J. Tomlin - The Winter Kill

Law looked up from staring into the dark ale to see Cormac with a wry tilt to his mouth. He upended his cup, to slurp it down. He paused when Mall Cullen whacked her husband on the back of his head with a spoon.

“You leave that talk to the customers, man. Sir Law has more sense than to waste his coin on a light skirt, any road.”

Cormac bent over his clarsach to hide his laughter.

“It’s no joke,” Law protested. “I must find something that makes me feel that my life isn’t a waste.”

He leaned his elbows on the rough wood table and tasted the malty brew, caught in a torment he could not define. He knew from the burning in his gut that he would not survive much longer as the same man if he didn’t find some meaning in his life again. He needed prideful work that used his skills and abilities. He had once had that-and a companion who meant something to him, to go with it. It was a bitter draught that he’d had a life most men dreamed of: the gold spurs of a knight; a friend to hold his back and to be company for long nights in camp; and a strong lord to follow into battle against their enemies. All of that had drained into the dirt with their lifeblood.

Cormac straightened and strummed a soft, rippling tune. “It meant so much? Fighting for some lord who’d ride any of us down if we stepped in their way?” Cormac had little use for lords unless they would hand over silver for a song.

Law sighed. “It meant I had a place in the world. A task to set my hand to.”

“It seems to me this is nae such a bad place in the world to be.” Cormac scowled over his harp, and he gave a sudden, discordant strum. “You still have nightmares about dying in battle. About blood and death… That is what you want to go back to? Fighting and killing for some lord who kicked you aside like a dog?”

“It’s nae that simple. Fighting… it was what I was raised to do. All that I ken.”

“So you want to go back to killing?”

Law twisted in his seat. No, killing was never something he had wanted to do, just his duty.

Cormac shook his head. “And some here might even care if you are alive on the morrow.”

Wulle opened his mouth to comment. At Law’s glare, he paused but then went on and said, “You’re being an idiot.”

Outside the wind howled. Law sighed. “Aye, there’s no telling how long this storm will last, so bring a pitcher of ale and at least keep me company even if I’m an idiot.” He still felt adrift in the world, but that was no reason to take his ill-temper out on them. He shared a pitcher of ale with Cormac, Wulle, and Mall. Then they shared another. Through the night and much of the next day, the wind howled down from the mountains, and outside, snow piled into high drifts.

When Law pried his eyes open, slats of light striped his chamber. Pounding on his door blended with thrumming in his head. He lurched to his feet, stumbled to the door, and jerked it open. Sergeant Meldrum, his torso tightly bundled in his plaid and his silver mustache encrusted with ice, raised his hand to knock again.

“What’s the to-do?” Law demanded.

“Sir Law,” he said, stepping across the threshold. “The lord sheriff bids you hie to the Tolhouse.”

“What? Why?” Law rubbed at his eyes, head muzzy.

The man grimaced. “They found a dead woman outside North Street Port, and there’s a to-do about it. The sheriff wants you yon.”

“A dead woman…” Law repeated. “Someone I know? I ken nothing about a dead woman.”

“He did nae say why he wants you, but you’d best go before he’s so wroth he commands my men to drag you yon,” said the man. He motioned to the melting snow that dripped from his plaid and puddled around his feet. “The snow has stopped falling, but it’s deep. You’ll want your plaid. But hurry. I dinnae ken how long the lord sheriff will wait.”

Law nodded with reluctance. “I suppose I’d better.” The water in his ewer was rimmed with ice. When he splashed his face, it cleared some of the fog from his head. He took his cloak from its hook on the wall and wrapped his plaid over it.

In the narrow vennel, wind had sculpted the snow into hills and vales of blinding white. He floundered and ploughed through snow-clogged streets to the dour, massive, gray stone Tolhouse.

By the time he stepped through the arched doorway, his feet were numb lumps of ice. In the main hall of the Tolhouse, most of the burgh’s official business went on. Beneath a tapestry of an armored lord cheerfully thrusting his spear into an enemy’s breast stood Sir William Ruthven of Balkernoch. He was lord sheriff of the royal burgh of Perth. His arms were crossed over his burly chest, and his face was clenched like a fist. His furious gaze met Law’s.

On a trestle table in the middle of the vaulted room lay a cadaver draped with linen. There should have been an assize in session to judge her death, whether natural or no, but except for a guard at the door and a brown-robed priest, Sir William stood on the dais with only a middling man of medium build, medium thinness and sparse, medium-brown hair. The man swung his arms about as he spoke with a kind of angry dismay. “Saint Peter’s bones, I tell you she did nae do it,” the man told Ruthven as Law approached.

Sir William appeared unmoved as he replied, “There is nae a mark on her, Patrik Ross. Either unhinged she wandered into the storm, or it was self-murder.”

“She was of sound mind. Ask anyone who kent her. They’ll tell you so.”

“If she was nae unhinged, she did it deliberately. She had cause for despair, or she would nae have run off from her husband. You admitted it, man.”

Ross turned to look at the linen-draped corpse. He crossed himself, his body sagging and his face pale as whey. “I telt you that she wrote to me. Maister Kennedy had agreed to help her send her case to the Holy Father, for it was true that there was consanguinity. The cost of a dispensation was great, so we…ignored it when her marriage was negotiated. Even if there was little chance of a divorce…” He choked. “She’d nae do that. To have nae burial rites and spend eternity in Hell.” He straightened and glared at the sheriff. “I tell you, someone harmed her. Why would she have been running through a snowstorm? That makes nae sense.”

Ruthven gave a derisive snort. “Why would a priest like Kennedy help her send a petition to the Pope? It is a costly matter.” He sneered at Ross. “Out of respect to your…cousin…the Lord of the Isles, I’ll delay the verdict of the assize, but it cannae be delayed more than a few days.”

Ross must have been only a distant cousin of the powerful Lord of the Isles, judging by the sneer, but still a cousin of some sort, Law decided. But he wasn’t about to listen to them quarrel all the day. “Aye, but what does all this have to do with me?”

“Naught, but you did well enough with the matter of de Carnea’s murder those few months back. I dinnae have the time to deal with such nonsense, but I give you leave to look into it for Sir Patrik. If he can pay you.”

“I am nae pauper even though I am not the head of our clan.” Ross looked down for a long time. “She was my only daughter. Aye, if he can find the truth of it for my poor lass, I’ll pay him right enough.”

Ruthven flicked a dismissive hand. “The assize will be recalled in three days then.” He turned on his heel and took a step toward a door.

“Wait, my lord sheriff,” the priest called out. “Bide a moment. She cannae be buried, given rites, until we are sure her death was nae self-murder. What’s to be done with her body?”

The sheriff looked over his shoulder. “In this cold it will keep. Have it shoved into one of the dungeon cells until the matter is settled.” He banged the door behind him with utter finality.