“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 upseats, 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’smyking!”
“Then drink to him!” Maxton boomed.
