J. Tomlin - The Templar's Cross

“Mere chance. A man thinking of hiring new guards would not then turn about and kill one of them for no reason.” In truth, he could think of no reason why the man would murder someone he had just hired, though it wasn’t impossible.

“Ach. I suppose not.” His eagerness faded but he said, “Do you think they’ll ever discover who the other dead one was?”

“I dinnae think they’ll bother to try to find out.” Law breathed a laugh through his nose. “No profit in it.” True, Law could have given them a name, though he had begun to wonder if it was a true one. Since it would not reveal the man’s killer to know that he’d been seeking someone found murdered, he’d keep his tongue between his teeth. He’d not uselessly risk his neck.

“Aye, and they’ll be strictly tasked with keeping peace in the burgh since there’s trouble afoot.” Wulle lowered his voice and looked around but paid Cormac no attention as the man joined them. “The king has become right nasty to lords who don’t keep the peace. One of the Campbells stole an old woman’s cow, claiming it for his own, and even nailed horseshoes to her feet when she threatened to go to the king.”

“The king heard of it?”

“When King Jamie got word, they say he had the Campbell dragged to a dungeon, where he yet sits.”

Law leaned back, with a skeptical huff. “Do you think that it’s true?”

“They say so. And he’s right fond of Perth, stays at Blackfriars for every parliament he calls. Besides, now he’s arrested his uncle for treason, so he’ll be even more determined to keep peace here in Perth, so the sheriff will be keeping the king sweet.”

“He’s arrested Albany, you mean?” Law’s mouth tightened. This would certainly mean fighting, perhaps even open rebellion. With the king returned to Scotland so recently… Law shook his head. It would be chaos for the country if the king were overthrown.

Dave the ratcatcher had edged close to the table. Both hands were wrapped around his horn cup and his face buried in it, but Law was sure the man was listening.

“What’s to do?” Law demanded. There was something about the man that made the back of his neck prickle. Odd that since Duncan’s death, everywhere he went the man seemed to be there.

The man bobbed his head at Wulle. “Just about to ask if he wants me to take me dog to the storage room.” He nudged his brown, rough-coated terrier with a boot that was little more than rags. “We’ll see no rats be in the oats and barley.”

“No need to listen to our talk to do that,” Cormac said, but the ratcatcher gave him a cringing shrug.

The blue eyes under his greasy hair were taking everything in, and there was a wry twist to his thin lips.

Wulle held up a hand. “I’ll give you a pence for any rat you kill but only a fresh-killed one, mind. I’ll not be cheated with dead ones you sneak in.”

The ratcatcher tugged his forelock and, terrier at his heels, slinked towards a door that led to the back, where Wulle had a storage shed.

The innkeeper shrugged. “I ken of no harm in him except he’ll claim to have caught more than he did given the chance.” He took a pull on his mug before he leaned toward Law. “The Duke of Albany is the king’s prisoner along with two of his sons.” Wulle lowered his voice even more. “And they say Albany’s youngest, Fat John, is raising an army in the west. It’s outright rebellion but if the Douglas and the Earl of Mar are siding with the king…”

The new Earl of Douglas would be fighting at the king’s side. For a moment, Law squeezed the hilt of his sword, his mouth twisting. Here he was, stuck like a merchant in Perth because of his curst leg. Yet Douglas knew Law was a good man in a fight. It was not fair, but when had dukes and earls ever been fair?

Cormac took the cup that Wulle handed him and filled it. “As long as they’re not fighting here, what has it to do with us?” He took a long draught of the ale. “Kings, dukes, and earls are no business of mine, except in songs.”

Law’s laugh felt like bitter dregs. “Nor mine anymore, it would seem.”

Wulle raised his eyebrows. “So that lord is not going to take you on?”

“All talk.” His business was his own and he’d certainly not share it with a gossiping tavern keeper. “When it came to it, he decided he had enow guards. Anyroad, if there is to be fighting, someone must have room in their tail for a lordless knight, mayhap even one with a limp.” He drained his cup. “I think I’ll have a word at the guesthouses and feel out if anyone is looking, since my guest yesterday was a waste of my time.”

“Who else forbye Douglas and Mar do you think will ride with the king?” Wulle asked.

Law made his face wooden though his stomach was bile. “I dinnae ken. But I must find a way to pay my keep, so I’m off.”

Beyond the gray frame of the city walls, the weather was dreary with clouds strung from the distant hills like funeral shrouds. Shops of two or more stories towered over the rough paving stone of the street, cheek by jowl. Their outthrust upper stories frowned down at him, indifferent to the murders of yesterevening. His thoughts were so fixed on untangling the skein of events that he nearly stumbled over a granite paving stone fixed before the hostelry. He caught himself with a hand on the stone wall of the place and shook himself. Woolgathering could earn him a blade in his belly.

Reidheid’s Hostel was near the kirk-end of South Street, a better neighborhood than where Law made his home, not a surprising place to bide for a man with good Scottish pounds in his purse who also did not want it noised about that he was in Perth. It was an imposing stone building with a stable and yard. Inside, he sat by the fire and stared up the stairs to where he hoped to find his erstwhile employer, more than curious about how the man would take the news of de Carnea’s death and if he’d want to continue the search for-whatever he searched for.

When Law spotted the middle-aged hostel keeper, round of face and tidily dressed beneath a clean apron, he signaled the man and ordered a cup of the best malmsey. When the man returned with it, Law put a merk on the table and held it down with a forefinger.

“Aye, sir. Is there aught that you need?”

“I am seeking an old friend who I believe may bide here. He has dark hair with a touch of gray and a beard, in his thirties and middling height.”

“I suppose that might be Maister Wrycht in the first room upstairs.” The hostel keeper gave a side-glance to the stairs and then down to the coin under Law’s finger. When he turned back to Law, he lowered his voice, bending closer. “He paid me merk to bring him any message that came for Lord Blinsele.”

“Good,” Law said with a smile and lifted his finger from the coin. “I’ve been in France for too long and lost track of many of my friends, so I’m right glad to find him.”

The man palmed the coin with a nod of his head. “I hope it’s who you seek, sir. Would you like a meal, mayhap?”

“No, I thank you. I’ll just enjoy your excellent wine.”

He sipped it as the man left. In a far corner, a minstrel tucked his vielle under his chin and began to bow a tune as Law emptied his cup. He took a deep breath and looked around. No one was paying him any heed so he slipped up the stairs, loosening his sword in its sheath.

Law knocked. When no one answered, he hammered harder. The man who had called himself Lord Blinsele opened it at last, dressed only in hose, linen shirt and unfastened doublet. His eyes widened and a flush traveled from his neck up his face.

Law gave a half bow and said, “Good day to you.”

At the pleasantry the man’s face looked calmer, but his look was still wary. He let out a heavy breath and said, “Come in, Sir Law.”