by E R Dillon
“Rest easy,” Kyle said, gently disengaging the count’s fingers. He assumed the man was raving, as did some who were severely wounded in battle.
“Promise you will take it to Philip,” the count said with a note of desperation in his voice. “Place it only in his hands.”
“You have my word on it,” Kyle said. His own alarm grew as the circle of warm wetness expanded around the protruding hilt. “I must stop the bleeding, m’sire, but I can’t see a blessed thing in this gloom. I must move you into the clearing.” He turned his head to bellow for help. “Upton! Turnbull! To me!”
When no response was forthcoming, he grasped the count under the arms and dragged him, moaning softly, out from the shadows.
Moonlight shone down on the knife sticking out high on the count’s chest. The hilt jutted at an odd angle, tilting toward his neck. Although misdirected, the blow was meant to kill, delivered with sufficient force to cleave through the count’s stiff leather jerkin. A deep groove on the brooch showed where the tip of the assailant’s blade had struck the gold facing, only to skid off to lodge in the count’s upper shoulder, rather than in his throat.
Kyle could not stem the flow of blood without first removing the knife. He grasped the hilt and gave it a sharp tug. The blade slid free of gristle and sinew, causing the count to draw in a sharp breath before losing consciousness. Copious amounts of blood gushed through the slit in the woolen cloak.
Kyle pressed down on the wound with the heel of his hand to staunch the flow. “Upton! Turnbull!” he shouted. The others might also be hurt or worse, but his primary duty was to the count, who, if left unattended, would bleed to death in minutes. He increased pressure on the wound. Only when the bleeding stopped would he dare leave his charge to search for his men.
A groan came from somewhere behind the huge pine tree.
“Upton,” Kyle said. “Is that you? Are you hurt?”
“It’s me,” Upton said. “Or rather, what’s left of me.” A rustle of pine needles announced his arrival from the shadowy depths. He stepped into the moonlight with his hand to his head. When he saw the count lying on the ground, he stopped in his tracks, letting his hand fall to his side. “Is he dead?”
“Not yet,” Kyle said.
Count Jardine’s eyelids fluttered open. “Is it that bad?” he said, a note of panic in his voice.
“A flesh wound, m’sire,” Kyle said. “Lie still, or you’ll bleed afresh.” To Upton, he said, “Light a fire, then see to Turnbull. He doesn’t answer my call.”
Upton knelt at the bare place that he’d earlier prepared for a campfire and bent to the task of striking the flints taken from the pouch at his side. Once the tinder caught, he blew on it, adding dry pine straw and rotted limbs until the blaze lit up the clearing. He then hurried over to the oak tree to look for Turnbull.
Count Jardine tried to take in a deep breath but ended with an indrawn hiss through clenched teeth. “Forget what I said concerning my belt,” he murmured to Kyle. “It is of little import.”
Kyle unfastened the ruby brooch binding the cloak at the neck and tossed it aside. “I am neither blind nor stupid, m’sire le comte,” he said in a low voice. “The intrigues between France and England hold no interest for me. I would have done as you requested, however, because I gave you my word on it.”
He laid back the edges of the count’s cloak and set to work untying the laces down the front of the leather jerkin.
A grimace barely resembling a smile touched the count’s lips. “I never considered you a fool, Master Kyle. I thought they killed me, which is why I spoke thus earlier. I shall live, I think, to carry out my own commission.” His eyes gleamed in the firelight. “I pray you will tell Sir Percy nothing of what passed between us.”
“You have my word on that, too,” Kyle said, loosening the last tie. He opened the jerkin and peeled the soggy linen shirt from the wound. He frowned down at the blood oozing forth. From what he could see, the cut looked clean, but even the tiniest bit of lint or thread embedded deep in the flesh could cause it to fester. At that moment, though, the unchecked seepage presented a more serious problem.
There was only one sure way to stop the flow. In preparation, he picked up the knife used to inflict the wound and buried the blade in the glowing embers.
Upton’s cry of dismay impelled Kyle and the count to look toward the oak tree.
“I found him,” Upton shouted. “He’s hurt.” With the strength of youth, he hefted Turnbull’s body like a baby, one arm under his knees and the other under his shoulders. He staggered into the clearing toward them.
“Lay him there by the fire,” Kyle said.
Upton deposited Turnbull on the ground with a grunt, only to hover like an anxious mother over a feverish child. The only damage he found was under the chain mail coif after pushing it back. “I think his head is broken,” he said, peering down at the dark patch in the gray hair.
Kyle observed the shallow rise and fall of Turnbull’s chest. He liked the older man who hardly ever spoke a word. Reticence to him was an endearing quality, since he could not abide chatterers. “Do what you can for him.”
While Upton tended to Turnbull, Kyle ministered to the count. With difficulty, he removed the sleeveless jerkin and the stained linen shirt. The movement, minimal though it was, reopened the wound and started it bleeding again. He ripped the sleeve from the shirt and used it to sop up the blood. He slipped the sheath from his own belt and removed his dirk from it.
“Bite on this,” he said, touching the edge of the leather sheath to the count’s lips.
The count showed strong white teeth as he complied.
Kyle took the knife from the embers and laid the red-hot tip against the wound.
A brief sizzle brought forth a throaty groan from Count Jardine.
The smell of scorched flesh prickled Kyle’s nose. “It’s done,” he said, setting the knife aside.
He ripped the other sleeve from the count’s shirt, and after folding it several times, he saturated the fabric with wine from the count’s flask. He squeezed out the excess liquid and placed the wad of linen over the seared flesh, directing the count to hold it in place. He then tore four long strips from around the bottom of the shirt to use as bandages, one of which he gave to Upton to bind Turnbull’s head.
He tied the linen strips end to end and wrapped them around the count’s chest and shoulder as tightly as he could to keep the wad of cloth pressed against the wound. By the time he finished, the count’s teeth were chattering, both from shock and from the cold night air. With permission, he dug through the count’s trunk to find a clean shirt and another mantle to replace the one soaked with blood.
Turnbull lay unmoving by the fire, his face drained of color, completely oblivious to Upton’s handling of him to clean the gash on his scalp, to bandage his head, and to wrap him in his own cloak.
The count, although still in pain, seemed more comfortable now that he was warmly dressed and his injury bound. He leaned back with a grateful sigh, resting his head on the cloak, which Kyle had folded in such a way as to turn the bloodied portion to the inside.
Kyle picked up the knife to examine it by the light of the flames. The blade was about five inches long, single-edged with a sharp point. The four-inch hilt was fashioned from the antler of a deer. “This is no weapon, although your assailant used it like one. The blade is too short, you see, to do any real damage in combat, and the blunt side limits the direction of a man’s stroke.” He turned it over in his hands. “This is a butcher knife, the kind folks around here use to cut an animal’s throat before gutting and bleeding it out.”
“Scottish rebels did attack us, then,” the count said, more as a statement than a question.
“I wonder,” Kyle said.
“The proof is there in your hand, mon ami,” the count said. He attempted to sit up but failed. He fell back, his face contorted with pain. “What more do you need to convince you?”
“It’s too neat and
tidy to suit me,” Kyle said. “We Scots are a frugal breed, and no self-respecting Scotsman, rebel or otherwise, would ever purposely abandon such a fine knife, whatever his cause or conviction.” He rubbed a thoughtful hand over the stubble on his chin. “It seems more likely someone wants the rebels blamed for this. If news reached King Philip that Scottish rebels foully murdered his envoy, the good relations between France and Scotland would end. Such news would go a long way to support Edward of England’s claim that he does not desire war with France, and that his hands are full subduing rabble in both Scotland and Wales.”
“Do you think King Edward is behind this attack?” the count said, incredulous.
“It’s possible,” Kyle said. “But one of Edward’s appointees here in the shire might have ordered it done to curry royal favor.”
“If you mean Sir Percy, forget it. That buffoon couldn’t find his way to a stinking privy without someone to point the way.”
“Well, somebody knew when we were leaving,” Kyle said. “They also knew how many of us were going and where we were headed.” He sat in silence for a moment, pondering whether they should continue on to Strathaven in the morning or turn back for the garrison. The count’s condition was stable for now, but there was always the danger of fever setting in. The next few hours were crucial.
The campfire was burning low, and Upton left Turnbull’s side to gather more wood. He soon returned with an armful of broken limbs. He took a flaming stick from the fire to light his way as he went to bring their belongings out from the shadows under the huge pine tree. He was about to toss his makeshift torch onto the fire when a gleaming red object on the ground caught his eye. He stooped to pick it up. “You dropped this,” he said, handing the ruby brooch to the count.
“Merci beaucoup,” Count Jardine said. His fingers found the rough scratch left by the knife’s tip in the gold face. “Ironic, is it not, that Edward of England, who apparently wants me dead, gifted me with the very bauble that saved my life.” He turned his head to glance around him. Not finding what he sought, he tried to sit up again, and this time he succeeded. “I don’t see my saddle roll,” he said to Upton.
“This was all that was there,” Upton said, indicating the pile of gear in the clearing.
“My saddle roll is gone,” the count said to Kyle. “They must have taken it with them.”
“No harm done,” Kyle said. “I’ll wrap your things in your brown cloak. It will do for now.”
“You don’t understand,” the count said, his expression grim. “When they discover that what they seek is not in my saddle roll, they will come back to get it.”
The count’s words brought Kyle to his feet. The darkness around him took on a menacing aspect, and every shadow became suspect. Though unaware of why the attackers wanted it or even what it was, he knew where it was. He also knew his present position, with two out of four men down, was indefensible. His only hope was to set out in haste, taking an alternate route back to the garrison, before the attackers realized the failure of their undertaking and doubled back to rectify it.
“Upton,” he said. “Make ready to leave at once.”
“What about Turnbull?” Upton said. “He cannot be slung over the saddle like a sack of grain. It might kill him.”
“You pack the gear,” Kyle said. “I’ll see to Turnbull.”
While Upton went to catch the pony, Kyle patted cold water from the skin bottle on the unconscious man’s face. He called out his name, shaking him gently at first, then with more vigor, but to no avail. Nothing seemed to rouse Turnbull from his deathlike sleep.
Kyle sat back on his heels, wondering what to do next. He’d seen John bring suchlike ones around using the juice of a common plant to do so. He racked his brain to recall what kind of plant it was, until a single word flashed into his mind.
“Onions!”
Upton looked up from testing the strap that held the count’s trunk in place on the pony’s back. “Pardon?”
“There should be some onions growing wild around here,” Kyle said. “Go take a look while I saddle the horses.”
Upton took a firebrand along on the hunt, and by the time he returned with a fistful of wild onions, the horses were saddled and bridled, and Kyle was helping the count to his feet.
Upton knelt beside Turnbull’s inert body and twisted the long green stems to release the pungent juices. “Come back to me, old friend,” he said, holding the bruised fronds close to the unconscious man’s nose.
His efforts produced no reaction whatsoever, not even the tic of an eyelid.
“Turnbull! Wake up!” he cried. Fretting over the lack of response, he practically shoved the malodorous greens up into the prone man’s nostrils. “Don’t you die on me, you old rascal.”
Turnbull’s nose twitched in his craggy face. Suddenly, his arm came up to bat away Upton’s hand. “God’s eyes!” he growled. “Are you trying to kill me, boy?” He scrubbed at the burning skin around his nostrils with the back of his hand.
“Prickly as a hedgehog, as usual,” Upton said. His soft laugh ended with a loud sniffle. He wiped his eyes with his wrist. “Bloody onions.” He turned away to kick dirt over the campfire to put it out.
Turnbull sat up with a groan. He picked up the skin bottle lying on the ground near him and used the water to wash the onion residue from his face. He was still muttering to himself about the stinging in his nose as Upton hauled him to his feet.
“No more lazing about for you,” Upton said. He slung the older man’s arm over his own shoulders and set out for where Kyle was helping Count Jardine climb onto his bay horse in the moonlit clearing. “We have a hard ride ahead of us, so let’s get you mounted.”
Chapter 7
The thunder of hooves in Kyle’s dream grew louder and more annoying, until the sound changed to an insistent pounding on his door. He opened his eyes to a murky dawn filtering through the shuttered window in the rear chamber of the sheriff’s office.
His first thought was for Count Jardine. The ride back to the garrison had been taxing, both for the count and for Turnbull. The latter made no complaint, stoic that he was, though his pallid complexion and white-knuckled grip on the saddle bow showed he was neither hale nor hearty, despite his pretense that he was.
The count, on the other hand, fared rather badly, nearly toppling from his horse on two occasions, thus forcing them to a snail’s pace for the last half of their journey. They arrived shortly after midnight, and with Upton’s help, Kyle practically carried the count, white-faced and unsteady on his feet from the loss of blood, up to his chamber above the main hall of the castle. He ordered Upton to take Turnbull to the barracks to see to his welfare, while he stayed only long enough to help the count into bed.
Before withdrawing, he took the count’s belt, leaving his own in its place, so the count would know who took it. Though it was unlikely any further harm would befall the envoy under Sir Percy’s care, he thought it prudent to move the belt with the much-sought-after item in it to a safer location, since whoever was looking for it was willing to kill for it. When he left the chamber, the count was snoring fitfully, undoubtedly from pain and exhaustion, but still very much alive.
Kyle rolled from his pallet, stiff and weary from a long day in the saddle followed by a short night’s sleep. He threw his cloak around his shoulders and made his way to the front room. On opening the door, he saw Upton’s anxious face before him in the half-light outside.
“It’s Captain Sweeney,” Upton said without ceremony or greeting.
Kyle raked his fingers through his ruffled hair. “Can’t it wait until morning?”
“It is morning,” Upton said.
“What about him, then?” Kyle said without enthusiasm.
“He’s dead.”
“So, Lucky Jack’s luck finally ran out,” Kyle said. “I’m not surprised. What happened to him?”
“He was murdered,” Upton said. “Inchcape found his body at the Bull and Bear not half an hour ago. He
says somebody cut him up pretty badly last night. He says it’s rather a mess.”
“That means trouble for the rebels,” Kyle said, scowling at the implications. “Sir Percy will see to it that the violent death of an English officer translates into a rebel plot. He will no doubt order a thorough investigation in the hope of exposing the ringleaders, even if it means stretching the facts a bit to make himself look good before his king.”
He beckoned for Upton to come inside. “Have you seen the body yet?” he said, closing the door behind him.
“No,” Upton said. “Inchcape sought me out in the barracks, and I came to see you straightaway. I sent him back to the tavern to make sure nobody goes into Sweeney’s room.”
“Good man,” Kyle said. “I want you to go to Brodie’s house right away to ascertain his whereabouts last night. If no one can vouch for him, bring him in. Turnbull is in no shape to ride, so take another man or two with you. Stop by Master John’s shop on the way out and ask him to meet me at the Bull and Bear as soon as he can get there.”
“Do you really think Brodie did it?”
“If I thought Sweeney raped and murdered my daughter, I’d be tempted to kill him. It’s the old way in this country. Blood kin’s right, that sort of thing.”
Upton shifted from one booted foot to the other, as though reluctant to contradict him. “Brodie has, or rather had, the right to challenge Sweeney to fair combat, but only in accord with English law.”
“Brodie isn’t English. Now, off you go.”
After Upton left, Kyle put on his clothes and his boots. As he was washing his face, he got a good look at himself in the polished metal mirror above the washstand. His eyes were red-rimmed, his tawny hair disheveled, and the two-day stubble on his chin only accentuated the white scar running down the side of his face. He took the time to shave and comb his hair. After all, Sweeney wasn’t going anywhere.