by E R Dillon
Belatedly, Kyle realized the serious error he’d made. He swore under his breath as he ducked through the top slat of the gate. Once inside the pen, he strode along the stone fence, searching for black smears of blood on the cap stones, which marked where Macalister had disposed of the bodies. When he found the place, he leaned forward to peer at the ground below. A cursory glance confirmed his fear. Even if wolves or other predators had come during the night, the bodies were too heavy for them to drag away. As he headed back to where Macalister stood by the gate, a cock crowed in the distance.
The whole expanse of the eastern sky grew brighter. The dark hulk of the barn began to take on shape and color. The surrounding trees loomed against the skyline, each branch a vivid green with spring budding.
“The raiders came back,” Kyle said.
“How do ye know?”
“The bodies are gone.” Kyle gnashed his teeth at his own lack of foresight, knowing he should have taken steps to prevent the loss of his only real evidence.
“Too bad about that,” Macalister said.
Kyle glanced over at the roofless cottage. “Do you need me to stay to help clean up?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Macalister said, following his gaze. “I’ll give the old man a hand.”
“I’ll be on my way, then,” Kyle said.
He returned to the barn to gather his belongings and saddle up. Ogilvy was still snoring in the hayloft when, a few minutes later, he mounted the gelding and rode outside.
With a parting wave to Macalister, he set out along the dirt lane that took him through a stand of trees beyond the open yard. He’d failed to notice the small woodland the night before, although its presence explained where the raiders went and how they disappeared so completely in the darkness.
When he drew nearer to the main road, he saw the grassy field through which he’d ridden in the moonlight to get to Ogilvy’s cottage. It was a wonder he made it through there at all, riddled as it was with marshy places glazed with standing water. Any one of those shallow pools might conceal a bog that could swallow both horse and rider in under a minute. His mount would no doubt sink more quickly, for unlike the hardy but smaller pony common to Scotland, the gelding was a tall muscular warhorse that he’d brought with him from across the sea. As a reward for such sureness of foot, he promised the horse an extra measure of oats when he reached the garrison.
The morning was clear and radiant under the burnished blue vault of the sky. The air was crisp and fresh after the recent rain, and the road stretched out before him like a thin ribbon. The open country all around was well suited for grazing sheep, being a rolling tableland of grassy hills and dales. To the east, a distant wall of trees marched along the horizon, and to the west, an occasional stone cottage broke the monotony of the landscape stippled with green spring growth.
He took his time covering the last few miles of his journey to Ayr. All was quiet around him, except for the jingle of harness and the snuffle of the horse’s breath. At that moment, the strife and dissension that threatened to tear apart his homeland seemed far removed, as though such troubles were the lot of those who lived on distant shores. Yet, there was no reason to doubt the reports that had reached him in Flanders, while he served as a mercenary in the army of King Philip IV of France. With no king on the Scottish throne and Edward of England camped on their doorstep, all of Scotland stood on the brink of revolt.
All too soon, the red sandstone bell tower of St. John’s Church came into view over the tops of the trees ahead. Beyond that, the crimson and gold pennant of England fluttered above Ayr Castle within the garrison walls. The emblem was as yet indistinguishable, but he saw it for what it was, a symbol of English domination.
Ayr Castle sat on the south bank of the River Ayr overlooking the Firth of Clyde, guarding the mouth of the river to keep seafaring marauders from sailing upstream to raid inland towns and villages.
The townsfolk of Ayr lived and worked in the shadow of the garrison walls. Their harbor was never at rest, open to trade from both the river and the firth. A hundred years earlier, King William the Lion recognized the value of the port town’s location on the western seacoast and raised Ayr’s status from a fishing village to a royal burgh. As a result of the imperial boon, commerce flourished and the burghers prospered. Eventually, they built a bridge over the River Ayr, which enabled the burgeoning population to spill onto the north bank.
Kyle approached the outskirts of Newton, which the new town that sprang up on the north side of the River Ayr came to be called. He shared the road with folks from nearby villages headed into town with their dog carts and pony-drawn wagons filled with goods to trade and sell at the marketplace in Ayr.
The wind carried to him the nauseating smell of the tannery mingled with the stench from the slaughterhouse farther down the river. Malodorous though they were, those industries were vital to the town’s economy. That was where farmers and herdsmen took their sheep and cattle for slaughter. That was where butchers and fleshers, skinners and tanners prepared the woolfells, hides, and meat for export.
It occurred to him that exportation was a good way for the raiders, whom he now knew to be English, to dispose of their spoils for profit. Though the attempt at Ogilvy’s was unsuccessful, others in the shire had lost their stock to night raids, according to Macalister. The stolen animals could be loaded onto a merchant vessel bound for market across the sea, with the ship’s master paid well to ensure his cooperation. The raiders would hardly use the port of Ayr, though, because of the risk of owners recognizing their own stock. They likely funneled their booty through some other quay along the coast, but the question was which one?
The bells of St. John’s rang in the morning hour of terce, calling the faithful to Sunday Mass. He crossed the stone bridge leading to the south bank of the River Ayr. The sun glimmered on the surface of the water below rushing toward the Firth of Clyde a short distance away. Beyond the garrison walls to the right, the masts of merchant ships in the harbor jutted skyward like skinned saplings. Seagulls screeched and circled overhead, fighting for scraps of rotted entrails from the slaughterhouse and squabbling over refuse from the castle midden.
The old town of Ayr lay before him, a maze of cobbled lanes with gutters down the center that reeked of slops from chamber pots. Cramped wooden houses and shops lined the streets. Women in oatmeal-colored bonnets ambled toward the marketplace, their empty baskets on their arms. Men sat on their front steps, gossiping with their neighbors. Street urchins and their mongrel dogs disrupted traffic, frightening ponies and provoking shouts of anger.
Kyle turned west onto Harbour Street and followed it to St. John’s Church, with its square bell tower reaching for the heavens. He tied the gelding’s reins to the rail out front and ascended the stone steps. He opened the huge doors to enter the vestibule, letting the doors close gently behind him.
Inside, Mass was already underway. The priest droned on in Latin, and his words echoed from the vaulted ceiling. The interior was cold and heavily scented with beeswax candles and old wood. Mullioned windows set high in the stone walls on either side cast a muted illumination over a small crowd of people standing together, facing the altar.
Kyle remained behind those in attendance and glanced around him. There were some who made an ostentatious display of their wealth, dressing in rich velvet robes and mantles trimmed with fur. Others wore mended but clean homespun as their Sunday best.
As his eyes grew used to the dim lighting, he noticed a thin woman in a shadowed corner with a veil on her head. She knelt on the hard flagstone floor, her hands folded in prayer, her thumbs pressed against her heart, as though to hold it in place. She looked more like the Madonna in the niche above her than a flesh and blood woman, until she lifted her bowed head. Though her face was unlined, she was well past the bloom of youth. Her eyes were squeezed shut, crinkled at the corners, and her lips quivered in silent prayer. Her anguished expression made him wonder what mortal sin she’d committed in
the past for which she must atone with such fervor.
Before long, the priest uttered the final benediction. Kyle stood aside as the crowd began to shuffle out through the double doors and into the sunlight. The church was almost empty when the thin woman in the corner climbed to her feet and smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt. As she turned to leave, a stout woman with the face of a gargoyle latched onto her elbow. The gargoyle woman steered her through the entranceway and down the steps with such haste, the veil slipped from the thin woman’s head, revealing a thick braid of light brown hair trailing down her back.
Kyle left the church and went over to where the gelding stood dozing at the rail. He untied the reins and led the horse to the marketplace, which was situated in the open stretch of sandy ground between St. John’s and the garrison wall. The sun was warm there in the protected lee, so he removed his cloak and tucked it into his saddle roll.
The marketplace bustled with activity. Merchants presented their goods under striped canopies. Vendors showed off their products in colorful stalls. Peddlers hawked their wares in singsong cadence. Customers haggled for bargains, their voices excited and shrill. Chickens in wicker coops squawked. Dogs fought over scraps of food. A goose escaped from its cage, and a handful of children chased after it trying to catch it. Their laughter and shouts added to the din. On the far side of the grounds, a spitted sheep’s carcass hung over an open fire, with a small boy beside it slowly turning the handle. The smell of animal droppings blended with the aroma of roasted mutton.
Kyle ambled through the stalls, threading a path toward the roasting meat. Along the way, his idle gaze wandered over the people around him. As he passed a cloth merchant’s cart, he noticed a woman looking at a stack of green woven fabric. From the profile she presented to him, he guessed her age to be around twenty-five years. She appeared to be in mourning, for her garment was black, a harsh contrast to her fair skin. A strip of black linen served as a belt around her slender waist. The black bonnet on her head covered all but a single strand of light auburn hair, which blazed in the sun with the vivid color of life.
His pace slowed to watch her reach out a slim hand to touch the ribbons on display. She fingered the silky streamers, caressing first a forest green one, then a bright gold one, as though unable to make up her mind between them.
Then, for no reason that Kyle could discern, she turned her head and looked directly at him. Her delicate features were lovely, with a sprinkle of reddish freckles across her nose and hazel eyes that changed to green in the sunlight.
He stopped to stare openly at her, his hunger forgotten. Although her beauty drew him, it was the air of sadness about her that held him. The generous mouth made for laughter curved down at the corners, and the straight line of her shoulders bowed slightly, as though weighed down with a heavy burden. No stranger to the pain of loss himself, he recognized the signs when he saw them. While unaware of the cause of hers, he knew it was heart-deep and very bitter.
After an awkward moment, she lowered her gaze and stepped around him. The soft fabric of her skirt fluttered in the breeze as she made her way through the crowd. By the time he gathered his wits about him, she was more than twenty feet away.
“Who was she?” he said, turning to the cloth merchant.
The cloth merchant merely shrugged his shoulders.
Kyle watched the departing woman for a moment longer, her head up and her step firm, as though she knew what she wanted and how to get it. He was about to turn away when he saw a helmeted English man-at-arms in light armor sidle up beside her.
The man-at-arms said something that apparently agitated her, for she increased her pace. He thrust out his arm to block her way, forcing her to acknowledge his presence. She turned away from him and started in another direction. He grabbed her wrist to stop her. She pulled back and twisted her arm to break free of his grip.
Kyle strode toward them with the gelding in tow, unmindful of those he bumped into along the way. When he arrived on the scene, he laid his hand on the man-at-arms’ shoulder and spun him around. “Leave her be.”
The astonished man-at-arms released the woman’s wrist. He shrugged off Kyle’s hand, his upper lip curled in a sneer. “Who do you think you are?” he said. His face, or what could be seen of it behind the nosepiece of his Norman helmet, might have been comely but for the stamp of dissipation upon it. His jowls were fleshy from overindulgence in food, and his eyes were bloodshot from too much ale and too little sleep.
“As deputy sheriff,” Kyle said, “it’s my duty to keep civil order in the shire.” He took a step closer, forcing the shorter man to look up at him. “You don’t look civil to me.”
People began to gather around them, craning their necks to see what was going on.
“There’s no harm in talking to the woman,” the man-at-arms said, blustering. Kyle’s towering nearness forced him back a pace. A flush of humiliation darkened his countenance, for that single backward step caused him to lose face before the onlookers, and he knew it.
“Do you want to talk to him?” Kyle said, turning to the woman.
“I do not,” she said, her tone emphatic.
“You heard the lady,” Kyle said to the man-at-arms. “Now, move along.”
The man-at-arms’ visible features under his helmet turned from brick-red to purple. “What I do with her is none of your business,” he said between clenched teeth. “Captain Sweeney will hear about this.” He gathered his bruised dignity about him and stalked off, pushing his way through the crowd. Every few steps, he threw a venomous glance over his shoulder in Kyle’s direction.
The woman’s eyes flashed green fire in the morning sun. “He’s a pig,” she said under her breath.
Kyle heard her comment and suppressed a smile. “Allow me to escort you to where you wish to go, mistress.”
“I would like that,” she said.
As they set out together, his protective male instincts emerged, a natural reaction to a woman in distress. It was the intensity of his feelings that took him by surprise, for only one other woman had ever moved him so. He walked beside her through the marketplace, scarcely aware of the people around him or the vendors hawking their wares.
“Ye have the advantage of me, Master Deputy,” she said, “for I don’t know yer name.”
“Kyle Shaw, at your service. By the way, who’s the pig?”
“That’s Archer from the garrison,” she said with a shudder. “Thank ye for making him go away.”
“My pleasure,” he said, his pale blue eyes on her attractive profile.
She stopped at the baker’s pushcart, where a pretty young woman in a frilly white cap held a newborn infant in her arms.
“Good morrow to ye, Kyle Shaw,” she said, with a curtsy. She avoided the other woman’s questioning gaze as she waited for Kyle to take his leave.
Kyle liked the sound of his name on her lips. After a slight bow to her, he started once again toward the roasting meat with the gelding in tow. After a couple of steps, he realized he’d forgotten something important.
“Mistress,” he said, turning back to her. “I didn’t get your name.”
“It’s Joneta,” she said, flashing a row of small, even white teeth in a smile.
****
After breaking his fast on a chunk of roasted mutton and a mug of watered ale, Kyle rode under the iron portcullis of Ayr Garrison. Sunlight glinted on the metal helmet of the guard looking down from the watchtower above a pair of massive timber gates.
A thick curtain wall of stone surrounded the garrison. The barracks, the stable, and the other outbuildings within its bounds were built of wood, situated along the inner wall so as to face the open courtyard, at the center of which was a raised platform and a gibbet. The three-story castle keep, also made of wood, was constructed against the seaward wall, where keen-eyed sentries could scan the Firth of Clyde for invaders prowling the sea.
There was much activity in the courtyard when Kyle arrived. A person of importance h
ad just ridden into the garrison with an escort of armed soldiers and a string of mules laden with supplies. The castellan stood on the top step in front of the main hall of the castle, as though waiting to formally greet the visiting dignitary.
Kyle slowed the gelding to a walk, his head turned to gaze at the visitor who stood out like a peacock among the drably clothed English soldiers around him.
A foreigner of noble rank and bearing, the man sat tall and erect in the saddle. He was about forty-five years of age, with a long face and arched brows. His hair was black with silver at the temples. The dark mustache under his high-bridged, arrogant nose was pencil thin, and his dark goatee came to a point on his chin, giving his features a devilish appearance. His mantle of green velvet was trimmed with ermine, fastened at the neck with a large ruby brooch. His linen tunic was the same green hue, threaded with gold, which glinted richly in the sunlight with every movement. He rode a sleek bay horse, with fringes on its soft leather bridle and tooled with tiny gold studs along the brow and cheek bands. He dismounted with lithe grace, and his manner was courteous to the waiting groom, who took the reins from his gloved hand.
The foreign nobleman seemed oblivious to the commotion around him of braying mules, officers shouting orders, and men scurrying to unload supplies.
Kyle headed toward the stable, drawing curious glances along the way. On the far side of the courtyard, a dozen or so archers shot practice arrows at targets of straw. Several soldiers sat on the wooden benches in front of the barracks, cleaning their gear or sharpening their weapons. Others walked about or stood in small groups, talking and laughing among themselves.
Only one man among the soldiery took an inordinate interest in Kyle’s arrival. He was the kind of fellow nobody seemed to notice, whose weathered features and nondescript garments blended with his surroundings, like a chameleon. He paused at honing the edge of his dagger to give Kyle a long thoughtful look. His farsighted blue eyes under bristling gray brows followed the passage of both horse and rider until the walls of the stable hid them from view.
