J. Tomlin - The Templar's Cross

Law hunched his shoulders against the cold and pain. He forced one foot wearily in front of the other. Briefly, he considered looking for help, but the windows were dark and doors no doubt barred. It was unlikely anyone would risk opening a door to a stranger. The wind whipped his cloak, and the dark night wrapped around him like a dank shroud.

He could no longer feel his fingers where he held his cloak closed. It seemed to have been hours that he had taken one lurching step after the other. Had it been hours? He leaned a shoulder against a wall and allowed his head to loll. Then he shook himself. He had been through worse. He wouldn’t allow this to kill him.

He almost fell into the vennel where the tavern was located. He was done by the time he reached the door and uncurled his stiff hand to pull on it. It was barred. He leaned his forehead against it and croaked, “Wulle.” Pounded on it with a fist. He tried to pound on it again but found himself sinking to his knees.

Wulle opened the door and Law tumbled inside on the floor.

Law tried to open his eyes, but the lids were gummed together. He lifted a hand to rub them and grunted at the pain when it moved the muscles in his side. Then he remembered why it hurt. “Wulle?”

“No, it’s me.” Cormac patted his arm. “I’m glad to see you coming around. At first we thought they had killed you.”

“I’m not easy to kill.” Law tried to push himself up, but it hurt too much. He grabbed Cormac’s arm, frowning. “There were four of them. Keep an eye out for a burly man, nose smashed in.”

Cormac put a firm hand on his shoulder to hold him still. Early morning light was filtering into the room and Cormac had built the fire in the brazier as large as it would go. “Lie still. We washed that slash with uisge beatha and bandaged it up. It just hit the meat, but you must have bled like a stuck pig from the looks of your clothes.”

Law rubbed weakly at his face. Thankfully he had another doublet but replacing that one would cut into his stash of coins. Then he wondered how many coins he yet had. “Did I still have my purse?”

“Not the purse at your belt, but I found the one in your boot top when I pulled them off.” Cormac rose and went to the table where Law saw the purse he’d stuffed into his high boot tops, a bowl sending up a tendril of steam, and a pitcher he hoped was ale. “Mistress Mall sent up a good, rich broth for you and some ale to build your strength.”

That purse had most of his coin in it, but…the costs and additional loss meant he would be short on coin for the winter. He glanced towards the floorboards where the cross was hidden. Finding a buyer would not be easy, but perhaps he should consider at least moving it. He shook his head, sending his vision spinning. That would have to wait.

After Cormac helped him sit up, Law slurped down the mutton broth, not bothering with a spoon. Then he held the mug of ale and stared up at the odd-shaped stains on the ceiling. The lord sheriff had only given him a few days, and there was no way he could do anything today. He would have to be up on the morrow but however much it hurt. He had only two days left before the sheriff would be after him. This was spiraling out of hand fast. He sighed and looked at Cormac. “Would you do me a favor?”

“Certes.”

Law narrowed his eyes at the minstrel. He’d never meant for the young man to become his friend, but he was. And now Law was going to put him at even more risk. “Do you have a doublet a bit less…colorful than that one?”

Cormac ran a fond hand down the striped doublet that was his usual attire. “I have a tunic I wear when this is being washed. But it’s dull, a boring brown.”

“You have a plaid?” When Cormac nodded with an insulted look at the idea of a Highlander who had no plaid, Law went on. “Wear that as your cloak. You’ll look completely different than the minstrel they’ve seen here. I need you to check the house where I found Johne Wrycht and Marguerite de Neuillay. See if anyone is there, but by the love of the Blessed Virgin, be careful.” Law ran his hand over his face again, horrified at involving the minstrel further in such danger. “If you even think they might have spotted you, come straight back. Just…just watch if you see either of them coming or going, nothing more. I especially want to ken if the men who attacked me report to the two of them.”

Cormac looked delighted at what he seemed to think was a grand adventure. He poured Law another cup of ale and after Law gave him directions to the house gamboled out with a wave over his shoulder.

Alone, Law pushed back the covers to examine the injury but his midriff was completely wrapped in linen bandage. As far as he could see, twisting around, there was no blood on the bandage so that was a good sign. He got up from the bed and lurched against the wall with a wave of pain. After a couple of deep breaths, he limped to the stool and sat down. He drained his cup. Even on the morrow it would be hard for him to get around, but he’d have to manage the strength for it. How was he going to force answers out of anyone when he couldn’t even stand upright? With a sigh, he went back to his narrow bed to crawl carefully under the woolen blanket. He pulled it around his shoulders and allowed himself to drift off.

When Law awoke the next morning, Cormac still had not returned. The fire in the brazier had gone out. He wrapped the blanket around himself and staggered to the basket that held pieces of peat. He put a couple in the brazier along with some sticks and got it lit. Wobbling a bit, he stared at the flames, and hoped that Cormac had not found himself in trouble. Was he mad to have involved a minstrel in this murderous business? He touched the painful injury in his side. Had they been after the letter? Had they thought he had the devil-spawn cross everyone was seeking?

He threw off the blanket and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his stubbly jaw. Keeping the cross here was risky, but where else could he hide it? He had nowhere that might be safe. As well the risk of being attacked again whilst he was carrying it couldn’t be dismissed. There was no way he could possibly fight off an attacker in his present condition. As he pulled clothes from the kist to dress, his legs trembled from weakness. But once he had food in his belly, he’d be strong enough to manage, he was sure. His leg stiff from the unaccustomed workout, he limped down the stairs, legs shaky, and halfway had to lean against the wall for a moment. Keeping a hand on the wall, he managed the rest of the way into the tavern.

Mistress Mall exclaimed when she saw him. “Ach, what do you mean rising from your bed? You’ll undo all my work bandaging your wound. Sit you down before you fall.”

Law twitched a smile at the woman’s indignation as he lowered himself gingerly onto a bench. She thumped a bowl of thick porridge on the table in front of him, sprinkled a pinch of salt onto it, and thrust a horn spoon in, muttering all the while about men who are too stubborn for their own good. After he ate, Law put the cup down and belched, amazed at how much better he felt. The door opened and the wind caught it to bang it against the wall. Cormac sauntered in, smirking with satisfaction.

A smile of relief spread across Law’s face. “You were gone a long time!”

Cormac sat down across the table from him, still grinning. “You dinnae look nearly so much like a bogle as you did yesterday.”

Waving away the minstrel’s comment, Law demanded, “What about Marguerite and Wrycht? Were they there? Did you see anyone looking like mercenaries, like my friend with the smashed nose?”

“She was the only one there, or at least I think she was. I borrowed a piece of tack from a cousin. So I sat not far from the house and pretended I was mending it. Someone was inside. I just saw their shadow passing behind the shutters, pacing it seemed like. It had just gone dusk when Wrycht came but no one else. Then the lights went out.” He wriggled his eyebrows and gave a sardonic grin. “I saw no more of them so they must have been cozy.”