Ayrshire Murders

by E R Dillon

  He made good time, and by the end of the first day, he reckoned he was somewhere between Kilmarnock and Kingswell. That meant he’d covered at least twenty miles of his journey. Shortly before sunset, he spied a cluster of houses in the distance and turned off the road to seek shelter for the night.

  As he approached the village, several men came out to meet him. On learning that he was a countryman of theirs, they ushered him into the largest house among them and sent their wives and daughters to bring food for him to eat. One brought rabbit stew, another brought a roasted goose, and still another brought boiled turnips and greens.

  They crowded around him while he ate, eager for news from the southern part of the shire. They plied him with questions well into the night, until he pleaded fatigue. His host then showed him to a pallet laid for him beside the hearth to keep him warm throughout the cold night.

  Early the next morning, the villagers sent him on his way with a hearty breakfast under his belt and a blessing ringing in his ears because of the silver coins he left behind on his host’s kitchen table.

  He rode throughout the day, stopping only to stretch his legs or water the gelding at the nearest stream. By midday, the sun retreated behind the gathering clouds. The rising wind snatched at his dark red cloak and ruffled his hair.

  It was late afternoon by the time he entered the outer reaches of Glasgow. Gray clouds hung low over the city, trapping the odor of guttered streets and the smell of the River Clyde. Weathered houses along the way shouldered one another, with only the width of an alley between them. Both rich and poor hurried about their business in the streets, leery of strangers, keeping to themselves.

  There were a handful of inns along the road that appeared to be the main artery into the heart of the city. He chose the busiest tavern at which to stop for something to eat, for that was where the food would likely be the most palatable. While he was being served, he asked the tavern keeper where he could find Robert Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow.

  The tavern keeper’s friendly chatter wavered away into silence. He shrugged his pudgy shoulders and walked away without another word.

  Kyle finished his meal and left the tavern, unsure whether the tavern keeper’s reluctance to divulge the whereabouts of the bishop stemmed from loyalty or fear. He was about to mount the gelding when he noticed a shabby beggar with a bandaged knee beside the road. He walked over to where the man sat in the dust and dropped half a penny into the upturned palm.

  “Where can I find Bishop Wishart?” Kyle said.

  “In the High Kirk, of course,” the beggar said.

  “Where is that?” Kyle said, being unfamiliar with the city.

  The beggar glanced down at the halfpenny and looked back up at Kyle. He waited expectantly with his hand extended.

  Kyle dug another half a penny from his purse and suspended it over the beggar’s palm. “Where is the High Kirk?”

  “Just north of High Street,” the beggar said.

  Kyle made a motion to return the money to his purse.

  “That way,” the beggar said with alacrity, pointing northeast with a begrimed finger.

  “Thanks,” Kyle said, depositing the halfpenny in the man’s hand.

  A flash of lightning and a clap of thunder preceded the light rain that fell from the gloomy sky. He mounted the gelding and drew the hood of his cloak over his head. After negotiating a series of streets and alleyways, he rode through a stone archway, which opened into a large cobbled square before an imposing cathedral.

  Situated on the far side of the open square, the High Church of Glasgow was an imposing structure of prodigious proportions, fashioned from brownish-gray blocks of hewn stone. A single conical bell tower at the center soared high into the air above the pointed arcades and the slender traceried windows that embellished the exterior.

  He climbed down from the saddle and stood for a moment admiring the symmetry of the cathedral, which was as grand as any he’d seen in France. When the bells in the tower rang out, calling the faithful to Sunday evening service, he tied the gelding to the rail out front and followed the stream of people going in through the huge double doors. He joined them in the central aisle to wait for High Mass to commence.

  In a short while, the tinkling of a tiny bell summoned forth a priest in ceremonial robes who led a procession of tonsured monks out from behind the central altar.

  The monks gathered in the choir section, and the priest went over to stand before the high altar. He conducted the service in Latin in a masculine singsong voice, while those in the choir chanted a response to his every utterance in the same language.

  Kyle knelt with the congregation and responded to the litany in Latin, as they did. His attention, though, was taken with the impressive interior of the cathedral. Far above the marble floor, enormous bare beams vanished into the shadowy recesses of the vaulted ceiling. Three parallel aisles ran the length of the vast building, separated by magnificent arched colonnades, which supported the lofty roof. Behind the ornate high altar was the shrine to St. Kentigern, whose body reposed in the crypt below.

  The priest sang the benediction and blessed the congregation, after which he led the monks from the chancel. Those in attendance began to shuffle toward the huge doors.

  Kyle walked out into the fading dusk with the others. The earlier drizzle had stopped, leaving behind barely enough water to fill the cracks between the cobblestones in the open square.

  “Doesn’t Bishop Wishart usually conduct High Mass?” he said to the man beside him.

  “He does,” the man said. “Perhaps he’s away. If ye want to know for sure, ye can apply to the priory round back.”

  It was completely dark by the time Kyle found the bishop’s house within the walled grounds behind the cathedral. The young monk who received him was gracious and friendly, yet careful to let nothing slip as to the missing prelate’s whereabouts or the date of his subsequent return.

  Kyle told the monk that he would stop by again in a week or so. Prior to his own departure, he asked where he might find decent lodgings for the night. The young monk, who evidently knew his way around that part of the city, directed him to a reputable inn not that far away.

  He rode from the cathedral grounds and turned to the left, as instructed. The stars were visible after the rain, yet the night was dark, for there was no moon in the sky, nor would there be for another week or ten days. It was more difficult than he thought to follow the monk’s simple directions without moonlight to guide him through the maze of pitch-black streets.

  He gave the gelding its head to find its way along the dark winding lanes and arched passageways ahead. He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword in case he encountered a villain waiting in the shadows for an unsuspecting traveler. To his relief, he made it to the recommended establishment without incident, after which he passed a quiet night.

  He rose early on Monday morning and went out into a thick mist carpeting the ground. The white miasma swirling about his ankles hid from view the litter and garbage strewn about the damp streets and concealed the straggle of weeds sprouting from between cracked and broken cobbles. He set out along the eastern road with the sun in his eyes, content to leave the squalor of the big city behind him.

  He rode all that day and most of the next, arriving at Edinburgh late on Tuesday afternoon. Instead of pressing on to Leith, he stopped at an inn to get a good night’s sleep. He wanted to start out rested and refreshed in the morning.

  Early on Wednesday, he rode the short distance to the port of Leith. On finding a place on the shore with an unobstructed view of the harbor, he slid from the saddle and tied the gelding to a piece of driftwood.

  He hunkered down on his heels to gaze out over the vast expanse of the Firth of Forth. The restless sea shimmered with reflected light from the rising sun, and the continual breeze from the firth carried with it the salty smell of the water. He watched six tiny specks on the horizon morph into ships that grew larger and more defined as they approached land on
the incoming tide.

  The harbor at Leith, like that of Ayr, bustled with merchants and traders coming and going at all hours of the day and night. They drove their wagons onto the dock to load or unload their trade goods. They cluttered the piers with wooden crates, barrels, and kegs, along with sacks of grain, wheels of wax-coated cheese, and crocks of oil. There were rats everywhere, crouching in the shadows or furtively scuffling among the foodstuff.

  Fenced enclosures on either side of the central pier held cattle, swine, sheep, and goats ready for export.

  Kyle waited for all six ships to dock at the harbor. While each vessel’s crew set about furling the sails and making ready to empty the hold, he headed for the central pier to intercept the seamen debarking from the largest merchant ship moored there.

  “Where can I find the ship’s master,” he said to a man with a felt skullcap and a black wool mantle fastened at the neck with a silver pin.

  The man in the skullcap pointed to a fellow several yards behind him. “That’s him yonder.”

  The ship’s master strode up the wooden pier as if he owned it. He was a robust man on the downhill side of forty, with a barrel chest and a bushy ginger beard. His round head was set low in his thick shoulders, which made him look as though he had no neck at all. His wiry hair, which was as red as his beard, was clubbed back and tamed with a leather thong.

  Kyle fell in step beside the ship’s master and matched the man’s brisk pace. “Kyle Shaw, deputy to the sheriff of Ayrshire, at your service.”

  “John Gunn, master of the Ave Maria,” he said in a gruff voice with a Scottish burr. His candid blue eyes surveyed Kyle from head to toe. “Ye be a mite far from home, laddie. I trow ye didn’t come all this way for naught. What is it ye want?”

  “I’d like to take a look at your cargo manifest,” Kyle said. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

  Gunn stopped abruptly. He turned his head to scowl at Kyle from under lowered red brows. “What if I do mind?”

  “I’d like to see it anyway,” Kyle said. “Shall we?” he added, with a sweep of his hand to indicate the way back to the Ave Maria.

  Gunn gave a single bark of laughter. “Ye are a cheeky bugger.” He swung about and started back down the pier. “I shall oblige ye only to show I have nothing to hide.”

  When they reached the ship, Kyle followed Gunn across the gangplank and onto the deck, where the first mate was bellowing at the crew to off-load the cargo.

  “Come along,” Gunn said. He led the way to his own private quarters, where he produced a roll of parchment from the pigeonholed hutch at the back of his desk.

  Kyle perused the list of items purchased and sold during the Ave Maria’s latest voyage. He did his best to decipher the scribbled words, but he gave up after a moment. “Who wrote this?”

  “The chirurgeon,” Gunn said. “He also serves as the purser. It were him ye spoke to on the pier.”

  “I can’t read his scrawl,” Kyle said.

  “Neither can I,” Gunn said dryly.

  “I trust he’s better at curing the sick.”

  “Not really.”

  “I’ll need him to translate this for me.”

  “He won’t be back for a couple of days,” Gunn said. “When he does return, ye must wait until he sobers up.”

  Kyle handed the parchment roll back to Gunn. “Perhaps you can tell me what I need to know. Have you ever had dealings with a big brute of a fellow with a shaved head, a flat nose, and a thin mustache, or a tall skinny hatchet-faced fellow with black eyes and pitted skin? They’re both rather homely, even for Englishmen.”

  “Aye,” Gunn said with a chuckle. “I’ve taken their trade. And why should I not? They pay well enough and give me no trouble. I have not seen them for a while, though. I expect one or the other of them will come by fairly soon to collect what’s due and owing to them.”

  “Do you transport livestock for them?”

  “I do,” Gunn said. “And silver plate or whatever else they bring. We always settle up whenever they come with another load. I’ve had dealings with them for years.”

  “What about the embargo?”

  “What about it?” Gunn said. “Any ship flying the Scottish flag may trade out of this port and any other on Scottish soil, even with the ban in place. As I recall, business even picked up a bit after it went into effect. I have expenses to meet, so it is not my practice to question where merchandise comes from, especially if it turns a profit.” His weathered face grew serious. “Besides,” he added smugly, “I’m immune, no matter what I transport.”

  “How so?”

  Gunn loosened the ties at the neck of his shirt and exposed a mat of wiry ginger curls. A gold chain hung around his thick neck, with a gold key dangling from it. He lifted the chain over his head and used the key to unlock a small carved chest taken from a storage locker against the side wall. He dug through an assortment of precious stones to extract a folded letter from the bottom of the chest.

  Kyle took the letter from Gunn’s hand and opened it. The date inscribed at the top showed it was written on the Fifth Day of April in the Year of Our Lord, 1297. The foot of the letter bore the signature and the seal of Philip IV, King of France. He scanned the contents, which stated that the bearer was free from recrimination for the import and export of any and all commodities during the embargo imposed by the King of France.

  “How did you come by this?” he said.

  “About a month past, I put my mark on a document in front of two witnesses,” Gunn said. “I did it of my own free will, mind ye, without payment or promise of payment. The man who brought the document to me claimed that was very important. He said if I was ever questioned about it, that I should mention it. He exchanged the document with my mark upon it for this letter. He told me the letter will protect me from any trouble the document might cause.”

  “Who witnessed it?”

  “Trustworthy men, chosen from my own crew.”

  “Their names?”

  “Evan Macfie, ship’s chirurgeon and purser, and Bruce Sinclair, first mate of the Ave Maria.”

  “What did the man who gave you this letter look like?”

  “He were dark, like a foreigner,” Gunn said. “His fancy clothing and the harness of his fine horse bespoke of wealth and importance.” He went on to relate what he remembered of the man’s physical appearance.

  The description left no doubt in Kyle’s mind that the man who gave the master of the Ave Maria the letter of immunity was none other than Count Aymar de Jardine.

  Chapter 14

  Kyle sought out the masters of the other five ships in the harbor, and by the end of the day, he learned that each ship’s master possessed a letter similar to that of John Gunn. It was a short leap mentally to conclude that the documents concealed in Count Jardine’s belt were the very ones on which Gunn and the other shipmasters had placed their marks.

  Although unaware of the actual wording of those documents, Kyle surmised it had something to do with England’s unlawful trade with Flanders. King Edward, wily fox that he was, was not one to sit idly by while the embargo, imposed by his hated French rival Philip, crippled England’s economy and drained the royal treasury. The embargo had gone into effect several years earlier, when King Philip suspended all trade with England and Ireland to punish King Edward for offenses committed by English seamen against French seamen on French soil.

  The King of France waived those restrictions with regard to its ally, Scotland, thus permitting only Scottish ships to trade in Flanders and France. All other merchant ships caught running the blockade suffered the confiscation of their vessel as well as their cargo as the penalty for violating the embargo.

  Kyle could only assume that Inchcape or Weems had seen Count Jardine when he was in Leith around the beginning of April. If Gunn told them about his letter of immunity, which seemed likely, they would almost certainly conclude that the count met with the other shipmasters for the same purpose.

  The motive
behind the recent attempt on the count’s life was now clear: the count had proof of the English king’s involvement in illicit trade with Flanders and other foreign countries. That would explain the envoy’s undue concern that his belt should not fall into English hands. Those documents were still being sought, however, and they posed a serious risk for anyone who had them, which at present was John Logan. For John’s sake, another place of concealment must be found for the belt until the count was fit to travel.

  ****

  The pitched slate roofs of Glasgow came into view over the rise, a jarring change from the pristine landscape of verdant hills and grassy dales. The day was drawing to a close, and the western sky blazed with streaks of pink and gold and orange. Mellow light from the setting sun spread a golden patina over the city’s closely set houses and gilded the cathedral’s tapered stone tower, which jutted skyward like a pagan obelisk.

  Weary from his travels, Kyle sought out the lodgings where he’d stayed during his earlier stopover in the city.

  After an uninterrupted night’s sleep, he awoke late the next morning. He broke his fast at the inn’s tavern before riding to the cobbled square fronting the High Church of Glasgow to attend mass on Sunday morning.

  A mitered priest in flowing scarlet robes made his entrance with an entourage of monks. Throughout the ritualistic celebration of the Holy Eucharist, his rich baritone dominated every voice in the choir chanting the litany and singing praises to God.

  Kyle hoped the priest was the elusive bishop with whom he desired an audience. He did not want to linger in the city for days in order to speak to the man, though in his heart, he knew he would. There were questions to be asked, and the bishop had the answers, or so he believed.

  At the conclusion of the service, he rode around to the bishop’s house on the grounds behind the cathedral and knocked on the door.

  The same young monk as before opened the door, but this time, he was admitted to the premises and asked to wait in the small chamber into which he was ushered.