CHAPTER NINE
The Saucy Pigsy tavern
The wharf along the Thames (also known as the docks)
“It’s about time you came,” Kress said. “Where have you been?”
Maxton had come around the corner of an alley, heading onto the main thoroughfare along the river’s edge, when a hand shot out from the shadows and grabbed him around the collar. His dirk was unsheathed faster than the blink of an eye and Kress very narrowly missed being shanked. When Maxton saw who it was, he rolled his eyes and sheathed his blade.
“You idiot,” he growled. “You know better than to do that.”
Kress cast him a long look, a smile playing on his lips. “We’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “Sherry is down here, you know.”
“I know.”
“He told us about the man he’s been trailing and we found him.”
“Where?”
Kress threw his thumb in the direction of the tavern behind him. “In there,” he said. “Sherry is scouting the exterior of the place to see if there are any escape routes.”
“And Achilles?”
“He’s already inside.”
That caused Maxton to roll his eyes again. “Are you mad? Achilles, alone, in a tavern?”
Kress put up a hand. “Easy,” he admonished. “He simply secured a table and some drink. We have a plan.”
“What kind of a plan?”
About that time, Alexander appeared down the alley that skirted the east side of the tavern. Kress lifted a hand to the man, who noticed both Kress and Maxton, and began making his way towards them swiftly.
Around them, there was the usual hustle and bustle of the docks, with dozens of cogs lined up on the shore. Men were hanging from the riggings, offloading supplies and material, as those on the shore busied themselves around the ships like bees in a hive. There was quite a bit going on, and Maxton glanced at the activity as he waited for Alexander. He also noticed a very strong, very foul smell of fish and sewage, one of the more unpleasant things about being down at the river’s edge.
“Nice of you to join us, Max,” Alexander said as he came near. “I’d nearly given up on you.”
Maxton turned his attention to the man. “My business at St. Blitha took me longer than I thought,” he said, quickly changing the subject because he didn’t much want to elaborate on what had kept him several hours, including a stop at The King’s Gout to make arrangements with the tavernkeep about Andressa. “What’s this I hear about a plan?”
Alexander nodded. “I found Douglas,” he said, successfully diverted from the subject of St. Blitha. “He’s inside this tavern and was fairly drunk when I found him. He’s still in there and I have sent Achilles in to watch him to ensure he doesn’t slip away.”
“What is the plan to capture him?”
Alexander crooked a finger, pulling both Maxton and Kress out of the main street where people were bustling about. He didn’t want to be heard with what he was about to say.
“I have been thinking about our conversation earlier, Max, when I mentioned that Douglas might be our papal assassin,” he muttered as they stood beneath the shadows of the tavern’s upper floor. “I have told Kress and Achilles my theory, too, but now I want to discuss this with you. If I go in there and capture him, there is a great chance that he will never confess to anything and we will never know if he is the assassin you are seeking. I have a feeling the man is a wealth of information, and he’s quite drunk now. As we know, drink loosens the tongue, so it might be worth trying to press him for information. I am fairly certain he knows me on sight, but he does not know you or Kress or Achilles. Mayhap if you go in there and drink with him…”
Maxton caught on right away. “Then mayhap we can find out about him and any papal directives.”
“Exactly.”
Maxton nodded, glancing at Kress as he did so. “I am willing to give it a try if it will help in find our assassin,” he said. “I still have not recovered from my drinking binge last night, but I suppose I’ll have to push that aside and forge ahead for king and country.”
Alexander grinned. “I’ll wait out here and watch the doors in case he tries to flee,” he said. “There is this front door and then a kitchen door into a yard behind the tavern. I can watch them both while you’re inside.”
“And if the man confesses?”
“Get your confession and then bring him out to me. I still have a task to complete.”
“You’ll kill him?”
“That was my order. But in this case, I think we shall take him to The Marshal. The man may wish to interrogate him more. It is not often we have a double agent in our possession.”
Maxton couldn’t disagree. With the plans laid out, he ventured into the tavern with Kress in tow, entering the low-ceilinged structure. He was immediately hit in the face with the warmth and stench of it; it smelled like dozens of unwashed sailors straight off the cogs on the river who had been at sea for months or even years on end. They had seawater in their blood and they reeked of it.
Kress tugged on him, pointing to the corner near the front window of the tavern where Achilles was sitting. Pushing through the crowds of smelly, laughing men and women, they made their way over to Achilles, who had a cup of ale in his hand, half-full. He greeted them both amiably.
“No fights and no women, Max,” he announced as if proud of himself. “See? I am behaving myself.”
Maxton snorted. “For once in your life, you dolt,” he said. Then, he looked around the common room of the tavern. “Where is our man?”
Achilles lifted the cup to his mouth, using one of the fingers wrapped around the cup to discreetly point. “Over there by the hearth,” he said. “The man with the shaggy dark hair. He’s wearing a long tunic like the Scots do, hose, and a very big sword. I can see it beneath his cloak.”
Maxton didn’t turn to look at the man right away. He poured himself some ale first before casually looking in that direction. “I see him,” he said. “Is he alone?”
Achilles nodded. “For the most part,” he said. “There has been a wench at his table from time to time, but she hasn’t been back in a several minutes.”
“Then it is time for us to move,” Maxton said quietly. “He’s a Scotsman, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Then we all suddenly have family in Scotland, too. Follow my lead.”
They did. Cup in hand, Maxton stood up and began to meander his way over to the table with the lone Scotsman as Kress and Achilles followed. As they crossed the room, they passed by a table of drunken men, singing one of the typically bawdy songs that could be heard in any of the taverns in England. Every squire to old man knew the song.
There once was an old whore named Rose
with a wart on the end of her nose,
She’d give you her best,
With the swell of her breast,
And lick you from your bung to your toes!
One of the singers grabbed at Kress, demanding he sing along, but the blond knight politely refused. He continued on with Maxton and Kress as they headed to the Scotsman’s table. They had the pitcher of ale with them and the first thing Kress did was slam the pitcher on to the table to catch the man’s attention.
“Do dhia agus Alba,” Maxton said happily, in Gaelic. To God and Scotland. It was a traditional Scottish toast. “I see that you are from the land of my mother’s people, lad. Have a drink with us to celebrate the greatness of Scotland and to William, our very own lion.”
The Scotsman looked up at them in shock. All he knew was that drunken men were suddenly toasting Scotland, and the king, and generally creating a ruckus as they commandeered his quiet little table in the corner of the dirty tavern. As the three men overwhelmed the table, cheering the toast as they took up seats, the Scotsman pushed himself away from the table, mostly for self-protection.
“I dinna invite ye tae sit wi’ me,” he hissed, snatching his cup from the table because he was afraid one of the men might confiscate it and drink it up. He wasn’t finished with it. “Go away from me. I want tae be alone!”
Maxton looked at the man, puzzled, before looking to his companions. “He’s unfriendly,” he said, slurping drunkenly from his cup. “You would think the fact that he is in an enemy country, surrounded by Sassenachs, that he would be a little more friendly to someone who is trying to be friendly to him.”
Kress and Achilles nodded firmly, eyeing the Scotsman with disapproval as they, too, drank noisily from their cups.
“I’ll drink to Scotland and to William,” Achilles said, slurring his words. “I will drink to the man’s king even if he won’t. I wonder if his king knows that he has a kinsman who will not drink to him?”
“No respect!” Maxton declared.
“No honor!” Kress put in.
“Wait!” The Scotsman sat forward, perhaps a little closer to the table. “I’ll kill ye if ye say I have no respect or honor for my king. He’s my king!”
“Then drink to him!” Maxton boomed.
All four of them down healthy swallows of ale, but in the case of Maxton and Kress and Achilles, it was a very small swallow made to look like a big one. They wanted to get the Scotsman drunker than he was, but they didn’t want to follow suit. At least, not at the moment. Maxton smacked his lips and reached out, yanking the Scotsman back to the table by the collar of his cloak.
“You remind me of my mum,” Maxton said, pretending to get weepy. “Every time I see a Scotsman, it reminds me of her. She was from Edinburgh. Where are you from, lady?”
The Scotsman was too drunk to pull away from Maxton as the man threw a massive arm over his shoulders in a brotherly gesture. “Dumfries,” he said. “A beautiful place.”
“Not more beautiful than Edinburgh!”
Now, the Scotsman pulled away from Maxton and scowled at him. “Are ye mad?” he asked, incredulous. “Are ye blind, man?”
Maxton geared up to argue with him but then he backed down, pretending to be too drunk to really care. “Edinburgh,” he insisted calmly and feigned another big drink of ale. “What’s your name, Scotsman? I cannot keep calling you Scotsman, you know.”
The Scotsman’s gaze lingered on him a moment before replying. “Ye dunna need tae know.”
“Ah,” Maxton looked to Kress and Achilles. “He does not have a name. His mother hated him so much that she did not give him one.”
That brought a reaction from the man. “I’ll have ye know she gave me a great name,” he said, drinking from his cup and draining it. Achilles quickly filled it up. “I am Alasdair Baird Douglas. I am a Douglas of Clan Douglas and William Douglas is my liege. Do ye know the man?”
The name confirmed that he was indeed the double agent Alexander had been trailing. Now, they definitely had their man, and Maxton shook his head in response to his question.
“I do not,” he said. “But I have heard he is a great man. Let us drink to him, Alasdair.”
The cups were lifted again and when they came down, Alasdair pointed to Maxton. “What’s yer name, Sassenach?” he demanded, his pointing finger moving around the table. “All of ye; I would know who I’m drinking with.”
Maxton threw a thumb into his chest. “Magnus,” he lied, giving his father’s name. “Hugh and Archie.”
He pointed to Kress and then Achilles, giving their father’s names as well. Alasdair lifted a cup to them. “Now we are good friends.”
The cup was back at his lips, but this time, Maxton and the others didn’t drink. They were pretending to, but they had backed off of any more liquor because they needed their wits about them. Alasdair was far gone into his drink, more so now, so Maxton decided to start his interrogation before Alasdair grew too drunk to make sense.
“Aye, we are,” Maxton said, waving over the serving wench to bring them more ale. “Tell me of yourself, Alasdair. Why are you in London? Surely you’d rather be in Scotland.”
Alasdair nodded, bobbing his head up and down until he became dizzy with it and he had to stop. “Aye, lad,” he agreed quietly. “I wish I was.”
“Then you must be here because of a woman,” Maxton said, snorting. That caused Kress and Achilles to snort as well. “The only reason you would be away from your beautiful Scotland is because of a woman. Well? Is she beautiful?”
Alasdair shook his head, his good humor seeming to fade somewhat. “No beautiful woman,” he said. “I wish it was true, but it ’tis not.”
“Then you must have business for your laird,” Maxton said, snatching the pitcher away from the wench when she came to the table and pouring it into Alasdair’s cup. “We are on business for our lord, you know. De Longley out of Northwood Castle. He’s right on the border of Scotland, far to the north. Maybe you have heard of him?”
Alasdair’s expression suggested that he was a million miles away, his mind wandering to perhaps the real answer to Maxton’s question. But he shook it off when Maxton grabbed at his shoulder, shaking him good-naturedly.
“De Longley?” Alasdair repeated. “Nay, lad. I’ve not heard of the man. Do ye fight Scots, then?”
“Only if they fight me first.”
Alasdair looked at him a moment before breaking into snorts of laughter. “Scots and Sassenach,” he muttered. “That’s not where the real battle lies, don’t ye know. There are battles greater than we can imagine.”
“What do you mean?”
Alasdair pointed at him. “I mean the battles we fight against each other are meaningless,” he said, taking another huge gulp of ale and then smacking his lips. “’Tis all for naught, Magnus. There are higher powers controlling our destinies.”
He said it with certainty and Maxton thought it might be a very good way to lead in to what they all wanted to know – what Alasdair was really doing in London. Maxton topped off Kress and Achilles’ cups, which didn’t need much refilling considering they had barely been touched. Alasdair was growing more inebriated by the moment.
“Is that so?” Maxton said. “Do you know that for a fact?”
Alasdair nodded, nearly throwing himself off-balance as he did. “No man controls his destiny,” he said. “Do ye know who controls it?”
“Who?”
Alasdair winked at him. “God,” he said. “God and the church.”
“What about the king?” Kress asked, entering the conversation. “Every man is sworn to his king. He creates your destiny.”
Alasdair waved him off as if he was spouting nonsense. “The king,” he scoffed. “The king? Laddie, the king has nothing to do with a man’s destiny. Kings come and go. They are frail men, easily removed. Don’t ye know that ye never fight for a king? Ye fight for yer country, no matter who the king is.”
Maxton was extremely interested in the path of the conversation at this point. He looked at Kress, silently instructing the man to continue. Kress took the hint; they’d played this game before. He or Achilles would engage someone in conversation while Maxton would sit back and observe, noting weaknesses or discovering truths.
This was a time to discover truth.”
“Then you don’t fight for William?” Kress asked Alasdair. “He’s your king, man.”
Alasdair took another sloppy drink of ale before pointing to the ceiling. “But there is a greater king,” he insisted. “God is our king above all.”
“That is true, but He’s not here to give you orders. Your earthly king is.”
Alasdair shook his head. “Nay,” he insisted. “God gives his command through the church, through our Holy Father. It is the Holy Father who truly controls a man’s destiny, even the destiny of a king.”
He was pointing to his head as if he’d truly come up with the greatest philosophy of all time. Kress had done well in directing the conversation, but Maxton jumped back into it. He was deeply interested in what the man was saying, considering they all knew he’d been to Rome recently and had contact with the Holy Father according to Alexander.
Now, it was getting interesting.
“Then you are a man of great faith,” Maxton said, making it sound like a compliment. “I admire a man of strong faith. You listen to your priest and you do as he says. You lead a good life.”
Alasdair looked at Maxton, his head bobbing unsteadily. “Do ye know where I have been?” he said. “The Lateran Palace. I dunna listen tae just any priest, lad. I listen tae the Holy Father himself. He speaks tae me and I listen. And I obey!”
Maxton patted him on the shoulder. “You are a good man, Alasdair,” he said, lifting his cup. “To Alasdair. He is a devout man of good faith.”
Kress and Achilles lifted their cups, feigning a long drink, followed by Maxton and, finally, Alasdair. As they set their cups back to the table and Kress picked up the pitcher to refill Alasdair’s cup, Maxton continued.
“Did the Holy Father shape your destiny, then?” he asked. “You said he speaks to you. Did he tell you to lead a good life and stay out of taverns like this one?”
He grinned, making a joke of it, praying that Alasdair, in his drunken state, didn’t realize how much he was probing him. He breathed a sigh of relief when Alasdair responded to his attempted joke.
“He did not shape my destiny,” he said, winking at Maxton. “But he uses me to shape another’s. How much do ye like yer king, Magnus? Is he a good king tae ye? Because he and the Holy Father dunna like one another.”
Maxton glanced at Kress and Achilles, seeing they had the same reaction to that that he did – how much do ye like yer king, Magnus? God, that sounded leading. It sounded as if Alasdair had a reason for asking, as if he knew something they did not. The expression on his face only compounded that suspicion. Maxton knew what he said next would matter a great deal if Alasdair had information they were looking for.
It was an effort to look disinterested.
“John is worthless,” he muttered, looking around to make sure no one had heard him. “I pray every night that the man falls dead and we are given a better king. I think most Englishmen have the same prayer.”
Alasdair’s dark eyes glimmered at him. “Prayers are meant tae be answered, Magnus.”
“And you know this for a fact?”
Alasdair grinned, a knowing grin, and turned back to his drink. “I do,” he said. “Prayers are answered when ye least expect it, in ways ye canna possibly imagine.”
Maxton leaned forward, giving the man a doubtful look. “Does God intend to come down from the sky and pluck John off his throne? Is that what is to happen? Be serious, Alasdair. Like it or not, we are stuck with our king. There is naught any man can do about it.”
Alasdair shook his head. “Ye’re right,” he said. “But yer prayers are not tae be answered by a man. Just ye wait, Magnus. Yer prayers will be answered and ye’ll get yer knew king.”
“Who says so?”
“The Holy Father says so.”
With that, he drained his cup, tossing his head back as he did so, and toppled right over onto the floor. As Maxton, Kress, and Achilles looked down at the man, he lay there unconscious, having hit his head on the floor when he fell. Although it wasn’t a hard hit, he was so drunk that he instantly knocked himself out, which was frustrating for Maxton. No more answers to his questions.
In fact, if anything, the mystery had deepened.