J. Tomlin - The Winter Kill

The party began sedately enough, with the men more interested in the platter of food than the women clinging to their arms. Soon their attention turned to emptying the flagons of wine. Then there were squeals of laughter. Bodices were loosened, one of the men pushed playfully away after slapping a rear. Dunbar was sullenly drinking, though, which seemed to put a bit of a damper on the mood.

One by one, Cormac paused by the men, but there was no conversation to listen to, just drunken jests and boasting of prowess at on the field or in bed. None of it would help. Were they drunk enough to forget he was only a minstrel if he asked where they had been the night Jannet died?

Just as Cormac was convinced he would learn nothing, the wind came whirling upon them. A couple of shutters thudded open and banged against the wall. The torches sputtered and gutted. The woman on Dunbar’s knee gave a shriek. Several of the men dashed to grab the shutters and wrestle them closed. Cormac paused in his playing, but it appeared that the interruption would not end the festivities. Beneath the whistling of the wind, he sensed a lusty excitement. Soon, in the semidarkness broken only by the blaze in the fireplace, he heard laughing, a squeal of false protest, a rip of material. First one pair and then another disappeared into the murk toward other chambers.

When Cormac decided to give up on the entire endeavor and make for the door, unpaid in money or information, he caught his foot on a fallen stool in the darkness and stumbled several steps, clutching his lute to his chest, until someone caught him imperiously by the arm and pulled him upright.

The man put a hand on Cormac’s shoulder and said, “Careful of the hazards of the night, my lad.” There was enough light to make out the man with a curly mop of ginger hair who had opened the door, the one the woman had called Andrew. He gave Cormac a look of humorous self-confidence.

Cormac meant to thank him but instead in his frustration burst out with, “His wife only just died, but no one has talked about it all night.”

“I will talk about anything you wish.” He put an arm around Cormac’s shoulder with a quiet, casual authority. Walking the minstrel into a dark corner, he continued, “But she is boring to talk about. She always was.” The lute was gently taken away and put on a small table.

“It seems a terrible way to die.”

“Aye, that is so. But she left her husband’s protection, so why would anyone be surprised that ill came of it?” He kissed Cormac lightly on the mouth, and Cormac knew that the kiss was the price of talking.

“You think she died because she left him?” he asked.

“At home where she belonged, she would not have wandered out into the snow, and who kens who invited or tempted her there. Does it matter?” With a knight’s strength, he swung Cormac around, pressed him against the wall, took his head between his hands, and kissed him more deeply.

The increasing rasp of Cormac’s breath seemed to blend with the vague festivities in the darkness around them. Somewhere near were a slap of flesh on flesh and a man moaning. Andrew was surprisingly good as he stroked Cormac’s neck and began to unfasten his doublet. Cormac caught his hands and whispered softly in his ear, “Mayhap Dunbar tried to take her home and she ran out into the snow.”

“No, we were still in Stirling that night with the king’s party.”

He nipped at Cormac’s neck, but Cormac slithered and squirmed until he was loose from Andrew’s hold and grabbed his lute. The man would be annoyed to have been led on, but such was life.

Andrew grasped his arm and said, “Where are you going?”

“’Tis time for me to leave.”

“But…”

Cormac patted Andrew’s cheek. “You’re braw, mo caraidh.” He stepped toward the door. “But I must be away.”

“But… but…” Andrew yelped behind him. “You must nae say anything… If anyone kent…”

Cormac turned and put a finger to his lips. “Wheesht. No one shall. Forbye, what happens in the dark disnae count in the daylight.” He hurried out and let the door close softly behind him.

In spite of being wrapped in his heaviest cloak and his plaid and pacing up and down the dark vennel, Law’s hands and feet were numb with cold. The knife-sharp wind had slashed his face raw. Twice he’d ducked out of sight from being spotted by the watch. It had been too long. Something must have happened, he was sure, so he warily sneaked toward Dunbar’s house. When he reached the gate, it was swung open. He made out a shape. “Cormac?” he whispered.

“Law? Are you daft?” The minstrel hurried to him and put a hand on his arm. “A Dhia, you’re frozen.”

Law put his arm around Cormac’s shoulder to hurry him along toward home, and his warmth felt like heaven. “Are you all right?”

“I am fine.” He made a sound that could have been a snort or a laugh. “What a sad feast. But I think I learnt what you need.”

Law shared his long plaid with Cormac, whose cloak was not as thick as it could be. “Tell me, but let us hurry, before we’re both frozen.”

“There was a woman who seemed very familiar with Dunbar. She’s his regular leman, I suspect, but I had nae chance to talk to her. She was climbing all over him the whole time. A man there, Andrew they called him, said they were all with the king’s party in Stirling the night that Jannet died.”

“You think he was telling the truth?”

Cormac chuckled. “He had other things on his mind than lying. Aye, it was the truth.” He chuckled again, but it sounded a bit sad. “I dinnae think he’s a bad man. Pathetic and foolish. They are trying so hard to be evil but are just vain men who have to pay for their pleasure.”

Law looked at Cormac but could not make out his face. “We should hurry.”

“Only a little farther.” They turned the corner and light from the windows of the inn lit up the vennel like a beacon. “Did you learn anything from the song maister?”

“He wasn’t what I expected. Hearty and burly, an odd man for the post. But aye. He telt me something that will help. His house is near where she died, and he thinks that is why she was yon.”

Cormac pushed off the half of Law’s plaid he had shared, stepped away, and opened the door of the inn. “Then we are both good spies. Let us celebrate with a drink where it is warm.”

Law squatted beside Saint John’s Street in the shadow of the church’s high bell tower, closely examining the ground. No trace of blood. You would never have known a body had lain there only a few minutes before.

Sergeant Meldrum gazed at Law with unhappy exasperation. “Devil take you, Sir Law, I cannae take your feeling on the matter to the lord sheriff.”

“I only said it is too odd a happenstance.”

“I see nothing odd about it. Maister Kennedy left the song school after dark, although his desk was piled with papers. Brother Hugh said that probably meant that Maister Kennedy intended to return. He was particular about leaving papers in order, the friar said. With a high fire burning in his office, he probably wanted a bit of fresh air. So he was walking down the street in the dark and slipped on the ice. His head slammed into a cobblestone, and he froze to death before he came to.” Meldrum pointed to the frozen ground. “I saw you slip a bit as you walked up. He was an older man, more likely to fall.”

“And I’m a lame one, but I did not. Moreover, I saw the letter in which Jannet told her father about being close to Kennedy. He admitted to me that he gave her a key to his little house in the north suburb. I am sorry, Meldrum. I still say two people who kent each other well freezing to death in less than a week is too odd a coincidence.” Law rubbed his hands together to warm them. “You really think he would go out walking in the wind we had last night?”