J. Tomlin - The Winter Kill

Patrik Ross’s face was so pallid it was nearly green. He stumbled to the wall and propped himself up with a trembling hand. “Shove her into one of the dungeons…” he moaned. He grimaced and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Turning his gaze to Law, he asked, “What am I to do?”

Law couldn’t help his heavy sigh. “Who found her? I need to learn more about what happened.”

Ross waved vaguely toward the door. “They sent him away when the assize was dismissed, but someone can direct you to him.”

Law patted the man’s shoulder sympathetically. “You bide at Blackfriars?” When Ross nodded, Law continued, “Hie yon, and I’ll come speak with you.” The man obviously needed time to regain his composure.

Shoulders slumped, Ross trudged away. Law waved back the guards who were about to lift the draped body upon the planks where it lay. He pulled the sheet back.

The body was discolored, mottled from having been frozen in the snow. Her mouth was open in rictus. In a scream? It might have dropped open if she had lain on her back in the snow. He needed to learn how she had lain. Her arms were cocked with her hands near her head, still stiff and unmovable when Law tried to straighten the elbow. The fingers were outstretched, claw-like. The mottling of the skin made it impossible to tell whether there were bruises, but there were no cuts to be seen.

Law shook his head. Something was odd about her appearance, but who could know what paroxysms she might have had as she died.

At Blackfriars Abbey, a wiry and grizzled friar, a plaid wrapped over his black hooded cloak as protection from the icy wind, led Law through the winter garden toward the guesthouses. They made their way round the walkway beneath high vaulting, past the refectory where the scent of beans, kale, and onions cooking for the next meal drifted, and through a narrow covered passage between the large chapter house and the chapel.

The silent friar led Law into a snow-piled courtyard that led to the guest lodgings. To the right was the ornate gleaming marble facade of the royal lodging where the king resided when he visited his favorite city. He preferred to hold his parliaments in Perth. Across the courtyard facing them was the guest hall where Law was to meet Patrik Ross, who was staying there as did many when in Perth. They passed through the snowy courtyard that held several marble benches serving to help pile up snow, a wooden shelter stacked with faggots, and a line of rose bushes bare except for jagged icicles.

“Sir Patrik should be in the last room in the corridor,” the friar said. He opened the door, motioned for Law to proceed, and left, softly closing the door.

The gray daylight coming through the windows made little difference in the unlit corridor. The walls were paneled in pine, and a large crucifix and painted woodcuts of Saint Andrew and Saint Dominic hung on the wall. At Law’s knock, Sir Patrik Ross opened the door.

His sparse hair stood on end as though he’d been running his hands through it. He was ordinary, just a bland, aging man with a ruddy complexion; his clothing was of good quality, but his dark wool houppelande hung askew. Ross bowed rather stiffly and motioned for Law to enter.

The chamber was tolerably furnished with a cushioned settle, two stools at a small table, an unlit brazier, and a door leading to another room. On each side of the window hung a narrow, slightly faded tapestry. Law took a seat by the window, facing Ross.

“Do you think you can help us?” Ross asked.

Law raised an eyebrow. “Us?”

“My poor daughter and me.” He shook his head. “It may be hopeless. I ken that.”

“It may be hopeless, and it may not be. We will satisfy ourselves one way or the other, Sir Patrik. You said she wrote a letter.”

“A cleric wrote it for her since she could nae write herself; she did nae say who.” He got it out of the top of a small oaken kist sitting against the wall. “I dinnae see how you can just go around and find out things about her from people.”

Law shrugged. “I’ll just let people tell me about her. Most likely they’ll want to talk about what happened, so it won’t be as hard as you think.”

The letter was written in a fine hand, and at the bottom was a clumsily written signature. It read: I’d nae have you fash yourself, Father. I am safe and snug in Saint Leonard's Priory. The prioress has treated me most kindly, and mornings I aid the canonesses in the hospital where they serve the ill of Perth. Archibald had my clothing conveyed to me and a few coins from my dower lands’ rents so I dinnae suffer want.

But I must tell you wonderful news, Father. Maister Kennedy made my acquaintance whilst one of his students was confined at the hospital. He was most wonderful in visiting the boy, a beacon of kindness. When he heard my sad story, he vowed to aid me. He gave me his oath that he will see my case conveyed before the Holy Father. No one can deny that my grandfather was a cousin to Archibald’s. The consanguinity cannae be denied. We should have never been wed.

Law asked, “This Maister Kennedy? Who is that?”

“He’s the maister at the Saint John’s song school. A well-respected cleric, I have heard, though I have nae met the man.”

Law frowned at the letter in his hand. A cleric who barely knew her offering such aid was strange. But then he hadn’t known her or the cleric, so perhaps he was wrong. “I’ll need to speak to this Maister Kennedy. His offering to aid her with a divorce must have surprised you.”

Ross paused. “A bit. I thought mayhap he was trying to ease her mind, just spinning a tale.”

“How long ago did the letter reach you?”

“Only two weeks past. You can see that she was well. She had no reason to harm herself. She would have never run out into a storm, so someone must have forced her.”

“Yet there was nae a mark on her.”

“You won’t help us? The lord sheriff said-”

“I shall try, but I won’t lie to you. I’ll find out what I can and piece together what I find into some alternatives. Then I’ll check out the alternatives.”

“Please. Try.”

“A little more information would help. About her and this marriage she was escaping.”

“She was the only child live-born with my first lady wife. That was a hard thing to have only one bairn, but we doted on her. My wife died three years ago just before Jannet married Sir Archibald Dunbar, cousin four times removed from the present Lord Dunbar.” He flickered a wan smile. “I have a wee son from my new wife. Any road, Sir Archibald is well set up with a tower keep nae far from Linlithgow, so it was a good match. But her marriage did nae go well; he kept a whore and shoved it into my lass’s face. Brought the woman into their very bed. If only he had been a little bit more sensible about it, kept his light wench privily as a decent man would…she would nae have taken insult and left.” He shook his head dejectedly. “He could have dragged her back, and none would have telt him nae, but he thought she’d return. Mayhap she would have. In the meantime, his whore kept him well occupied, I heard tell. ”

“Where is he the now? Do you ken?”

“Here in Perth. He rode here after he received word she was dead. I suppose because it would have looked ill had he not.”

“Her dowry? It will be returned to you, I suppose?”

Ross frowned. “Aye. I hadn’t thought of it, but of course.”

“And she was staying at Saint Leonard's Priory. So some there must have kent her or at the hospital if she aided the canonesses in their work.” There would be an infirmarer at Saint Leonard's Priory who would be worth speaking to as well as Sir Archibald and Maister Kennedy. “How long will you be staying in Perth?”