It remained only to make sure that Sir Henry of Roslin did not die.
Lamprecht had gathered up his bits and pieces, the precious relics box slung over one shoulder – and the equally precious contents stolen from Malise, an act of savagely triumphant revenge that left the pardoner grinning like a rat as he slithered into the shadows of the spital. There were many of them, for even the cheapest tallow was too expensive for this place and only essential places were lit.
One was the barred door to the outside world, with the crop-headed, ox-muscled lout called Angus lounging under the light, yawning and exploring the painful rot of his mouth with one huge, filthy forefinger.
The pardoner grimaced at the sight. Sensal maledetto – there must be another way out of this festering place . . .
He was moving carefully away into the cloak of the place, folding himself into the shadows and away from the ox when the clatter and yells froze him to the spot. It came, he was sure, from the kitchens; he saw Angus shove himself away from the wall, pause with a great arrow of indecision between his eyes – then leave the light and head into the dark, towards the kitchens.
Si estar escripto en testa forar, forar, he thought – if it is written on your forehead that you leave, you leave. In another second he was at the door. In one more he had the beam in both hands and was levering it out of the retainers.
‘Haw . . .’
The bull bellow nearly made Lamprecht shriek and it did make him drop the heavy beam, so that it clattered to his feet and made him dance backwards while it bounced dangerously near his toes. He looked up to see Angus staring black daggers at him and heading back towards the door.
Which burst in with a blatting crash and a gust of rain-fresh air.
Neither Bruce nor Kirkpatrick could believe their luck when they heard the door opening, having found it fastened tight. Bruce was not sure if Hal or one of the others had unlocked it, but the thundering noise of the beam hitting the flagstones persuaded him that there was trouble enough to go in hard and fast.
Angus skidded to a halt, his mouth wet and wide at the sight of two armed men bursting in. Kirkpatrick darted forward, Bruce on his heels, and both of them saw a weasel of a man festooned with bags and a box – and, not far away, a collection of muscles on legs like trees, his mouth drooped, yet hauling out a long knife from his belt.
‘Aside,’ Bruce yelled and Kirkpatrick cursed – then the weasel shifted for the door and sealed the moment; Kirkpatrick rounded on him, catching him by the strap of the box and hauling him backwards.
‘Swef, wee man,’ he said, his mouth alongside the man’s ear and the long, slim dagger winking an inch from the side of one wild eye.
‘Let me loose,’ Lamprecht spat, struggling. ‘Let me go. Or. Else. I am as good as a priest. I am under the protection of the Pope himself. Bastonada, mumucho, mucho.’
The familiar tongue trailed down Kirkpatrick’s spine like a lick of ice. There was a moment of embers and shrieks before he actually realised what the pardoner had just said.
‘You will beat me?’
Lamprecht heard the words and the chuckle that went with them. Then his captor, now with a hand at the back of his neck, firm as an iron band, spoke in his ear, the breath stirring the greasy grey tangles of his hair.
‘Si e vero que star inferno, securo papasos de vos autros non poter chappar de venir d’entro.’
If it is true there is a Hell, for sure your priests will not be able to avoid going there. The words circled into Lamprecht’s ear like the sensuous coils of a snake and he knew, with a sudden cold weight in the depths of his belly, that he was caught, for this was a man who had been places where he had gained fluency in lingua franca and – no doubt of it – done things which involved daggers. Or worse.
Kirkpatrick felt the little man go slack, heard his bitter muttering.
‘Si estar escripto in testa andar, andar. Si no, aca morir.’
If it’s written on your forehead for you to go, you will go. If not, you will die here.
Kirkpatrick kept the dagger point high enough, all the same, so that the little weasel could see it, while he tried to watch what Bruce was doing.
Bruce was discovering that he could not dance, that the German Method was of no use in a tight, dark passageway. The sword was too long and the knife man was good. Bruce saw the man come in, hunched and fast, with the knife held like a boar tooth, and he swung, caught the sword blade on an unlit sconce and the great ox, moving faster than his bulk promised, slashed a tavern brawl stroke which cut the homespun under Bruce’s heart and scored a fiery line.
Kirkpatrick yelled and almost let go of Lamprecht, but the pardoner sensed it and wriggled, making Kirkpatrick automatically clench the harder; the pardoner screeched.