Ayrshire Murders

by E R Dillon

  “That’s your name, H-O-B,” Kyle said, touching each letter in turn. “Your grandpa can show you how to keep the blade sharp.”

  “Ye can play with the axe later,” Ogilvy said to Hob. “Get along with hauling water now. That trough won’t fill itself.”

  Hob stuck the handle of the axe through his rope belt before he picked up his pail and emptied it into the trough. He headed down the slope to the creek, holding the pail in one hand and the axe head with the other, as though to assure himself it was really there.

  “I expect he’s going to sleep with that thing, too, from now on,” Ogilvy said with a shake of his head.

  Kyle chuckled, delighted that his gift was so well received. He cast a glance toward the cottage. “Before I go, I want to pay my respects to your lady wife. Is she inside?”

  “Nay,” Ogilvy said. He upended his pail and lowered his skinny haunches onto the flat surface. “Mistress Hamilton accepted my offer, but we are not yet wed.” He took a sip of the ale from his mug. “The date is set for a week hence.”

  “Is it, now?” Kyle said.

  Ogilvy nodded. “We’re both getting on a bit. We want to share what time we have left.”

  Kyle drained the contents of his mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He, of all people, knew how short life could be and how fleeting its moments of joy. Those two were such a mismatched pair: the scruffy old man who smelled like sheep and the arthritic old woman who might be a witch. Yet they shared a willingness to grasp at happiness before it was too late for them. He would do well to heed their example.

  The sun hung like a dull red ball on the horizon. The whole expanse of the western sky slowly turned as pink as a maiden’s blush. The weeds in the yard shivered in the cool breeze starting to blow in from the east.

  “I wish you and Mistress Hamilton the best,” Kyle said. He gathered up the reins to mount the gelding. “I must press on if I expect to reach the garrison by nightfall.”

  Hob came running across the yard to intercept Kyle before he left. “Can I go with ye?” he said, his expression earnest and imploring. “Just for a visit?”

  Kyle hesitated, mentally weighing the possibility of keeping the boy with him for a day or two against the practicality of doing so. He decided it was not a good idea, for his duties as a lawman laid him open to dangers to which he did not want the boy exposed.

  “There are too many English roving about,” Kyle said. “You’ll be safer out here. Besides, your grandpa will need your help to prepare for the wedding.”

  Hob seemed disappointed, but he accepted Kyle’s explanation without complaint. “Was this yer son’s before he died?” he said, indicating the small axe hanging on his rope belt.

  Kyle shot a caustic glance at the old man, who at that moment appeared to take an inordinate interest in the contents of his mug. “Nay,” he said to the boy. “I bought it for you. That’s why I put your name on it.” He laid the reins on the gelding’s neck to turn its head toward the tree-lined lane. “I tell you what I’ll do,” he added. “The next time I come out this way, I shall stop by to see you.”

  “Ye will?” Hob said.

  “I will,” Kyle said. “That’s a promise.”

  ****

  After breakfast on Wednesday morning, a group of English soldiers ambled from the main hall, in no hurry to begin their daily tasks. Some trudged away to relieve their comrades on the guard walk around the inside of the garrison wall, while others went to sharpen their weapons or to practice with them to improve their skill.

  Kyle followed the soldiers outside. With the salty smell of the Firth of Clyde in the air and the rising sun in his eyes, he headed for the sheriff’s office. The week-old porridge he’d just consumed sat heavily on his stomach. He was halfway across the courtyard when he heard someone call out his name. He turned to see John Logan hurrying to catch up with him.

  “How was yer trip?” John said, falling in step beside him.

  “Tediously long,” Kyle said. “Although I must admit it was enlightening.” He glanced over at his companion. “I stopped by your shop to see you before I left. I wanted to tell you I met with Colina.”

  John’s handsome face seemed to brighten at the mention of her name. “How is she?”

  “Quite taken with you, if I am not mistaken.”

  “As I am with her.”

  “What is it, then, that keeps you apart?”

  “It’s complicated,” John said, his countenance grave. “Her brother wants her to marry someone with connections, no doubt for his own advancement. He has forbidden her to form an attachment with me.” He filled his lungs with cool morning air and let it out in a long hiss. “We meet only when she visits my shop for her mother’s potions and such. Berta is ever at her side, so we hardly exchange a word on those occasions.”

  “That must be hard for both of you.”

  “It is, but I must bear it for her sake. Her brother can be cruel, and I don’t want her to suffer at his hands because of me.”

  On reaching the sheriff’s office, Kyle unlatched the door and propped it open to let in the light.

  John followed him inside. He slipped the leather strap of his medicament bag over his head and set it on the bench under the window.

  Kyle went into the rear chamber. When he returned a moment later with a jug of ale and two cups, John was already seated at the table. He settled on the stool opposite and filled both cups to the brim.

  John picked up the nearest cup and sipped at the amber brew.

  Kyle drank his ale in one go without even tasting it to wash the sour tang of porridge from his mouth. No one had died yet from the garrison cook’s concoctions, but in his opinion, it was only a matter of time before someone did. He looked up to catch the frown clouding the older man’s features. “Has the ale gone off, too?” he said, setting down his cup.

  “Not at all,” John said, still frowning.

  “What is it, then?”

  “It’s Count Jardine.”

  “Has his wound turned septic?”

  “Worse.”

  Kyle sat up straight. “Is he dead?” he said, bracing himself for bad news.

  “Nay,” John said. “He’s up and about, and feeling quite fit, as a matter of fact.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I think another attempt has been made on his life.”

  “You don’t sound very sure of it,” Kyle said.

  “There’s no way to prove it, ye see,” John said. “I have only Count Jardine’s word that someone tried to poison him.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Kyle said with relief.

  “The outcome could have been serious,” John said with dismay.

  “That would depend on how much porridge he ate,” Kyle said. The dubious expression on John’s face prompted him to add, “Have you tried it lately?”

  John shook his head. “I don’t take meals at the garrison.”

  “If you did, I would recommend that you steer clear of the porridge. It’s hard to tell if it’s gone off until after you’ve eaten it.”

  “It can’t be the porridge,” John said. “The count never eats it.” He wrapped both hands around his cup and peered into its liquid depths. “He says the incident occurred about a week ago. The orderly brought his supper up to his chamber, as usual. When he started in on the stew, he thought it tasted peculiar. He ate no more of it, but the little he did consume was enough to make him sick. He now comes down to the main hall for his meals. He won’t eat anything but what he takes from the pot shared with the soldiers.”

  “Was the orderly questioned?”

  “Upton talked to him,” John said. “The orderly says he took the tray up to the count and left it there, and that’s all he knows.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “There is no reason to doubt him,” John said, “given the number of people who had access to the tray before he carried it up.” He opened his medicament bag and removed a rolled piece of vellum, which he handed to Kyle. “Her
e is the list ye asked for. It’s the best that Macalister and I could recall of the homesteads raided and the date of each raid.”

  Kyle perused the information on the scroll. “This is just what I need,” he said after a long moment. “Thanks.”

  “Ye say the trip to Leith was enlightening,” John said. “How so?”

  Kyle recounted his conversation with John Gunn, master of the Ave Maria, concerning King Philip’s offer of immunity from prosecution for the duration of the embargo in exchange for a signed statement. “The other shipmasters in port stated basically the same thing.”

  “Did any of them reveal the contents of the document they signed?” John said.

  Kyle shook his head. “Since every one of them was guilty of transporting English goods across the French blockade under the Scottish flag, I can only assume they admitted that in writing in return for King Philip’s protection.”

  “I cannot imagine that King Edward would be foolish enough to violate the embargo so flagrantly,” John said. “Doing so would make him liable to Philip for exorbitant penalties and the possible forfeiture of his French lands. That loss of revenue would strain England’s fragile economy to the point of bankruptcy.”

  “That’s why Count Jardine’s life is still at risk,” Kyle said. “If such news were to reach Philip, Edward would be made to pay dearly. Edward might not personally bribe Scottish shippers to carry English merchandise, but he surely knows about it, which would suggest his approval of it. That alone gives Philip grounds to take punitive action against him. And speaking of risks,” he added, “I should not have involved you in the count’s intrigues.”

  “Are ye referring to the belt?” John said.

  Kyle nodded. “I shall look for another place to hide it.”

  “Leave it be for the time being,” John said. “Nobody knows it’s there. Besides, the count will be gone in a week or two, and there’s an end to our worries.”

  “As you wish,” Kyle said. “In the meantime, watch your back.”

  “I always do,” John said with a humorless smile. He stood up to retrieve his medicament bag from the bench. “The morning is wearing on. I must get back to the shop.”

  “Before you go, I have a question for you,” Kyle said. “Do you remember anything about the rape and murder of a Scots girl here in town five or six years ago?”

  “It sounds familiar,” John said, “but I don’t recollect the details. Sorry I can’t tell ye more.” He took a step toward the doorway.

  Just then, Upton burst into the sheriff’s office, red-faced and breathless from running. “I just came from Sir Percy’s office,” he said between breaths. “He’s going to arrest Count Jardine.” His wide-eyed gaze shifted from one to the other. “For treason.”

  Chapter 15

  Kyle stood so abruptly, he knocked over his stool. John dropped the medicament bag onto the bench under the window, evidently changing his mind about departing. They both listened as the young man told his tale.

  “Early this morning,” Upton said, “I picked up a packet for Sir Percy from a merchant ship that arrived with the tide. I spied the royal seal of England on one of the letters, so I put that one on top. I delivered the packet to Neyll and called his attention to the letter with the royal seal on it. He immediately brought it in to Sir Percy. I hung about the anteroom in case I was needed to take a reply back to the merchant ship. Good thing I did. That’s when I overheard Sir Percy instruct Neyll to write out a warrant, as ordered by King Edward himself, to arrest Count Jardine for treasonous acts committed against the Crown of England. I came directly here to tell you about it.”

  “What charges can Edward possibly lay at Count Jardine’s feet?” John said.

  “As King of England,” Kyle said, “Edward can do as he pleases to anyone whom he perceives as a threat to the monarchy.” He stroked his chin, his brow puckered in thought. “If we intend to rescue the count, we must act quickly, for the arrest will surely take place this very day. Sir Percy would not be slow about ridding himself of the man who has caused him so much trouble.”

  “They will likely arrest him at noon,” John said. “That is when the count ventures forth from his chamber to dine in the main hall.”

  “I agree,” Kyle said. “Sir Percy would like nothing better than to humiliate the Royal Envoy of France in front of the entire body of English troops by hauling him away in chains.”

  “Once they throw him into the dungeon,” John said, “it won’t be so easy to get him out.”

  “Then we must get to him before he is arrested,” Kyle said.

  “What do ye propose?” John said.

  “I have something in mind,” Kyle said “However, Upton’s participation is crucial for it to succeed.” He laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “What I am about to suggest will in all probability end your career as an English soldier. On the other hand, it may clear the way for a promising future.”

  “I’m due for a change,” Upton said. “Let me hear what you have to say.”

  Kyle shared with them the details of a bold, yet simple plan.

  A thoughtful expression crossed John’s face, but he remained silent.

  Upton licked his lips. It was a sign of nervousness, as though he appreciated the gravity of the situation and the part he must play in it. “Before I consent to this scheme, there is but one alteration I would make to it.” He then told them what he had in mind.

  Upton’s disclosure brought a smile to Kyle’s lips. “That won’t be a problem,” he said. “Off you go, but remember, midday will be upon us in less than two hours.”

  The three of them hastened from the sheriff’s office to undertake the necessary preparation. John mounted his mule and set out at a jarring trot for the garrison gates, while Kyle and Upton headed for the stable.

  ****

  Shortly before noon, Upton galloped through the garrison gates and into the empty courtyard. He halted in a swirl of churned earth before the main hall, inside of which were most of the soldiery at that time of day. He slid from the saddle and began swatting the dust from his linen shirt and the leggings beneath.

  Kyle, who had been waiting for Upton’s return, stepped out into the sunny courtyard. The air was still, without even the faintest cooling breeze from the firth. He gathered up the reins of the two saddled horses standing in front of the sheriff’s office and led them across the courtyard. “Are you ready for this?” he said as he tied the bay and the roan to the rail beside Upton’s mount.

  Upton wiped the sweat from his upper lip with his sleeve. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

  They entered the main hall together. Upton went to the left, toward the side door nearest the kitchen through which the chief cook’s helpers were wheeling a huge crock filled with hot stew.

  Kyle turned in the other direction to stand in line behind the soldiers who were there waiting for the food to be served. Some moments later, to his surprise, John joined him in line. “I thought you didn’t eat here.”

  “I don’t,” John said. “Today’s an exception.”

  “It is that,” Kyle said. “Did you secure the saddle roll on the bay outside?”

  “I did.”

  “I hope all goes as planned.”

  “It will,” John said, looking rather pleased with himself.

  Kyle chose a table from which he and John could see not only Sir Percy at the head table, but the front doorway as well, for that was where the soldiers would enter to make the arrest.

  The midday meal was well underway by the time Count Jardine slowly descended the stairs from the upper floor of the main hall. He helped himself to stew from the community pot before walking over to the head table.

  With a courteous nod to Sir Percy, the count seated himself at the far end of the head table. He had just finished eating when a couple of English soldiers, helmeted and armed with halberds, marched across the main hall to stand beside him.

  The shorter of the two soldiers, whose face was ha
lf hidden under the nosepiece of his Norman helmet, handed his halberd to his companion. He removed a scroll from the leather pouch at his side, unrolled it, and held it up to read aloud from it.

  “Hear ye, hear ye, Count Aymar de Jardine, Royal Envoy to Philip the Fourth, King of France,” he said. “You are accused of perpetrating treasonous acts against the Crown of England. By order and command of His Royal Majesty, Edward of England, I hereby place you under arrest.” He rolled up the scroll and stepped back to allow the count to rise from the bench. “You will now come with us.”

  The buzz of conversation around them died as those within earshot suspended all activity to stare openly.

  Count Jardine remained in his seat, ignoring the curious glances directed his way. “May I see the warrant?” he said, holding out his hand.

  The armed soldier hesitated for an instant before surrendering the document.

  Count Jardine unrolled the parchment scroll. After a cursory glimpse, he rolled it up again. As he handed it back, he fixed a narrow and speculative look upon the soldier who took it.

  The soldier tucked the scroll into his pouch, after which he retrieved his halberd from the other soldier. “You must come with us at once,” he said to the count.

  Count Jardine rose from the table without a word of protest. He brushed the bread crumbs from the forest green linen tunic that he wore under a velvet mantle of the same rich color. The blood-red ruby in the brooch at his neck glimmered and gleamed with each move he made.

  A murmur swept through those looking on as the count set out for the entryway at a dignified pace, with an armed soldier on either side of him.

  Kyle cast a fleeting glance at the head table. It gratified him to see Sir Percy smirking into his wine goblet, too smug and arrogant to notice that the soldiers escorting Count Jardine through the front door of the main hall were none other than Upton and Turnbull.

  ****

  Upton walked out of the main hall into the blazing glare of the sun. His gaze swept the open courtyard for anyone who might pose a threat to their escape. Three soldiers across the way were drawing water from the well, but not one of them even looked in his direction. He started toward the saddled horses tied to the wooden rail twenty feet away, beckoning for Turnbull and Count Jardine to come with him.