Just as Simon was wondering if he should simply accept his fate and name the cat there was a rap at the door. He sighed in resignation as his man MacBean walked in immediately after the knock sounded. The man stubbornly refused to wait until he was told to enter. It had taken far too long just to get the man to knock at all.
“So, that cursed beastie is still about, I see,” said MacBean, glaring at the cat. “Want me to toss it out?”
“I dinnae think it will stay out,” Simon replied.
MacBean grunted. “The old woman shouldnae have wasted food and water on it. Beast is more tattered than my old aunt’s blankets. Got more scars, too.”
Simon gently bit his tongue to stifle the urge to ask MacBean about his old aunt’s scars. Too much curiosity was one of his besetting sins. The craving he had for uncovering secrets and lies made it difficult to make and keep friends, although he could not fully regret that. He also admitted to himself that he had a few secrets of his own that he would prefer to keep buried deep in his past. Old Bega knew them for she had traveled with him from his boyhood home, but, despite how much she loved to talk, the woman held fast to them.
“What good is a cat when it’s all fat and happy, I ask ye?” MacBean asked, obviously expecting no answer. “Only purpose the creatures have to be alive at all is to catch vermin. Beastie there isnae going to do that if the old lady keeps his belly full.”
“MacBean,” Simon said a little sharply to interrupt the man’s tirade before it went any further, “did ye come in here only to speak of this cat?”
“Nay. Ye have a message from the king.”
“I would think that something like that would take precedence over a discussion of this cat,” Simon said as he took the message MacBean thrust toward him.
“King isnae trying to live here, is he? And he doesnae have fleas.”
“I wouldnae be too sure of that and this beast has none since Bega tended to it.”
“He will be getting them again.”
Simon ignored the man as MacBean entered into a staring contest with the cat. The message held dire news, bad in so many ways that Simon swiftly finished off his wine and held the goblet out for MacBean to refill. A king’s man had been murdered. Worse that man had been the king’s own cousin, and one the king had been fond of. Young Ian Ogilvie had been following whispers of treasonous activities, of plots against his royal cousin and benefactor. The name of the clan held responsible was not familiar to Simon except for the fact that everyone knew of the Armstrongs, a border clan well known for its reiving ways. What chilled him to the bone was that this particular branch of the Armstrongs was connected through marriage to the Murrays. If the Murrays were not already in hiding, they might soon need to be.
“Bad news?” asked MacBean.
“Nay good. Murder, treason, accusations being flung about that have already cast a shadow on the Murrays.” Simon drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “The Armstrongs involved are kin to the Murrays through marriage. A close enough bond to cause our king to wonder if they, too, now plot against him.”
“The king and his advisors are forever seeing plots.”
“True, but this one may nay be born of naught but suspicious minds. Sir Ian Ogilvie was certain there was a plot afoot and went in search of some answers. What he got was a dagger in the heart, an Armstrong dagger.”
MacBean frowned and then shook his head, his thick, graying, brown hair shifting wildly with the movement. “Nay. Dinnae see that clan troubling itself much with treason and plots and all that. They dinnae follow many of the king’s laws nay matter who sits on the throne so why bother plotting against the mon they dinnae listen to anyway? Now, if ye said they stole the king’s cattle? Weel, I wouldnae doubt that. But treasonous plots? Nay.”
“I feel the same. And, Sir Cormac Armstrong has appeared to be trying to rise above the reiving ways of so many of his kinsmen.”
“Is the king asking ye to hunt down the killer?”
“Aye, that and to discover who else plots treason against him. I but wish he had asked that I prove who truly is the guilty one for the lack of that question makes me think he has decided the Armstrongs of Aigballa are guilty. That is worrisome.”
Before MacBean could express his sour opinion about getting tangled up in uncovering plots for the king, there was a knock at the front door. He cursed and hurried away to see who was there. Simon smiled faintly over his man’s ill temper and then frowned down at the message he still held.
He was going to have to answer the king’s command, but he did not like it despite his recent craving for a puzzle to solve. This time he was not only trying to find the truth, he was going to have to try and protect his friends as he did so. Simon doubted Sir Cormac Armstrong’s family had anything to do with treason, but that did not mean there was not one of his family who might play such a dangerous game. Pulling out that one rotten tooth could easily cost Simon some of the few friends he had.
MacBean’s return drew him from his dark thoughts, and Simon looked at the man. “Weel, who was at the door? Was there another message?”
“Nay. There is a nun and two bairns,” replied MacBean in a tone that would have better suited announcing death itself.
“A nun?”
“Aye, and she says she must speak with ye now. Have ye been breeding and nay told the old woman? That crone willnae be pleased with ye if ye have.”
“Nay, I havenae been breeding and, if I had done so, Bega would already ken it for she would be helping me care for the child. Mayhap the nun wishes my help in finding the ones who should take responsibility for the children. Show her in, MacBean, and fetch us something to drink and eat.”
The moment a grumbling MacBean left, Simon struggled to get the cat off his lap and stand up. He ignored the animal’s growl of displeasure and tried to brush the cat hair from his clothes. MacBean clearing his throat caused him to look up and he slowly straightened. A slight wave of his hand sent the man off to get drink and food for his guests.
“Sir Simon Innes?” asked the nun.
