by E R Dillon
He continued to sort through the scrolls until he came across the current list of soldiers stationed at the garrison. Fenwick’s name was not on it, as expected, but Archer’s was, with a notation beside it setting out the date of his death.
He was returning the scrolls to their proper places when he noticed the tax rolls on the third shelf. The year was inscribed on the outside of each scroll, which made it easy to sort through them. He opened the one for the prior year, which contained the names of those taxed and the extent of their taxable property. It occurred to him that it would be useful if he had a list of the raided homesteads to compare with the tax roll to see if there was any correlation between them.
He hunted around for the current year’s tax roll, but he was unable to find it. He found, instead, bunches of letters, bound with cord, stored on the top shelf. He opened a few of them to see what they contained. Most were correspondence by Sir Nicholas de Segrave, Sir Percy’s predecessor as castellan of Ayr, ordering provisions, cataloging inventories of supplies and weaponry, and addressing petty complaints among the soldiery.
He followed the trail of dates to the year 1292, where he came across a letter that chilled his flesh to the bone. It was a report by Fenwick to Segrave, in which Fenwick stated that it was James Shaw who planned the ambush of the Scottish rebels at Loudoun Hill. Fenwick claimed that James Shaw fought valiantly before the rebels hacked his body to pieces, and that his mangled remains were buried there at the site. The report concluded with Fenwick’s commendation of Sweeney, Inchcape, and Weems, among others, for their valor in effectively and efficiently dispatching the entire band of rebels.
He stared at the letter, hardly daring to breathe. He read the words again, gripping the parchment so hard that it shook in his hand. Surely, none of it was true. Yet there was no way to disprove it, except by digging deeper to uncover more facts relating to the incident.
He folded the letter and put it back on the shelf with the others just as Neyll walked into the anteroom. He assumed from the expression on the clerk’s face that every letter on the top shelf would be inspected that very day to locate the one that might have been of interest to the Scots deputy.
He was about to leave when it crossed his mind that Neyll would know the whereabouts of the current tax roll. He knew the man would balk if asked directly, so he tried a ploy he hoped would work.
“A lot of hard work went into compiling those records,” he said, tilting his head toward the wall of shelved scrolls. “It cannot be easy to keep up with tax collections, correspondence, and the like. Sir Percy is lucky to have such a conscientious clerk as you.”
Neyll preened under the adulation. “Aye, he is,” he said. “He appreciates the long hours I put in on them at home, too.”
Kyle headed down the hallway, satisfied that he now knew the location of the current tax roll. The only question was how soon it would be completed and brought to Sir Percy’s office.
On leaving the garrison, Kyle rode up Harbour Street, headed for Tradesmen’s Row. He barely noticed the burghers going about their business in the bright noonday sun, preoccupied as he was with the contents of Fenwick’s report.
Even if he discovered Fenwick’s whereabouts and confronted him, it was unlikely the man would make himself out to be a liar by denying the truth of his own report. Neither could he expect cooperation from Inchcape or Weems, not only because they were English and he was Scots, but because by admitting what really took place at Loudoun Hill, they would implicate themselves.
He reined in at the apothecary shop, dismounted, and tied the gelding to the rail out front. He went inside, where the rich scent of herbs and spices hung in the air.
John Logan sat at the table, occupied with sorting a small heap of green sprigs into separate piles. He looked up to see Kyle, who was scowling and clenching his jaw, coming toward him. “Trouble?” he said with concern.
“Worse,” Kyle said. He then told him about Fenwick’s report.
John whistled in astonishment. “That’s news to me.”
“I don’t think it is news as much as it is fabrication,” Kyle said. “I aim to prove it’s a lie.” The scowl reappeared on his chiseled features. “I’m just not sure how to go about it.”
John sat in sympathetic silence, while Kyle pondered the thorny problem of exonerating his father.
After a moment, John dug in his pouch and produced a small square of parchment. “These are the names ye wanted,” he said. “They are the ones who purchased hemlock in the last few months.” He handed the list to Kyle. “I prescribe it with care, for it is a dangerous potion, intended only for those without hope of recovery, to make their remaining days tolerable.”
Kyle glanced at the parchment, noting with sadness the first of the four names written on the list.
Chapter 12
“Sheriff Crawford?” Kyle said.
“Aye,” John said with a nod. “It’s only a matter of time for him.”
“Does he know it?”
“If he didn’t before, I’m sure he does by now.”
Kyle heaved a sigh. His own problems seemed insignificant compared to the prospect of a slow agonizing death, yet that did not negate their importance to him.
“While I was rummaging through the garrison records,” he said, “I came across last year’s tax roll. What do you think of comparing that to the homesteads that were raided?”
“For what purpose?” John said.
“It may show why they were targeted.”
John seemed convinced that the idea was a good one. “I can prepare a list for ye,” he said, “but I’ll need time to compile the information.”
“I can wait,” Kyle said. He tapped the piece of parchment. “In the meantime, perhaps you can tell me where I can find these folks, with the exception of the sheriff, of course.”
****
He followed the directions that John gave to him to locate the second person on the hemlock list and ended up on a crooked street in the poorer section of town. He knocked at half a dozen doors before someone remembered the old man who lived in a tiny hovel behind one of the weathered houses farther along the way.
After some trouble from a big black dog that insisted on barring his path, he went down the alley, found the hovel, and called upon the old man in it. The door was propped open to let in the light, and the old man was too ill to get up from his straw pallet on the dirt floor. The sunken eyes and the state of emaciation were enough to convince him that the old man posed no threat to anyone.
He stayed for a few minutes to chat, and the old man seemed to appreciate the company. In the course of their conversation, the old man mentioned that his daughter stayed there to look after him. Kyle gave the old man a couple of groats before departing. Once outside, he took in a grateful breath of fresh air after the smell within the hovel.
He headed for the more prosperous part of Newton, in search of the third person on the list. He found the house that John told him to look for: an imposing two-story dwelling with a coat of whitewash that made it appear bigger than it really was. The first level was built of hewn stones, with a wooden upper portion studded with long narrow windows at intervals under the eaves. He entered the gates set in the high stone wall around the property and rode past the store house, the stable, and the kitchen. On crossing the manicured lawn to the house, he dismounted to knock on the front door.
A stout middle-aged woman who resembled a gargoyle answered the door. “What do ye want?” she said, fixing a baleful gaze upon him. Her voice was flat, with no inflection at all.
“I’ve come to see Mistress MacKay,” Kyle said.
“What do ye want with her?”
“I’d like to speak to her.”
“Why do ye want to speak to her?”
“Look here,” he said, keeping a firm grip on his patience, which was about to snap like a taut thread. “Just tell me if Mistress MacKay is in, all right?”
The gargoyle woman apparently saw that she would
get no information from this man. “She’s in,” she said grudgingly. “Who shall I say is calling?”
“Kyle Shaw, deputy sheriff of Ayrshire.”
The gargoyle woman blinked at him, as though trying to decide whether to believe him. She must have made up her mind, for she stepped aside to let him in.
“Wait here,” she said. She left him standing just inside the door. She disappeared down a hallway, only to reappear a moment later.
“Walk this way,” she said in her monotonous voice. She led him into a chamber with two women in it. She then stationed herself near enough to hear every word spoken.
One of the women was quite elderly. She was seated by the lighted fireplace, with a blanket tucked around her knees. The fingers of her veined hands plucked nervously at the soft fabric on her lap, tirelessly pleating and unpleating it. She did not even turn her head at Kyle’s entrance.
He recognized the other woman as the one who prayed so devoutly at St. John’s.
She set her embroidery aside and rose to greet him. “I am Mistress MacKay’s daughter,” she said. Her voice was pleasant, and from what he could see of her features, for she kept her face turned slightly from him, she was quite attractive. Her light brown hair was pulled back from her temples and bound in a tight bun at her neck.
“Mother is not well enough to receive company,” she said. “I will stand in for her, if I may.” She folded her hands at the slender waist of her russet velvet gown and waited for him to speak.
Instead of replying, he stared at her for several heartbeats, trying to discern why she looked so familiar to him, aside from the fact that he’d seen her twice before.
She mistook his reticence as a silent reproach, for she quickly added, “Ye may wish to speak to my brother, Neyll, rather than to me.”
“Ah,” Kyle said. “You are Neyll’s sister. That explains your resemblance to him.” He showed her the piece of parchment with Mistress MacKay’s name on it. “Your mother takes hemlock for the pain, does she not?”
“Aye,” she said. “She is bound to the house, so I must get it for her from John Logan.” She uttered his name with warmth, almost like a prayer, and her whole face beamed with joy at the sound of it.
The gargoyle woman caught the look on the younger woman’s face and took a warning step toward her. “Ye know how yer brother feels about that man, Mistress Colina,” she said in her flat voice.
Kyle wondered in passing if she was the Colina to whom John referred as his lost love. It was then he noticed the day-old bruise on her cheek, with a scabbed scratch across the center of the yellowed blotch of skin. The affected area was small, but unsightly, which explained why she tried to keep her face somewhat averted. It might have come from a fall, but more than likely, in his opinion, it came from a backhanded blow by someone wearing an ornate ring. His pale blue eyes flicked immediately to the gargoyle woman’s fingers. Those plump digits, though, were devoid of jewelry.
Exposure of her injury to a complete stranger seemed to trouble Colina for some reason other than vanity. She appeared to shrink into herself, like a hunted animal trying to make itself less visible to a predator. Her gaze kept straying to the gargoyle woman with something akin to fear.
“John can prepare a mustard plaster for that bruise,” Kyle said to Colina, while keeping the gargoyle woman in his line of vision. “It will heal faster that way.”
Colina pasted a smile on her lips and made a valiant attempt to keep it there. “I must have bumped into something,” she said, putting a hand to her cheek. “It will be gone in a day or two, so there is no need to bother John about it.”
He looked around the chamber, noting the tapestry hangings, the carved furniture, the abundance of beeswax candles, and other costly furnishings. “This is a very nice house.”
Colina seized the opportunity to steer the conversation away from herself. “Father built it for Mother when they married,” she said with pride. “Neyll shall inherit everything when she passes away.” She glanced at the old woman with real affection.
“It must be costly to keep up such a property,” Kyle said.
“Neyll can stretch a silver penny farther than anyone else I know,” Colina said.
“That’s quite a feat these days,” he said. He turned his gaze to the gargoyle woman. “What with keeping servants and grooms and the price of feed for all those horses.”
Colina walked over to the window and stood with her back to him. “Berta is not a servant. She is the housekeeper and my companion. She accompanies me whenever I go out, for there are too many English about for a lady to walk the streets alone in safety.”
She spoke in such a way that he got the impression the words were not her own, but someone else’s, which she’d memorized.
He reflected on Berta’s rough handling of her when he last saw the two of them at St. John’s. At that time, the gargoyle woman acted more like a warden than a companion. Perhaps she was paid to keep Colina from escaping from her own home, or maybe even from broadcasting Neyll’s business, whatever that was now that it was evident he needed a constant flow of funds to maintain his lifestyle. Colina did not seem to be the kind of woman who would do either, especially considering her mother’s condition.
He wanted a private word with Colina before he left, but Berta hovered too near. His eye fell on the half-finished embroidery that lay on her chair, abandoned at his arrival. He picked up the cloth stretched across the small wooden frame and went over to stand beside her at the window, where the light was better.
He traced the stem of a flower with the tip of his finger. “The skillfulness of your stitchwork is evident in this piece,” he said aloud. “Mistress Colina,” he hissed in an undertone for her ears only. “This year’s tax roll is somewhere in this house. I must see it.”
She seemed unruffled at his furtive manner or his peculiar request. “Why do ye want it?” she whispered.
He held up the embroidery, as though to admire it. “The information on it,” he murmured, “may help us put a stop to illegal activities in the shire.”
“Is my brother involved?” she said in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
“I won’t betray him,” she said softly.
“I admire your loyalty,” he muttered, “but lives may be at stake.”
“Come back later,” she whispered. “Just after dark.”
He assumed that was when she would give the tax roll to him. “I’ll do that,” he murmured with relief. He handed the embroidery back to her. “Thank you,” he said out loud, “for taking the time to receive me. However, duty calls, and I must go. Good morrow to you.”
****
Kyle knocked on the door of the fourth and last person on John’s list. The houses along the winding lane huddled together, separated by a network of alleyways that ran in every direction. Weeds grew in ragged clumps between the uneven stones of the cobbled paving and sprouted from wooden shingles on the rooftops. Grubby children playing in the street paused to stare at him.
After a moment, the door creaked open a cautious inch and a watery blue eye in a bed of wrinkles peered out at him through the crack. “State yer business or be off with ye,” an old woman said in a brusque tone. She spoke with the pronounced burr and rolling tongue of the northern clans.
“John Logan gave me your name,” he said, showing her the list. The bold black letters on the small square of parchment looked important, even if she could not read a word of it.
“Master John sent ye?” She opened the door a bit wider to reveal a black-clad shoulder and a creased face that looked pale and wan, with a sickly undertone of yellow. Wisps of white hair protruded from under the black cap on her head. “Why would he do that?”
Now that he saw her, he remembered her from the marketplace in the company of Joneta earlier in the week.
“To check on your health, mistress,” he said. It was true in the sense that the purpose of his visit was to see if she suffered from an infirmi
ty that warranted the extreme measure of taking hemlock. While he was there, of course, he would ascertain whether she had a reason to administer the powerful medicament to Archer.
Her candid gaze swept him from head to toe, taking in the beige linen shirt over dark brown leggings. His sword hung from the saddle on the tall reddish-brown warhorse behind him. He wore no armor and carried no weapon, other than a sheathed dirk attached to the leather belt around his waist. His head was bare, and he went without a cloak due to the warmth of the early afternoon sun on that fine spring day. She seemed satisfied that he meant no harm to her or her household.
“Ye are the deputy, are ye not?” she said, her eyes narrowed in recognition.
“Kyle Shaw, at your service,” he said with a slight bow.
When he first arrived, the neighbors had opened their shutters to hear what was going on. By now, they were leaning halfway out of their windows and craning their necks to see what they could.
“Do you mind if I come in off the street?” he said.
She threw open the door and stepped aside to let him enter. “Wipe yer feet,” she said, without rudeness or intent to offend. It was merely the customary reminder by a house-proud woman to an oblivious male not to track dirt onto her floor with his muddy boots.
He looped the gelding’s reins over a rusted nail protruding from the weathered timbers on the front of the house. He then scraped the soles of his boots on the wooden threshold, ducked under the low lintel, and stood upright in a room of modest size. Considering the condition of the exterior of the dwelling, the interior was unexpectedly neat and clean, and smelled of freshly baked bread.
The old woman, the top of whose head barely reached the middle of his chest, shuffled over to a cushioned settle by an unshuttered window and sat down to resume the task of plying a needle to a small tear at the bottom of a gray cloak.
“I know yer face,” she said, without looking up.
“Aye,” he said. “From the marketplace.”
“I took care of yer mother years ago,” she said, raising her eyes. “Before she died.”
