J. Tomlin - The Intelligencer

When they got their spoons and knives out of their scrips, Cormac asked, "We'll bide here?"

"Aye. We have to see if anyone can tell us who gave Blacader a note. And I want to find the yard where they stayed and see if anyone noted they were followed. Or if anyone spoke to them we have nae heard about."

"What is the name of the tavern he they went to?"

"The Spilled Flagon. Somewhere near the piers."

Cormac patted his lute case, which he'd set carefully beside him on the bench. "I'll take my little lady here and stroll down to find it. A question or two should point me to it. Most like they'll let a minstrel play for whatever coins the customers toss."

"If they already have a minstrel?"

"Then I'll have a cup of ale and see if he'll be there tomorrow."

Law thought about it for a moment and really had no better idea. "Not a bad plan." Law raised his head as the bells of Saint Mungo's Cathedral rang for vespers. "It is late to go today, and many of their customers would come in at midday for dinner. We could go tomorrow after we call at the Broun Foundry to see what they say."

"I should go on my own. If we go in together, it would look strange. I can go there and see if they could use a minstrel to play while you talk to the owner of the foundry."

Law sawed a wedge off the loaf of bread and spread it with a generous portion of the herring.

"This is good," Cormac said and washed his down with a swallow of ale.

Nodding, Law chewed a large bite. "But if you spot someone who looks like our man?" Law shook his head. "You'd try to follow him. I know what you're like. No, we should work together."

"But how would I even ken it was him? And I could hardly run out to follow someone in the middle of playing a tune, carrying my harp." Cormac tried out his wide-eyed innocent look. "I'll just get a feel for the place and listen to what is going on. I might hear something that will help. No one pays any mind to talking in front of a minstrel. I'll ask what songs they want to hear, and they'll want to tell me all about themselves. People always do."

Pointing at Cormac with his spoon, Law said, "You said you would mind what I told you. You are nae to go off on your own."

Bells were clanging for prime, and the bright morning sun made Law throw his arm over his eyes to shut it out. But it was time to rise, so with a groan, Law sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed. The wide poster bed with curtains and a feather mattress was the most comfortable bed he had slept in for many a month. He was sorry to rise from it. No doubt this was the most expensive room in the inn, with its cupboard where Law had stored his hauberk and sword, and even a table and two chairs in front of a large window-which was thrown open to let in the morning light. No doubt that was Cormac's doing.

And that thought woke Law up enough to realize the minstrel was nowhere in sight. Grumbling under his breath, Law used water in the ewer that was still slightly warm to wash his face and quickly sluice his body, then he pulled a shirt, doublet, and hose from the leather satchel he'd dropped in the middle of the floor. If the minstrel was not downstairs breaking his fast, he would receive a good skelping when Law caught up with him. Do as he was told, indeed.

He slammed out of the room and thumped down the stairs, scowling in irritation. In the hall, there were platters of bread for breaking your fast. At home it would have gone on his chit, but as a traveler you paid in advance, so he tossed a groat to the girl serving ale, took a mug, and grabbed a wedge of the fresh barley bread. He dropped onto a bench. Two guests were finishing their bread and ale at a table next to a window. A boy knelt before glowing embers in the hearth, feeding it sticks of wood. The serving girl sighed and began to wipe the counter with a cloth. Otherwise the hall was empty.

He returned his empty cup to her and asked, "Do you ken where I'd find a tavern with a sign of a spilled flagon?"

She gave him a startled look. "Their ale is nae gey good. You'd do better to drink here."

He smiled. "Aye, but I'm looking for a friend who has gone there." Her directions assumed more knowledge of Glasgow than he had, but at least they started him in the right direction.

Law shook his head. It was early for Cormac to find work at a tavern, but it would take time to find it. And this early surely nothing could happen, although if anyone could find trouble, it would be Cormac. He considered for a moment that it was Cormac who'd kept the mad friar from killing him, but dismissed the thought. No one was more stubborn or prone to finding trouble than the red-headed Highlander.

Law went into the yard and saw that the stable doors were open. He thought of riding, but it would be easier to question people if he walked. The towers of Saint Mungo's Cathedral and the Bishop's Castle rose high above Glasgow, the Cathedral's high arched windows glittering in the early morning light although much of it was surrounded by scaffolding. Law thought it would probably be decades at least before it was finished, but it was a magnificent sight. Well, one that was in the wrong direction, for the River Clyde was in a completely different part of Glasgow, so he continued through the gate and into the vennel that led a short distance down to High Street.

The tavern he was seeking was said to be past the tolbooth and the Mercat Cross near Fishgate, so he strode in that direction. It was early enough that he had to make his way through streams of laborers on their way to their jobs and merchants throwing open their shutters to begin the day's business. There was a pleasant scent of spring in the air underlaid with the ever-present smell of fish and seaweed.

Cormac smirked when he stepped out of the inn, carrying a slice of bannock and some cheese. When he had closed the door of their chamber, Law had still been snoring like a bear, and Cormac knew he would do better talking to the tavern keeper on his own without Law glowering over his shoulder.

He gazed briefly up the hill at the High Town with its towering cathedral and Bishop's Castle where the bishop and such high-and-mighty stayed. No doubt if the king came to Glasgow he would stay there as well, but such as Cormac were not welcome. He snorted, thankful that Law was beginning to get over his love of following lords around like a lovesick swain, not that some in his Highlands weren't just as bad.

Someone shouted a curse at him, and he dodged the horses of a baggage train making its way toward Saint Tenew's Gate. Then he crammed some of the bannock and a pinch of cheese in his mouth and set off in the same direction. It was an unusually clear morning for early March, and the sky was a glassy blue with no clouds in sight, but the air was cold enough to cut like a knife.

As he walked, windows were being flung open and planks lowered in the first floors that served as shops. A laborer paused long enough to point him to the turn that went toward Fishergate. It was a rough street with ruts rimed with frost. Cormac picked his path past children screeching as they played atop a midden. One of the older boys turned to stare at him from under a mop of uncombed hair.

"Where is the tavern with the sign of a spilled flagon?" Cormac asked.

He got a withering look. "Why should I tell you?"

Cormac scratched his cheek thoughtfully. He couldn't afford to be bribing even a child, so he held out the hunk of bannock he hadn't yet finished. "I'll give you this."

The boy snatched it from his hand and gestured with it further down the street. "It's two vennels down and through the arch."

When Cormac started in that direction, a thin, wiry man with a terrier at his heels hurried around the corner and out of sight. Cormac frowned after him. He didn't know anyone in Glasgow, but the figure had seemed very familiar. He shook his head and hurried after, but when he passed through the ramshackle archway, the only beings in sight were a dog barking at a squawking hen and a sturdy journeyman in leather jerkin, worn at the elbows, who took a filled leather cup of ale and strode away.