J. Tomlin - The Intelligencer

Over the door, an ale-stake was thrust into the thatch, and hanging from it was a board with a crude likeness of a tipped-over flagon painted on it. Cormac ducked to go inside. A lit brazier warmed the air that smelled of sweat, onions, and spilled ale. Two girls were scurrying about with trays of wooden beakers, jugs, bannocks, and cheese for people breaking their fasts. The long trestle tables were crowded. A couple of apprentices in leather aprons stood near the door. A tall, gray-haired woman with heavy brows-her sleeves rolled up to show muscular forearms-stood next to a barrel of ale in the corner, pouring the ale and taking the money from her girls as they collected it. She constantly scowled at the customers as though daring them to cause a problem.

It was too busy to speak to the mistress, but he knew it would clear out soon as the men left for their day's work.

One of the girls bustled up to him, smiling to show a gap in her teeth. She wore a canvas apron splashed with ale stains. "What will you have, minstrel?"

"A mug of ale," Cormac said. She held out her hand for the money, gave a saucy wink, managed to brush his arm with her breast, and hurried away between the tables.

When she returned, Cormac said, "What might your mistress's name be?"

"Why? She would squash you flat." She stuck her tongue in her cheek. "I'd suit you better."

Cormac chuckled. "You ken there's no profit in minstrels, hen. We're always poor."

"Aye, but a lass can try. She is Widow Gray. But she'll nae thank you for bothering her."

"Och, I'll wait until it's nae so busy." He dropped a groat's tip between the breasts being thrust at him. "My thanks." He received a gap-toothed smile, and she hurried away.

The church bells began to ring prime, and most of the customers gulped down their drinks and left. One of the journeymen shouted at the idling apprentices. In a few minutes, only a bald gaffer was left bending over his cup.

Mistress Gray eyed him suspiciously as he strolled across the room towards her. He stood to the side so he was not in the way of her view of the room and said, "Mistress, as you can see, I'm a minstrel."

"Aye. Well, dinnae think I'm going to pay you to play."

"I never thought it. But your customers would toss a few coins in my hat, I expect. And I need to be in Glasgow for a few days, so if you'd allow me to take up a corner…" He twitched a smile. "It would bring more than enow business to pay for my little space."

"Are you good?" she asked with a sniff. "If you aren't, you'll just drive away business."

Cormac laughed. "If I'm nae good, you'll just send me on my way, aye? But my music is braw, I promise."

"That I will. You can put a stool in yon corner and play there, but there will nae be much business until dinner." She pointed and then shouted, "Annie. Libby. Why are the tables not wiped? The beakers need clearing."

Cormac winced, his ears ringing, and hurried over to drag a stool into the far corner. He sat his lute case safely between the stool and the wall and watched the girls swabbing the tables and gathering empty cups. He wondered how he might ask about the blond-haired man who had given Blacader a paper. But blond men were not that unusual. There had not been any fishermen he'd noticed, so that might help pick the man out, if he had indeed been a such. But he had not decided how to bring the question up when the door was flung open and Law stomped in, wrapped in his gray plaid and looking annoyed.

Cormac retrieved his case and took out his lute, pretending he hadn't noticed the new customer, as the gap-toothed girl-he wasn't sure whether it was Annie or Libby-sashayed over to ask whether he wanted a drink. She faltered at Law's scowl, but he nodded and went to sit next to the window. Cormac got out his key and set about tuning his lute.

"You're nae far from the piers," Law said when the girl set a wooden beaker of ale before him and took his coin.

She shrugged. "Nae so far, but other taverns are closer. Why?"

Cormac softly strummed a few notes of Ettrick Banks as he listened.

"Many sailors or fishermen come to drink here?"

She cocked her head and stuck out her lower lip in a pout. "Only interested in sailors, are you?"

Law smiled. "Looking for a particular fisherman is business, nae pleasure, lassie."

The girl threw a quick glance over her shoulder, before she leaned closer. "Widow Gray can toss any man out who is rowdy, so she can. The fishermen tend to be a rough lot who like rowdier taverns than here."

"Libby," her mistress barked, "enow blathering. There are tables to be wiped." Her glare at Law could have flayed the skin from him.

He rose and strolled in toward the mistress. "My apologies. I was nae seeking to keep your lass from her work. I'm seeking a fisherman who a friend in Perth had some business with and asked me to find. He telt me the man drank here on occasion."

Widow Gray plunked her hands on her ample hips and gave him a scornful look. "Many men drink here."

"This one is a fisherman, blond-haired and young. Probably not long at that calling."

"Aye." She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "There might be one and an odd one at that."

"Odd how?"

"Not many come to this tavern and those who do are local. There is one who has come in for a drink every eve or so for the last two weeks. This one is nae Glaswegian, that I can tell you. He's caused nae trouble though, so it's nae business of mine."

Law nodded. "He owed my friend siller, so if you'd nae mention I'm seeking him, I'd appreciate it."

"Well, you'd best cause nae trouble here. I run a decent tavern."

"I'll make sure there's no trouble." Law strolled back to retrieve his cup of ale and wandered toward Cormac. "That's a nice tune you're playing. What is it?"

Cormac ducked his head to let his hair flop over his eyes, and smiled slyly. "You've never heard it before? 'Tis common enow.” He softly sang:

On Ettrick banks, in a summer night,

At gloaming when the sheep drave hame,

I met my lassie braw and tight,

While wading, barefoot, a' her lane:

My heart grew light, I ran, I flang

My arms about her lily-neck…

Law flashed him a stern look. "I'll come later and hear the rest of it then. You will nae be leaving, I suppose."

Cormac grinned and winked. "I'll be here, Sir Knight." He chuckled at Law's thunderous look as he turned on his heel and stomped out the door. He strummed a few notes, watching through the window as Law headed through the archway.

"You're wasting your music with only old Iain here," Widow Gray said. Cormac didn’t respond as he watched a figure-thin, wiry, and dressed all in hodden-gray with a brown terrier at his heels-heading the same way as Law. Now where was he all this time , Cormac wondered, and what is he up to?

Law huffed out a breath of annoyance. Cormac always had a mind and will of his own, even when he should not. But if the fisherman usually came in the evening, as the alewife had said, then he wouldn't be getting into trouble while Law checked the yard where Blacader had bided that short time in Glasgow. He had to ask several people for directions since the first weren't acquainted with the foundry yard, but after a long walk that had his bad leg aching, he finally found the yard just past the eastern Gallowgate. It was a noisy place that stank of hot metal and burning coal. The pounding of hammers was deafening, but he managed to summon the master outside the gate where it was possible to shout loudly enough to be heard.

"Aye," Maister Broun said, crossing his thick arms across his chest, "Blacader does bide in my yard. What business is it of yours?"