Ayrshire Murders

by E R Dillon

  “How could you see them if it was dark?”

  “They set the roof ablaze, and I got a good look at the two who were killed.”

  “That is a serious accusation,” Sir Percy said. “I will need to see the bodies for identification.”

  “The bodies are gone,” Kyle said. “The raiders came back later in the night and carried them off.”

  Sir Percy turned away, but not before Kyle caught the twitch of the man’s lips. He was unsure whether relief or concern prompted the barely perceptible contraction.

  “How inconvenient for you,” Sir Percy said as he walked over to the unshuttered window. He looked down into the courtyard, his hands clasped behind his back. “These are desperate times, Master Shaw. There is rebellion lurking in every dark corner. Even as we speak, Sir Andrew de Moray is sowing the seeds of dissension and unrest in the northern shires against English occupation, and that despite his father and his uncle held prisoner on English lands.” He swung around to face Kyle, his compact figure silhouetted against the bright light outside. “Bring me proof of English involvement in those raids, and I will take it from there.”

  “There is one other matter to which I must call to your attention,” Kyle said. He related how English soldiers not an hour past turned Mistress Hamilton out of her home, killed her dog, and trampled her garden.

  Sir Percy walked over to his desk and stood behind his chair. “If tenants don’t like being turned out into the street,” he said, placing his hands on the cushioned back, “then they should keep their rents current. I’ve given Captain Sweeney leave to handle collections as he sees fit.” He raised his hand to forestall Kyle’s objection. “Tenants must either pay what is due or face eviction. That’s my final word on the subject.”

  Sir Percy then gestured toward the foreign nobleman who sat quietly throughout their conversation. “I wish to introduce Count Aymar de Jardine. He is Royal Envoy to King Philip the Fourth of France.”

  “Your humble servant,” Kyle said with a courtly bow.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught the glance Count Jardine exchanged with Sir Percy. The count’s raised eyebrow gave him the impression that neither nobleman expected such gracious manners from the rough-looking deputy sheriff standing before them.

  “This is Kyle Shaw, as you heard upon his entrance,” Sir Percy said to Count Jardine. “He is the son of James Shaw, a Scotsman loyal to Edward, King of England.”

  Kyle felt his jaw drop in astonishment. Sir Percy was surely mistaken. His father long ago pledged his fealty to the Scottish throne, and as a man of integrity, he would never repudiate such an oath.

  He admitted to himself that much had happened during his six-year absence from Scotland. Men were known to change sides during a conflict in less time than that, but James Shaw was the least likely to do so. Allegiance was a serious matter to him. Renouncing his king would impugn not only his character, but his honor, too, and he would have found that insupportable.

  He thought he knew his father well, yet Sir Percy’s next words cast a shadow of doubt on his perceptions and made him wonder what had occurred to make his father turn his back on his long-held principles.

  “Before I agreed to let Sheriff Crawford send for you,” Sir Percy said to Kyle, “I took the liberty of going through my predecessor’s correspondence. It was in those communications that I discovered your father’s loyalties lay with the English cause. I shall, of course, expect no less from you in the execution of your duties as deputy.” He sat down at his desk and laced his fingers on the marble surface before him. “Count Jardine has urgent business with King Edward’s Parliament in Berwick. Your first official undertaking as deputy will be to escort him to Leith.” He turned to Count Jardine by way of explanation. “Hiring a boat from Leith around to Berwick will shorten your journey by several days.”

  Kyle frowned in bewilderment. “Berwick no longer exists. I heard King Edward sacked the castle and set the town afire.”

  “That did occur,” Sir Percy said with a frosty demeanor. “However, since then, my lord the king has ordered Berwick to be rebuilt and resettled. It is under English control now, and court is still held there.”

  “I see,” Kyle said. “So, when does m’sire le comte wish to depart?”

  “Within the hour,” Sir Percy said.

  “Within the hour?” Kyle said, incredulous. “While it would be an honor to attend to such a distinguished nobleman as Count Jardine, I cannot in good conscience absent myself from the shire at the present time. I am in the midst of investigating the village girl’s murder.”

  “You can do that when you get back,” Sir Percy said. “The safety of the French envoy takes precedence over all else. Thus, I place him in your capable hands.”

  Kyle fought to keep his temper in check. “As you wish,” he said, gnashing his teeth. By the time he returned from Leith, the girl’s murderer, if the fellow had any sense at all, would be long gone. To Count Jardine, he said, “The roads are quite decent to Edinburgh. The port of Leith is just beyond it. Will you and your servant require a carriage?”

  “Alas,” Count Jardine said, “my manservant came down with the ague shortly before leaving France. He is in good hands, but I am now on my own. I am an excellent horseman, and I much prefer riding a spirited steed to the confines of a carriage.” He spoke with a pronounced French accent.

  “Our journey will be through open country,” Kyle said. “With respect, m’sire, your garb marks you as a man of wealth to anyone inclined to mischief.”

  “I do not run from danger,” Count Jardine said, “but neither do I seek it out. I applaud your perspicacity and will dress appropriately for our journey. I shall now retire to my chamber to await your summons.”

  Sir Percy got up from his chair to bow to the count, who took his leave and withdrew through the anteroom. He collapsed into the chair with a heartfelt sigh of relief as the French envoy’s footsteps faded down the hallway. “I’m glad he’s only passing through this time. I’ll never forget his last visit here, although I’d like to.” He began shuffling through the pile of documents in front of him. He looked up after a moment, and his face registered mild surprise at seeing Kyle still standing before his desk. “Do you require something further?”

  “Count Jardine arrived the other day with an escort of English troops,” Kyle said. “Surely, they can escort him on to Berwick.”

  “Those troops were bringing supplies from Carlisle,” Sir Percy said. “Count Jardine happened to be traveling along the same route and apparently attached himself to them. As for my providing an escort for him, what if something dire befalls Philip’s precious envoy under English protection? God forbid I should risk my neck in such a manner. You, on the other hand, are a Scotsman, and it is well known that France bears you Scots no ill will.”

  “So, if anything happens to the count in my care,” Kyle said dryly, “it is only my neck at risk.”

  Sir Percy had the grace to blush. “You mistake me,” he said, trying to gloss over his verbal blunder. “I cannot risk France declaring war on England over such an incident. Pray, be so kind as to see Count Jardine safely to Berwick. And I don’t care how you get him there. Just get him out of here, and as quickly as possible.”

  “Very well, then,” Kyle said with a stiff bow. From that moment on, Court Jardine was his responsibility. Though the epitome of courtesy and graciousness, the man was still only a diplomat, whose sword, which looked more decorative than serviceable, would be useless if they ran into trouble. He strode from Sir Percy’s office, marveling at how quickly he went from lawman to nursemaid.

  Chapter 6

  As Kyle passed through the anteroom on his way out, he noticed the smirk on Neyll’s face. It was apparent the man had heard every word he spoke in Sir Percy’s office. No confidences had been compromised, so there was little cause for alarm. It did occur to him, though, to be more careful in the future.

  As clerk, Neyll was privy to all communications, whether sensit
ive or otherwise, to and from the castellan of Ayrshire who, at the English king’s command, kept his finger on the pulse of his corner of Scotland. A man in Neyll’s position might prove either useful or dangerous, depending on how he handled the information entrusted to him.

  Kyle decided to walk to the marketplace, both to cool his temper over the delay in his investigation of the village girl’s murder and to get something to eat.

  He arrived to find the activity there winding down. Some of the merchants had already packed up and gone home, leaving empty stalls behind them. Others stayed to peddle the last of their goods. Decent food would be hard to find, for by that time of day the milk would be sour, the bread stale, and the meat dry and stringy. That did not deter him from purchasing a couple of mutton pasties to silence the insistent growling in his stomach. He devoured the crusty morsels and washed them down with tepid buttermilk from a tarred leather cup. It wasn’t enough to fill him up, but it would hold him over for a while.

  He started back for the garrison, contemplating the quickest route to take to Leith, when he spied Joneta, still dressed in black, crossing through a row of stalls ahead of him.

  She was some yards distant and in the company of a young man and three women, one of whom was hunched and shriveled with age. The other two were young and pretty, dressed in long homespun tunics that flattered their shapely figures. The young man, dark haired and lean, carried a wicker basket and walked beside one of the women, who wore a frilly white cap and who held in her arms an infant swathed in soft wool. He remembered seeing that young woman when he first met Joneta.

  The other young woman wore no cap on her head, as was common for an unwed female. Her neatly plaited hair was the color of honey, and she was almost as tall as Joneta. Her comely features looked familiar, but he could not recall from where he knew her. He dismissed the notion that he knew her at all, since she would have been only a child when he last lived in the shire.

  Joneta walked beside the elderly woman, a hand under her elbow to steady her faltering steps on the sandy ground. Their pace was slow, and they made frequent stops to look at this item or that article on display.

  They were headed in his direction, so he made no move to intercept them. As they worked their way toward him, his gaze lingered on Joneta’s face. She was as lovely as he remembered her. Ever since he met her two days ago, he’d wondered about her. He wasn’t ready to take another wife just yet, but when he did, it would be someone like her.

  It crossed his mind that she might not necessarily be a widow, that she might be mourning the loss of a child or some other member of her family. The thought that she might be married disturbed him more than he expected it would. He was about to turn away when he saw Captain Sweeney with a couple of men-at-arms approaching Joneta and those with her. He recognized Archer’s stout figure, and he assumed the skinny one was Weems, both of whom seemed to be Sweeney’s constant companions.

  Sweeney walked up to the young woman in the frilly white cap and leaned down to whisper something in her ear.

  Kyle could not hear Sweeney’s words, but whatever he said provoked an immediate angry reaction from the young woman.

  Joneta, her hazel eyes wide and wary, stepped forward to take the infant from the young woman’s arms.

  Kyle started toward them, rapidly closing the short distance between them.

  The lean young man dropped the wicker basket, heedless of the onions and sea bream that spilled out as he interposed himself between Sweeney and the young woman with the frilly white cap. “I’ll thank ye to leave Meg be,” he said, his fists clenched, his chin thrust out.

  Vendors in nearby stalls looked up to see what was going on. People walking by stopped to stare openly, drawn by the raised voices.

  Sweeney apparently took exception to the young man’s interference, for he shoved him backward into Archer and Weems, who grabbed his arms to hold him fast.

  The elderly woman shook her veined fist at Sweeney. “Pick on somebody yer own size, ye bully!” she cried.

  The elderly woman’s remonstration brought a smile to Sweeney’s lips. He reached out to playfully tug at one of the ties dangling from Meg’s frilly white cap.

  The cap slid from her head, loosing a cloud of auburn hair. The glaring sun ignited the reddish tresses to a fiery crimson. Her blue eyes, no longer shaded by the frilly brim, gleamed like polished sapphires in the bright light.

  Sweeney froze with his arm extended, his gray eyes riveted to Meg’s face. The color drained from his ruddy features, leaving him ashen and gaping, as if he’d just seen a ghost.

  Kyle arrived on the scene in time to catch the stricken expression on Sweeney’s face. Joneta and the elderly woman noticed it, too, after which they exchanged a quick nervous glance.

  Clearly upset at Sweeney’s boorish treatment of her in public, Meg snatched the frilly cap from his hand and thrust it back on her head.

  The abrupt movement broke the spell.

  Sweeney dropped his arm, suddenly reanimated. “I was only having a bit of fun,” he said with a shaky laugh. To his men, he said, “Let’s away. Turn him loose.” He looked pointedly at Meg. “For now.”

  Archer and Weems released their grip on the struggling young man and followed after Sweeney, who had already disappeared behind the next row of stalls.

  The young man put his arm around Meg’s shoulders. She responded to the tender concern on his angular face by leaning into him, evidently taking comfort from his closeness, which somewhat lessened the trembling of her hands.

  “Good morrow,” Kyle said in greeting, drawing their notice for the first time. He bent down to put the onions and sea bream back into the wicker basket. He stood erect and handed the basket to the young man, who took it with a curt nod of thanks.

  “Are ye one of them Southrons?” the elderly woman said, giving Kyle a guarded look.

  “Of course not, Gram,” Joneta said with a note of reproach in her voice. “That is the new deputy sheriff, Kyle Shaw.”

  Kyle felt inordinately pleased that she remembered his name. “I’ll be happy to escort you home,” he said. “Only to discourage Sweeney from bothering you again, of course.”

  “Drew can do it,” Joneta said, indicating the young man. She lifted the whimpering infant to her shoulder and gently patted its back. “I thank ye for the offer, though. It was very kind.”

  “Is that the bold one’s name?” Gram said. “Sweeney?”

  “Lucky Jack Sweeney, Captain of Horse at Ayr Garrison,” Kyle said.

  The elderly woman narrowed her eyes at Kyle for a moment before looking over at Joneta. “We should go. I’m feeling rather poorly.”

  “Good morrow,” Joneta said to Kyle with a dazzling smile that made his heart skip a beat.

  With the excitement now over and no likelihood of any further diversion, the onlookers lost interest and began to move on.

  Kyle watched Joneta and the others walk away, wondering at Sweeney’s odd reaction to Meg—or did he react to Meg’s appearance?

  Only when the stalls blocked Joneta from view did he depart from the marketplace. He made his way to the garrison stable where he found Upton helping the groom water the horses.

  He approached Upton, who was gathering up the empty pails. “I need you to secure a week’s provisions for four men,” he said, absently rubbing the velvet muzzle of a gray horse that stuck its head out over the half door of its stall. “Count Aymar de Jardine, Royal Envoy to King Philip of France, has pressing business with King Edward’s Parliament in Berwick. We are to serve as escort and must leave within the hour.”

  “We?” Upton said, setting down the pails.

  “You, me, and Turnbull,” Kyle said. “After you saddle the horses, kindly fetch the count from his chamber. I’ll be waiting in my office.”

  “Even if the weather holds,” Upton said, “it will take at least ten days to get to Berwick.”

  “We’re only going as far as Leith,” Kyle said. “How long that takes will depen
d upon the count, not the weather. He might be a fine horseman, but he’s no young buck.” He started to leave, only to turn back. “Wear full armor and tell Turnbull to do the same.”

  “Are you expecting trouble?” Upton said.

  “I always expect trouble,” Kyle said, “and I’m rarely disappointed.”

  Upton hurried away to prepare for the journey.

  Kyle saddled the gelding and led it over to the sheriff’s office, where he packed a few things to take with him.

  ****

  The bells of St. John’s rang in the midafternoon hour of none as Kyle, Count Jardine, Upton, and Turnbull rode across the courtyard toward the garrison gates.

  A soldier in nondescript garb, with blue eyes and a weathered face as brown as old leather, sat on one of the benches in front of the barracks. He appeared quite interested in the small group of horsemen leaving the garrison, for his candid gaze followed them until they clattered across the wooden bridge beyond the gates and disappeared from sight.

  Kyle led the way up the cobblestone streets of Ayr with the gelding prancing sideways and champing at the bit in high spirits, eager to be away.

  Count Jardine rode beside him on a lively bay. He wore a light brown tunic with a wide leather belt, a tooled leather jerkin laced to the neck to protect his chest, and a jaunty brown cap with a long white feather in the band. His only ornamentation was a large ruby brooch, which held his dark brown cloak closed at the throat. He sat on his horse with the ease of a man used to the saddle.

  Upton and Turnbull wore black bull hide armor on their upper bodies and conical metal helmets with nose guards of the Norman style. They brought up the rear, leading a pony carrying their provisions and the count’s small travel trunk.

  “Do you wish to take the main road?” Kyle said to Count Jardine.

  “Is there another way?” the count said.

  “There are lesser roads we can take,” Kyle said. “They will cut off nearly a day’s ride, but there are no inns that way. We’ll be sleeping on hard ground under the stars.”