Parlan.”
He nodded and turned to leave, but then changed his mind. “A woman should not come alone to an alehouse,” he said. “It will raise undue attention.”
“I will take proper care,” said Morag.
Her father departed, and she returned to her spot in the stall. Wulf might not be happy to learn she’d spoken to the master weaver about the cloth, but surely he would applaud the result. And if Wulf had already discovered the maker of the cloth, they need not go to the alehouse at all.
Morag wiped damp palms on the woolen skirts of her overdress. With any luck, the topic of Parlan’s relationship to her would never surface in the conversation. Wulf was not the sort to leave a stone unturned or a field unplowed. Given the merest hint, he would soon discover the extent of her sordid past, and he already had cause to pity her. And it was all too easy to imagine him reaching across the table to grab Parlan’s throat and demand some form of recompense for his desertion of his daughter.
She blanched.
No. Better that Wulf never discover her secret.
* * *
Mathias the dyer was easy to find. There were only a handful of dye houses on the north side, and his was the best known. Wulf ducked under the lintel and entered, his nose immediately assaulted by the sharp scents emanating from the dozen vats laid out before him, at least one of which he was certain contained stale wine.
A man with heavily muscled arms was stirring a vat on the left, and Wulf sought him out. “Are you Mathias?”
The man looked up. “Aye. Who be asking?”
Instead of giving his name, Wulf held up the cloak. “A weaver in the market told me you are the only dyer capable of producing this deep shade of black.”
The dyer grabbed a corner of the cloak and peered at the cloth beneath the fur. “Aye, that’s my dye.”
“This is a very fine garment, crafted by a clothier with obvious skill. The weave is tight and even, and the fur pelts are sewn with great attention to detail. Surely you would remember selling wool to a maker of such finery?”
Mathias stopped stirring. “If you seek to find the owner of that cloak, you’ve come to the wrong place. I dye wool. That is my trade, and I’m skilled enough to make a fair living. But I do not make note of who buys my wool. I sell a lot of black wool, much of it to traders from Leith, who ship it all over Scotland. There is no way to know who made that cloak, not from its color.”
It was the answer Wulf had expected, but disappointment still settled heavy on his shoulders. If the weaver was not from Edinburgh, the cloak would not be a useful clue to determining its owner. He thanked Mathias for his honesty, and left the dye house. The cool air outside was a balm to his chest, and he sucked in several deep breaths, coughing out the bitter stench of the dyes.
Back to the market.
It was hard to shake the feeling that someone was watching them, that the man in black had thus far been one step ahead of their every move. Wulf’s hand sought the rough surface of his staghorn dirk. If the cloak could not be traced to its owner, they would go back to the sigil. He remembered the arms quite clearly and could draw them, if necessary. Such a drawing could not be used as proof, but it would still identify their assailant. So long as the arms were familiar to someone.
Wulf turned down a narrow wynd.
The only person in sight was a solitary man standing at the far end of the lane, but Wulf’s hand tightened on his knife. In a town as busy as Edinburgh, no one stood. Everyone had a task, even if it was simply hawking goods from an archway. This man stood in the middle of the wynd, waiting.
For Wulf, presumably.
Wulf continued to walk forward, measuring every step, eyeing every archway for more assailants. Where there was one rat, there were usually more.
The man waiting for him had shoulder-length blond hair and wore the red-and-gold tabard of the king’s guard. He was also carrying a sword, which left Wulf at a disadvantage. The arrogant set of the blond man’s shoulders and his solid stance told Wulf he was trained to the long blade and would likely wield it with finesse.
To his left, in the shadows of a doorway, Wulf spied a soldier. A glance to the right confirmed there was another on the opposite side. Both carried swords, and both were primed for attack. Wulf’s heartbeat slowed and his thoughts settled into the cool calm of battle. Surviving this ambush would require that he set his opponents on their ears. And swiftly. Without taking his eyes off the blond man, Wulf took a quick step to the left, jabbed his knife into one soldier’s thigh, and disarmed him. A well-placed pommel strike to the head rendered the man unconscious.
With a short blade in one hand and a sword in the other, Wulf rolled the body into the street, and claimed the doorway as his. The others could come to him.
And they did.
The soldier across the wynd attacked without pause, cutting downward at Wulf’s shoulder. When the man was fully committed to his swing, Wulf sidestepped the sharp blade and stabbed his knife deep into the man’s forearm.
The soldier screamed and the sword fell.
Taking advantage of the man’s instinctive glance at his wound, Wulf slammed the flat of his hilt into the man’s face and took him out of the battle. With the odds great
ly improved, he kicked the fallen soldier behind him and faced the blond man. This one did not rush in. He trod slowly, his blade held low and loose, his stance ready. There was no weakness in the hold his opponent had on his blade, no anger or fear to leverage. Just quiet, confident amusement.
“I was told you were courageous,” the blond man said. “I’m pleased to see that the tales were true. There is no joy in defeating a faintheart.”
Wulf did not waste breath on a reply. Why would he care one whit what a scurrilous rat thought of him? His time was better spent considering the man’s stance and determining which sword master might have schooled him. Each master had moves he was partial to, and if anticipated, those moves lost power. But the man’s stance gave nothing away. If he had studied with a master, he had adapted the moves to his own style, which would make him a challenging opponent.
Wulf had been tutored by a Frankish sword master, and he had honed his skills with the gallowglass mercenaries of Ireland. He knew that much of his past, even though he could not name the men who had instructed him. He also knew that his skills had been tested many times—so many times that he no longer had to think about how he would move or what defense was best in any given situation. His reactions were ingrained, and he was confident that no matter what his enemy did, he could combat it.
Only his lame leg was a true disadvantage.
The blond man smiled. “Shout for help, if you choose,” he said. “It’s unlikely anyone will interfere.” He tapped his tabard with the hilt of his knife. “’Tis the duty of the king’s guard to keep the peace.”
Wulf’s answer was to swing his sword.
The blond man reacted quickly, parrying the cut and sliding away. “You’re strong,” he said. “Like a bull. Unfortunately, your technique is equally graceless and beastlike. So much wasted effort.” He made a lightning-fast thrust, coming within inches of Wulf’s chest before being turned away by Wulf’s blade.
Wulf weighed his options. The blond man was small and quick, which would cede him the advantage in a long, drawn-out battle. Wulf’s leg would not withstand a lengthy encounter. This duel would need to be won with strength.
“It may interest you to know,” the blond man said, “that after I slay you, I’ve been ordered to cut the heart out of your female companion.”
A cold lump landed in the pit of Wulf’s belly. Morag would be defenseless against this cur. He could not leave her to face him on her own. No matter what it took, he had to win this battle. But allowing his fear for Morag’s safety to take hold of his thoughts would play directly into this man’s hands. Fear and anger were not weapons; they were weaknesses. He had failed Elen and Hugh because of his anger and grief. Letting history repeat itself would be a grave mistake. Wulf sucked in a slow breath, pushing aside the maelstrom of his thoughts. Nothing mattered except for this moment, this battle. The time to think of what lay beyond was after this man was beaten.
With his mind cleared, Wulf immediately felt lighter and more able. His shoulders loosened and his muscles warmed. Without effort several moves came to mind, and he selected one. He saw exactly what he would have to do to break through his opponent’s defenses. And then he struck.
Power and finesse met speed and agility.
Parry met thrust; cut met slash.
It was a dance of lethal, razor-sharp blades, and Wulf fell back on the reliability of his experience. He’d been here before, in a similar duel, and come out the winner.
Step in, slash, pivot.
Parry, thrust, block.
Wulf hit his opponent hard, slamming the full weight of his large body into every blow. He left nothing behind for later. Pound after pound reverberated up his opponent’s blade, and he could see the toll the blows were taking in the grimaces of the other man.
But his foe was not without strategy.
The blond man focused his attack on Wulf’s left side, forcing him to lean heavily on his weak leg.
The muscles in Wulf’s thigh quivered under the strain, but he ignored the burning pain as best he could. His opponent was also strained. White flesh around his lips and beaded sweat on his brow encouraged Wulf to press even harder. The fury of his attack was such that the air around his blade hummed with the power of his swings.
The blond man gave up a foot of ground, and Wulf advanced.
It was only when he caught sight of the smile on his opponent’s face that Wulf realized he’d been lured forward by a ruse of weariness. Two more soldiers leapt forward from behind the wall at his back and he suddenly found himself surrounded.
Chapter 9
Morag sold her last bolt of cloth at an unimaginable profit.
Two tailors had appeared before her stall at the same time, both proclaiming her cloth to be just what they were seeking. The two men bickered over who was the worthiest for some time, slowly driving up the price. In the end, one of them paid a full six deniers for the green-black-and-white cloth. She paid her stallmate his share and pocketed the rest.
Happy with how the day had gone, she sat near the cart quite contentedly, waiting for Wulf to return. That was when she noticed the sandy-haired lad across the High Street. He was slight of build and in sore need of a bath, so she barely took note of him in the beginning. But he remained nearby, watching her surreptitiously from behind a barrel of salted pork.
Each time she caught his eye, he pretended to wander off, but he didn’t go far.
Curious, Morag crossed the street and confronted him. “Why are you watching me?”
“I’m no’ watching you,” he protested.
She crossed her arms over her chest and pinned his gaze with steely purpose. “Is someone paying you to spy on me?”
“Nay,” he said. “Course not. What kind of fool job would that be?”
His cheeks turned a furious shade of red, which was visible even beneath the streaks of grime on his face. He did not seem a very worrisome spy, not the sort an assassin would hire.
“Was it a very large man who set you on me?” she asked. “Wearing a lèine and a multicolored brat?”
The flush in his cheeks deepened. “I’m no’ watching you.”
Morag took his arm. “Take me to him. This very instant.”
The boy dug in his heels. “Nay.”
She fished about in her purse and pulled out a ha’penny. “Take me to him and you’ll earn your coin.”
His gaze locked onto the coin. “He’ll not be happy that I’ve been found out.”
Aware that the arm she was holding was painfully thin, Morag gentled her grip. “Fear not; he’s not the sort to throw his fist about. I’ll make certain he knows what a fine job you’ve done.”
The fight drained out of him and he nodded.
“Now show me where he is,” Morag urged.
* * *
The moment he realized he was surrounded, Wulf leapt back and to the right, thrusting the blade of his sword backward under his arm. The sword went deep into one of the soldiers. Wulf then spun the wounded man around, using the soldier’s faltering body as protection. With a quick toss of his dirk, he took down the second soldier, too.
But the maneuvers cost him.
The blond man took advantage of Wulf’s split concentration and attacked. His sword sliced across Wulf’s right thigh, tearing into the muscle and flesh with ruthless aim.
It took every bit of willpower Wulf possessed to launch himself to the left and save his leg.
The battle was once again one-on-one, but Wulf was bleeding now. The doorway was at his back, his foe pacing in front of him with a satisfied smile.
“I had hoped this would be a challenging duel,” the blond man said. “Sadly, you are only half the man I thought you were.”
“I feel no shame. Were it just the two of us,” Wulf said, “you’d already be lying in the sod.”
The wound on his leg was shallow, but a steady rivulet of blood trailed down his leg. Blood loss would soon make his head swim. He needed to end the battle swiftly and decisively
, while he still had the strength to make a killing blow. He knew his opponent as well as he would ever know him.
The moment was now. Wulf attacked.
* * *
Morag knew what she would see before she turned the corner. The clang of steel against steel and the slither of sharp blades passing along their edges were all too recently played in her ear. She grabbed the young lad by both shoulders, stared him firmly in the eyes, and said, “Fetch help. Quickly now.”
The boy took off, but she wasn’t convinced he would return. Morag peered around the wattle fence into the narrow wynd. What she saw was chaos. At least three bodies lying in the dirt, and Wulf covered in blood, dueling for his life.
Fearing the sight of her would distract him, she pulled back. She needed to seek help, but where? The castle guard might save him only to arrest him. But surely that was better than watching him die?
She darted across the street and up the next lane. A pair of guards were often standing at the entrance to the north gate. If only she could—
She barreled into a man coming around the corner. A tall fellow with shoulder-length dark hair, blackened mail, and a gold cloak. She nearly lost her footing when they collided, but he put out a quick hand and steadied her.
“Hold, lass,” he said gruffly. “Where are you headed in such a hurry?”
Morag grabbed his arm. “My husband has been attacked. Please, sir, I beg you: Help me.”
The man took one look at her face and made up his mind. “Show me.”
Praying she wasn’t too late, Morag lifted her skirts and ran back to the narrow wynd where she’d left Wulf, the stranger running at her heels.
* * *
Wulf stumbled, nearly falling to one knee in the blood-smeared dirt. His shoulders sank, heavy with defeat, and he sensed his opponent coming in for the coup de grâce. With a roar of raw determination, he pushed back to his feet and made one final flurry of cuts and slices. But his opponent played it safe, staying just beyond solid striking distance. Clearly he preferred to wait until Wulf was too weak to fight.