Ayrshire Murders

by E R Dillon

  Light from the moon was sufficient for Kyle to see the dull sheen on the chain metal links of a hauberk. Bull hide armor covered the dead man’s upper body, and part of a metal helmet showed through a gap in the fabric of his hood.

  “Only Southrons wear such fine gear,” Macalister said. He walked over to the other corpse and used the toe of his boot to turn the body face up. Smears of mud obscured most of the dead man’s features.

  “Do you recognize either of them?” Kyle said.

  “I cannot tell,” Macalister said, peering down at the upturned face.

  Kyle stood aside while Macalister and the old man swooped down on the dead men like vultures. He watched in silence, his face impassive, as they stripped the bodies of everything of value. Even the boy joined in to pull off the boots.

  He recognized the need for thrift, for this was a poor country and a prudent man let nothing go to waste. Had he been sworn in as deputy at that time, though, he would have been bound by law to confiscate the spoils as evidence. As it was, he could in good conscience allow them to keep it for themselves.

  When they finished, Macalister dragged the bodies, one at a time, to the edge of the pen, where he heaved them over the low stone fence. The restless sheep seemed calmer after that.

  The old man held up a small leather purse taken from one of the bodies and shook it next to his ear. The clink of coins within brought a gap-toothed smile to his lined face, making him look years younger. “This will buy a lot more than a new roof.” He loosened the binding tie and peered inside the purse. After selecting one of the coins, he handed it to the boy. “Take this to yer mam, Hob.”

  Hob ogled the coin in his hand with reverent awe. “But I want to stay,” he said, tearing his gaze from the money to look up at the old man.

  “Ye’ll be safer at home in case those devils return later this night. Away with ye, lad.” The old man gave the boy a gentle shove. “Tell yer Uncle Guthrie all is well here.”

  Before the boy could take a step, Kyle laid a hand on his thin shoulder. “Just a moment, Hob.” His tone was kindly, which made the boy hold still, instead of twisting free to run away in alarm. To Macalister, he said, “Do you plan to sell that plunder?”

  Macalister’s powerful body froze into wary stillness. Only his eyes moved to exchange an uneasy glance with the old man before his gaze returned to Kyle. “Why do ye ask?” he said in a neutral voice.

  “I want that mantle,” Kyle said, pointing to the cloak draped across the pile at Macalister’s feet. “How much will you take for it?”

  The old man blew out a pent-up breath in palpable relief.

  Macalister’s taut muscles relaxed. “Ogilvy can tell ye that better than me,” he said, tilting his head at the old man.

  A sly expression crossed Ogilvy’s lined face at the chance to turn a quick profit. “Two groats,” he declared with authority, “and that’s giving it away.”

  “For two groats,” Kyle said, “I could buy a good milk cow.” He shook his head. “Nay, I’ll give you one penny in the king’s silver.” The offer was low, but he reasoned that the old man still came out ahead no matter what he got for it.

  Ogilvy scrubbed at the stubble on his chin with his knuckles. “Since it was ye who helped to secure the plunder, I’ll settle for one groat.”

  “There’s a hole in the hood that needs mending. I put it there myself. I’ll go as high as two pennies, but no more.”

  “Four pennies, then,” Ogilvy said, his expression hopeful. “It surely must be worth that.”

  “That’s the same as a groat.”

  “I know that,” Ogilvy said, indignant. “I didn’t know if ye knew it.” He heaved a sigh, watching Kyle from the corner of his eye. “I suppose I could part with such a fine article for three pennies.”

  “My offer stands at two pennies, or no deal.”

  “Done.” Ogilvy spat on his hand and held it out to Kyle, who did the same.

  After they shook hands to seal the bargain, Ogilvy peered up at Kyle with new respect in his eyes. “Ye drive a hard bargain for a foreigner.”

  Macalister laughed, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness. “He’s no foreigner. He’s kin to James Shaw.”

  Ogilvy snorted in disgust. “How was I to know? He don’t talk like us, and he don’t look like us.”

  Kyle ignored the jibe. Many a lowlander chose to adopt the English mode of dress, preferring fitted leggings under a long-sleeved, high-necked, coat-like garment to a plain cloak over a shapeless tunic. As for his speech, the past six years that he spent among the French had improved his accent, along with his manners.

  He fished a couple of silver pennies from his coin purse and dropped them into the old man’s waiting hand. He took the cloak Macalister handed to him, shook the mud from it, and folded it in half. “Tell your ma to wash and mend this before she cuts it down for you,” he said, wrapping the garment around the boy’s thin shoulders. “I want to see you wearing it the next time I come out this way.”

  Hob clasped the edges of the wool cloak with one hand and clutched the coin in the other. He tipped back his head to get a good look at his benefactor. His smudged face reflected doubt, as though he was unsure of what he did to merit such a prize. “Thank ye, sir,” he said in a small voice.

  “Where do you live, Hob?” Kyle said.

  “Just beyond the next field,” Hob said, indicating the direction with his chin.

  Kyle ruffled the mop of hair on Hob’s head. “Go on home, then.”

  Hob ducked through the bottom slat of the timber gate and scampered away.

  Kyle watched the departing boy glance back at him three times before vanishing into the darkness. When he turned to Macalister and Ogilvy, he caught them staring at him, their faces inscrutable.

  Macalister was the first to look away. “Let’s get this plunder out of sight,” he said to the old man. He gathered an armful of the booty and picked up his long-handled axe. After opening the gate wide enough to squeeze through, he started toward the shadowed hulk of the barn.

  The old man picked up the leather boots with tender care, a pair in each hand, and passed through the gap between the gate and the stone fence. “Be sure to drop the latch, or ye’ll be rounding up sheep till dawn.” He turned and hastened after Macalister.

  The two men left the armor behind for Kyle to carry. He tied the unwieldy pieces in pairs and slung them over the saddle. One of the helmets he picked up bore a split in the crown that he’d put there with the blade of his axe. Dried blood stained the jagged edges. The damage was extensive, but in skilled hands, it could be repaired. He hung it, along with the other helmet, from the saddle bow. He led the gelding through the gate and shut it behind him.

  He hurried to catch up with the two men as they trudged along the beaten path. “I take it the cottage isn’t yours,” he said, falling in step beside Macalister.

  “Never claimed it was,” Macalister said.

  “I guess you don’t live here, either.”

  Macalister shook his head and kept walking.

  “You never told me where you thought those raiders came from.”

  “It was just a guess.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “The closest garrison.”

  “Why?”

  “So they don’t need to travel so far.”

  “I meant, why take the chance?” Kyle said. “If English soldiers are exposed as raiders, they’ll face the noose.” The skeptical look Macalister shot at him prompted him to add, “You don’t think so?”

  Macalister took a deep breath and let it out before he spoke. “King Edward needs to fill his coffers,” he said, staring straight ahead as he walked, “and he’s none too particular how he does it. This is sheep country, so the Southrons lay a heavy tax upon wool, whether shorn or on the hoof. Edward approves, as long as most of the collected moneys end up in the royal treasury. What the Southrons don’t tax, they take, like they tried to do tonight. If folks fail to pay the tax, unju
st though it is, they’re turned off their land, with nothing to barter once the crops are seized and the stock taken away.”

  “What’s the justiciar doing about it?”

  “Ye have been away too long. Edward replaced our own justiciars with Southron nobles. As if that’s not bad enough, the clerks make it worse. I’m ashamed to own them as fellow Scots, drawn as they are into crooked ways by the lure of easy money. The clerks collect the tax, as they always did, but now they double the amount due and keep the extra for themselves. The new justiciars allow it because they get a cut of the takings.”

  “So, you’re saying that what the English can’t confiscate, they simply take in the raids?”

  “There’s nothing simple about it. The raiders know exactly where and when to strike, as though the raids were planned.”

  “After I settle in at the garrison,” Kyle said, “I’ll poke around to see what I can find out.”

  “The Southrons won’t take kindly to a sharp nose in their affairs,” Macalister said. “If ye aren’t careful, ye’ll stir up a hornets’ nest for yerself.”

  By that time, they reached the barn, and a dog inside began to bark, a fierce throaty sound barely muffled through the upright planks on the timber walls.

  Kyle and Macalister stood to the side to let the old man open the rough wooden door.

  The interior smelled of cow manure and fresh hay. A rectangle of moonlight intruded far enough into the gloom for Kyle to see a tan dog straining at the end of a chain attached to its spiked collar. The beast growled deep in its throat, its lips drawn back in a snarl. He was relieved to see that the chain was attached to an iron ring bolted to the side wall.

  The dog was an alaunt, a short-haired breed notorious for its uncertain temperament. Its chest was broad, and the jaws in its bull terrier-like head were massive. Such a beast could track a full-grown stag and pull it down with ease. It was also capable of making short work of any man foolish enough to stray within reach of those bared teeth.

  “Down, Fergus,” Macalister said, his voice sharp and commanding.

  The dog skulked away to flop down against the side wall. It rested its square head between its paws on the earthen floor, its ears pricked and its eyes watchful.

  Ogilvy placed the leather boots on the bed of a wagon that stood against the wall across from the dog. He hovered over them, as though reluctant to let them out of his sight. “Put that stuff over there,” he said, indicating a shadowed corner with a careless sweep of his hand.

  Kyle lifted the armor from the saddle and stacked the pieces where Macalister had deposited his load. Between them, they created a substantial pile of goods.

  “Have a care where ye peddle these things,” Macalister said, leaning on the handle of his axe, “lest ye rouse suspicion as to how they came into yer possession.”

  “Do ye think I’m a dimwit?” Ogilvy said, taking umbrage at the suggestion. “I’m twice yer age, lad, and that makes me twice as smart.” He lifted an oil lamp down from a wooden peg and set it on the dirt floor. After digging in the sheepskin pouch at his waist for a moment, he produced a pair of flints. He struck them together several times, and once the wick flared to life, he hung the lamp back on the peg.

  The yellow light from the flickering flame barely illuminated the aisle that ran between the four wooden stalls, two on either side. A ladder at the back led up to a hayloft under the peak of the timber roof. A single horse stuck its head over one of the low stall doors and nickered at Macalister, who walked over to pat its gray neck.

  In the stall beside the horse, a black-faced cow placidly chewed its cud as it looked out at them.

  The subdued lighting cast Macalister’s blunt features into high relief. His was the open and honest face of a man who said what he meant and meant what he said. His hair was brown, cropped short, and his eyes were dark, peering out over a bushy brown beard.

  Kyle felt those dark eyes upon him, gazing with curiosity at the white seam of a scar that ran from temple to jaw on his clean-shaven face. The wound, sustained on a battlefield, came from a Flemish halberd, the wielder of which died shortly thereafter. Although long healed, the scar stood out against his tanned complexion. It was the only blemish on his lean and finely chiseled features.

  He fingered his bruised ribs through the leather scale armor. He was tired and hungry, and the last thing he felt like doing was riding in the dark for another hour or so to reach his destination, which was the port town of Ayr on the western coast. “Where will you sleep tonight?” he said to the old man.

  “In the loft,” Ogilvy said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  “I’d appreciate it if you put me up for the rest of the night,” Kyle said. The old man’s hesitation prompted him to add, “I’ll pay you for it.”

  “Ye mistake me, lad,” Ogilvy said. “I don’t want yer money. That was a kindly thing ye did for my grandson. The least I can do is what little ye ask. Hob don’t lack for warm things to wear. He just forgets to put them on. He’ll treasure that mantle, though, and he’ll wear it, because ye gave it to him special.” He started to walk away, but he turned back. “What made ye do it?”

  “He reminded me of…” Kyle said. He let the sentence die away, the words tight in his throat. Ogilvy’s innocent query, like a well-aimed arrow, pierced an old wound that never really healed. He finished by saying, “Someone I used to know.”

  Ogilvy nodded his gray head. “There’s not a soul alive who never lost somebody or something,” he said with uncharacteristic empathy. “A few years back, my son died of the fever. It grieved me sore, but I wasn’t the only one to suffer from his passing. Hob lost a father. Hob’s mother lost a husband. Guthrie lost a brother-in-law who was closer to him than a real brother.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “I still think on him from time to time.” He shook himself to recover from his momentary lapse. “Ah, well, it does no good to dwell on it, does it?” He turned away to rummage through the jumble on a low shelf. When he located a small stool and a wooden pail, he ducked into the cow’s stall.

  The old man’s words gave Kyle a measure of comfort as he led the gelding into an empty stall. He stripped off the saddle and bridle and slung them across the wooden partition. He removed his cloak and the scale armor and hung them up beside the tack. After filling the manger with sweet hay, he picked up his cloak and draped it over his arm, ready to turn in for the night.

  In a short while, Ogilvy came out of the cow’s stall holding a pail half full of frothy milk. “I usually get more than this from her. With all that going on earlier, I forgot her milking. I hope it don’t throw off her yield for too long.”

  Ogilvy upended the pail and slurped at its contents. He passed the container to Kyle, who downed several mouthfuls.

  The milk was warm and rich with butter cream, the best Kyle had ever tasted, or so it seemed in his present state of hunger. He handed the pail over to Macalister, who drank some of the milk and gave the rest to the dog, who lapped it up and licked the sides of the container.

  When they were ready to settle down for the night, Macalister took the dog outside to chain it near the sheep pen in case the raiders returned. He came back a few minutes later and helped the old man bar the door of the barn.

  They all climbed the ladder to the loft, with the old man in the lead holding the oil lamp. When they each found a suitable place to sleep, the old man blew out the flame.

  Kyle removed his boots and stretched out on the fragrant hay under his cloak, his dirk near at hand. Nights spent in open fields beside companions of dubious character made him wary of trusting too readily.

  He hardly noticed the acrid smell of the smoking wick that lingered in the air. His last thought before falling asleep was of taking the two dead men with him when he went to the garrison in the morning, since their bodies were his only proof that English soldiers might also be raiders.

  Sometime later in the night, a distant but unrelenting sound penetrated the cobwebs in his head. He strained
to hear over the sonorous snoring that came from Ogilvy’s corner of the loft.

  Recognition of the source of the sound jerked him to full wakefulness.

  The dog outside was barking.

  Chapter 2

  Kyle sat up and pulled on his boots. The hay to his left rustled as Macalister stirred. Ogilvy rolled onto his side, and his snoring ceased. The dog’s barking seemed louder in the ensuing silence.

  The darkness inside the barn was absolute. Kyle crawled over to the edge of the loft, mindful of the abrupt eight-foot drop just ahead. He felt his way to the ladder, with Macalister right behind him.

  The scrape of his boots against the wooden rungs echoed in the hollow barn. When he reached the earthen floor, he felt along the wooden stalls to the front door as quickly as he dared, collecting the battle axe from his saddle on the way.

  Macalister was more familiar with the configuration of the barn and reached the entranceway first. He removed the bar and opened the wooden door. The first light of dawn flooded the interior, bright after the stygian darkness inside. He retrieved his long-handled axe from where he’d propped it against the wall beside the door and stepped outside.

  Kyle hastened after Macalister, following him along the dirt path to the sheep pen. The taint of smoke still hung in the chilly air. A thin mist swirled around their feet, boiling up in their wake. Except for the barking of the dog and the intermittent bleating of sheep, he saw nothing to cause alarm.

  The dog fell silent at its master’s approach, wagging its tail and whining softly.

  “Good boy,” Macalister said, patting its furry head.

  After a moment, the sheep settled down and ceased milling about the enclosure.

  “Do you see anything amiss?” Kyle said, walking up to the wooden gate. His gaze swept the outer perimeter of the sheep pen.

  “Not a thing,” Macalister said, looking around him. “But Fergus did. He’s not one to sound off without cause.”