by E R Dillon
He plucked several handfuls of clover from the verge before going over to where Reggie stood with the mules. He held the sweet green grass just out of the pony’s reach.
The wily creature extended its neck to sniff at the clover. It curled back its thick lips, as though presenting the limp rag clenched between its long teeth in exchange for the fragrant offering.
Kyle tossed the clover to the ground under Reggie’s nose. As anticipated, the pony relinquished one prize for the other, more desirable, one.
On retrieving the fabric, part of which was moist with the pony’s saliva, he went to look for Macalister, whom he found sitting on the chapel steps with the dog beside him. “Do you think Fergus can track Tullick with this bit of his sleeve?”
“It’s worth a try,” Macalister said.
Esa, who had been following Kyle, walked over to join him. She brought with her a woman whom she identified as her father’s sister and whom she introduced as Mistress Brodie.
“Do ye plan to set the dog on Tullick?” Esa said to Kyle with a worried frown.
“I do,” Kyle said. “While the trail is fresh.”
Esa wrung her hands, which seemed out of character for her, for she was normally calm and imperturbable. “I beg of ye. Do not loose the dog.”
“Why not?” Kyle said. “Tullick must be caught, lest he get clean away.”
Esa exchanged a dubious glance with Mistress Brodie. “My father’s scent is on Tullick,” she said, “and Tullick’s scent is on my father. I fear the dog might confuse one with the other.”
Kyle gave her a sharp look. “Why should that matter?” He glanced around him. “Where is your father, by the way?”
She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “He went after Tullick,” she said simply.
Kyle muttered an oath under his breath. Brodie’s interference ruined any chance that Fergus might run Tullick to earth that night. Even if they set out at first light the next morning with the dog on a leash, Tullick would have had eight hours in which to escape.
Mistress Brodie drew her shawl about her narrow shoulders against the rising wind. “It don’t seem fitting,” she said, her weathered face implacable, “for the Southrons to punish Tullick for what he done to Abigail. She were my brother’s daughter, and as her father, he should go after the guilty bugger.”
“It appears he already has,” Kyle said dryly.
“Don’t ye worry none,” Mistress Brodie said. “Tullick won’t get far. If them bogs don’t get him, then my brother will.”
“What if the bogs get your brother first?” Kyle said.
“They won’t,” Mistress Brodie said with certainty. “God will see that justice is done.”
A flash of lightning lit up the sky, as though to confirm the truth of her words. The subsequent crash of thunder brought on a shower of large raindrops, which soon turned into a downpour that sent everyone scrambling for cover. Kyle and those with him, including the dog, took shelter inside the chapel.
Kyle fingered the remnant of sleeve, useless now that the driving rain obliterated the trail of Tullick’s scent. He tucked it into his pouch, reluctant to discard it in case another occasion arose for him to use it.
“You’re right about one thing, Mistress Brodie,” he said with a sigh of resignation. “It’s in God’s hands now.”
****
The rain finally let up as Kyle and Macalister entered the outskirts of town. They rode slowly along the muddy lane, mindful of the treacherous footing. Fergus trotted behind them, seemingly content to tag along at the end of the lead rope.
A strong wind from the firth began to dissipate the cloud cover, revealing myriads of stars in the night sky. The air was cool and damp, and water lay in glassy pools in the wheel ruts, reflecting light from the moon.
They reined in at the blacksmith shop, where Macalister climbed down from the saddle.
Kyle was about to continue on to the garrison when he glimpsed Macalister’s ferocious scowl. “Is something vexing you?”
“Do ye not find it shameful,” Macalister said, his tone indignant, “that no one saw fit to wash the poor girl’s dress after she was killed in it?”
Kyle pushed back the sodden hood of his dark red cloak. “It was washed,” he said. “It would have been mended, too, except for a lack of time for Esa to do it. Now that Abigail is gone, she must see to all the household chores by herself.”
“If the dress was clean,” Macalister said, “how then could Fergus pick up the dead girl’s scent on it?”
“He couldn’t,” Kyle said. “I made that up as a ruse to draw out the murderer. I had my suspicions about those three young bucks from the village, but I needed to force the hand of the guilty one. If I was mistaken, no harm would come to them because of it. As it turned out, it was Tullick’s fear of exposure that gave him away. It’s not what I knew that mattered, you see. It was what he thought I knew.”
“Well, I’ll be buggered,” Macalister said, grinning.
Kyle thanked Macalister for his help before taking his leave. He headed into town, but before going on to the garrison, he stopped at the Bull and Bear on Harbour Street for a bite to eat.
He chose a table in the corner. While waiting to be served, he let his gaze wander over the tavern’s patrons. English soldiers occupied most of the tables. The young men were as boisterous as ever, while the older ones drank and talked quietly.
Maize approached Kyle’s table, her expression more watchful than wary. “What can I get ye, Master Deputy?”
“Something to eat and ale to wash it down,” Kyle said. “I spoke to Hew yesterday. You were right about him.”
His words seemed to comfort her, for she spared him a smile before she left to fetch his supper.
A few minutes later, she returned with a mug of ale and mutton stew on a trencher of stale bread. He gave her a halfpenny for the food and started in on it.
The mutton was tough, the stew thin, and the ale watered, but he consumed it all with the gusto of a hungry man. While he ate, an old soldier whom he recognized from the garrison walked into the tavern.
The man’s weathered features were as ordinary as his nondescript clothing, and he sat at a table in the far corner, as though to observe those coming and going without being seen himself.
Kyle finished his meal and left the tavern. As he rode down Harbour Street toward the garrison, he had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Frequent glances over his shoulder revealed nothing, apart from the odd burgher or two hurrying along the rain-slick cobbles in the moonlight.
Once inside the walls of the garrison, he went on to the stable to feed and water the gelding. Only when he entered the sheriff’s office to turn in for the night did the prickling sensation at the nape of his neck subside.
When he awoke the next morning, he removed a piece of parchment from a shelf in the rear chamber, along with a quill pen and ink. He went into the front room to sit at the table to write out an account of John’s findings on Archer’s death while the facts were fresh in his mind. Upon completion of his report, he would bring it to Sir Percy later in the day, after he broke his fast at the marketplace. It was much easier, he decided, to deal with the mercurial moods of the castellan of Ayr on a full stomach.
The bells of St. John’s rang in the midmorning hour of terce as he walked through the garrison gates and on to the marketplace. The weather was fair and sunny. White clouds overhead drifted in the chilly breeze coming from the firth.
The market grounds always bustled with folks buying or selling, or merely strolling around to gaze at luxury items too costly to purchase. Thieves and cut-purses worked the crowds, purposely bumping into well-dressed merchants or burghers to make away with their coin purses, if they could.
He glanced at the faces of those around him, looking for one in particular that would quicken the beat of his heart. Instead of the lovely Joneta clad in black, he glimpsed a bewhiskered stub of a man ambling through the rows of colorful stalls with a small boy beside him. Both
man and boy were looking at everything around them, their eyes bright with interest.
He intercepted them at the cooper’s booth. “Master Ogilvy, how goes it?” he said, falling into step beside the old man.
Ogilvy appeared surprised to receive such a cordial greeting, especially from the deputy sheriff of Ayrshire. “Fine, fine,” he said, as though unsure of what was wanted of him.
“I see Hob remembered to wear his mantle on this cool morn,” Kyle said. The garment he’d given to the boy on the night of the raid had been trimmed to fit his diminutive body, yet left long enough to allow for later growth.
Kyle’s friendly manner set Ogilvy at ease. “Aye,” he said with a gap-toothed grin. “The lad never takes it off. He even sleeps in it.”
Kyle bestowed a wink and one of his rare smiles upon Hob, who beamed at receiving such attention.
For the next few minutes, the boy practiced winking to get the hang of it, first with his right eye, then with the left.
“How go the repairs to your cottage?” Kyle said.
Ogilvy spat through the gap in his front teeth and hitched up his belt. “All done but the whitewash,” he said with pride. He nudged Kyle’s ribs with a sharp elbow, releasing a whiff of stale sweat from under his sinewy arm. “I want it finished before my bride sees it.”
Kyle felt a tawny eyebrow arch upward in amazement. “Your bride? Did you recently marry?”
“Nay,” Ogilvy said, “but I aim to soon. Her name is Lizzy Hamilton. Things have not been easy for her lately. The Southrons put her out of her house. Her daughter took her in, so she’s presently living with a pack of grandchildren underfoot.” His coarse features softened for a brief moment. “I always fancied her, and I think she fancies me. I want to take her as wife, but I just never got up the courage before now to offer for her hand.”
Kyle wondered whether the old man’s bride-to-be was the same woman who had uttered that dire pronouncement against him and his companions barely a week ago. “I wish both of you the best,” he said with sincerity. He bore no ill will to anyone, including the second-sighted Mistress Hamilton, who spoke the truth whether it pleased him to hear it or not.
For the next hour, he wandered around the marketplace with the old man and the boy, pausing here to watch a juggler or stopping there to buy sweet cakes from the baker’s pushcart for all of them to eat. On impulse, he purchased an inexpensive toy horse from the woodcarver for Hob. The look of earnest gratitude he received from the boy for that simple act placed a suffocating pressure around his heart.
The sun was nearing its zenith when he glimpsed Upton striding purposefully across the market grounds toward him. The young man’s grave countenance gave him the impression that he was not being sought for social reasons. With genuine regret, for he was enjoying himself for the first time in years, he took his leave of the old man and the boy and went to meet his sergeant.
“Sir Percy requires an audience with you without delay,” Upton said on drawing close.
“I don’t suppose you know what he wants,” Kyle said.
Upton shook his head. “If I did,” he said, “I would tell you.”
The two of them headed back to the garrison together. Kyle stopped at the sheriff’s office to pick up his report on Archer’s murder before going on to the castle by himself to call upon Sir Percy. He mounted the wooden stairs and walked down the long hall to the last doorway.
Neyll looked up from making an entry on an open parchment scroll as Kyle walked into the anteroom.
“Is Sir Percy available?” Kyle said.
“Wait here,” he said, his tone curt but civil. “I’ll see if he will meet with ye.” He rolled up the scroll and returned it to its place on one of the shelves behind his desk. Only then did he leave the anteroom to enter the chamber beyond.
Kyle didn’t bother to mention that Sir Percy sent for him. He was glad for a moment alone to glance through the stored rolls of parchment. The task was daunting, for there were so many. It would take hours to comb through them, so he resigned himself to invoking Neyll’s assistance to locate the ones he wanted to examine.
Neyll reappeared and caught Kyle standing behind his desk, eyeing the scrolls on the shelves with interest. “Sir Percy will see ye now.” The civility of his voice was at odds with the frown of disapproval on his face. Although the records were public, he obviously considered that he alone was privy to them.
Kyle walked into Sir Percy’s office.
Sir Percy waved him into a chair in front of his desk. “Master Shaw,” he said without preamble. “Have you apprehended the rebels who are killing off my soldiers one by one?”
“The matter is still under investigation,” Kyle said, taking a seat. He knew the futility of denying rebel involvement, for it appeared that Sir Percy had already made up his mind to lay the blame at their feet. He handed over his report on Archer.
Sir Percy perused the document for a long moment. When he looked up, he stared long and hard at Kyle, as though trying to make up his mind about something. “I find it coincidental,” he said at length, “that these murders commenced shortly after you came to this garrison.”
Kyle sat upright in the chair. “Is that an accusation?” he said, his voice deceptively mild.
Sir Percy got up from the desk and walked over to the unshuttered window to gaze down into the sunlit courtyard below. “I suppose not,” he said with a sigh. “It’s just that I am at my wit’s end these days, what with rebel activity on the rise all over this godforsaken country.” He swung around to face Kyle. “You can imagine my distress when a report reached me that you, a deputy in the service of the king, were seen consorting with suspected rebels. I must warn you that you are flirting with treason.”
“Is not bending the king’s law to suit one’s greed also flirting with treason?” Kyle said.
“What are you implying?”
“It is common knowledge that the clerks here in the shire collect double the taxes due but turn in only the single tax.”
“If that is true, they shall not escape punishment,” Sir Percy said with righteous anger.
“What about the English justiciars, appointed by royal decree, who willingly accept a share of the excess taxes collected? Will they, too, be punished for taking money extorted from families struggling to get by?”
Color burned high on Sir Percy’s cheeks. “You forget your place, deputy.”
“I think not,” Kyle said. “I understand Edward of England is touchy about his treasure trove and frowns upon any who profit at his expense. What conclusion will your king draw when he discovers that this perfidy is going on under the very nose of the castellan of Ayr and warden of Galloway?”
“Are you insinuating that I partook in that wrongful conduct?” Sir Percy said coldly.
Kyle hoisted deprecating shoulders. “You must admit that it doesn’t look good for you.”
“How dare you even suggest that I would condone such a scheme?” Sir Percy said. “It is treason to steal from the king,” he added, his voice harsh with indignation.
“Exactly.”
Sir Percy made an effort to regain his composure. “Because you are newly appointed here,” he said with obvious restraint, “I shall overlook your rash words. May I remind you that the only reason I let Sheriff Crawford send for you was because he assured me that you would maintain civil order in the shire. Since your arrival, however, you have done nothing to prevent your countrymen from harassing English soldiers on patrol. That, Master Shaw, is not my idea of keeping these rustics in check.”
“For years,” Kyle said, “English soldiers have burned and pillaged Scottish homesteads throughout the land. It is the English who goad Scottish folk into defending themselves.”
“A rebel raid on an English supply wagon is not an act of defense,” Sir Percy countered.
For a long moment, they glared at each other in strained silence.
Sir Percy was the first to avert his eyes. He went over to his chair and sat do
wn in it. He reached for a quill pen in the holder beside the inkwell, as though seeking an occupation for his hands.
“Let us set aside our differences and begin anew, shall we?” he said, lifting his gaze to Kyle. “I am, indeed, answerable to my king for the goings-on under my nose. Hence, I would appreciate being informed of any and all illegal activities, whether suspected or confirmed, from this day forward.”
Kyle got to his feet and took his leave. He walked from the chamber, uncertain whether Sir Percy’s abrupt change of tack came from a desire to help or from fear of exposure. He stopped in the anteroom and waited for Neyll to complete an entry on a sheet of parchment before he spoke. “Where can I find the names of the soldiers billeted here during the first English occupation ten years ago?”
Neyll returned his quill pen to the holder and folded his hands in such a way as to show off the ornate ring on his middle finger. “Why do ye want them?” he said, his manner that of an inquisitor to a heretic.
“The names, if you please,” Kyle said, insistent.
Neyll frowned, as though he was about to refuse, when Sir Percy summoned him. He got up from his stool, and as he rounded the corner of his desk, his eyes flicked involuntarily to the second shelf from the bottom, as though to assure himself that the scroll in question was still there.
Kyle waited until Neyll left the anteroom to start in on that particular shelf. After unrolling several scrolls to ascertain the contents, he found the one he wanted. The names were written in neat columns, with the dates of arrival and departure or death beside them. Sweeney was on the list, not as captain, but as an ordinary soldier. Farther down, he found Inchcape and Weems allocated as men-at-arms.
Near the end of the list, he came across Fenwick’s name, the sight of which caused his scalp to prickle with apprehension. The man was designated as an English knight in charge of a company of troops.
A further search through the scrolls led to one that listed the soldiers from five years ago. A glance at the names showed Fenwick, Sweeney, Inchcape, and Weems still posted at Ayr Garrison at that time. The date of departure beside Fenwick’s name coincided with what Sir Aiden Ross had told him.