by E R Dillon
Kyle entered an elongated low-roofed building that, typical of most stables, was open at both ends, with a wide aisle between box stalls on either side. The gaps under the eaves where the timber rafters met the walls let in light and air, although the ventilation did little to dispel the rank smell of horse urine.
He rode down the aisle without haste in search of the groom. Along the way, horses extended their heads over the half doors, velvety nostrils dilated and ears pricked toward him. Unlike King Philip IV’s royal stable, which housed hundreds of horses, this one had no more than fifty stalls and even fewer horses.
Several yards ahead, a man was backing out of a stall that held a huge black warhorse. The magnificent creature showed no fear at the man’s presence. It only tossed its noble head and pawed the dirt floor.
From what Kyle could see, the man was no groom. His short leather tunic fitted him like it was made for him, and the precious jewel in the hilt of his sword winked and glittered as he moved. He was too engrossed in closing the half door and sliding the bolt into place to heed the gelding’s approach. When the man turned, he drew in a sharp breath at finding a horse and its rider the length of an arm away.
“God’s wounds!” the man cried, his eyes wide in surprise. “That steed treads like a wraith.” He was perhaps in his early twenties, of middle height, with flaxen hair and candid blue eyes. His features were pleasant, and his speech too refined for that of a common man-at-arms.
Kyle reined in and patted the gelding’s reddish-brown neck. “He does walk softly.” His gaze shifted to the horse in the stall. “That’s a handsome black.”
“He is that.”
“Is he yours?”
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat before he spoke. “Nay,” he said. “I was just looking in on him.”
Kyle’s interest sharpened. The reflexive swallow and the need to explain indicated the man was clearly nervous about something, but about what was not as clear. He let the silence stretch between them, waiting to see what the man did next.
Early on, his father had taught him the significance of certain facial expressions and mannerisms. The ability to read people proved useful to him later when he served as liaison between the provost marshal of the French king’s army and mercenaries accused of criminal offenses. In his experience, suspects under interrogation rarely told the truth, whether from fear or guilt or shame. Those with something to hide often gave themselves away with subtle body movements indicative of lying, like the slight lift of a shoulder or touching the face or neck. Proficient liars were harder to spot, but even those skilled at deception slipped up if allowed to talk long enough. Listening, in his opinion, was just as important as observing.
The man licked his lips, another sign of nervousness. His blue eyes took in Kyle’s bulging saddle roll and the stains of travel on both horse and rider. “Are you billeted here?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Kyle introduced himself as the deputy sheriff.
The man seemed relieved. “I’m Upton. Will you be staying in the barracks?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“That’s good.”
“Why is that?” Kyle said, watching him without appearing to do so.
Upton blinked once before he replied. “No reason,” he said in a voice an octave higher than before.
Hesitation, however slight, often preceded a falsehood, and a rise in tone implied deception. The man was lying, but Kyle let it go for the moment. “Are all of the stalls taken?” he said, changing the subject.
“You might check the ones halfway down the row,” Upton said. “Nobody wants those in the middle.”
“Thanks for your help,” Kyle said with a disarming smile. He nudged the gelding forward and continued down the aisle.
After a moment, he glanced over his shoulder and saw what he expected to see: Upton hurrying from the stable as fast as his legs could carry him. It occurred to him that the man might have hidden something in the stall, or worse, injured the horse.
He turned the gelding around and rode back to where the sleek black head stuck out over the half door. He dismounted to make a cursory inspection of the horse and its quarters, but he saw nothing amiss. There was no place in the plain square stall to conceal anything. The animal appeared to be sound, despite the mud caked under its belly and down its long legs. The water in the bucket looked clean, and the hay smelled fresh, with no visible poisonous weeds mixed in it. He would check on the horse again later, so he took note of the stall’s location along the row. It was the only one with a pigeon’s nest in the opening under the roof.
He led the gelding down the aisle. Somewhere near the middle, he found fourteen empty stalls, all of which showed signs of long disuse. Old hay moldered in the feed bins, and the earthen floor stank of rancid droppings. He tied the reins to the nearest post and stepped into the first vacant stall. After a thorough inspection of each one, he chose the least offensive of the lot.
Unsure when the groom would return, he rolled up his sleeves, exposing the scars from long-healed burns on his forearms. He set about mucking out the stall himself with a shovel he found in the tack room.
Nearly an hour later, he settled the gelding into freshened quarters and gave its sorrel coat a good brushing. As promised, he poured an extra measure of oats into the newly cleaned feed bin.
He carried a couple of empty wooden pails out into the courtyard to fetch water from the well. On his return, he hung one pail inside the stall for the gelding. The other he used to wash off the mud and grime of his two-week journey from Flanders, after which he shaved to make himself presentable to the sheriff. He dried himself with his soiled shirt, changed into fresh clothing, and buckled his sword belt over the leather scale vest. He stored the saddle and the bridle in the tack room and left the stable carrying his saddle roll with him.
He crossed the courtyard to the sheriff’s office, which was a small two-room outbuilding set against the east wall. The door stood open to let in the sunlight, so he went inside without knocking. The front room was furnished with a pair of stools, a table with a tallow candle on it, and a wooden bench under a window in the side wall. A curtain hung over the entryway to the rear chamber.
He dropped his saddle roll onto the bench and started toward the chamber in the rear. The only sound in the room was the heavy clump of his boots on the timber planking. Before he reached the curtain, a gnarled hand swept it aside from within, and Sheriff Reginald de Crawford stepped through the doorway.
The sheriff looked nothing like the robust man Kyle remembered. The decline in his appearance went far beyond that expected of someone well past sixty years of age. A wasting disease had ravaged his body, leaving him sickly and frail. His linen shirt and woolen leggings hung from his emaciated frame. The blue eyes in his bony face were dull with opiates, and his sallow skin was wrinkled and dry, like old parchment. Even his gray mustache seemed to droop with fatigue.
Shocked disbelief flashed across Kyle’s face for only an instant before he regained command of his countenance. The sheriff’s condition appalled him, and his natural inclination was to conceal it to spare the old man’s dignity. Involuntary reactions like his own just then were similar to what he observed in others during his interrogations. Probing questions often provoked a strong emotional response in a suspect. Those intense feelings, although fleeting, reflected what was really going on inside a person. The body always told the truth, despite the contradictory words coming out of the mouth.
Sheriff Crawford caught the fleeting expression on Kyle’s face and smiled. “Now ye see why I sent for ye.” His rich baritone was at odds with his skeletal appearance.
“If you needed me sooner,” Kyle said in earnest, “I would have come.”
“Ye are here now,” Sheriff Crawford said. “That’s all that matters.” He walked over to the bench and lowered himself onto it with a weary sigh. “I plan to stay with my daughter in Kilmarnock for a while. She says I must rest or I’ll never get
well.”
“When are you leaving?”
“On the morrow.”
“So soon?”
Sheriff Crawford peered at him with the eyes of a man who knew his days were numbered. “I cannot do very much anymore. Ye must stand in my place for a time. I’ll get Sir Percy’s clerk to enter yer name into the official records. Then, as deputy, ye will be the one who keeps peace in the shire. If Reginald comes back before I do, he will execute the duties of this office, with yer able assistance, of course.” He was apparently well satisfied that his eldest son and namesake would carry on in his place as sheriff of Ayrshire, a hereditary title held by the Crawfords for generations.
Kyle leaned against the wooden table. “When is Reginald expected?”
“Not for some months,” Sheriff Crawford said. “There’s trouble brewing in the north. Moray raised his standard against the English, and from what I hear, he convinced Inverness and Elgin and some of the other castles to stand with him.” He shook his head, his countenance grave. “I’m sorry to call ye back while things are so unsettled, but I don’t trust anyone else to hold this post for my son, even for a short time.”
“What about my father?”
Sheriff Crawford lowered his eyes and shifted his weight on the wooden bench, as though the question made him more uncomfortable than the hard surface on which he sat. “James Shaw,” he said in a flat voice, “was killed five years ago.”
Kyle’s stomach lurched, as if the floor had dropped out from under him. “Killed?” he cried in disbelief. “How?”
Sadness etched every crevice of Sheriff Crawford’s gaunt features. “It happened at Loudoun Hill,” he said, lifting his gaze to Kyle’s face. “I know little more than that.”
Kyle’s fingers curled around the edge of the table, his grip so hard his knuckles turned white. “Why not?” he demanded, his tone harsh. “He was your friend, wasn’t he?” He knew better than to rail at a feeble old man, but at that moment, anger and frustration overrode any compassion he might have felt.
“I looked into the matter right away, but it came to naught. My inquiries to mutual acquaintances met with closed mouths, or else they chattered loud and long, but imparted nothing of use. Some said James was a hero. Others called him a traitor to the Scottish cause. When I think back on it, I believe my being sheriff hindered more than helped at the time.”
“Why is that?”
“Although this high office was bestowed upon my family by Scottish kings of old, I only retain my post now by the grace of Edward of England. It goes without saying that I am bound, as ye will be as deputy, by all strictures imposed under English law. Those I questioned about yer father’s death knew that and likely mistrusted me because of it.”
The bells of St. John’s rang in the noon hour of sext. Kyle gazed out the open doorway, staring inwardly at his own thoughts, oblivious to the sunlight flooding the courtyard or the wind churning up dust from a passing horse.
The news of his father’s death upset him more than he was willing to admit aloud. Five years earlier, he received a letter from his father insisting that he come home because of worsening conditions from English occupation throughout Scotland. For reasons of his own, he wasn’t ready to go back, and he wrote his father telling him so. He never received a reply to that or any subsequent letter he sent to his father. Grief at the loss of his father far outweighed any relief he experienced on learning that death, not anger or disappointment, had kept his father from corresponding with him all those years. He’d let his father down, and he knew it. It was too late to make amends. The only thing left to do now was to find out what had really occurred that day at Loudoun Hill. If treachery was involved, he would bring the murderer, or murderers, to justice. It was what he did as a man of law.
“Where is he buried?” he said, rupturing the uneasy silence that fell between them.
“I don’t know,” Sheriff Crawford said. The sincerity on his face was genuine, but he pressed his thin lips together in a way that suggested if there was more to tell, he was unwilling to do so.
“All right, then,” Kyle said, folding his arms across his chest. “If I am to carry on in your stead, you must catch me up with what is yet to be done in the shire. Are all taxes collected, counted, and delivered to the royal coffers?”
“Sir Percy handles that now,” Sheriff Crawford said, “by order of the English king.”
Kyle chewed on his lower lip. “Very well,” he said after a moment. “Has the Kirk yet paid its dues to the Crown?”
“Sir Percy himself deals with the Kirk, by order of the English king.”
“I see,” Kyle said. “Am I authorized to convene an assize to sit in judgment, as a sheriff is wont to do?”
“Sir Percy presides over all cases brought to court, both civil and criminal, by order of the English king.”
“And should Sir Percy render an unfavorable verdict, am I to arrange for execution of the felon and confiscation of his chattels, as required for payment of bloodwite?”
“Actually, Sir Percy turned all punitive duties over to the English marshal here in the garrison.”
“By order of the English king, no doubt,” Kyle said dryly. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The length of my absence from the shire puts me at a disadvantage, so perhaps you can tell me exactly what there is left for me to do as deputy.”
“To pursue brigands,” Sheriff Crawford said, “and to arrest all who disrupt civil order. Those who live in the shire are powerless to defend themselves, so ye must see to their protection. The force of law must be strong enough to contain the predators who seek to devour innocent folk.” He spoke with a fervor that lit his tired old eyes with a feverish zeal.
“Ah, well,” Kyle said. “A noble undertaking, indeed. That is why I was summoned here, and that is what I shall do.”
“Despite the reassignment of certain duties to Sir Percy,” Sheriff Crawford said, “there is still much required of this office. As sheriff, I am required to witness royal documents. Ye are not authorized to do that, even as deputy. Should the occasion arise, either I or my son will handle that. In the event of an invasion from sea-roving bandits, ye will be required, in my absence, to provide stores for the garrison and make sure the burghers are prepared for battle. That has not happened in many years, but I thought I should mention it, just in case.”
Sheriff Crawford made a move to rise from the bench when a sudden frown puckered his brow. His breath came in ragged gasps. His hand trembled as he fumbled in the leather pouch attached to his belt. He took out a small phial, which he shook near his ear to ascertain the measure of its contents. After removing the cork stopper, he took a swig of the fluid inside. He replaced the stopper, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and closed his eyes.
Kyle pushed away from the table to stand upright, ready to help but unsure what to do for the old man.
After a moment, the sheriff’s breathing returned to normal and his drawn brows relaxed. He opened his eyes and got to his feet, wincing as he straightened his stiff joints. He was a tall man, and his extreme thinness made him look even taller.
“Ye can put yer gear in there,” Sheriff Crawford said, indicating the rear chamber with a tilt of his head. He started for the doorway with the phial clutched in his claw-like fingers. “There are things I must do before I leave on the morrow.” He paused after a couple of steps and turned his head toward Kyle. “I’m glad ye are here, lad. Yer father would be pleased that ye came back.”
****
Gray light seeped through cracks in the shuttered window, waking Kyle from a sound sleep. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. For a moment, he wondered where he was, until he recognized the rear chamber of the sheriff’s office and the man who slept on the pallet against the far wall, as still as death except for the soft rasp of his shallow breathing.
Kyle rose to his feet, taking his cloak, which had served as a blanket, with him. The air was so cold, his breath came out in a white plume. He s
et to work on the brazier, dropping oak chips onto the banked coals and blowing on them until a tiny blaze flickered to life. The sparse furnishings in the chamber took on shape and form in the meager light. He poured icy water into a pottery bowl to wash his face and shave the stubble on his chin. By the time he finished dressing, the bells of St. John’s sounded the hour of prime, the signal for the start of a new day.
He fastened his cloak at the neck and went outside into the early morning chill. He closed the door behind him before heading for the kitchen, the only outbuilding in the garrison made of stone because of the constant risk of fire. At the sight of smoke pouring from the chimney flues, he quickened his pace in the hope the baking was already underway. There were others moving about in the courtyard, and some were walking in the same direction as he was.
When he reached the low stone building, he stepped through the open doorway into stifling heat that smelled of old grease and raw bread dough.
The kitchen was large, with a huge oven built into the side wall and a fire pit in the center of the floor filled with glowing charcoal. Barrels of salted foodstuff stood against the back wall, along with jars of oil, crocks of grain, and other dried goods. A large pottery crock hung over the fire pit, suspended from a sturdy iron arm designed to swing the pot away from the flames to add ingredients or to cool it down for cleaning. The bottom of the crock was blackened with soot, and the number of chips around the lip suggested the pot was old, which was a silent tribute to the skill of the cook, since pottery cracked and broke if exposed to high temperatures or if cooled too quickly.
Half a dozen townsfolk hired to prepare meals for the garrison glanced up from their chores. Their faces were flushed from the heat, and their sleeveless tunics were streaked with stains. Five of them stood at a wooden table with flour to the elbow, kneading coarsely milled barley and water into a brownish dough and shaping it into small flat cakes. After baking, the chewy flatbreads would serve as a filling meal.
