Chapter Nine #2
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 fathers’ 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 ’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, dinna 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 asked. “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 were spouting nonsense.
“The king,” he scoffed. “The king? Laddie, the king has nothing tae do with a man’s destiny.
Kings come and go. They are frail men, easily removed.
Dinna 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 tae shape another’s. How much do ye like yer king, Magnus? Is he a good king tae ye? Because he and the Holy Father dinna 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 new 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.