by E R Dillon
He was seated at the table with the door open to let in the light, engrossed in composing the account, when he heard a knock on the doorjamb. He looked up to see a matronly woman in a long gray gown standing outside the sheriff’s office. She carried a longish object wrapped in an oilskin in one hand, and a bunch of freshly cut flowers in the other hand.
“Mistress Campbell,” he said, rising from the table. “What can I do for you?”
“Do ye mind if I sit for a moment?” she said. “I walked all the way over here.”
“Certainly,” he said, indicating for her to sit on the bench.
She settled on the hard wooden surface and laid the oilskin bundle down beside her. She held onto the flowers so as not to bruise the tender blossoms.
“Now,” he said, resuming his seat at the table. “Tell me what brings you out this way.”
“I would like for ye to take me to my daughter’s farm.”
“I’m rather busy at the moment. Perhaps some other day.”
“Please,” she said. “There is something out there I must show ye.”
He hesitated, not relishing the idea of being a captive audience to a gossipy woman, until he caught the grave expression on her face. “What is this about?”
“Would ye humor me for a bit?” she said. “I promise ye, it is something ye will want to see for yerself.”
With an effort to stifle his growing impatience, he returned the quill pen to the holder on the table and stood up. “Wait here while I fetch a wagon.”
He went over to the stable to strap the gelding into the traces of one of the wagons stored there. He drove the wagon to the sheriff’s office and helped Mistress Campbell into the seat beside him. She held the flowers gingerly to keep them from being crushed.
On leaving the garrison, he drove past the marketplace, where he recognized Reggie the pony hitched to a cart. Brodie’s daughter, Esa, was climbing down from the wooden seat. The sunlight brought out the reddish highlights in her thick brown hair, which was spread out over the shoulders of her brown tunic.
He stopped the wagon beside the pony cart. “Good morrow, Mistress Esa,” he said. After introducing Mistress Campbell to her, he said, “How goes it with you?”
“Fine,” Esa said with a smile. “Thank ye for asking.”
“And your father?” he said tentatively, for he was unsure of the outcome after Brodie followed Tullick in the woods that rainy night not so long ago. “Is he well?”
“Quite well.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
“I shall tell him ye asked after him.”
“You do that,” he said. “By the way, has anyone spotted Tullick lately?”
“About two weeks ago,” she said with a nod of her head. “In a bog,” she added with grim satisfaction. “From what I heard, he sank like a rock.”
“Ah, well,” he said. “That just goes to show the wisdom of letting God decide who is guilty and who is not.” He took his leave of Esa and shook the reins for the gelding to walk on.
At Mistress Campbell’s behest, he drove the wagon due east, headed for a location several miles outside of town. She talked the entire time, and since her conversation required no response, he tuned her out after the first few minutes. The warmth of the sun and the drone of her voice lulled him into a drowsy state for most of the trip, until her sudden exclamation startled him to full wakefulness.
“There it is!” she cried, clutching the flowers to her ample bosom. “Turn there.” She pointed to a track on the right that crossed through a grassy meadow to the woods beyond.
He turned the wagon onto the track and followed it through rising grass rich with foxglove and bellflowers nodding in the soft breeze.
The track climbed gently toward the wooded area and came out on the far side, where she bade him to stop the wagon, which he did.
The track continued on through the plowed field ahead of them to a thatch-roofed stone cottage a short distance away.
“My daughter lives there,” she said, indicating the cottage.
“Is that where we are bound?”
“Nay,” she said. “What I wish to show ye lies yonder.” She directed his attention to the left, where a gnarled yew tree grew at the edge of the woods, with several flattish stones jutting from the ground under its spreading branches.
He turned the wagon toward the yew tree. As he drove closer, he noticed that the jutting stones were grave markers laid out in a neat row, one beside the other.
He stopped the wagon and jumped down to help Mistress Campbell to the ground, taking care not to damage her flowers.
She walked over to the nearest stone marker and placed a portion of her flowers on that grave. “This is where yer father is buried.”
Her simple statement caught him off guard. He stared in astonishment at the marker, on which J. SHAW 1292 had been chiseled into its rough surface.
“Why did you not tell me this before now?” he said, unable to keep the reproach from his voice.
“I wasn’t sure I could trust ye until after I spoke to John Logan. He vouched for ye.”
She moved to the second marker and placed another portion of her flowers upon that grave. “This is where my husband lies buried.”
He looked down at the marker with THOM DRUMMOND 1247-1292 chiseled on it.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, genuinely contrite at his earlier outburst. He wondered if it was a coincidence that her husband and his father died in the same year. Her next words not only resolved that mystery but claimed his undivided attention.
“I went to fetch my husband’s body from Loudoun Hill after the ambush,” she began. “I was one of the last to get there because of the trouble I had in borrowing a wagon. A man there who knew my Thom helped me load his body onto the back of the wagon. There was one body left unclaimed, which I recognized as yer father. I heard ye were out of the country, so I knew ye were unable to come for him. I took his body away with me and buried him beside my dear husband here on my daughter’s property.” She raised apologetic eyes to him. “I didn’t know where else to put him.”
“You have rendered a great kindness to my father,” he said, “and through him, to me.”
“I was afraid ye would be angry.”
“Not at all. If anything, I am in your debt.”
She seemed content with his reply. She set about dividing the rest of the flowers into three small bunches to place on the three other graves under the yew tree.
He went down on one knee beside his father’s grave to brush the rotted leaves from the marker stone with his hand. “Tell me, mistress,” he said. “Was my father’s body badly damaged?”
“There was but one wound on him,” she said, turning to face him. “And that was at the back of his head.”
He climbed slowly to his feet, his eyes intent upon her. “Are you sure? A report in the garrison archives stated otherwise.”
“I saw the gash for myself when I washed him for burial. Someone struck him with a mighty blow from behind. He was surely taken unawares, for his axe was still in his belt and his sword still in its sheath.”
“Fenwick lied in his report,” he said, half to himself.
“Fenwick,” she said. She spat on the ground at the mention of his name. “May the devil take him!”
“So, my father was, indeed, betrayed,” he said, his lips drawn tight.
“Of course, he was betrayed. So were my Thom and the others who fell that day at Loudoun Hill. They walked right into the trap the Southrons set for them in that narrow pass.”
“I reckon he never knew what hit him,” he said, gazing down at his father’s grave. He pondered Bishop Wishart’s words about how Segrave had discovered James Shaw’s subterfuge. It followed that Segrave, in order to keep his head as well as his exalted position as castellan of Ayr, would thereafter seek to dispose of Shaw. Such an opportunity obviously presented itself at Loudoun Hill. Fenwick, no doubt enticed by Segrave’s promises of advancement and monetary gain, ordere
d his men to slay Shaw, whose untimely death Fenwick ascribed in his report as an unfortunate casualty during their encounter with the rebels.
“What will ye do now?” she said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Are you ready to go back?”
“I think I’ll stay with my daughter for a few days. I haven’t seen my grandchildren in a while.”
“What shall I do with the bundle you left in my office?”
“I brought that for ye,” she said. “Yer father’s axe and sword are in there. I knew ye would want them.”
He helped her climb aboard the wagon seat, after which he drove to her daughter’s cottage. “Thank you for what you did for my father,” he said, as she debarked with his assistance. “I shall never forget it.”
****
With the late afternoon sun in his eyes, Kyle drove the wagon back to the garrison. On the way, he pondered the question of who was ultimately responsible for his father’s death. Was it the man who struck the blow? Was it the officer who ordered the blow struck? Was it the man who paid the officer to order the blow? Was one less guilty than the others, or were all three equally reprehensible?
The answer to that conundrum continued to elude him as he drove through garrison gates and headed for the stable to unhitch the gelding from the wagon traces. Upon entering the sheriff’s office, the first thing he did was to open the longish parcel lying on the bench under the window.
Over the past five years, the oilskin had protected the items within. Yet it was evident from their condition that James Shaw took excellent care of his weapons. Scars from use marred the smooth hardwood handle of the axe, but the metal head showed no nicks or pits from rust. The sword was well-honed and razor-sharp, and the long narrow strip of leather binding the hilt ensured the user of a good grip. The large bronze ball at the end of the hilt served well to counterbalance the weight of the steel blade.
The sight of those weapons brought images of the past flooding into his consciousness. Any hope in his heart that his father might be still alive was now gone. James Shaw considered the world a dangerous place in which to live, and as such, he never went anywhere without that axe or that sword.
Kyle put the weapons back into the oilskin and wrapped them up. He would decide later what to do with them.
As the slanting rays of the setting sun reached into the sheriff’s office, he sharpened the point of a quill pen and set about finishing his report on Count Jardine’s fortuitous departure earlier that day.
On completing the account, he lifted his eyes to gaze outside. Hardly anyone moved about the courtyard, for the day’s activities were beginning to wind down. He was thinking about getting something to eat when a lean man with a prominent nose and coal-black eyes appeared in the open doorway.
“What do you want, Weems?” he said. His lack of affability stemmed from the fact that, during a tavern fight several weeks ago, the man tried to stab him in the back with his own dirk.
“Sir Percy wants you to attend to him at once,” Weems said.
Kyle rolled up the parchment, tightened his sword belt a notch, and slung his cloak around his shoulders. With the scroll in his hand, he stepped into the courtyard and started toward the main hall with Weems walking beside him. “Did you or Inchcape ever serve under Captain Fenwick?” he said, watching the man’s reaction from the corner of his eye.
The pitted skin on the sharp-featured face turned white with tension. “I―I think, I mean, I know,” Weems said with faltering speech, “that Inchcape, uh, served under him a while back. That was some time ago.”
“What about you?” Kyle said, turning the full brunt of his gaze upon him.
The query seemed to affect the man’s eyes, for he blinked repeatedly before replying.
“I’m not sure,” Weems said after a moment. “It’s been so long. I’ve been billeted here and there. It’s hard to remember.”
Kyle suspected that Weems not only served under Fenwick, but that he also participated in the Loudoun Hill massacre. The most compelling reason for his reluctance to own up to his association with Fenwick, especially to the son of a murdered man, was because of his complicity in that murder.
When they drew near to the main hall, Weems scurried away toward the barracks, while Kyle went inside and made his way to the second floor.
Neyll was absent from the anteroom, so Kyle knocked on the doorjamb leading into the office chamber beyond.
Sir Percy glanced up from the sheet of vellum spread out on the marble top of his desk. When he saw Kyle, a shadow of a scowl passed over his cherubic features. “Come,” he said in a curt tone.
Kyle entered the chamber and presented Sir Percy with the scroll he’d brought with him. “This is my report on Count Jardine’s hasty exit from the garrison.”
“Hasty exit, my arse,” Sir Percy said, taking the proffered document. He stood up, as though annoyed at having to look up at the Scots deputy towering over him. His lack of height apparently bothered him, and like some other men of modest stature, he had an enormous ego to compensate for it. “Let us call it what it was, Master Shaw. It was an escape, in which I suspect you had a hand.”
“If that is so,” Kyle said, “I wouldn’t have stayed behind to face accusations. Besides, my own horse was stricken like the rest of them.”
Sir Percy’s skeptical expression made it plain he was still unconvinced. “Did you recognize either of the men who departed with Count Jardine?” he said, watching Kyle closely.
“It was difficult to make out their features under those helmets,” Kyle said.
“When I find them out,” Sir Percy said, pounding his palm with his fist, “and I will find them out, they will pay with their lives.” He turned his wrath on Kyle. “I hold you responsible for Count Jardine’s escape. As sheriff’s deputy, you should have prevented it.”
“As castellan of Ayr Garrison,” Kyle said, “you are accountable for the actions of the men under your command. It was your men who let Count Jardine ride through the gates to freedom.”
A slow flush spread across Sir Percy’s face, because he could not deny the truth of Kyle’s words. “I understand that no trace was found of the man who murdered that village girl,” he said, changing the subject abruptly. “How many more felons will you let slip through your grasp?”
“A reliable witness saw the murderer sink into a bog a fortnight ago,” Kyle said. “That matter is now closed.” He made a motion to leave the chamber. “Is there anything else?”
“Just a moment,” Sir Percy said. He unrolled the scroll in his hand to scan its contents.
While Sir Percy was preoccupied with reading the report, Kyle’s eyes fell by chance on the sheet of vellum spread out on the desk before him. Although it was the wrong way round, Fenwick’s name jumped out at him, as did the date, which was that of ten days ago. Before he could decipher the body of the letter, he heard a strangled sound come from somewhere deep in Sir Percy’s throat.
“This won’t do at all,” Sir Percy said, waving Kyle’s report in the air. “You cannot say that Count Jardine simply rode out of the garrison in broad daylight. You make it sound as if no attempt at all was made to stop him.” He flung the sheet of vellum onto his desk, inadvertently covering the Fenwick letter. “Oh, never mind. I’ll see to the report myself.”
Kyle took his leave with a stiff bow. He started to withdraw, but he turned back after a couple of steps. “By the bye, do you know the present whereabouts of Sir Nicholas de Segrave?”
“Buried somewhere in Leicestershire, the last I heard,” Sir Percy said without looking up. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” Kyle said. He continued on to the anteroom, mentally ticking Segrave’s name from the list of those with whom he had a score to settle. He went behind Neyll’s desk to remove the prior year’s tax roll from its place on the third shelf. He was stuffing the folded document into the pouch at his side when Neyll appeared in the doorway.
“What are ye doing back there?” Ne
yll demanded, his dark eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Sir Percy wants to see you,” Kyle said. He rounded the corner of the desk and brushed past Neyll on the way out, ignoring the blustering protests that echoed down the hallway behind him.
****
Shortly after sunset, Kyle rode the gelding from the garrison and turned onto Harbour Street. The failing light of dusk cast the houses along the River Ayr into shadowed relief against the muted orange of the skyline. He made his way to the Bull and Bear to keep his appointment with John Logan.
He entered the tavern, where a haze of smoke hung in the air from lighted oil lamps suspended on long chains from the rafters. His gaze swept the tables occupied by young English soldiers who were settling down for a night of gaming and perhaps a fight or two later to liven things up. He spotted John and Macalister seated at a table against the side wall and walked over to sit with them.
While they were waiting for Maize to bring their supper, Neyll entered the tavern and made his way to a nearby table. The surreptitious glances he cast their way made Kyle wonder if the clerk chose that location in the hope of seeing the missing tax roll come to light.
It was then that Kyle noticed the embroidered edges of Neyll’s sleeves. The ivy pattern stitched in gold thread along the border reminded him of the description Father Ian gave of the altar cloth that was stolen, along with other items, from the chapel at Harefoot Law a month ago. He mentioned it to his companions, who listened to him with interest.
John looked over his shoulder at Neyll’s sleeves. “That design may be the product of his sister’s excellent handiwork. She sews beautifully, ye know.” He leaned toward Kyle to make himself heard over the raucous voices of the tavern’s patrons. “Just before ye arrived, I was telling Macalister here about Count Jardine’s successful flight from the garrison.”
“Well done,” Macalister said, glancing from one to the other. “Upton should get credit, too, I suppose, even though he is a Southron.” A fierce smile stole briefly across his bearded face. “When King Edward hears of it, he will likely remove Sir Percy as castellan. That should take that pompous popinjay down a peg.”
