Taming The Lion. Suzanne Barclay

      

      

      Stirling, Scotland

      August 10, 1407

      

      

      Hakon Fergusson paused in the doorway of the Running Fox. Squinting against the pall of smoke from the torches rimming the long room, he surveyed the establishment with a critical eye.

      The tavern appeared to be a cut above the others he had visited tonight. The benches and tables sat in orderly rows, scarred from use but lacking the layers of filth tolerated by drunken patrons and careless owners. The serving wenches who moved through the crowded room dispensing food and drink were comely, their gowns snug but not slatternly.

      Lastly Hakon studied the customers themselves. Though it was just past nine on a Saturday night and every table was occupied, it was a remarkably orderly crowd. At the nearest table, four men amiably argued the merits of chain mail over boiled leather vests. Six others sat before the empty hearth, their heads bent over a game board. Elsewhere, men drank and laughed and talked in civil tones. Torchlight winked on golden jewelry and shimmered on garments of silk and velvet.

      Clearly these were men who appreciated the best. And would be willing to pay for it.

      “This is the place,” Hakon murmured to the man behind him.

      “’Bout time.” Seamus shifted the whiskey keg on his shoulder. “This damn thing’s heavy. Don’t see why we couldn’t have sold it at the first inn.”

      “We can get more here.” Hakon needed every coin he could lay his hands on if his plans were to succeed.

      Four months ago, he had received the pleasant news that his uncle and two cousins had died after eating tainted meat at a truce day feast hosted by the church, leaving him heir to a Highland estate. Hakon thought it a sad end for a Fergusson. All the male members of his Border branch of the clan—and a few of the women besides—had died with swords in their hands or dangling at the end of the hangman’s rope.

      Still the idea of having his own tower, even if it meant leaving the rough and ready Borders he loved, had appealed. Especially since at the time, the Border Warden had Hakon high on his list of men to be caught and hanged. So Hakon had gathered his band of hardened fighters, thumbed his nose at Lord Hunter Carmichael and headed north.

      To say the inheritance was a disappointment was a vast understatement Dun-Dubh consisted of one broken-down keep, a few acres of stony ground and two hundred hungry mouths. Hakon had been all for selling off what he could: his relatives’ clothes, furniture and the like, abandoning the two hundred unwanted burdens and taking his men back to the Borders. He’d changed his mind when he’d learned that the neighboring Boyds possessed. a prosperous distillery.

      Unfortunately, Thomas Boyd had proved to be more tenacious and far cannier at holding on to what was his than any other victim Hakon had tried to best. Months of planning and scheming it had taken him to get this far. With any luck, he’d come away from the Running Fox with the wherewithal to win.

      “Well, let us see how much we can get for the Boyds’ whiskey.” Hakon pasted on a genial smile and entered the tavern. Curbing his usual swagger, he walked with the cautious air of a merchant offering wares to a new client.

      He approached the long wooden serving bar and hailed the man behind it. “Would you be Brann of the Side?” His tone was respectful but not groveling.

      “Aye. Who’s asking?” Brann’s fleshy face folded into a series of frowns as he looked Hakon over. He had a barrel chest, thick arms and the sharp eyes of a tradesman.

      “Robert Dunbar.” The lie came easily to a man who often found his own name too infamous. “I heard ye have the finest tavern in Stirling.”

      “That it is.” Brann’s chest puffed out.

      “Oh, I could not agree more.” Hakon looked about the room and sang its praises. Chuckling to himself, he watched Brann relax, completely taken in by the act. Da would be proud of him, Hakon thought. The thieving old bastard who had sired him had always said Hakon’s looks were his greatest weapon. He was tall and blond with pleasing features and brown eyes he had trained to hide his thoughts.

      “This yer first visit to town?” Brann asked.

      He took them for bumpkins. That made Hakon smile. Before setting out tonight, he’d taken pains with his appearance, choosing a blue tunic and black hose that had belonged to his dead uncle because they were a trifle small and patched at the knees and elbows. They were the garments of a poor man who prided himself on neatness. In them, he looked sober and honest. Just the sort of man other men trusted. “Aye, first time.”

      “Well, ye’ll find that taverns like this are a bit, er, more expensive than the ones down under the hill.”

      What grated on Hakon was the knowledge that his uncle’s mean castoffs were better than his own few garments. Looking about at the finely clad nobles, he vowed that when the Boyds’ distillery was his, he’d buy a dozen velvet tunics.

      “What’ll it be? Ale? Wine?” Brann asked.

      “Actually, I’ve something here I’d like you to try.” Hakon motioned Seamus forward, took the keg and set it on the bar.

      Brann eyed it as he might a pile of manure. “I’ve got my own sources for ale and—”

      “Whiskey.”

      “That, too,” Brann growled. “My customers are particular.”

      Which was exactly why Hakon had chosen this place. Particular people paid more. “So am I. What I offer is of the highest quality. The finest whiskey in all Scotland.”

      “They all say that.” But Brann licked his lips and glanced at the keg again.

      “Would you like to taste it?”

      Brann shrugged. “I dunno.”

      “Perhaps your customers would sample it, as well.” Hakon smiled genially, hiding his annoyance and impatience. In order for his plans to succeed, he needed money for arms and bribes.

      “How much will it cost me?” Brann asked.

      “Nothing for a taste. If your customers like the whiskey and want more, I’ve ten more kegs I will sell you.”

      “Ten is not many.”

      It was all Thomas Boyd had with him at the time he’d been unlucky enough to wander into Hakon’s ambush. “I’ve more at home.” Or rather, the Boyds did. All Hakon had to do was figure out how to wrest it from them. “If we reach an agreeable price, I can send ye regular shipments.”

      “Seems fair enough.”

      Hakon smiled. He always seemed fair. And open. And honest. The guise had lured more than one victim into his web.

      “If yer man’ll tap the keg,” Brann said.

      Hakon glanced at Seamus. The wiry little man had ridden with his father. He was adept at many things—spying, tracking, thieving and slitting the occasional throat—but the only way he’d ever broached a keg was with the edge of an ax. “It’s yer tavern, Master Brann. We’ll leave that to ye.”

      Brann nodded, pulled a small metal hook from beneath the bar and expertly drew the bung. Keeping one eye on them, he bent and sniffed suspiciously. He straightened so quickly it was comical, his eyes wide with astonishment and new respect.

      “Well?” Hakon asked.

      “It smells right promising. The subtle blend of smoke and fire.” Fumbling in his haste, Brann poured a measure into a wooden cup, lifted it and breathed deep. “Ah.” Reverently he sipped. His eyes closed. His head tipped back to let the liquid run down his throat. He sighed again.

      Got him, Hakon thought, winking at Seamus.

      Master