by E R Dillon
The mule perked up at their approach. John threw a faded blanket across its back, heaved a battered saddle into position, and buckled the sweat-stained girth strap. He fastened the bridle in place, after which he led the mule around the garden and up the wide alleyway with Kyle keeping pace beside him.
When they reached the street, Brodie, Upton, and Turnbull greeted John by name. Practically everyone in the shire knew John or knew of him, as no one possessed a greater knowledge of simples and ointments than John Logan.
“How’s the gout?” John said to Turnbull.
“Tolerable now,” Turnbull said, “thanks to those compresses you gave me.”
Upton turned on Turnbull, his brow furrowed in concern. “You never told me you were ailing. I would not have insisted you go along today.”
“Don’t cluck over me like a broody hen, boy,” Turnbull said, his voice gruff. “I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to.”
Upton seemed satisfied with the response, but he kept a close eye on Turnbull after that.
Kyle and John mounted up, and they all continued on their way. In a short while, they entered a sprawl of houses that were newer and larger than the ones in the older part of town. These dwellings, although built of wood, were nicer and set farther apart, each with a garden plot beside it. Trees were more plentiful there, and the roads were broader.
“Master Brodie,” Kyle said. “Take the lead from here, if you please.”
They all fell in behind Brodie, who led them down a shady lane, where women worked in their gardens, children played in the streets, and dogs barked at passing horses.
Farther along the lane, they approached a blacksmith’s shop. Three saddled horses, sleek and long-limbed, stood out front tied to the rail. There was nothing unusual about horses at a blacksmith’s shop, except these were stamping their hooves and shifting at the end of their reins. As Kyle drew closer, he saw the cause of their restlessness.
There was a large dog in the side yard, chained to a stout post, around which the grass had been worn down to bare dirt. The brute paced back and forth, ears pricked, muscles rippling under its tan coat. Saliva drooled from the massive jaws in its square head. Its dark eyes were fixed on the open front of the shop where the horses fidgeted at the rail. The chain rattled with each step the dog took.
Kyle recognized Macalister’s dog, Fergus. It took no great stretch of memory to do so, for once seen, the great beast was hard to forget. “Hold up, Master Brodie.” He turned aside into the blacksmith’s yard, and the others filed in behind him.
At the sight of new intruders, Fergus launched into a frenzy of barking, straining toward them at the end of the chain, choking itself on the spiked collar around its neck.
Kyle rode up to the wooden rail and halted. The barking increased the agitation of the other horses tied there. Soon, his own mount began to fret. He dismounted to lay a soothing hand on the gelding’s long nose. At that moment, the low voices coming from within the shop grew sharp with anger.
He tied the reins to the rail and walked under the porch roof to listen to the heated conversation already underway. He was not surprised to see Macalister at the back of the shop beside the forge.
Macalister wore a leather apron over his homespun tunic. He held a hammer in one hand and a length of flattened steel in the other. Three armed and helmeted English soldiers stood several paces away from him, their profiles illuminated by firelight from the forge.
One of the soldiers appeared to be an officer. He pulled off his helmet and pushed back his chain mail coif to expose cropped black hair. His face was comely, shaven clean in the Norman fashion. His bearing was imperious, like that of a lordling who expected obedience without question. His body was muscular and well-built, although he was not as tall or as broad as Macalister. He did the talking, while the men-at-arms stood behind him with their hands resting purposefully on the hilts of their swords.
“Any trouble from you,” the officer said, “and you’ll find this shack burned to the ground and that mongrel of yours charred black in the rubble.”
Macalister glared at him from under lowered brows. “If anybody harms that dog, they shall pay dearly for it.” He slammed the hammer onto the anvil in front of him to emphasize his point.
The officer blinked at the loud noise, but he stood his ground. “Do you dare threaten an officer about the king’s business?” he said. “I’ll drag you into court for lawburrows.”
“It’s not a threat,” Macalister said, barely mastering his evident contempt. “Consider it a promise to any fool who does it.”
The officer and Macalister glowered at each other for a full minute, their eyes locked in an unblinking stare, their booted feet braced.
One of the men-at-arms leaned toward his companion, as though to speak to him. Whatever he was about to say went unsaid, for he caught sight of Kyle barely a yard behind him. “You!” he cried, his dark brows drawn together. “What do you want?”
Kyle recognized Archer from the confrontation with him at the marketplace, and the man obviously remembered him. “Don’t mind me. Continue with what you were doing.”
The sound of their voices caused the officer to swing around. A flush of anger mottled his fair complexion as his cold gray eyes fastened onto Kyle, who returned his gaze. The officer’s body stiffened, as though in recognition. He turned back to Macalister. “I’ll be watching you,” he said, jabbing the air with a blunt finger. He turned on his heel and strode from the shop with his men a step behind him.
The sight of the English soldiers emerging from under the porch roof set off another round of barking. Fergus lunged toward them, only to be jerked to a wheezing halt at the end of the chain.
The officer hung his helmet from the saddle bow. While he untied the reins from the rail, he glanced over at Brodie, who was scowling fiercely at him. His gaze slid to Upton and Turnbull as he mounted his horse. “What are the pair of you up to?” he said to them.
“Escort for the sheriff’s deputy,” Upton said.
“Carry on, then,” the officer said. His gray eyes shifted to Kyle, who at that moment was walking out from under the porch roof. “See that the deputy minds his own business from now on.” With a snort of disdain at Fergus, he wheeled his horse and started down the lane. The men-at-arms mounted up and followed along behind him.
Macalister came out from his shop and whistled at Fergus. With a downward motion of his hand, he signaled for the dog to cease barking, which it did.
Brodie stared after the departing English soldiers, his fists clenched and the rim of each nostril white and pinched over the angry set of his thin lips. The tenseness of his body caused the shaggy pony under him to shift uneasily. “That were him,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“Which one?” Kyle said.
“The bareheaded one,” Brodie said. “He’s getting away. Ye must go after him.”
“Before I accuse him or anybody else,” Kyle said, “I need proof to link him to the murder. I can’t arrest him just because he’s English.”
Brodie turned to Kyle, exasperation on his bearded face. “He and those with him were in the wood that day. Who else could have done it?”
“I’m afraid Sir Percy won’t see it that way,” Kyle said.
“He certainly won’t,” Macalister said, joining the conversation. “That’s Lucky Jack Sweeney, Captain of Horse at Ayr Garrison. The two with him are Weems and Archer, his henchmen.” He rested his calloused hands on the wooden rail. “In case ye don’t know it, Captain Sweeney is Sir Percy’s eyes and ears. It’ll take a lot to induce him to convict his favorite.”
“Lucky Jack appeared none too pleased with you,” Kyle said.
“I think he recognized me at Ogilvy’s the other night,” Macalister said. “He’s vexed because he cannot outright accuse me of interfering with his criminal activities without giving himself away. How could he know I was there during the raid, unless he was, too?”
Brodie sat on the shaggy
pony, aloof and silent as he listened to every word of their conversation.
“Do you know for a fact Sweeney was there?” Kyle said.
“If he wasn’t,” Macalister said, “then somebody else rode a horse like his, with a white patch on its near front leg.”
“He is about the size of the one who got away,” Kyle said, recalling the blows exchanged with the leader of the raiders. “I left a bruise on him that will hurt for days. It was only by sheer luck he escaped. I guess that’s why they call him Lucky Jack.” He turned a puzzled frown on Macalister. “If he cannot arrest you for thwarting his unlawful pursuits, what did he want?”
“He tried to chivy me into striking him.”
“That’s a hanging offense.”
“I know it,” Macalister said. “He’s a persistent fellow, so I must be on my guard around him. If he cannot get me one way, he’ll try another.”
****
Sweeney reined in as soon as the blacksmith shop was out of sight. He looked back the way he came, a thoughtful expression on his face. “They know too much,” he said to Archer beside him.
“Who does?” Archer said.
“The blacksmith and that meddling deputy,” Sweeney said. His gray eyes grew as hard and flat as steel. “Get rid of them.”
****
After Sweeney’s departure, neither Kyle nor Macalister spoke for a long moment. It was Brodie who broke the silence that had fallen between them.
“That’s a right fine beastie tied there in the yard,” Brodie said to Macalister. “I don’t think he cares much for Southrons.”
“Nay,” Macalister said with a laugh. “He doesn’t.” The amusement on his face ebbed as his gaze shifted to Upton and Turnbull.
“Does he hunt?” Brodie said.
“Better than most,” Macalister said, his dark eyes on Brodie.
Kyle pulled the reins loose from the rail. “We’d best be on our way,” he said, mounting the gelding. “We’ve much to do.”
“Where are ye bound?” Macalister said.
“To Harefoot Law,” Brodie said.
The mention of that particular village caused vertical lines to appear between Kyle’s tawny eyebrows. He glanced over at John in time to catch the delicate sympathy on the older man’s face. Of all places in the whole country, he reflected with an inward groan, it had to be Harefoot Law.
Chapter 4
Kyle drew in a deep breath and let it out in a long, soundless sigh. He knew well the way to Harefoot Law. That was where, fifteen years ago, he found happiness and the promise of a bright future. That was where, six years ago, he plumbed the depths of despair. The passage of time dulled the ache in his heart, but the last thing he wanted now was to resurrect painful memories buried so carefully and so deliberately. In the intervening years, experience had taught him that what was done, was done, and no amount of brooding or gnashing his teeth could ever change it.
He reminded himself that this undertaking was not about him. It was about a dead girl whose blood cried out for justice. Her murderer must be caught and hanged, and the matter laid to rest, as his own would never be. It seemed fitting to him that the newly bereaved father should be the one to lead them to that place of sorrow. “Master Brodie, if you please,” he said, with a sweep of his hand toward the lane.
They left the town of Ayr behind them, riding southward toward Alloway across undulating sand dunes. When they came to the River Doon, they turned inland to follow its meandering course upriver. Sandy hillocks gave way to rolling grassland. After several miles, the forest closed in around them. The river became narrower and darker, winding its way through the trees.
Before long, they reached a ford in the river and crossed over to the village on the other side. The five-mile journey took less time than Kyle remembered, perhaps owing in part to his reluctance to get there.
Harefoot Law was more of a settlement than a village. A scant dozen weather-beaten timber houses lined either side of a dirt lane. Light from the morning sun showed the decay and neglect that had gnawed at the humble dwellings over the years.
An ivy-covered chapel with a peaked slate roof stood on a rise at the end of the lane. A rectangular stained-glass window beside the arched front door looked out over the village. A graveyard lay to the right, with ancient headstones jutting at odd angles from hallowed ground.
Kyle slowed the gelding to a walk, falling in behind the others as they rode up the dirt lane. His gaze swept the faces of the villagers around him, none of whom looked even vaguely familiar. Women paused at their chores, and small children stopped playing to stare openly with wary eyes. A couple of old men sitting on a fallen log ignored the intrusion and continued their game of knucklebones.
Kyle halted in front of the chapel and slid to the ground. “Wait here,” he said to Upton and Turnbull. He signaled for Brodie and John to dismount and follow him through the arched front door.
Upton gathered up the reins, and with a quiet word to Turnbull, he led their mounts over to the graveyard to graze.
The interior of the chapel was cold after the warmth of the sun outside. Light poured in through the single window, illuminating four stone walls bereft of furnishings. The polished granite altar at the far end was bare, with a solitary candle burning beside it. Smoke from cheap tallow hung in the air, trapped against the wood-beamed ceiling.
An old priest with a kindly face and tonsured gray hair came out from behind the altar. The brown robe on his wiry frame flapped about his ankles as he shambled toward them on sandaled feet. He greeted John and Brodie by name. When he drew near to them, he gave Kyle a long, hard look.
“Is that ye, Master Kyle, in the flesh?” the old priest said, as though doubting his own eyes.
“The prodigal returns at last, Father Ian,” Kyle said. His smile faded when he noticed the purple and yellow blotch over the old priest’s right eyebrow. “How came you by your injury?”
Father Ian raised a gnarled hand to the bruise on his forehead. “This is nothing compared to what is lost. Night before last, I heard a noise in the chapel. I went to see what it was and stumbled upon a pair of thieves. Before I could cry out for help, they overcame me. By the time my wits came back, the holy monstrance was gone. The gold chalice was missing from the altar, and so was the ivory crucifix over it. I know those were taken for their value, but they also took the altar cloth. I admit it was fine, with some kind of ivy design embroidered in gold thread along the border, but it would hardly fetch half a penny at market.” He turned to Kyle, perplexity on his lined face. “What could they possibly want with the altar cloth?”
“Perhaps they used it to carry off the items they stole.”
“Of course,” Father Ian said. “That makes sense.”
Kyle looked at the old priest with concern. “Are you now recovered?”
“Aye,” Father Ian said. “Except for the occasional ache in my head.”
“Perhaps Master John can give you something for that,” Kyle said, turning to John, who nodded his concurrence with the suggestion.
Father Ian waved aside the offer with his hand. “Not necessary. It only bothers me when I bend down, so I don’t bend if I can help it.”
“Did you get a look at the thieves?” Kyle said.
Father Ian shook his head. “It was dark, and their hoods were drawn. I only recall that one was bigger than the other.” His gaze shifted from Kyle to Brodie and back again. “But ye didn’t ride all this way to hear me prattle on about my woes. Come, the girl lies on a bier through there.” He indicated the dark curtain that covered an opening in the wall behind the altar.
Brodie took a step toward the curtain, but Father Ian laid a hand on his arm.
“It’s best if ye stay here for now,” the old priest said gently. “Let these men do what must be done.”
Brodie hesitated for the space of a heartbeat before turning away without a word. He went over to kneel before the altar on the cold flagstone floor. He bowed his head, his felt cap crushed between
his clasped hands.
Father Ian led the others behind the altar. He thrust the curtain aside to enter the passageway, beyond which lay his sleeping chamber at the rear.
The trestle table that served as a bier stood against the stone wall on one side of the passageway. The illumination there was poor, yet Kyle clearly saw the delineation of a body under the black pall draped over it. The figure beneath the cloth was slight, larger than a child, but smaller than a full-grown woman.
Father Ian approached the makeshift bier and removed the black cloth from over the body, exposing the gray wool homespun shift soiled with patches of dried mud and torn at the neck. Her long, wavy red hair was matted with twigs and dried leaves. A soft leather shoe clung to one foot, while the other foot was bare and smudged with dirt. “She is exactly as she was found.”
Kyle gazed down at the dead girl’s face. She was so young, so still, like a white marble statue. Only the stippling of purple bruises around her mouth marred the beauty of her features.
“I’ll need more light to do a proper job of this,” John said.
While Father Ian went to fetch a lantern, John drew the dagger from the sheath at his waist and slit the dead girl’s shift from neck to knees.
Kyle averted his eyes out of respect for the girl’s dignity. The blade was sharp, and the preparatory work took less than a minute.
“She’s ready now,” John said.
Kyle looked up to see the girl’s garment hanging down on either side of the bier. For propriety within the chapel walls, long narrow strips of linen covered her breasts and pubes.
John removed the single shoe from her foot and let it drop to the flagstone floor.
Kyle bent down to retrieve the shoe. “I shall hang onto this,” he said, tucking it into the pouch at his side. “My guess is that its mate will be found where she was buried.”
Father Ian returned with a lighted lantern and placed it at the head of the bier.
Kyle and the old priest watched in silence as John picked up the lantern and began his examination.
He passed the light slowly over the entire length the girl’s body, scrutinizing every visible part of it. He pulled back her lips to peer into her mouth. He inspected the fingernails on each of her hands. He turned her body to the side to examine the back of her head, her spine, her buttocks, and the back of her thighs. He noted the slight swelling below her navel. When he finished, he straightened up and set the lantern on the bier.