Chapter Five
“Which one is it?” Ian asked his companion as he considered the row of one and two-story wood and thatch buildings.
“This is Tivoli street, and Abbot Matthew said it was across from a tavern, but I do not see a sign for a drinking house,” Ramsey answered absently as he, too, scanned the road in both directions.
Suddenly, a door farther up the thoroughfare swung open, and a man rolled onto the street.
Behind him a buxom woman with unnaturally orange hair stomped onto the road, her heaving bosom threatening to burst free from her plunging neckline.
“And stay out, you louse,” she shouted before turning to go back inside.
Ian winced when the door slammed. “That is one woman I hope never to cross.”
Ramsay nodded vigorously. “I don’t think that fool ever will again,” he said, his gaze following the stooped shouldered man, stumbling drunkenly down the road.
Ian lifted his shoulders. “Well, at least we know where the tavern is.” He scanned the buildings on the opposite side of the road. “That means the bishop’s man must be there.”
Skirting around passersby, horses, steaming piles of dung, and a young boy pushing a wheelbarrow piled high with firewood, Ian crossed to the other side of the road and knocked on the door.
After several silent moments passed, Ramsay tried, knocking louder than Ian had.
Still, no one came to usher them inside.
“The abbot was confident that he would be here,” Ramsay said, his voice agitated.
“He also said that Drummond was an old man,” Ian reminded the blacksmith. “Give him time.”
Just then, movement caught Ian’s eye. He glanced over his shoulder, spotting a young woman holding tight to the leash of a fierce-looking dog.
Or was it a wolf? Ian’s interest in the animal diminished the moment he and the lass locked eyes.
Even beneath the hood of her tattered cloak, he could see that she was beautiful, tall, and slim.
And her eyes...
Ian had never seen eyes like hers. She had one pale blue eye and one golden brown.
He smiled at her to ease the look of wary suspicion on her face, but her expression did not soften. A moment later, she dropped her gaze to the ground. Her stance widened. Like her growling companion, she looked ready to fight.
“I’m going to try the door,” the blacksmith said in a low voice.
Ian grunted his approval, unwilling to tear his gaze away from the lass’s tall, slender curves and her uncanny, yet striking gaze that peeked up at him every few moments.
“’Tis unlocked,” Ramsay whispered before easing the door open and stepping inside.
More than anything, Ian wanted to walk straight up to the beautiful lass and introduce himself, but when he considered her stony gaze and the dog’s raised hackles, he knew neither would welcome his attention. Taking one last look, Ian dipped his head to the lass before following Ramsay inside.
The ground floor was simply furnished with a small square table and two chairs near the blazing hearth. A pot bubbled over the fire, issuing coils of herb-scented steam. A quick scan of the room told Ian the owner was either upstairs or not at home.
“Drummond,” he called up to the second story.
“If I wanted company, I would have answered the door,” a tremulous yet agitated voice called down. “Who are ye? What do ye want?”
“Abbot Matthew sent us,” Ian called up the stairs.
A rustling sounded from above, and a few moments later, a short, stout old man appeared at the top of the stairwell. His bushy, silver brows furrowed above his narrow eyes. “Who are ye?”
Ian bowed his head. “Alba gu bràth,” Scotland forever, he said quietly.
The older man’s displeasure vanished from his face, replaced by a welcoming, albeit toothless smile.
“Alba gu bràth,” Drummond said, repeating the secret password of their cause.
“Scotland’s agents are always welcome here,” he said, gripping the rail while he slowly descended the narrow wooden stairs.
When at last he stood before them, the old man scrutinized both Ian and Ramsay from head to toe.
After several moments, a smile spread slowly across his lips.
“I should have known ye were both sons of Scotland.” The older man had to crane his neck back to look up at Ian.
“Yer both as tall and mighty as the Argyle mountains. What are yer names?”
Ian bowed his head. “My name is Ian MacVie, and this here is Ramsay MacTavish.”
Drummond raised his brows, and his smile widened. “Neither of ye are strangers to me, for I know ye by reputation. The bishop has told me all about the MacVie brothers who used to ride under the guise of the Saints.”
When Ian was only nineteen years old, he joined ranks with his brothers, and, with the help of Bishop Lamberton, formed the Saints—a gang of highwaymen who robbed English nobles on the road north into Scotland.
But Ian and his brothers had not been hell bent on riches.
Every coin and jewel they stole went towards building Scotland’s army and caring for orphans and exiles whose families had been crushed beneath Longshank’s cruel hammer.
“To hear the bishop tell it, ye’d believe no other family has done more to advance the cause.
” Drummond beamed, smiling up at Ian with admiration.
Then he turned to Ramsay. “I’ve also heard of ye, blacksmith.
Ye’ve done more than yer share for the cause.
” A glint of mischief entered the old man’s eyes.
“I also heard ye serve a fine ale in yer hidden tavern beneath the floor of yer smithy.”
“Aye, that I do. Ye’ll have to join us for a meeting of Scotland’s secret rebels sometime and try a cup for yerself.”
“If ever the bishop is granted freedom to leave this city, then I might take ye up on yer offer, but until that day, I will stay here to serve His Excellency. Now, with that in mind, there can only be one reason Abbot Matthew would send two of his best agents to my doorstep—ye’ve come to see the bishop. ”
Ian nodded. “Since his arrest, ‘tis not as easy to gain an audience with him as it once was. In fact, we’ve waited two long years for this meeting. The last time I saw the bishop was at the Bruce’s coronation.”
After spending two years imprisoned in the Tower of London, the bishop was tried for treason and found guilty.
Thankfully, his life was spared solely because of his Orders.
He was released from the tower, but his freedom was not fully restored.
The Bishop had been sentenced to city arrest. He was not allowed to leave Durham by order of the English king.
“Ye can see the bishop on Thursday when he hears confession,” Drummond informed them.
Ian furrowed his brow. “But that is four days from now.”
Drummond nodded. “Regrettably, there is no other way. Ye’ll have to wait until then.”
Ramsay rubbed the back of his neck, his brow pinched with concern. “A lot can happen in four days.”
Ian nodded. “A lot can go wrong.”
Drummond’s gaze journeyed down the length of Ian and then Ramsay. “Ye’re not the most inconspicuous agents? Giants, both of ye.” Drummond shuffled to his window and pulled back the thick leather curtain. “Did anyone see ye enter?”
“Aye,” Ian confirmed. “A young woman. She had a beast of a dog with her.”
Drummond’s features relaxed. “That’s just Jo.
She lives next door.” Drummond released the hide and turned back to face the men.
“Edward has spies all over the city. He watches me to make sure I don’t arrange to have the bishop smuggled out of Durham.
” He motioned to the chairs at the table.
“Sit and tell me what Abbot Matthew is up to now, and I’ll get ye something to wash the dust from yer mouths. ”
Ian and Ramsay did as the old man bade them. The chairs creaked in protest under their weight.
“Ye needn’t trouble yerself,” Ian told Drummond as the old man shuffled over to the hearth and ladled some of the contents of the bubbling caldron into small clay mugs.
“’Tis no trouble at all, only some broth.” Drummond set the steaming cups on the table before claiming the rocking chair near the hearth.
“Now then,” Drummond began. “Ye were going to tell me about the abbot. How does he intend to set Scotland back on course for victory?”
“Our aim is singular. Always we are working to rebuild Scotland’s army.”
Drummond blew out a long breath of air and rocked back in his chair. His expression held a note of concern. “If ‘tis coin ye’re after, ye’ll have to look elsewhere. The bishop’s wealth was confiscated. He lives as humbly as any monk.”
Ramsay shook his head. “We aren’t after the bishop’s coin; ‘tis information we seek.”
“With the Bruce still in hiding, many of Scotland’s nobles have renewed their pledges of loyalty to England,” Ian explained. “We are hoping the bishop can help us discern who is still loyal to Scotland.”
“A-ha,” Drummond blurted, a glint of eagerness in his eyes. “Ye need to know who’s betrayed us, so that ye can empty their coffers when they’re not looking.”
Ian smiled at Ramsay, then back to Drummond.
“Our reputation precedes us. Aye, we are planning on bleeding the disloyal nobles dry for their betrayal, but we also want to know who to reach out to for aid. Those who are still loyal to Scotland will no doubt want to donate what they can spare in terms of warriors and weaponry.”
“Well, with any luck, the bishop will have the answers ye seek,” Drummond said. A shadow fell across his face. “Despite how King Edward tried, he never could break Bishop Lamberton’s spirit. Ye’ll find him little changed, except for the plainness of his garb and the—”
“Open this door!”
Ian jumped to his feet, seized his blade from the scabbard strapped to his back and crossed to stand in front of the door, creaking beneath the might of the fist pounding on the other side.
“Damnation,” Drummond cursed under his breath. “Someone must have seen ye.” He motioned for the stairs and hissed quietly. “Go. Hurry!”
Ian shook his head and whispered, “Ye just said they must have seen us already. If we run, how will ye explain our presence?”
Drummond’s gaze darted around the room, but then his eyes widened and glinted brightly. “Remember, lads, the bishop hears confession on Thursday. Now, run! Up the stairs with ye both!”
Ian was about to repeat his question—how did Drummond intend to explain what Ian and Ramsay had been doing in his home, when the old man suddenly called out, “Help! Thieves!”
A smile upturned one corner of Ian’s lips.
“I’ve been called worse.” Then he turned to Ramsay.
“Pray we fit through the upstairs window. Ta for yer help,” he whispered to their host before he turned and raced upstairs, hastening across the plainly furnished bedroom to the window.
Throwing open the shutters, he motioned for Ramsay. “Ye first.”
“Hurry, they’re getting away!” Drummond’s words reached them from below. Then they heard a rumble of heavy footsteps.
“They’re inside,” Ramsay hissed as he tried to squeeze through the narrow frame. “Damn it,” the blacksmith cursed before seizing his hammer. With a few well-placed blows, he expanded the opening to freedom and climbed onto the roof of the neighboring home with Ian following after.
“Do not slip from the crossbeam. ‘Tis the only thing strong enough to bear our weight,” Ian cautioned. Hearing heavy footsteps thundering up Drummond’s stairs, he hissed, “Hurry! They’re coming!”
The wood creaked. “The beam is going to break,” Ramsay exclaimed.
“Step lively and it won’t!”
“Get back here,” a voice growled from behind Ian.
Ian glanced back at the window just in time to see an English soldier take aim with a crossbow.
“Duck!” Ian shouted, but he was too late.
Ramsay grunted in pain, an arrow now protruding from his shoulder.
The blacksmith teetered to one side, then the other.
Ian reached out but caught naught but air as Ramsay lost his balance and crashed through the thatch.
A breath later the sound of splintering wood rent the air, followed by a piercing scream and vicious barking.
“Don’t move, Scotsman!”
Ian glanced back at the soldier staring at him down the sight of his bow. “I arrest you in the name of the king!”
“Bloody hell,” Ian muttered before leaping through the hole Ramsay had made in the roof. He landed with a hard thud on a tangled mess of splintered wood and yard. A sharp pain shot through his hand and the back of his thigh.
“Get out of my house,” a shrill voice shouted.
Ian jumped to his feet, ignoring the sliver of wood sticking out of his palm as a woman charged at him, swinging a broom like a broad sword. He backed into Ramsay who was fending off her massive dog, holding a table like a shield.
Shouts from the soldiers above combined with the beast’s snarling and the woman’s continuous shrieks.
Ian met her mismatched gaze. “Ye must be Jo,” he gritted out, trying to sound pleasant as he grabbed a chair to keep the dog’s jaw from gnashing on his calf. “We’re friends of Drummond. We’re not going to hurt—”
His attempt to calm the woman down was cut short by a loud yell as one of the soldiers plummeted from above, landing as Ian had on the pile of splintered wooden rods, yarn, and fabric.
“My loom,” Jo cried.
“My arse,” the soldier groaned.
Ian grimaced, guessing where he’d received his splinters.
The arrival of the English guard drew the dog’s fury. He lunged for the soldier. Now that their way to the door was no longer blocked by fierce, biting jaws, Ramsay threw the table aside. “Come on,” he shouted back at Ian.
“Look what you’ve done,” the distraught woman cried, her eyes scanning the damage to her home.
“I’m truly sorry,” Ian began to say.
“No time,” Ramsay shouted at Ian before disappearing out the door.
“Blast,” Ian swore, hearing the English soldiers shouting from above. “We’ll pay ye for the damage,” he promised the woman before racing after Ramsay.