J. Tomlin - The Winter Kill

“Why would anyone kill her? There was nothing to gain by it. And luring someone out into a storm is an unlikely way to kill, any road. Of course, you could be thinking she was my light woman. You could be thinking mayhap I wanted to break it off with her, and she says she’ll go to the bishop or even the King, and I have no other way to stop her.”

“Aye. I thought of that.”

“You’d be stupid if you didn’t. Or that she was through with me, and I couldn’t stand the thought of her going back to her husband. What do you think about that?”

Law twitched a smile. “You were at the song school that day until after the storm was raging. You supervised the older boys in a chorus and met with a father whose son…” Law chuckled. “I did nae hear exactly what his infraction was, but he was thrashed from what I was telt.”

“Jannet’s father is receiving his money’s worth. But I could have paid someone to do it.”

“In that case, I suspect they’d nae have chosen a snowstorm for doing it. Forbye, I dinnae think you’d give someone that much to use against you. If it was murder… I never heard of murder done so. Mayhap an impulse or chance, not meant to lead to her death.”

“What about the husband? Being free to find a more agreeable wife would likely suit him well.”

“Possibly. I have to confirm where he was that night. But you definitely gave her a key to your house?”

“Aye.”

There was a tap at the door and Brother Hugh opened it. “Do you need me further, Maister Kennedy? ’Tis near Vespers.”

“It has gone dark already, Hugh. You’ve done enough for the day.”

“I’ll prepare my mind for prayers then. I have time. You will want to look over these for the morrow.” He put a thin stack of papers in front of Kennedy.

“I shall go over them when I have time.”

The friar glanced uneasily at Law. He folded his hands in his sleeves and walked out, silent except for the swish of his robes and the click of the door, and leaving a faint whiff of incense from his robes in the chill air.

After a moment of silence, Law said, “I have no more questions for now, and I have taken enough of your time.”

The remnants of daylight had faded to slate gray, and the office was in darkness. Only a lurid splash of gold lit the edge of the sky. Kennedy stood and looked out the window, a dark shape in the growing murk. “’Tis grown chill,” he said.

“Are we going to have more snow?” Law wondered.

“It will be a cold night.”

Gusts of whirling snow flapped Law’s cloak as he walked. It howled between the narrow, two-story shops and houses, scouring away the stink of piss and sweat that was a constant fug in any city. Law walked slowly to Wulle Cullen’s inn.

He was glad to arrive at the warmth and a cozy smell of ale and peat fire. He sat in a corner as patrons came and went. The thick ale Wulle brought him had a bitter herbal taste, its rich malt taste filling his mouth, but he found himself staring into its depths trying to unpick the snarls of this new mess he was entangled in.

When Law made his suggestion to Cormac, the minstrel grinned and hurried to his cubby in the back to find an instrument he said would better suit his task. He gave an airy wave on his way out the door. Without Cormac’s music to soothe him, Law’s musings were dark indeed.

“Sir Law,” a man’s voice called.

When Law looked up, Patrik Ross was making his way past the trestle tables where patrons bent over horn cups of ale. Ross’s clothing was straightened and neater than the last time Law spoke with him, but his face was even gaunter and more deeply lined. Law motioned to Wulle to bring them more ale. He knew he probably should have gone to speak to the man earlier, but there had hardly been a chance.

Ross dropped onto the stool opposite Law’s and ran his hands through his sparse brown hair. “Have you learnt anything?”

Law held up a hand to quiet him while Wulle set a pitcher and cup on the table. When the innkeeper walked away, he poured Ross a cup. The man grasped it like a lifeline.

Law took a deep breath for a difficult talk. “Nae all there is to learn. But I do ken why she was at Northgate Port that night, so I believe we can convince the assize she did nae harm herself. She can be put to rest by the priests without that shame.”

“Why?” Ross leaned toward Law. “Why was she there?”

Law took a gulp of his ale. “Kennedy sent her yon. He said it was to find papers he had left at his house regarding dissolving the marriage.”

Ross’s forehead creased into a deep frown. “He sent her into a storm?” The man’s face reddened, and he gripped his cup so hard his fingers were white. “He… He sent her…”

Law squeezed the man’s arm lightly. The muscles of Ross’s arm were like tight-strung cable. “It was before the storm hit, and he said he had no idea she would go in ill weather.”

Ross looked down at the cup he was still gripping as though he had never seen such a thing before. “Why would he nae just give the papers to her? That cannae be right.”

Law let out a sigh. “There was talk. Gossip. About his spending so much time with a woman who had left her husband.”

The red drained from Ross’s face, leaving it whey white. “That she was his leman. He had taken her as his leman.”

“Gossip said so. He said it was false, so he was avoiding being seen in her company, and he sent her to find the papers.” Law kept his gaze on his cup as he took a drink. “So he said.”

“How could he? He a priest and she a married woman. A good lass in spite of it all.” Ross pushed himself to his feet. “How could he?”

Law rose and put a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. “It’s over. The poor lass is dead, but at least there will be a decent burial. See to prayers for her soul, and let all this go, man.”

Ross shook his hand off and stumbled toward the door.

Cormac observed that Sir Archibald Dunbar was clearly at home. There was light in the windows, and the shutters, though askew, were open. Voices and laughter of both men and women floated into the evening. He followed the sound, climbed the ice-slick stone steps, and knocked loudly on the door, lute under his arm.

The door was opened by a man with a curly mop of gingery hair, a livid yellow doublet, and a beaker of wine in his hand. “Archie,” he called over his shoulder. “Did you hire a minstrel?”

Cormac shook his head with a smile. “He did nae hire me, but I heard you might be in need of music, so I came.”

“A minstrel? Then let him in, Andrew.” A woman came forward in well-worn finery, threadbare velvet, and long, dark hair loose onto her shoulders.

“Aye,” said the man who had answered the door. He gave Cormac a speculative look. “Come in if you have a braw tune.”

There were a dozen people in the room and a large fire blazing on the hearth. In the middle of the room was a trestle table piled with a platter of sausages scented with onion and sage, loaves of bread, and more flagons of wine than Cormac could count. A dozen torches in wall sconces gave the night a flickering glow. The seating were stools and only two chairs. He could identify Archibald Dunbar, slumped in one of the chairs with a beaker of wine in his hand, from Law’s description.

“Play!” the woman who had insisted he be invited in commanded. She plopped down on Dunbar’s knee and slid her arm around his neck. He seemed to pay her no mind as he drained his wine cup.

Cormac unwound the protective cloth from his lute and quickly plucked the strings to check that it was still in tune. The lute had never been his best instrument, but it would allow him to move about the room to listen. He struck up the notes of “I Long for Thy Virginitie” as he strolled about the room, smiling and nodding to the men and women as he passed. The song no doubt would suit the company.