J. Tomlin - The Templar's Cross

When Wrycht kept going past the market square, Law hung back, keeping his head down and face shadowed by his hood, distantly following him as he turned into Curling Vennel and then into a narrow alleyway, stinking of mold and refuse. His footsteps echoed in the deserted passage and Law waited until they were fainter before he followed. He darted around the corner. Here narrow houses with barred shutters squeezed together in claustrophobic proximity so near they closed off the sky.

Wrycht stopped and looked behind him. Head down, Law approached a door and raised his hand as though to knock. Law felt the man’s gaze, so he hammered and waited, watching the man from the corner of his eyes. Wrycht seemed satisfied and opened a door to duck inside. The door where Law had knocked opened a crack and a woman’s eye peered out at him.

“Wrong house,” he said with a shrug.

The house Wrycht entered was one of the better in the alley with a solid chimney and a fenced kailyard in the rear now overgrown with weeds. In one of the windows, dim candlelight filtered through the cracks in a shutter. Law took a deep breath, checked to be sure he was unobserved, and crept to press his back to the wall. Craning his neck, he peered through the crack.

The gloom of the room was only partially lifted by flickering light from the hearth that revealed solid but unpolished table and chairs, an old-fashioned sideboard with pewter flagon and cups, and several stacked kists in the corner. Worn stairs led to the upper floor. Through an open door he could see cook pots and metal pans thrown onto shelves.

Marguerite stood, her back to the window. Her hair, loosed and untamed, streamed around her ivory face and over the front of her shoulders in a dark waterfall. Wrycht stepped into view to stand behind her. He ran both hands down her arms and nuzzled the back of her neck.

She turned her head, her lips pursed into a faint, smug smile. One of Wrycht’s hands slid around her to cup her breast. Law gritted against a snarl as he stepped softly back, only to curse under his breath when his foot sank into a puddle of muck. He loosened his sword in its sheath as he went to the door and tried it, unsurprised to find it locked.

Two hard kicks burst the lock and it swung open. Marguerite gave a high, squeaking gasp. Wrycht held his left hand up as he backed up a step, fumbling with the right at the hilt of his dirk.

Law smirked, hand resting negligently on his own hilt. “You dinnae want to do that.”

Marguerite stared at him, face blank with astonishment, and sank onto a chair. “How did you find us?”

“It was not gey hard, hen.”

“You followed me,” Wrycht said in an accusing tone. “I was sure I was followed but couldn’t spot you.”

“Mayhap I’m better at this spying business than I thought. I should thank you for causing me to realize it even though the both of you have lied every step of the way.”

Marguerite glared at Wrycht and then at Law. “It wasn’t lies, or parts of it weren’t. There is a treasure but it’s already been found. Now Johne is trying to get it back. We had to be sure that you did not have it.” She glared at Wrycht again. “Not that it was his idea.”

The corner of Wrycht’s eye twitched. “And I do have money to pay for its return.” He reached for a rickety chair and pulled it near her to sit down.

“Are you saying that de Carnea had it?” Law asked.

Wrycht’s face had smoothed and he lifted his chin in a defiant look, but he blinked at the question. “Whoever killed him took it. I telt you that.”

“Or de Carnea hid it,” Law said.

Shaking his head furiously, Wrycht said, “Would he have left it behind in some inn? It isn’t as though he kent Perth or was from here to ken some hiding place for it. No. Someone took it from him.”

“How did he acquire it in the first place?” Law leaned his back against the wall near the door, idly running his fingers over the hilt of his sword. “You lied about meeting him in Rome, obviously. So what is the truth? Let’s start with that. Why could only de Carnea find the cross?”

Marguerite dropped her gaze modestly to her lap. “It was not totally a lie. We did join forces in Rome, but it was more complicated. De Carnea had the letter that said where to find it. But traveling in Scotland is dangerous and we were…already acquainted. Johne knew Scotland, so working together was natural. He could reach the cross where it was hidden, and we would divide up the profits for sharing the risk.”

Law smirked. “And what did you ken?”

Her lips thinned into a slit with fury. “I knew a buyer.”

“That doesnae answer why only he could retrieve the cross.”

“Oh, by all the saints!” Wrycht jumped to his feet and strode around, flexing his hands. “It was hidden and only he had the letter saying where. It was in Latin and I do well to make out my letters in good Scots. Yes, many others ken Latin but not ones we were going to show the letter. Mayhap he had been a cleric that he kent Latin. We were to meet to begin the journey to England to meet the buyer and-” He threw his hands up in the air. “-de Carnea disappeared.”

Marguerite turned to Wrycht and scowled at him.

Law suppressed a smile. “So the buyer is English.”

“Aye. Well, one is. It isnae as though there is only one buyer in the world for such a thing.”

“How big-”

The door banged open and Dave the ratcatcher scurried in, panting. “I cannae find him!”

Law snorted a soft laugh and reached over to slap the door closed behind the man. “Forbye I am found.”

Dave’s eyes were wide and moist. He looked Law up and down without meeting his eyes. After a moment his gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders hunched. Wrycht was stuttering wordlessly, but Marguerite had a tiny smile on her lips.

“So…you hired the ratcatcher here to spy upon me.” Law glared at them, one by one, though by the saints it was becoming almost funny. How many ways were there for the pair of them to lie and deceive? “You’ve both lied the whole time and two men are dead. Don’t even think that I am going to hang for it.” Suddenly, he stepped to Dave Taylor and grabbed him by his filthy shirt to slam him against the wall so hard the man’s head bounced. “And you… you sleekit weasel, keep away from me. Because if I catch you following me again, I’ll give you a beating you will ne’er forget.” He gave the man an off-handed backhand blow, threw him one last glare, and strolled with deliberate insolence out the door, letting it bang closed behind him.

He muttered curses as he stormed down the street, receiving wary glances from the people he passed. So much for making easy money, though he was not sure that the trio believed he didn’t have the cross.

Cormac was sitting near where Mall stirred her pot over a peat fire, idly plucking random notes on his clarsach. The polished wood harp sat in his lap, its neck tucked under his chin, and when he played the music seemed to be one of the last beautiful things in a dark, grim world.

“Cannae you sing, if you’re gonnae play?” the woman complained.

“No customers to sing for yet.” The minstrel plucked one last shivering note and looked around at Law. “About time you came back. Every single body in Perth has been looking for you. Sergeant Meldrum came seeking you. Said Sir William wants a word with you after the Nones bell. That cannae be good.”

Mall banged her spoon against the edge of her pot, tasted the pottage she was making, licked her lips, and then said, “Ach, then that ratcatcher tried to go up to your room, but I saw him off right sharp.”

“Aye, he was sneaking whilst I played and nearly slipped past. The ratcatcher was…” With a thoughtful look, Cormac tucked his instrument back under his chin. “He was even odder than usual.”