J. Tomlin - The Templar's Cross

“You’ll need some extra peat.”

Law grunted. A few groats for extra peat was the least of his worries. Somehow he would have to use the cross as bait to lure out a killer-preferably without getting killed himself in doing so.

The next morning, Law slapped his hands together, his breath fogging in front of him. He opened the shutters and leaned into the cold morning, craning to see up and down the alleyway and into the courtyards beyond, past angled slate roofs to where women scrubbed laundry in steaming cauldrons, while babies squalled at their feet. Men bent over their workbenches and a couple of dogs ran barking after a fleeing cat. Shouting children trailed behind.

He pulled the shutters closed and prodded the fire in the brazier to life, feeding it several lumps of peat, scolding himself for letting it go down. He took the letter he had taken from Wrycht from the breast of his doublet. The feel of parchment under his fingers reminded him of his days in the Earl of Douglas’s household sitting with the other squires while their tutor forced them to learn a few rudiments of Latin, happier days when he’d thought he knew what his future was. For a moment, he studied the words again before he thrust it into the flames. It flared, burned, and was nothing but curved ash.

With a nod of satisfaction, he walked to the door, rubbing the ache out of his thigh, and shouted down, “Cormac!”

When the minstrel came to the foot of the stairs, Law said, “I must go out for a while.” He tossed Cormac a couple of merks. “Do me a favor and procure us a hot meal. A good one, whatever you can find.” His stomach grumbled. “Buy some sausages.”

Law took his cloak from the peg where he’d hung it to dry. It was still damp around the bottom but would have to do. He threw it on and pulled up his hood and then tucked the casket under his arm. He pulled the cloak close making sure that no one could see what he carried. A sharp wind had blown away the clouds and whistled sharply through the street. It felt of winter rapidly approaching.

Law walked briskly toward High Street wondering at the quandary he had involved himself with. Wrycht and Marguerite both were lying but how much did Dave Taylor know, he wondered. Was he just following Law, or more deeply involved? Somehow Law had to use the cross as a weapon to free himself from the web of lies and murder before he ended up with his neck stretched in a noose.

He looked up at Perth’s high walls before it disappeared beyond the roof peaks of the burgh’s cluttered streets. Here he had no allies except for a minstrel, no one to guard his back, no one he could trust. The only thing that made him feel better was the thought of a full belly back at his room and ridding himself of the evidence that he had found the cross that seemed to be the cause of so much bloodshed.

He followed High Street toward the wide stone bridge that crossed the River Tay, glancing side to side to be sure he was not followed. When he spotted Dave Taylor dart into an alleyway. Cursing, he spun on this heel and darted in the opposite direction between two wagons. He turned into Meal Vennel, strode fast to turn into the first alleyway, and wended his way through the narrow, stinking passage to South Street. When he looked over his shoulder, there was no sign of the ratcatcher, but to be sure, Law made his way back to the Mercat Square, zigzagged his way through peddlers shouting bargains, as goodwives argued for better prices,

At the foot of the bridge, he turned and skirted around the retaining wall that supported it. He took one last slow look around. A wagon was clattering its way onto the bridge toward the port on the other side of the river, but no one so much as glanced Law’s way. The reeds gave up a green smell and a fish splashed in the shallows. With a hand on the stones of the wall, Law made his way down the steep slope to the reeds along the river’s edge. After a final glance over his shoulder, Law gave the casket a hard throw, aiming under the arch of the bridge. It splashed and sank.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief and began the trudge home, his leg aching from the dash back and forth through the town.

Law had only just sat on the edge of his bed, his hands plunged into his hair as he thought out what to do, when a beaming Cormac returned with a loaf of bread under one arm, a string of sausage links dangling from his hand, and a basket with a couple of roast chickens under the other arm. “You’re in a strange mood today,” he said as he laid the food out on the table. He pulled out his single-edged sgian-dubh and cut a leg off one of the birds to hand to Law.

The scent of roasted fowl and the oniony sausage made Law’s stomach grumble. He ripped the meat off with his teeth and chewed. “Mayhap. But I ken what I have to do. I have places to go today. You are not to go with me.” When Cormac opened his mouth to object, Law shook his head. “I won’t put you in more danger than I already have, and this is something that I want to be seen doing.”

“So you’re bribing me to stay put?” Cormac gave him a wry smile. “Is that the reason for all the bounty you gave me the coin for?”

Law stabbed another of the sausages and took a huge bite. “One of the reasons. Forbye after freezing last night, we both deserve it.”

Cormac frowned. “The sheriff… What he said about hanging. You think that he meant it?”

Law swallowed the sausage and followed it with a bite of the chewy bread. “Oh, aye. He meant it right enough. I have to give him someone to save my own neck. And I dinnae have long to do it.”

“But who?”

Law shrugged. “Mayhap whoever is the easiest. I’m not going to hang, that I can tell you, lad.”

Cormac scowled at him. “I told you I’m no lad.”

“No.” Law shoved the rest of the bread in his mouth. “I suppose you are not.” He jumped to his feet. “I’m going to see if I can finally discover where de Carnea was staying.”

“Why? What does it matter now?”

Law’s mouth twitched. “It will keep Dave Taylor busy as he follows me. And it will prove something to me if I find it. I am beginning to think I understand how Duncan’s murder was connected to him.”

Cormac squinted at him thoughtfully. “You just dinnae want to tell me what is going on.”

“Some things are best not telt for the nonce.”

The inn next to the Speygate Port had no name that Law had heard but was the only other in Perth that took guests. There were not all that many places in Perth with rooms to let. It was all the way down Watergate near the south wall. He trod over icy cobbles and pulled his cloak tight around him against the stinging wind that gusted through the streets. Brown leaves flew in eddies before it and swirled around his feet with a rattle like bones. He looked up at the louring sky. The dead leaves would soon be decently interred beneath winter snows.

Spey Tower, guarding the Speygate Port, rose in sight, and he glanced over his shoulder at a corner. A man trudged behind him, head drawn down into his hood. People were sparse on the street in the chill. Anyone who could stayed inside by a fire. The figure was taller than the ratcatcher and heavier through the shoulders than Wrycht, so it was a new spy. Under the cover of his cloak, Law loosened his sword in its scabbard and walked on.

Law reached the inn and chafed his cold hands in relief in its warm interior. The smoke from the fire obscured the men who sat near the hearth, and the ones at further tables gave him a brief glance before they bent back over their cups.

He stood for a moment, scanning the room looking for the innkeeper. The scrawny man in a stained apron bobbed his head when he saw Law walking toward him.

Law handed him a merk, which raised his eyebrows. At this rate, his money would run out sooner than he’d like, but what good would money do him if he hanged? “An ale would warm me up,” Law told him, “and a word with you if you’ll have a mug as well.” When a server handed him a horn cup, Law took an experimental sip. It was watered-down but not so much as to be undrinkable, so he smiled. He stepped close to the innkeeper and said, “I heard that you had a guest a few days ago, someone with words not like a Scot and remarkable blond hair, almost white.”