He entered the tavern blowing on his numb hands to get some movement back into them. Bryce smiled, thinking of how Meg would squeal and wriggle when he burrowed icy fingers between her ample bosoms and eager thighs. Meg enjoyed the respectability of a wealthy merchant’s widow while indulging her penchant for seducing younger men. Not that Bryce had taken much seducing as Meg was long-legged and buxom and knew a thing or two about pleasing a man. She craved excitement without the need for affection, and Bryce was well aware that she would toss him aside and seek a shiny new toy as soon as may be. But then, he was the same, always looking to uncover a new treasure, always one eye on what was ahead, not at his side, not behind him.
They often met in one of the dingy rooms in the tavern, for Meg liked the excitement of slipping from her smooth, becalmed life to mingle with the rougher elements of society. Rubbing up against drunkards and ne’er do wells, gambling at cards and drinking more than she should, excited Meg and would end with her taking him home to bed. It had become a welcome routine for them both, to the point where Bryce had begun to harbour genuine affection for her.
After copious amounts of whisky and several games of cards with some unwashed fellows, Bryce was dismayed that Meg had still not arrived at the tavern. He had well and truly dulled his anger at his father, so Bryce left in search of her. He hit a wall of cold air outside which sobered him a little, and made his way, head down against a biting wind, to Dunnaban Alley and Meg’s cosy, three-storey house.
Candlelight flickered in an upstairs window sending pools of yellow out onto the dusting of snow on the cobbles. Downstairs, the curtains were drawn against the winter’s chill. Bryce banged on the door, and a maidservant opened it. Her face fell, and her mouth hung open.
‘Mistress is not at home,’ she said in a rush.
‘Where is she?’ Bryce slurred. His lips were not working properly. Must be the cold.
‘Gone out to…to visit… with an old friend,’ sputtered the servant.
‘Well, is she coming back?’ said Bryce in exasperation, clinging to the door frame for support.
‘I don’t know,’ said the woman.
Bryce was about to turn and go when a faint noise stopped him in his tracks. A strange yelping cry came from within.
‘What is that?’ he said.
‘What is what?’ cried the servant, who was a terrible liar.
Bryce barged straight past her and took the stairs to the bedroom two at a time, falling and banging his knees. He burst in to be confronted with Meg on her back on the bed, legs up and bodice down, hands clutching the bedstead, and with something burrowing feverishly beneath her skirts.
‘Go on. Faster, Mortimer. Harder damn you.’
‘What in all hell…!’ exclaimed Bryce.
Meg froze when she spotted him, then shrieked at the top of her voice. A man emerged from under her skirts like a badger from its burrow. He was older than Bryce, dark hair peppered with grey, thickset and tall. He sprang from his knees and off the bed, wiping his face.
‘Who in damnation are you!’ he shouted as Bryce’s fist connected with his face. The man staggered back and fell onto his bottom, arms and legs flailing like an overturned beetle.
‘You were supposed to come next week,’ cried Meg trying to cover herself.
‘Well, I’ve come early, and I see I’m not the only one.’
Bryce staggered sideways and fell onto the bed on top of Meg. She slapped his face and pushed him off, and he swayed back unsteadily.
‘Get out, you drunkard,’ shrieked Meg. ‘Get out. I don’t want you here. I am done with you.’
‘But Meg….’
Suddenly, Bryce was sent flying against the wall by the man barrelling into him. They grappled together, and Bryce got a few good punches in, making blood fly out of the man’s face.
‘Leave him, Bryce,’ shouted Meg.
He was vaguely aware of Meg wriggling off the bed and running out before a punch connected with his stomach, winding him. Bryce doubled over, staggering drunkenly, but he had enough breath to aim a fist at the man’s face, feeling the crunch of bone beneath his knuckles.
The fellow went down with an almighty crash, like a felled tree, and Bryce stood over him. ‘That will teach you to trespass on another man’s turf,’ he said triumphantly, tottering sideways, and then everything went black.
Chapter Four
‘You there. Fancy gentleman. Wake up.’ A woman’s voice stirred Bryce from oblivion.
He opened his eyes to be confronted by a vaulted black stone ceiling and an offensive odour making him grimace in distaste. He felt like he was in the jaws of a huge wet dog. His head throbbed, and when he touched it with his fingers, there was a bump as big as a hen’s egg on the back of it.
‘You…you there,’ came the whining voice again. ‘You in the fancy clothes. I’ll give you a tug for a penny.’
