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 materials, 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 tavern keeper 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 finding 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 Achilles 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 with 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, lad?”
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?”