King's Warrior (Renegade Lords)

“A verbal altercation.” The soldier paused. “Dame Thread was involved.”

The mayor’s face, heretofore etched in idiotic brightness, dimmed. “Oh dear.”

“Well?” Sherwood snapped.

“Dame Thread, you say? Well…to tell the truth, my lord, I’m not entirely surprised it was she involved in an disturbance.” The mayor laughed merrily, which grated on Sherwood’s nerves. He looked over coldly and the mayor cut it short, as if coughing on a piece of fat.

“What happened?” Sherwood asked shortly.

The soldier replied. “The port reeve’s assistant said he was accosted.”

“Accosted? By Dame Thread? Oh, that’s a good one.” He fell back in his chair, laughing.

Sherwood stepped forward and took over the questioning. “Was there anything else?”

The soldier shook his head. “No, my lord.”

“You see, Sherwood?” The mayor smiled. “Do not be so concerned. It was but a merchant, a woman. She is of no account.”

“They rarely are,” Sherwood agreed coldly, and addressed the soldier directly. “No other word?”

“Nothing, my lord. No complaints filed, no word from the merchant.”

“And no men involved?”

“No sir.”

Sherwood turned away, unaccountably irritated. He’d felt that little flicker inside, that sense of the Irishman being this close…then slipping away.

“Unless…,” the soldier said.

Sherwood stilled.

“Unless you were to account the man who showed up afterwards.”

He turned around slowly. “I might indeed account such a thing.”

“Bayard—the assistant reeve, sir—he said a nobleman showed up, interrupted his conversation with Mistress Thread. Lord of some duchy to the south.”

“What duchy?” he snapped.

“Bayard didn’t recall.”

Sherwood scowled and turned to the mayor. “Well, what of it? Who is this Mistress Thread?”

“She is nobody. A tailor, widowed, abides at the far end of Thread Lane, very proper. She knows no lords from the south, east or west. Quiet and respectable, pays her taxes and then some. Although….” His face looked troubled.

Sherwood slapped his glove across his palm impatiently. “Well?”

“Well, my lord, she’s shapely enough, with the face of an angel some say—don’t see it myself—but unfortunately, the spirit of a stallion. That spirit was the death of her father, and her husband too, some say. I tend to agree. Her husband drank himself to death. After that she was trammeled down pretty well into docility, thank God. But….” The mayor gave a little shudder. “It is not entirely outside the realm of possibility that she might have been involved in a disturbance. You see, she has notions.”

“Notions?”

He nodded. “Upon a time, as a child, she took a notion to build a device to fly, if you can fathom it. Built a set of bird-like wings and took them up the cliff faces, atop the town, was all set to leap off, when—”

“And the man?” Sherwood interrupted sharply.

The mayor blinked. “My lord?”