To Kiss A Kilted Warrior (6 page)

Wulf stopped the cart before a building displaying an iron horseshoe. “The blacksmith will know of a cottager willing to take us in.”

He ducked inside the barn, leaving Morag in the cart. She glanced about, a tingle of alarm running down her spine. A blind man stood in front of the smithy, his hat in his hand. Two doors down, a woman leaned against a hewed post, her skirts hiked up to display an ankle. And across the wynd another man with a hood pulled over his head was selling a pair of women’s boots that were clearly not his own.

Heartbeat quickening, Morag clasped the hilt of the knife at her belt and waited for Wulf to return.

*   *   *

With arrangements made to board the pony and store the cart, Wulf traded the dim confines of the blacksmith’s barn for the gray chill of an early March afternoon. He immediately spied the empty seat of the cart and halted abruptly, his throat dry.

“Morag?”

“Aye.” She popped up on the other side of the cart. In her hands was a cloth doll with one eye missing and a torn arm oozing dried grass stuffing.

He circled the cart to find a wee lassie at her knee. “Who have we here?”

“This is Saraid,” Morag said, nodding to her soot-smudged young companion, who looked to be about six years of age. “Her da works for the tanner.”

“The smithy says the tanner has rooms to let.”

Morag smiled at the young girl. “That’s what Saraid told me as well.”

“But the odor in a tannery is near unbearable,” Wulf said. “So we’ll try the candlemaker instead.”

Wulf unhitched the pony and walked it into the barn. While he gave the creature a good rub and saw it fed, Morag took a needle and thread from her pouch and mended the doll’s sundered limb. Grinning broadly, the lass took the doll. She thanked Morag profusely and then darted off to resume her task of gathering piss pots from neighboring bothies. An unpleasant task, to be sure, but the urine was used by the tanner to finish his leathers.

“You’ve made a strong ally,” Wulf said as the girl disappeared around the corner.

“Allies are useful in this part of town, I should imagine.”

“True enough.” He gathered the bolts of cloth and their sacks of clothing and led the way down the wynd. “Just keep your purse tucked close. Cutpurses learn their trade young.”

Morag frowned and opened the drawstring on her pouch. “You don’t think . . . ?”

He chuckled. “Nay, but be wary.”

The candlemaker was a short man with a puckered scar covering a third of his face. He noted Morag’s quickly disguised curiosity and pointed to his face. “An incident involving hot wax,” he explained. “Happened when I was a wee lad.”

“Listen not to that man,” called his wife from across the room. “The truth is far more sordid and involves a fool too deep in his cups.”

The candlemaker grinned.

He led them to the stairs beyond two great vats of melted wax. “Down the passage to the right. You’ll need to launder your own linens.”

Wulf nodded.

“How long will you need the room?”

“No more than a sennight. We’ve cloth to trade.”

The candlemaker grunted. “Edinburgh is known for its cloth. You may not have an easy time of it.”

Morag frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The weavers’ guild will levy a tax on your goods,” the portly man said. “The price of woolens made in the burgh will likely be more favorable than your own.”

When Wulf spied the storm brewing in Morag’s eyes, he nudged her up the stairs. “Thank you for the honesty, Master Toulie.”

“I will not sell my cloth for less than I can at Dunstoras,” she whispered to him as they climbed. “Ruse or no ruse.”

“Let us see what tomorrow brings,” he replied.

Morag opened the door to their chamber and groaned. “Why ever did I agree to accompany you on this madcap mission?”

He peered over her shoulder. The room was tiny, barely bigger than the bed inside. But it was not the narrow confines that drew her dismay—it was the stained, threadbare mattress hanging on drooping bed ropes, and the rank reeds upon the floor.

“’Tis only for a few nights,” he said encouragingly.

“A few nights passed in this room, and we’ll spend a fortnight itching and scratching,” she responded.

“Can you not set it right?”

She spun to face him. “I suppose I should be grateful that your faith in me is so great.”

Wulf lowered his bundles to the floor in the passageway. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll fetch it.”

“A broom,” she said. “And some dried feverfew to tuck inside that pallet. I’ll not sleep with vermin, even for you.”

He gathered her to his chest, relishing the soft warmth of her body against the uncompromising firmness of his. He planted a kiss on the top of her head, inhaling her sweet scent. “You are a fine woman, Morag Cameron.”

She allowed herself to be held for a brief moment, then pushed at his chest with both hands. “Off you go, then. Tide and time tarry for no man.”

Releasing her, he stepped back.

“And fetch the tarp from the cart.” She rolled up the sleeves of her sark and lifted one corner of the mattress, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

Wulf set off in search of her demands. This was the Morag he knew and loved. Since the attack in her bothy, she’d been a wee subdued, a little less assured. But Morag with purpose was a force to be reckoned with.

He grinned.

God help the town of Edinburgh.

*   *   *

They set out for the High Street just before dawn, when the dark of night still held sway and the moon shone bright as a silver denier in the sky. The market was quiet but industrious—vendors of all sorts were laying out their wares by torchlight. Fishmongers from Leith with their baskets of conger and garvie, bakers with steaming bread rounds and buttery pastries, shoemakers with footwear of every size, and farmers with sheaves of grass and the bruised remains of last season’s neeps, leeks, and apples.

Morag spied samplings of almost every good she could imagine—and some she didn’t recognize. Had she not her own goods to trade, it would have been tempting to investigate.

“There,” Wulf said, pointing to a group of men arranging bolts of cloth on the flat displays of several booths.

Dodging a lad wheeling a barrel of pickled beets, they approached the cloth vendors. One of them, a reed-thin man with curved shoulders, paused as they neared. Eyeing Wulf’s armload of colorful twills, he said, “Tuppence to display, and a tariff of one-third on all goods you sell.”

“That’s robbery!” snapped Morag, shocked.

“Take it or leave it.” He addressed the comment to Wulf, ignoring Morag completely.

Morag opened her mouth to give the man a taste of her opinion, but Wulf grabbed her arm and tugged a warning.

“We’ll take it,” he said quickly. “Pay the man his tuppence, lass.”

Her chest tight with bitterness, Morag dug into her purse for the coins and dropped them into the weaver’s outstretched palm.

He marked off a narrow section of his stall with a sooty stick and went back to arranging his goods for sale. Morag peered at his woolens with a critical eye as she and Wulf placed her twills on the table. The man’s were well made, with tight, even threads and a smooth brushed finish, but the colors were dull and lifeless. And the patterns lacked imagination.

But she said none of what she thought.

Best she learn to bite her tongue now. Later, when she watched him pocket twice the profit for
goods of lesser quality than hers, she’d find it much more difficult to hold her wheesht.

“I must see to repairs on the pony’s harness,” Wulf said. “Will you fare well on your own?”

“Aye,” she said. “There’s little room for the both of us here. Go.”

Morag used her small section of the display to best advantage, unraveling a portion of each of her ten bolts and spreading the patterns wide. Dawn broke as she set out the cloth, and the shoppers arrived not long after. In small numbers to begin, but within the hour the street was a-bustle with trade. Fresh food was the most popular item—most shoppers sought baked goods and produce. But a few wandered the full length of the street, exploring all the crafts for sale.

The sun burst free of the clouds, for which Morag was grateful. Standing in her booth waiting on a potential customer had chilled her to the bone. The sun did not completely banish the chill, but it warmed the skin of her cheeks and, combined with the thick wool of her winter brat, allowed her to smile at passersby with genuine enthusiasm.

Perhaps it was her smile that caught the eye of a round-faced man with a shiny bald pate and beardless chin. He was marching past the woolens, headed toward the silks and satins, when he abruptly stopped and looked her in the eye.

His expression was anything but pleasant, however. Until his gaze caught the vibrant colors of her patterned cloth. Then the angle of his eyebrows reversed, and his lips went from a grim slash to a soft circle. He stepped toward her, his pudgy hands reaching for the cloth. At the first touch, a groan of delight escaped the plump man’s lips. “These are truly fine.”

Morag’s smile broadened. Finally, someone who could appreciate the quality of her goods. “Thank you, sir.”

Her response shook him from his pleasurable reverie. The frown stormed back to his brow, and he glared at her. “A man should sell his own cloth. Where is the weaver who made these twills?”

Standing as tall as she could, shoulders back, Morag stared back. “I wove them.”

The plump man lifted a corner of her blue-red-and-black cloth, peering closely at the weave. “Not possible,” he proclaimed. “The threads are too tight and too even. A woman could not weave such a fine cloth. The task demands strength and finesse a woman does not possess.”

“You err, sir,” Morag said tightly. Anger was a hot bloom in her chest, but she kept it under control. The man, no matter how annoying, was still a potential customer. “I dyed the wool, I spun the wool, and I wove the wool. All of the effort placed in this cloth is my own.”

He dropped the cloth and stepped back. “I’ve never seen you in the market before today. Are you a member of the guild?” His gaze shifted to the weaver who’d allowed her space to display.

The weaver shook his head. “Nay, Master Seamus. She simply paid her dues. I know not where she is from.”

Master Seamus’s dark gaze fell upon Morag again. “For all we know, you stole these bolts. Indeed, they look suspiciously similar to those crafted by Master Parlan, the head of the weavers’ guild.”

A lump of fear formed in Morag’s throat. This was swiftly getting out of control. A small crowd had gathered, the other shoppers bending ears to the exchange with gleeful interest. “I assure you, I wove this cloth myself. My husband and I are from the north. We traveled five days to reach Edinburgh in hopes of selling the cloth at a good price.”

Her words did not sway Master Seamus. He shook his head. “I am the king’s wardrober,” he said. “I cannot be associated with stolen goods. Let me see your papers.”

Morag tried to swallow, but failed. “My husband has them. He’ll return anon.”

Seamus scowled. “Did you see this husband of whom she speaks?” he asked the weaver next to her.

“Aye.”

He smoothed his hand over his bare chin, his frown still heavy. “I have purchases to make. If your husband returns afore those purchases are made, we’ll resolve this matter quickly. Else I’ll have no choice but to call the constable and have him handle the matter.”

A cold trickle of sweat rolled down Morag’s back. Involving the constable might well result in Wulf’s arrest, should his MacCurran kinship come to light. This was truly a disastrous affair. But she could think of nothing to sway Master Seamus from his path of determined justice. “We’ve naught to fear from the constable,” she lied boldly. “But I’m sure my man will be along rightly.”

“Time will tell,” Seamus said darkly. To her weaver neighbor, he said, “Watch her. She’s not to leave until I return.”

Then the portly wardrober turned and marched off.

Her stomach aquiver, Morag forced a smile and faced the small crowd of wide-eyed onlookers. “Come see the fine cloth that drew the attention of the king’s wardrober,” she said loudly, waving a hand toward her display of cloth.

None stepped forward at her bold claim, but her brazen words shamed them into moving on. Within a minute or two the throng had thinned to an occasional curious gawker.

Morag glanced at the sun, then down the street in the direction of the castle.

Where was Wulf? How long could it take to repair a harness?

Her gaze swiveled in the opposite direction, toward the silk merchants. No sign of Master Seamus, either, thank heaven.

But time was her foe.

If Wulf did not return shortly, all would be
lost.

W
ulf dropped the harness off at the leather worker’s, but rather than making his way back to the market, he set off toward Edinburgh’s east gate. From the moment he’d entered the burgh yesterday, a memory had nagged him—the image of a well-kept cottage with a stone chimney. His thoughts were remarkably clear when it came to the layout of the city. Their failure came when he attempted to draw up any personal anecdotes. He could clearly visualize the mysterious abode at the far edge of the town and the route best taken to reach it, but he could not name its owner, nor why the abode was so easily brought to mind.

A visit was surely called for. But since he could not anticipate what dangers might lie in store there, venturing forth without Morag seemed the wisest course of action.

With his long-legged stride, he reached the southeast corner of the burgh in little time. The homes and their surrounding properties grew larger as he approached the city wall. Narrow wynds gave way to streets fashioned to accommodate carriages. Fewer pigs and goats wandered the lanes, and garden plots took on an ornamental air.

Turning left down a stone-walled close, he found himself in a small courtyard that fronted three thatched cottages. No one-room bothies here. Each of the three homes had a pair of shuttered windows to one side of a gaily painted door. One blue, one green, and one yellow. Although all three homes were similar, it was the one with the green door that captured his interest.

He knew this house.

He’d been here before; he was certain of it. Everything about the place evoked a sense of familiarity, from the fieldstone chimney rising up one side to the low wattle fence that separated it from its neighbors. Even the iron hinges on the door, shaped like clover, spoke to him.

Wulf stood in the shadow of the wall and stared.

All was familiar; that much was assured. But no other sensation surfaced—not the warm pleasure of friend nor the tense of dread foe. He truly had no notion of what lay behind that door.

And there was only one way to find out.

He marched up the path and knocked.

*   *   *

“My lord?”

William Dunkeld frowned. Was there any greater inconvenience than being interrupted while breaking the fast? Surely not. He slathered a generous layer of butter on his bread and slowly consumed it, refusing to look up until he was finished. But his enjoyment had fled. How could he be expected to savor his meal with someone hovering over his shoulder, nervously bobbing his head?

He speared the footman’s gaze with his own, making his opinion of the interruption abundantly clear. But seeing the servant pale was not enough. Dunkeld pushed back his chair and stood up. Circling the table with his butter knife still in his hand, he crooked a finger at the hapless footman.

“Come.”

The man swallowed, sweat beading on his brow. He stepped forward, reluctance in the tight features of his face and the shortness of his step.

“Put your hand on the table,” Dunkeld said, pointing to the oak surface that still held the remnants of his meal.

The young man’s whole arm shook as he did what he was told.

“What did the seneschal tell you about interrupting my meals?” Dunkeld asked, licking the remaining butter from his knife.

“Th-that it’s not to be done,” the lad stammered.

“And was I eating when you entered?”

“Aye, my lord,” the footman said. “But the man who seeks to meet with you said this was a matter of great importance, and that you would be most upset not to be informed immediately.”

“I see,” Dunkeld said slowly, running a thumb along the dull edge of the knife. “Are you in service to the man seeking an audience, or in service to me?”

“You, my lord.”

“Who, then, determines whether a matter is urgent enough to interrupt a meal?”

The young man’s face fell. “You, my lord.”

“Me,” agreed Dunkeld. He gripped the butter knife tightly in his fist. “And I say nothing is urgent enough to interrupt my meal. Is that clear?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Dunkeld encircled the footman’s wrist, holding his hand firmly against the tabletop. He eyed the splayed fingers and flattened palm with calm objectivity. “What I am about to do is equal part punishment for disobedience and incentive to remember this lesson fully.”

A fierce tremble rolled down the young man’s arm.

To his credit, he did not dissolve into a mewling bairn begging for mercy. His predecessor had not
been as worthy a fellow. Dunkeld identified a spot between two of the bones in the young man’s hand as being the least likely to cause permanent damage and an inability to carry a steady tray. Then, without further ado, and before the young man’s trembling made aiming the knife with accuracy impossible, he stabbed.

It took great force to pierce the flesh with a dull blade, but Dunkeld was a large man trained to the sword and seasoned by battle. The knife sliced right through the lad’s hand and bit into the tabletop.

The footman shrieked with agony, and Dunkeld smiled. Lessons accompanied by pain were rarely forgotten. He yanked the blade free, and then snatched his linen napkin from the table and wrapped it around the lad’s hand. “Have my surgeon see to that,” he said. “And send in the man who so urgently desires to speak with me.”

The footman’s cries subsided to faint moans. He backed away from the table, his hand clutched to his chest.

Dunkeld reached over the bloodstained tear in the linen tablecloth and selected a choice piece of smoked herring from his platter. The oily fish was bursting with flavor, and he savored every bite. Everything about the day, from the brightness of colors to the pungency of scents, had suddenly gained vivacity.

Boot steps echoed on the stone floor as his guest approached the table. Dunkeld followed the fish with a chunk of aged cheese. Only when the boots were silent and his guest had waited for a full minute did he turn around.

The man was unfamiliar to him. Better attired than a peasant, but clearly not of noble blood—the fellow’s hair was poorly cut and his boots were scuffed. Even his formal bow lacked finesse. “Marcus Rose, your lordship. Pursuivant in service to the royal herald.”

Not a guest at all. A mere herald. “Who has sent you?”

“No one, my lord. I come on a matter I believe is of import to you and you alone.”

Dunkeld popped a morsel of candied plum into his mouth.
You and you alone
. Those words gave him pause. It would seem this junior herald believed he had information of a rather secretive nature. “What price does this information carry?”

The armsman smiled. “I knew you would understand. A sovereign, my lord, and the information is yours. Upon payment, I shall never again mention what I know, not to anyone.”

Dunkeld dusted leftover sugar from his hands. That he would guarantee. “How do I know this information is worth a sovereign?”

The herald shrugged. “I’ve named my price, and I’ll now reveal what I know. If you agree it’s
worth the price I ask, then pay me. If not, perhaps I can be of further service in the days to come.”

“Fair enough. What have you discovered?”

Rose dipped his hand into the front of his tunic and withdrew a remnant of cloth, which he handed to Dunkeld. “I believe you are familiar with this sigil.”

Dunkeld stared at the black-and-gold bear’s head. He did indeed know the symbol. It belonged to his longtime and faithful man-at-arms Artan de La Fleche. But Artan rarely wore the symbol, preferring to proudly display the arms of the house of Dunkeld, so it was surprising that this junior herald knew of a link between this sigil and him.

“Why would you assume such a thing?”

“It is the house symbol of a prominent French family from France, the Fougères.”

Dunkeld tossed the scrap of cloth back at the herald. “This means nothing to me.”

“The Fougère family resides in a great stone château east of La Fleche,” the young man continued. “I know this because my uncle is his herald.”

Dunkeld nonchalantly turned back to his platter of food and studied it, feigning an avid interest in what to eat next. But the food no longer held his attention. He had sent Artan to Dunstoras on a very specific mission, and it did not bode well that the only thing to return to Edinburgh was this scrap of cloth. Especially when that scrap of cloth
was delivered by a herald—a man who by his very function spread word.

“I have no interest in your family history. Be specific. How does any of this concern me?”

“This sigil was given to me by a large man from Dunstoras who was making queries as to its origin. The man who wore this sigil is dead. I believe the large man was the one who killed him.”

A tight spot beneath Dunkeld’s breastbone burned like a hot coal. He trusted very few people in his life, and Artan was one of them. The man would willingly die for him—and it seemed he had. In and of itself a loss. Added to the recent loss of Daniel de Lourdes, his very handsome and talented lover, it was a heavy blow.

The young herald shuffled his feet in the rushes. “I am trusted by the man making inquiries. Should you desire it, I can ensure he never makes the connection between you and the sigil.”

Allowing his anger to slip the reins with which he normally held it, Dunkeld swept the platter off the table with his fist, sending it and its remaining contents crashing to the floor. The hounds by the fireplace immediately rose and scurried toward the food.

The herald was wide-eyed. Surprised, but not yet afraid. He had no idea of the importance of what he had shared, or how far Dunkeld was willing to go to keep the information secret.

“Here’s what you will do,” he said. “You will return to your home, and you will immediately pack all your possessions—everything you own—and gather your wife and servants. When you have done that, you will return here to the castle and my men will find you a place to hide for a short time. This man must find nothing when he comes looking for his information.”

The herald frowned. “But I cannot simply go into hiding, my lord. I have obligations.”

Dunkeld conjured a reassuring smile to his face. Charm was a skill like any other—perfected by regular use—and years of playing false confidant to his brother made such a smile easy to shape. “Fear not. You are henceforth employed as a herald in my house. I will see your wife and family settled on one of my estates. You will want for nothing.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Relief washed the furrows from the herald’s brow and he gave a short bow. “I knew you were a powerful man. It is my great honor to serve you.”

“Go,” commanded Dunkeld. “Settle your affairs quickly and return. This man must not have an opportunity to query you further.”

He allowed Marcus Rose to scurry away, and then he swung to face the shadow near the door at the back of the room. A blond man stepped out of the corner, an elegant Englishman with a
penchant for silk doublets. Today’s doublet was dark green jacquard that shimmered in the candlelight.

“When he returns to the castle,” Dunkeld said, crossing the room, “make certain no one ever hears from him or his wife again.”

“Of course,” the blond man said.

“It would seem Artan failed to kill the MacCurran warrior.”

“For the second time,” agreed the blond man. “Had he ensured the man’s death last November, none of this would be necessary.”

As true as the words were, they angered Dunkeld. Artan had run the man through and left him bleeding on the shore of the loch. Who could have guessed that a man suffering from such terrible wounds would survive? “Nay, the true fault lies with the clan MacCurran. They have stymied my every attempt at justice. Duncan MacCurran swayed my father from acknowledging me as his firstborn son. If not for the MacCurrans, I would be king.” Dunkeld shook both his fists in the air as he felt his face turn red. “Heaven’s blood! Why can I not crush the MacCurrans into dust, as they deserve? All three of Duncan’s heirs yet live.”

“But only one of them has the power to derail your plans,” the blond man pointed out. “And he appears to be in Edinburgh seeking information.”

Dunkeld scowled. “It makes no sense. He saw my face the night we stole the necklace. Why
would he simply not reveal my involvement to the king?”

“Perhaps his vision is faulty.” The blond man smiled. “Whatever the cause, it is moot. You may not have crushed the MacCurrans, but you have succeeded in tarnishing their reputation with the king. They cannot approach Alexander without irrefutable proof.”

Dunkeld nodded, but the mystery of why the man was in Edinburgh asking questions still plagued him. For a man who lived by his wits, as Dunkeld did, knowledge was power. “Take care of the herald; then watch the herald’s home for sign of MacCurran.”

The blond man put a hand to the hilt of his sword. “I will slay him when he appears.”

Dunkeld shook his head. “Not immediately. For the moment, just follow him. I would know if he’s alone in the city, or whether he has come with kin.”

The blond man nodded.

“As you wish.”

*   *   *

Master Seamus returned all too soon.

The portly wardrober marched up to Morag’s stall with two bolts of silk in hand, one a shimmering swath of white and the other a vibrant royal purple. “Well?” he demanded. “Can you produce your papers?”

She shook her head. “My husband has yet to return.”

Seamus snorted. “Like as not, he’s seen the guile is up and he’s run for the gate.”

She met his gaze evenly. “He will return.”

“Well, he can retrieve you from the bailiff,” the wardrober said. He waved a hand in the air. “Someone fetch the constable.”

To her amazement, the weaver next to her spoke up. “I’m not certain that’s necessary, Master Seamus. I’ve sent a lad for Master Parlan. As he’s head of the weavers’ guild, such matters are rightly his to settle.”

The wardrober lowered his hand. “A guildsman ought to be policing the sale of merchandise with more care. Did you ask this woman’s husband for his papers before allowing him to sell his woolens?”

“Nay. ’Tis the guard at the gate’s role to check papers, not mine.”

“I will not allow this woman to sell her goods until someone has verified her legitimate claim to the woolens.”