12
“LORD, a weasel-eyed pilgrim demands to see you,” Alfred said.
Erik looked up from his contemplation of a manuscript that consisted largely of enigmatic, elegant runes. The large, rough-coated wolfhounds at his feet looked up as well. The orange flicker of hearth fire leaped redoubled in their eyes.
“A pilgrim,” Erik said neutrally.
“Aye. So he says.”
If the knight’s words hadn’t made his contempt clear enough, his voice and posture did. He fairly vibrated with disdain.
With a last, lingering glance, Erik set aside the parchment he had been studying.
“To what purpose does he wish to see me?” Erik asked.
“He claims to have knowledge of the Scots Hammer.”
The falcon above Erik’s chair sent a sharp cry through the room.
“Does he really,” Erik murmured. “How intriguing.”
Alfred looked sour rather than intrigued.
“Where?” asked Erik. “When? Under what circumstances? And is he certain the man was indeed the Scots Hammer?”
“The churl said only that he must speak to you alone, in a privacy greater than that of the confessional.”
Erik leaned back in his riven oak chair, picked up his silver dagger, and began running his fingertips over the flowing runes inscribed on the blade.
“How odd,” Erik said.
Alfred grunted.
The falcon’s hooked beak followed each motion of Erik’s fingers, as though in expectation of blood sport at any moment.
“Bring him.”
“Yes, lord.”
As Alfred turned to leave, he eyed the peregrine warily. She had been known to fly at men rather than at feathered prey, and she suffered no leash such as other falcons wore while on their household perches.
A soft whistle from Erik’s lips soothed the fierce bird. She flared her wings, folded them neatly at her sides, and resumed watching with unblinking intensity as Erik’s fingers caressed the dagger’s gleaming blade.
A distinct odor preceded the pilgrim’s arrival to Stone Ring Keep’s great hall. The smell was a compound of greed, fear, eagerness, and a body that hadn’t known the kiss of water since baptism.
“Did you find it in a hen roost?” Erik asked idly of Alfred. “Or was it buried beneath a pile of dead fish, perhaps?”
Alfred snickered. “No, lord. It came walking up to me all of its own.”
“Ah, well,” Erik murmured, “not everyone has a Learned appreciation of the solace of a warm bath.”
The pilgrim shifted uncomfortably. Though the clothes he was wearing were made of fine cloth, they fit badly, as though cut for another man.
Or several men. His hair would have been flaxen, if clean.
He took in the great hall with pale, darting glances, as though afraid to be caught looking at the gold and silver plates displayed in their accustomed tiers near the lord’s dais.
Erik caught the direction of the pilgrim’s glance. The lord’s mouth curved. It wasn’t a pleasant smile.
When the pilgrim saw Erik’s expression, the odor of greed gave way to the acrid scent of fear. The hounds stirred and snarled softly among themselves. The biggest of them stood and stretched, yawning widely, giving the nervous guest an excellent view of teeth sharply gleaming.
“Stagkiller,” Erik said, “quit teasing it.”
The hound’s jaws snapped shut. He scratched at the fragrant rushes with long, strong nails, turned around three times, and lay down.
“Great lord,” the pilgrim said, stepping toward Erik.
The hounds came to their feet in a single, lithe rush.
“Come no closer,” Erik said calmly. “They smell fleas on you. They can’t abide the creatures.”
Alfred began coughing, only to stop at an incisive glance from Erik.
“Speak,” Erik said to the pilgrim.
“I hear there be a reward for knowing of the Scots Hammer,” the man said.
Erik nodded.
The pilgrim darted a quick glance at Alfred.
“You may leave,” Erik said to his knight.
Alfred, on the edge of objecting, caught a slight motion of Erik’s dagger.
“Yes, lord.”
When the sound of Alfred’s boots had faded from the great hall, Erik gave the pilgrim a hooded glance that was chillingly like that of the peregrine.
“Speak quickly and to the point, pilgrim.”
“I be in the forest and hear a scream,” the man said in a rush, “and I run to see what passes and—”
“In the forest?” Erik interrupted. “Where?”
“Yonder a few hours’ walk.”
Erik followed the direction of the man’s dirty finger.
“Near the Stone Ring?” Erik asked.
The pilgrim crossed himself nervously and started to spit on the floor, then thought better of it.
“Aye,” he muttered.
“What were you doing on my estate? In the forest. Have you a taste for venison, perhaps?”
The smell of fear redoubled, making the hounds stir.
“I be a pilgrim, lord, nae a poacher!”
“Ah, you were on God’s mission, then,” Erik said gently.
“Aye!” the man said, obviously relieved. “I be a right reverent son.”
“Excellent. I’m always pleased to have reverent pilgrims on my estates rather than poachers or outlaws.”
As Erik spoke, the falcon cocked her head and watched the man with unblinking, predatory eyes.
“Continue,” Erik said. “You were in the forest, heard a scream, and ran to see what was happening?”
“Uh, yes.”
“And what was happening?”
“Some ruffians come upon a man and a maid. They be checking the fit of the other’s stockings, if you take my meaning.”
Tawny eyebrows lifted. “Aye.”
“The ruffians sees the maid’s amber gems all shiny and—God’s bleeding wounds!”
The peregrine’s shrill whistle had cut off the pilgrim’s words and brought the hounds to their feet.
“The maid,” Erik said very gently, not looking away from the dirty guest. “Was she hurt?”
“Nay, lord,” the man said hurriedly. “’Tis what I be trying to tell you.”
“Did an outlaw lay hands upon her? Was she touched?”
“Uh…I…” The man swallowed. “She be dragged from her horse and cuffed a bit for sticking a dagger in the one what be taking her jewelry, ’tis all.”
Erik closed his eyes for an instant, afraid that the false pilgrim would see what lay inside and flee before he finished his tale.
“She was dragged from her horse,” Erik said with great gentleness. “And then?”
“The man be dragged with her, but he lands on his feet and starts to swinging a hammer.”
A cold smile etched the line of Erik’s mouth.
“God blind me, but he be a wizard with that hammer,” the false pilgrim continued. “I sees right soon that I—er, the ruffians—be overmatched no matter that they be ten to his one.”
Erik’s smile widened but became no warmer.
“Then the maid sets to cursing in a heathen way and I sees that the ruffians got themselves that amber witch I hear talk of, the one what lives nearby this keep?”
A nod was Erik’s only response.
The outlaw let out a silent sigh of relief that the lord wasn’t going to ask any more uncomfortable questions.
“Some of the ruffians goes around the man’s back to get under the hammer,” the false pilgrim said quickly.
“Just before they has him, the witch yells and the warrior give a great leap up and turn around in the air and come down facing what his back be facing before and the hammer keep humming without a hitch and it all happen quicker than I be able to blink twice.”
Erik waited.
“Only one man be able to do that,” the outlaw explained.
“Aye,” Erik said.
He knew from experience that that particular fighting maneuver was more often talked about by knights than done successfully. In fact, Erik knew of only one warrior who could be depended upon to show such a combination of strength and skill. It was how the knight had received his name.
The Scots Hammer.
“I would like to have seen that,” Erik said.
And meant it.
The false pilgrim grunted. His expression suggested that he could have lived and died very well without seeing the Scots Hammer at work.
“Then what happened?” Erik asked.
“The ruffians that still be able, they run like deer. The witch and the Scots Hammer rides off at a gallop.”
“Toward this keep?”
“Nay. Away from it. I run here quick as I can, to tell you I see the Scots Hammer and get the reward.”
Erik looked at the blade of his dagger and said nothing.
“Do you nae believe me?” the outlaw said anxiously. “It be the Hammer. Bigger by half than most men, dark of hair and light of eye, strong as an ox.”
The dagger glinted as it turned idly in Erik’s long fingers.
“It be not the first time I see the Hammer,” the outlaw said quickly. “I be in Blackthorne on my, er, pilgrimage, when the Hammer be fighting Dominic le Sabre. I be as certain as sin of it.”
“Yes,” Erik said, “I believe you saw the Scots Hammer.”
“The reward, lord?”
“Aye,” Erik said very gently. “I shall give you a suitable reward for your day’s work.”
The peregrine’s wings flared abruptly, startling the outlaw into backing up. His sudden motion brought the heads of all seven wolfhounds around to watch him.
The outlaw froze.
“Alfred,” Erik said, pitching his voice to carry down the length of the great hall.
“Aye, lord!”
“Bring thirty pieces of silver.”
“At once, lord!”
Erik watched the outlaw with an unblinking gaze. The man shifted unhappily.
“One small thing, my good pilgrim,” Erik said softly.
“Aye?”
“Empty your purses.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Do it. Now.”
The gentleness of Erik’s voice never varied, but the outlaw finally understood what lay behind the fine manners.
It was no precious lordling he confronted, but a warrior in whose yellow eyes the fires of hell burned.
With jerky motions, the outlaw began emptying the purses he had tied beneath his clothing.
The tip of Erik’s dagger pointed to a table standing near the man.
Sullenly, the outlaw put the contents of the first purse on the table—two daggers with silver handles and steel blades. The stain on the blades spoke silently of blood.
The next purse revealed three combs of silver whose delicate designs suggested that they had once adorned the heads of fine ladies. A long, pale lock of hair was tangled in one comb, as though it had been ripped from a woman’s head.
Erik watched with apparent indifference, but his eyes missed nothing.