by J. R. Tomlin
He tossed a coin on the table, got his cloak from his room, closed the door behind him, and went out into the night lit only by a half-moon and thin beams of lamplight through the slits of shutters.
An undersized man wrapped in a ragged cloak was leaning against the wall at the corner of the tavern, idly whistling. The ratcatcher? In the dark, Law wasn’t sure. He walked down to High Street, where a peddler with sticks of meat roasting over a brazier stood hawking his wares to the few late passersby. Law paid him two pence and tore the stringy meat with his teeth as he walked, wiping the drippings from his lips with his fingers, nudging his cloak from his sword with an elbow. When he stopped and tossed the stick into the gutter at the side of the street, the same man was one of three people laughing as a drunk stumbled his way into a dark alley.
A wet wind flapped Law’s cloak as he walked. It howled between the narrow two-story shops and houses, carrying a scent of snow to come, but beneath it there was still the stink of seeping gutters. Law walked slowly to Reidheid’s Hostelry and asked the innkeeper for Maister Wrycht. He was told that the man had left some hours before. Law snorted softly through his nose, hardly surprised. He sat in a far corner as patrons came and went, watching the stairs up to Wrycht’s room and the door to the inn, relieved that if the man had been following him there was no sign of him. The thick ale Law ordered had a bitter herbal taste, its rich malt taste filling his mouth after two more cups, but he found no pleasure in it as he considered the mess he had involved himself in. He rubbed the lump on his head and felt like a fool.
@Law recognized Dave Taylor, his patched cloak shoved back, when he sidled through the front door of the inn but the innkeeper’s wife met him exclaiming, “Ach! Out with you. We’ve no rats here for you to catch.” The man ducked his head, his eyes darting toward Law as he left.
Law frowned after him as the door closed behind the strange man. What business did he have following Law about? He did it for a day’s wages, no doubt, though it made his head ache to wonder who would pay. But a day’s wages was hard enough to earn, especially for a man in the service of no lord. He could almost sympathize with the poor sod.
Once, he’d followed his own lord about as a squire, eager for praise and encouragement, had been knighted by the Earl’s own hand. Law had worked hard in the Douglas’s service and for a wage, being landless. He and the earl’s eldest son had known each other, had practiced in the same yard as lads. That didn’t mean he’d take into his service a lame man. He had made that more than clear.
“Monsignor,” the innkeeper cried and scurried to the staircase to meet a cleric descending. He bowed deeply.
Tilting his head, Law studied the newcomer. He was familiar, dark hair neatly trimmed around his tonsure and wearing a finely woven brown woolen robe. He felt a jolt of cold when he recognized the king’s secretary, John Cameron. Odd…
“May I bring you anything, Monsignor?”
“I cannot seem to rest so I’ll stroll in the yard for a bit.”
“Do you need your guards?” The landlord looked around and seemed to spot what he was looking for in the crowd, but the cleric brushed him off.
“I’ll nae be going that far from the doors. I merely want a breath of fresh air.”
Wrycht swaggered in as Cameron left, all smiles and cheerful greetings for the innkeeper. Law stood, his head a bit muzzy from the ale, which made him curse himself for his carelessness. The man glanced at Law and then toward his room as though he might want to escape, but after a moment’s pause, he nodded amiably to Law. He said a word to the innkeeper and motioned. When the innkeeper hurried over with another cup, Law filled it for Wrycht and then filled his own, but merely moistened his lips when he raised it to his mouth.
Wrycht took a sip before asking, “Did you find anything?”
“No, but someone found me.”
Leaning forward, Wrycht eyed the bruise and split on Law’s forehead. “You live, but do they?”
“I thought mayhap you could tell me.”
“I? How could I tell you?” He scowled at Law. “You think I sent them?”
“The thought occurred to me.” Law swirled the dark ale in his cup, thinking of who might be waiting for him in the night where he would need a steady hand, perhaps the same who had managed to kill Duncan, but he wouldn’t let a good ale go to waste, so he downed half of it in a long, malty swallow. “There are people who think they have reason to be interested in what I may ken.”
“People?” The man gave a reassuring smile. “Not anyone I sent. Why would I? It makes no sense.”
“It might…if you think I have something you want.” Had a word out of the man’s mouth been the truth?
“No, I had nothing to do with any attack on you…on my word of honor. But…this…means someone else kens why I am in Perth. It must.” His Adam’s apple bobbed, but he met Law’s gaze.
“Was there any doubt?” Law swallowed the dregs of his ale. He made his way to the door, Wrycht sputtering an incoherent response behind him. He’d find out exactly how much Wrycht was not telling him. With his hand on his hilt, he walked along the silent High Street, through darkness broken only by a vague glow from braziers down the streets and flashes of moonlight that escaped through the clouds. He turned onto Meal Vennel towards the room he called home.
Cormac had gathered up the clothes that had been strewn on the floor and piled them in front of the kist. Law grinned that Cormac had gathered them up but balked at putting them away. Grateful that his other cloak was dark, he kept that and a black doublet out, then dropped the rest into the kist, closed it, stripped to his small clothes, and flopped into bed. He drew the threadbare coverlet up to his chest. With luck he’d drunk enough that he’d not dream of desperately swinging his blade as he stood above Alan’s body on a bloody field, whilst behind him the Douglas screamed his last.
With the shutters swung open, he began to pry out the wooden window frame, an oiled animal skin stretched tight across it. In the profound hush of predawn, it squealed as it came loose and he leaned it against the wall. He paused to be sure the noise had not brought attention. Night had faded to a murky gray, and though the moon had gone he could make out the shape of the building only a few feet away. He went out the window feet first, dangled by his fingertips for a second, and let go to land with a soft grunt of pain.
He pulled up the cloak’s hood. His breath fogged in the chill air. The narrow passage led to another between close-built buildings on burgage lots like a maze but eventually led to Methven Street. Then he walked down to High Street. Even in the faint light, a few farmers and merchants were setting out their stalls in the market square around the Mercat Cross. Law had forgotten it was fair day, with more people than usual about early in the day.
When he reached Reidheid’s Hostelry, the first yellow light of sunrise spread itself against the clouds above the city wall. In the dim courtyard, he stumbled over a shovel. Cursing under his breath, he found a narrow opening, little more than a crack, between the stable and the hostelry.
Two stable lads were leading out horses that stamped and shook their clanking tack. Cameron strode out, grim-faced, followed by two guards. They clattered their way into the street. The lads went grumbling back into the stable, and silence enveloped the yard. Law pulled his cloak close and prepared for a long wait. A fine drizzle began to fall. He sighed. A cock crowed and hens scattered across the yard clucking. The sun was trying to break through the overcast, sending out watery beams that reflected in muddy puddles when a figure appeared in the inn’s door wearing a heavy blue cloak and pulling the hood up over his dark hair. The man—even in the dim light, Law recognized Wrycht—strode quickly along St. John’s Street, glancing over his shoulder as though watching for a pursuer.
Law waited until Wrycht was almost out of sight to follow. The noisy crowd of buyers and sellers in the market square soon swallowed Johne Wrycht up. Following behind, Law used the crowd to stay out of sight. He slid between goodwives with baskets
who picked over stalls of kale and fresh-baked bread, past chickens that clucked and screeched in cages stacked in stalls, servants scurrying to and fro, and past marketers who pushed barrows filled with goods to refill their booths. Apprentices shouted their maisters’ wares as burgesses strolled in fine gowns. Law lost sight of Wrycht but elbowed his way through until he saw the movement of the blue cloak through an opening in the crush.
When Wrycht kept going past the market square, Law hung back, keeping his head down and face shadowed by his hood, distantly following him as he turned into Curling Vennel and then into a narrow alleyway, stinking of mold and refuse. His footsteps echoed in the deserted passage and Law waited until they were fainter before he followed. He darted around the corner. Here narrow houses with barred shutters squeezed together in claustrophobic proximity so near they closed off the sky.
Wrycht stopped and looked behind him. Head down, Law approached a door and raised his hand as though to knock. Law felt the man’s gaze, so he hammered and waited, watching the man from the corner of his eyes. Wrycht seemed satisfied and opened a door to duck inside. The door where Law had knocked opened a crack and a woman’s eye peered out at him.
“Wrong house,” he said with a shrug.
The house Wrycht entered was one of the better in the alley with a solid chimney and a fenced kailyard in the rear now overgrown with weeds. In one of the windows, dim candlelight filtered through the cracks in a shutter. Law took a deep breath, checked to be sure he was unobserved, and crept to press his back to the wall. Craning his neck, he peered through the crack.
The gloom of the room was only partially lifted by flickering light from the hearth that revealed solid but unpolished table and chairs, an old-fashioned sideboard with pewter flagon and cups, and several stacked kists in the corner. Worn stairs led to the upper floor. Through an open door he could see cook pots and metal pans thrown onto shelves.
Marguerite stood, her back to the window. Her hair, loosed and untamed, streamed around her ivory face and over the front of her shoulders in a dark waterfall. Wrycht stepped into view to stand behind her. He ran both hands down her arms and nuzzled the back of her neck.
She turned her head, her lips pursed into a faint, smug smile. One of Wrycht’s hands slid around her to cup her breast. Law gritted against a snarl as he stepped softly back, only to curse under his breath when his foot sank into a puddle of muck. He loosened his sword in its sheath as he went to the door and tried it, unsurprised to find it locked.
Two hard kicks burst the lock and it swung open. Marguerite gave a high, squeaking gasp. Wrycht held his left hand up as he backed up a step, fumbling with the right at the hilt of his dirk.
Law smirked, hand resting negligently on his own hilt. “You dinnae want to do that.”
Marguerite stared at him, face blank with astonishment, and sank onto a chair. “How did you find us?”
“It was not gey hard, hen.”
“You followed me,” Wrycht said in an accusing tone. “I was sure I was followed but couldn’t spot you.”
“Mayhap I’m better at this spying business than I thought. I should thank you for causing me to realize it even though the both of you have lied every step of the way.”
Marguerite glared at Wrycht and then at Law. “It wasn’t lies, or parts of it weren’t. There is a treasure but it’s already been found. Now Johne is trying to get it back. We had to be sure that you did not have it.” She glared at Wrycht again. “Not that it was his idea.”
The corner of Wrycht’s eye twitched. “And I do have money to pay for its return.” He reached for a rickety chair and pulled it near her to sit down.
“Are you saying that de Carnea had it?” Law asked.
Wrycht’s face had smoothed and he lifted his chin in a defiant look, but he blinked at the question. “Whoever killed him took it. I telt you that.”
“Or de Carnea hid it,” Law said.
Shaking his head furiously, Wrycht said, “Would he have left it behind in some inn? It isn’t as though he kent Perth or was from here to ken some hiding place for it. No. Someone took it from him.”
“How did he acquire it in the first place?” Law leaned his back against the wall near the door, idly running his fingers over the hilt of his sword. “You lied about meeting him in Rome, obviously. So what is the truth? Let’s start with that. Why could only de Carnea find the cross?”
Marguerite dropped her gaze modestly to her lap. “It was not totally a lie. We did join forces in Rome, but it was more complicated. De Carnea had the letter that said where to find it. But traveling in Scotland is dangerous and we were…already acquainted. Johne knew Scotland, so working together was natural. He could reach the cross where it was hidden, and we would divide up the profits for sharing the risk.”
Law smirked. “And what did you ken?”
Her lips thinned into a slit with fury. “I knew a buyer.”
“That doesnae answer why only he could retrieve the cross.”
“Oh, by all the saints!” Wrycht jumped to his feet and strode around, flexing his hands. “It was hidden and only he had the letter saying where. It was in Latin and I do well to make out my letters in good Scots. Yes, many others ken Latin but not ones we were going to show the letter. Mayhap he had been a cleric that he kent Latin. We were to meet to begin the journey to England to meet the buyer and—” He threw his hands up in the air. “—de Carnea disappeared.”
Marguerite turned to Wrycht and scowled at him.
Law suppressed a smile. “So the buyer is English.”
“Aye. Well, one is. It isnae as though there is only one buyer in the world for such a thing.”
“How big—”
The door banged open and Dave the ratcatcher scurried in, panting. “I cannae find him!”
Law snorted a soft laugh and reached over to slap the door closed behind the man. “Forbye I am found.”
Dave’s eyes were wide and moist. He looked Law up and down without meeting his eyes. After a moment his gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders hunched. Wrycht was stuttering wordlessly, but Marguerite had a tiny smile on her lips.
“So…you hired the ratcatcher here to spy upon me.” Law glared at them, one by one, though by the saints it was becoming almost funny. How many ways were there for the pair of them to lie and deceive? “You’ve both lied the whole time and two men are dead. Don’t even think that I am going to hang for it.” Suddenly, he stepped to Dave Taylor and grabbed him by his filthy shirt to slam him against the wall so hard the man’s head bounced. “And you… you sleekit weasel, keep away from me. Because if I catch you following me again, I’ll give you a beating you will ne’er forget.” He gave the man an off-handed backhand blow, threw him one last glare, and strolled with deliberate insolence out the door, letting it bang closed behind him.
He muttered curses as he stormed down the street, receiving wary glances from the people he passed. So much for making easy money, though he was not sure that the trio believed he didn’t have the cross.
Cormac was sitting near where Mall stirred her pot over a peat fire, idly plucking random notes on his clàrsach. The polished wood harp sat in his lap, its neck tucked under his chin, and when he played the music seemed to be one of the last beautiful things in a dark, grim world.
“Cannae you sing, if you’re gonnae play?” the woman complained.
“No customers to sing for yet.” The minstrel plucked one last shivering note and looked around at Law. “About time you came back. Every single body in Perth has been looking for you. Sergeant Meldrum came seeking you. Said Sir William wants a word with you after the Nones bell. That cannae be good.”
Mall banged her spoon against the edge of her pot, tasted the pottage she was making, licked her lips, and then said, “Ach, then that ratcatcher tried to go up to your room, but I saw him off right sharp.”
“Aye, he was sneaking whilst I played and nearly slipped past. The ratcatcher was…” With a thoughtful look, Cormac tucked hi
s instrument back under his chin. “He was even odder than usual.”
“And what did your Hieland intuition tell you about that?” Law scratched at his jaw, wondering why they had sent Dave to search his room a second time. Or perhaps it was just to see if he was there.
Cormac smiled. “Not all of us have the sight, Sassenach. I telt you I’m no seventh son of a seventh son, but he is more than he seems. Of that I am certain.” He raised an eyebrow at Law. “I’d better go with you to call on the sheriff. Someone should in case you dinnae come out again.”
“You being there will make no difference.”
“I helped you at the start.” Cormac rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “Say that I’m curious. Murders and mysterious—”
Law cleared his throat, so Cormac shrugged, but he stood and carefully slipped his harp into a bag to protect it.
5
As Meldrum led him through the corridor to the sheriff’s privy chamber, sweat trickled down Law’s neck. Why would Sir William decide to call him now after the trial concluded with no evidence to involve him? Meldrum seemed satisfied with the verdict then and didn’t give any indication of pursuing the murders further. Of all the ways to die, hanging was the one he most wanted to avoid, if something had changed the sheriff’s mind. What Cormac thought following along at his heels would do, Law couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t as though a Highland minstrel wielded power, but Law hadn’t enough friends in the world anymore that he’d turn one away.