J. Tomlin - The Templar's Cross

A wet wind flapped Law’s cloak as he walked. It howled between the narrow two-story shops and houses, carrying a scent of snow to come, but beneath it there was still the stink of seeping gutters. Law walked slowly to Reidheid’s Hostelry and asked the innkeeper for Maister Wrycht. He was told that the man had left some hours before. Law snorted softly through his nose, hardly surprised. He sat in a far corner as patrons came and went, watching the stairs up to Wrycht’s room and the door to the inn, relieved that if the man had been following him there was no sign of him. The thick ale Law ordered had a bitter herbal taste, its rich malt taste filling his mouth after two more cups, but he found no pleasure in it as he considered the mess he had involved himself in. He rubbed the lump on his head and felt like a fool.

@Law recognized Dave Taylor, his patched cloak shoved back, when he sidled through the front door of the inn but the innkeeper’s wife met him exclaiming, “Ach! Out with you. We’ve no rats here for you to catch.” The man ducked his head, his eyes darting toward Law as he left.

Law frowned after him as the door closed behind the strange man. What business did he have following Law about? He did it for a day’s wages, no doubt, though it made his head ache to wonder who would pay. But a day’s wages was hard enough to earn, especially for a man in the service of no lord. He could almost sympathize with the poor sod.

Once, he’d followed his own lord about as a squire, eager for praise and encouragement, had been knighted by the Earl’s own hand. Law had worked hard in the Douglas’s service and for a wage, being landless. He and the earl’s eldest son had known each other, had practiced in the same yard as lads. That didn’t mean he’d take into his service a lame man. He had made that more than clear.

“Monsignor,” the innkeeper cried and scurried to the staircase to meet a cleric descending. He bowed deeply.

Tilting his head, Law studied the newcomer. He was familiar, dark hair neatly trimmed around his tonsure and wearing a finely woven brown woolen robe. He felt a jolt of cold when he recognized the king’s secretary, John Cameron. Odd…

“May I bring you anything, Monsignor?”

“I cannot seem to rest so I’ll stroll in the yard for a bit.”

“Do you need your guards?” The landlord looked around and seemed to spot what he was looking for in the crowd, but the cleric brushed him off.

“I’ll nae be going that far from the doors. I merely want a breath of fresh air.”

Wrycht swaggered in as Cameron left, all smiles and cheerful greetings for the innkeeper. Law stood, his head a bit muzzy from the ale, which made him curse himself for his carelessness. The man glanced at Law and then toward his room as though he might want to escape, but after a moment’s pause, he nodded amiably to Law. He said a word to the innkeeper and motioned. When the innkeeper hurried over with another cup, Law filled it for Wrycht and then filled his own, but merely moistened his lips when he raised it to his mouth.

Wrycht took a sip before asking, “Did you find anything?”

“No, but someone found me.”

Leaning forward, Wrycht eyed the bruise and split on Law’s forehead. “You live, but do they?”

“I thought mayhap you could tell me.”

“I? How could I tell you?” He scowled at Law. “You think I sent them?”

“The thought occurred to me.” Law swirled the dark ale in his cup, thinking of who might be waiting for him in the night where he would need a steady hand, perhaps the same who had managed to kill Duncan, but he wouldn’t let a good ale go to waste, so he downed half of it in a long, malty swallow. “There are people who think they have reason to be interested in what I may ken.”

“People?” The man gave a reassuring smile. “Not anyone I sent. Why would I? It makes no sense.”

“It might…if you think I have something you want.” Had a word out of the man’s mouth been the truth?

“No, I had nothing to do with any attack on you…on my word of honor. But…this…means someone else kens why I am in Perth. It must.” His Adam’s apple bobbed, but he met Law’s gaze.

“Was there any doubt?” Law swallowed the dregs of his ale. He made his way to the door, Wrycht sputtering an incoherent response behind him. He’d find out exactly how much Wrycht was not telling him. With his hand on his hilt, he walked along the silent High Street, through darkness broken only by a vague glow from braziers down the streets and flashes of moonlight that escaped through the clouds. He turned onto Meal Vennel towards the room he called home.

Cormac had gathered up the clothes that had been strewn on the floor and piled them in front of the kist. Law grinned that Cormac had gathered them up but balked at putting them away. Grateful that his other cloak was dark, he kept that and a black doublet out, then dropped the rest into the kist, closed it, stripped to his small clothes, and flopped into bed. He drew the threadbare coverlet up to his chest. With luck he’d drunk enough that he’d not dream of desperately swinging his blade as he stood above Alan’s body on a bloody field, whilst behind him the Douglas screamed his last.

With the shutters swung open, he began to pry out the wooden window frame, an oiled animal skin stretched tight across it. In the profound hush of predawn, it squealed as it came loose and he leaned it against the wall. He paused to be sure the noise had not brought attention. Night had faded to a murky gray, and though the moon had gone he could make out the shape of the building only a few feet away. He went out the window feet first, dangled by his fingertips for a second, and let go to land with a soft grunt of pain.

He pulled up the cloak’s hood. His breath fogged in the chill air. The narrow passage led to another between close-built buildings on burgage lots like a maze but eventually led to Methven Street. Then he walked down to High Street. Even in the faint light, a few farmers and merchants were setting out their stalls in the market square around the Mercat Cross. Law had forgotten it was fair day, with more people than usual about early in the day.

When he reached Reidheid’s Hostelry, the first yellow light of sunrise spread itself against the clouds above the city wall. In the dim courtyard, he stumbled over a shovel. Cursing under his breath, he found a narrow opening, little more than a crack, between the stable and the hostelry.

Two stable lads were leading out horses that stamped and shook their clanking tack. Cameron strode out, grim-faced, followed by two guards. They clattered their way into the street. The lads went grumbling back into the stable, and silence enveloped the yard. Law pulled his cloak close and prepared for a long wait. A fine drizzle began to fall. He sighed. A cock crowed and hens scattered across the yard clucking. The sun was trying to break through the overcast, sending out watery beams that reflected in muddy puddles when a figure appeared in the inn’s door wearing a heavy blue cloak and pulling the hood up over his dark hair. The man-even in the dim light, Law recognized Wrycht-strode quickly along St. John’s Street, glancing over his shoulder as though watching for a pursuer.

Law waited until Wrycht was almost out of sight to follow. The noisy crowd of buyers and sellers in the market square soon swallowed Johne Wrycht up. Following behind, Law used the crowd to stay out of sight. He slid between goodwives with baskets who picked over stalls of kale and fresh-baked bread, past chickens that clucked and screeched in cages stacked in stalls, servants scurrying to and fro, and past marketers who pushed barrows filled with goods to refill their booths. Apprentices shouted their maisters’ wares as burgesses strolled in fine gowns. Law lost sight of Wrycht but elbowed his way through until he saw the movement of the blue cloak through an opening in the crush.