Free To Kiss A Kilted Warrior by Rowan Keats

sooner we find him, the sooner I will have the name of the man in black.”
    Morag heaved a sigh. “Where then?”
    “Beyond these burgages,” he said, pointing to the left. “Down the third vennel, according to Sim.”
    They followed the public passageway down the hill and found themselves in a small courtyard surrounded by a half dozen whitewashed bothies. Wulf reined the pony to a halt and eased out of his seat. The hours that had passed since the ferry had already stiffened his leg.
    He nodded toward the sign hanging in front of one of the bothies—a square board painted with a trumpet. “This must be the place.”
    With a stiff gait, he crossed the courtyard to the door and knocked.
    The door was opened by a plump woman wearing a dun-colored gown and a white brèid over her hair. “Aye?”
    “I’m seeking Marcus Rose,” Wulf said. “I’ve an introduction from a fellow herald.” He held out a sealed parchment.
    She took the parchment and closed the door.
    A moment later, a tall, thin fellow in a saffron tunic and dark hose opened the door. His hairline had receded substantially despite a youthful face. “Sim sent you?”
    “Aye.” Wulf pointed to the cart. “My wife and I would beg a moment of your time.”
    Marcus frowned, but after a moment he opened the door wide and beckoned them both inside. “I’ll have my Becca heat some tea.”
    The inside of the bothy was much finer than Morag’s humble abode. A carved bed frame, four high-backed chairs before the fire, and a rug in the living area. No chickens or goats welcome here.
    “What brings you to see me?” Marcus asked, as Becca added tea leaves to a pot of boiling water over the fire.
    “This.” Wulf handed the herald the sigil cut from their attacker’s tunic. “Lady Macintosh’s herald is unfamiliar with these arms and suggested you might be able to identify them.”
    Marcus took the scrap of cloth and studied it. He grew very still as he stared at the bear’s head, and Morag was certain he was going to name its owner. Instead he looked up and shook his head. “I do not know this mark. Whence did you get it?”
    Sitting back in his chair, Wulf accepted a cup of tea. “It was found on the body of a man slain by wolves,” he lied smoothly. “We have been tasked with returning the possessions to his family.”
    “Indeed,” Marcus said slowly. “What possessions might these be?”
    “A very fine wool cloak and a Spanish sword,” Wulf said. “Not a great legacy, but meaningful to a widow or son.”
    Morag was impressed by the ease with which Wulf spun his tale. Sincerity rang from his words, and were she Marcus she would havewholeheartedly believed their mission was to restore the cloak and sword to their rightful owner.
    “Perhaps I could be of more aid,” Marcus said. “If you left this with me, I could compare it to those recorded in the Book of Arms maintained by the marischal.”
    “That would be most helpful.” Wulf downed the last of his tea and stood. “We’ll return in two days hence to review what, if anything, you’ve discovered.”
    Marcus nodded. “The Book of Arms is wonderfully illuminated. I’m certain I’ll find something useful. If not this exact sigil, then some other clue.”
    The sun was still high when they made their way back to the cart. Wulf helped Morag onto the seat, but did not join her on the bench. “Better for my leg to walk,” he said.
    “Shall we find an inn?”
    He nodded. “Not in the High Street, however. We need a quiet spot, one less frequented by the king’s guards. Perhaps in the north quarter, near the loch.”
    Not familiar with the burgh, Morag allowed Wulf to guide the cart down the narrow streets. But as they entered the long narrow wynd that bordered the loch, she frowned. No gardens or whitewashing here. The bothies were pressed tightly together, and most were in sore need offresh thatching. The citizens in this part of town wore weary expressions and clothing grayed with