by E R Dillon
****
The click of a door latch woke Kyle. He had no idea how long he’d slept. He lifted his head to look behind him.
A young woman stood in the open doorway. She wore a yellow shift, with a gray cloak draped over her shoulders. Her unbound hair framed the pale oval of her face and hung loose on her neck.
His fatigue melted away at the sight of her. “Good morrow, Mistress Joneta.”
She did not seem surprised to see him. “What brings ye here, Master Kyle?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, as if that explained his presence on her doorstep at that time of night.
“Neither could I,” she said, as though she believed him.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard yet,” he said. “Elspeth is going to France with Sergeant Upton. I will take word to Sir Ross in a day or so to give them a fair head start. The news that his only daughter has married an Englishman will wound his pride, and he will feel impelled to go after them to bring her back.”
She stepped outside and shut the door behind her. “I’m pleased to hear of their marriage,” she said quietly. “They both deserve a chance to be happy.” She sat down beside him, hugging her cloak about her slender body.
“Are you cold?” he said, his eyes on her profile.
She shook her head.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “There’s something that’s been bothering me for a while now.”
She glanced over at him, waiting in silence for him to go on.
“At first,” he said, “I was sure it was Brodie who murdered Sweeney. Then, I saw Gram’s reaction that day at the marketplace. She turned as white as Sweeney did when he saw Meg’s hair in the sunlight. Then your neighbor told me that some years back, Gram’s daughter died at the hands of an English soldier. I figured there might be a connection, so I asked around to find out more about it.” He gave her a tight smile. “Folks rarely forget that sort of thing.”
He stared into the middle distance to gather his thoughts, conscious of her gaze boring into him.
“The girl who was killed was Meg’s aunt,” he said. “Seeing as how the girl was kin, I thought perhaps it was Meg who lured Sweeney and Archer to their death. Then, it occurred to me that, although little Meg is pretty enough, she’s too high-strung to follow through with something like that. She would fall apart before the deed was done.”
She lowered her gaze to stare at her hands clenched together in her lap.
“Not to be overlooked is Meg’s husband, Drew, who is related to Gram by marriage,” he said. “If called upon, he might avenge his wife’s aunt. Even so, there are others with a prior claim as blood kin, like Gram herself. Now, she might be willing, but she’s too old and too frail to leap from a second-floor tavern window. Neither could she run four miles to and from the shepherd’s hut in the dead of night.”
He looked at her, sick at heart for what he must say. “But you could,” he said. “You are clever and resourceful, with beauty enough to charm even a cautious man into lowering his guard.”
“Even if I could,” she said, avoiding his eyes, “that does not mean I did.”
“There is a witness that puts you on the scene,” he said.
She turned her head slowly toward him, her eyes wide with dread. “Who?” she said, in a barely audible voice.
He removed a couple of short thick strands of gray homespun thread from the bottom of his coin purse and laid them in his open palm.
She gazed down at the strands of thread. “I don’t understand,” she said, truly perplexed.
He reached for the hem of her gray cloak and matched the length of the threads with the mended tear just above the bottom edge.
She shut her eyes, her brow furrowed as though she were in great distress. Her fingers trembled visibly where they clutched the folds of her cloak.
“Why?” he said softly.
She opened her eyes to gaze at him. “Five years ago,” she said, “Meg’s aunt, my sister-in-law, was raped and murdered. The man who did it was a Southron from the garrison. He went free because no one came forward to accuse him. Gram swore to avenge her daughter, but we had no idea who the man was until that day at the market. We all saw Captain Sweeney’s reaction to Meg, who could be a twin of her dead aunt.”
She wrung her hands in her lap. “I had to get a look at Sweeney’s neck to be sure it was him, for that was where my sister-in-law cut him while she fought him off. He overpowered her, raped her, stabbed her in the stomach, and left her to die in some back alley. A passerby helped her get home before she died, which is how we knew she had marked him thus,” she said, passing a finger across her throat under her chin.
She bowed her head, as if from shame. “Later on, I went to the tavern to talk to him. I did not know Meg had gone to see him earlier that same day. I was afraid of him, but he spoke gently to me. I thought nothing of it when he suggested we go up to his room to talk privately. He acted like a gentleman.” She shuddered as she added, “Until he shut the door. He came at me like a madman. He tore at my clothes. He tried to pin me to the bed. I drew his dagger and struck out at him to make him stop.”
“And did he?” he said, watching her.
She nodded. “He just stood there with blood spewing from his chest. I ran to the door before I remembered I was covered with blood. I wiped my face and hands on his shirt. When I heard footsteps outside the door, I grabbed my cloak and climbed out the window for fear of being accused of killing him, which I did, but only to keep him from forcing himself on me.”
“You left by the window,” he said, “but not before you used the dagger to slit his throat, even though he was already dead.”
She lifted her chin. “That was for my sister-in-law, to finish what she started before he killed her.”
“Did anyone see you climb out of the window?”
She made no effort to respond.
Her silence gave him the answer he sought. He surmised that the cook at the Bull and Bear must have been looking through the open kitchen door into the alley just as she was exiting the second-floor window. He may have even helped her down, knowing the kind of man Sweeney was and perhaps guessing what had occurred from her appearance. It was enough that she was a Scot, as the cook was, and his hatred of the English was sufficient to ensure his silence.
“Why was Archer killed, then? He wasn’t even billeted here when your sister-in-law was murdered.”
“Archer was one of the Southrons who hanged my husband a month past,” she said.
“Your husband knew the risks involved when he sided with the rebels,” he said.
“My husband was no rebel,” she said. “He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Earlier that night, raiders attacked a homestead, but the owner was ready and waiting for them. The raiders were repelled and had to flee for their lives. Those same raiders came across my husband on his way to the shepherd’s hut to check on a ewe about to drop its lamb. The raiders were angry, and their blood was up. When they saw my husband, they chased after him. He ran, of course, as would anyone with four horsemen bearing down upon them. They trampled him with their horses and dragged him over to the nearest tree.”
“How do you know any of that?” he said.
“There was a boy from Harefoot Law in the shepherd’s hut that night,” she said. “He saw what they did to my husband, that he wasn’t even conscious when they hanged him. They wanted someone to blame, and my husband served their purpose because he was handy, not because he was guilty. The boy told Father Ian, who took the matter to Sir Percy, but nothing ever came of it.”
He recalled that Father Ian mentioned such an incident several weeks ago. The subsequent break-in and theft of valuables from the chapel must have been retaliation by the raiders against the old priest for bringing charges against them.
“Your neighbor told me that the shock of hearing of your husband’s death hastened the birth of your child.”
She nodded her head.
“I am sorry,”
he said. “Such a blessed event should be a joyful occasion.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I cherish my son,” she said. “He is all I have left of my husband.”
“What about Archer?” he said.
“I didn’t kill him, if that is what ye are asking,” she said. “I would have done, but somebody got there before me. It was my right and duty to avenge my husband, even more so since Father Ian’s appeal for justice to the Southron castellan failed. I was thinking on how to go about it, when I was asked to take a written note to Archer.”
“When was that?” he said.
“The night before he died,” she said. She made a halfhearted attempt to smile. “Do ye not deem it fitting that a shepherd killer should himself be killed in a shepherd’s hut? I wish I had thought of that.”
“Who gave you the note?”
She lifted one shoulder noncommittally but said nothing.
“I know you are protecting someone close to you, someone you love,” he said. “It’s Gram, isn’t it?”
The fear on her face, even in the darkness, gave her away.
“Let me tell you what I think happened,” he said. “Gram knew Archer was there when her son was hanged. She could not read or write, but Drew could. After the flogging the English marshal gave him, he was in no shape to tackle Archer by himself. Yet, he had no objection to penning a note to him, especially when he learned its purpose.
“Gram gave you the note to pass along to Archer. She rightly suspected Archer could not read and would have to find someone who could. That would allow you the time to get away from him. The message was most likely an invitation to a tryst with you at the shepherd’s hut, which would without doubt lure him there.
“When he went to the hut at the appointed hour, the mead laced with hemlock was there on the shelf. He would naturally take a drink to steady his nerves for an assignation with a beautiful woman like you. He was probably already dead when Gram went inside to do what she did. After that, she rode back to town on the horse she’d borrowed from a neighbor to get there, with no one the wiser.”
“I know nothing of that,” Joneta said. “All I know is that there were four in the hanging party. There are still two who must answer for my husband’s death. Only when all of them are dead will I be ready to ask God’s forgiveness.”
“You need forgiveness only to get what you don’t deserve,” he said. “You have no idea what it means to need forgiveness.” He went on to relate how his gambling caused the death of his wife and his son, how he returned home on that awful night six years ago, only to discover that raiders had torched his house with his family inside. The burn scars on his chest and arms were a constant reminder of his negligence and his guilt. “It was the end of time for me.”
“When ye turn me over to the Southrons,” she said, “I won’t need forgiveness as much as mercy.”
“You only need mercy to keep from getting what you deserve,” he said. “You got something far more valuable than mercy. You got justice, and Sweeney and Archer felt the sharp edge of it.” His eyes grew hard. “Inchcape did, too, by my own hand not four hours past. He murdered my father, but there was too little evidence to arrest him for it. His admission that he did the deed was enough for me. Weems was also there when my father was killed, but he broke his neck before I could deal with him.”
“Inchcape and Weems are dead?” she said.
“They are,” he said. He went on to tell her about Mistress Hamilton’s pronouncement against the four English soldiers.
She stood up and wiped her hands on her shift, as though to cleanse them. “Inchcape and Weems were also there when my husband was hanged. Now that they are dead, I am ready to stand before the assize.”
He let the threads in his hand fall to the ground. “If I had learned sooner that Sweeney had been a party to my father’s death, and perhaps even that of my wife and my son all those years ago, I would have killed him himself. You simply beat me to it. In a case like yours, however, the law allows for defense of self. That means although you did kill Sweeney, you did not murder him.”
She looked down at him, her face clouded with doubt. “Will the Southrons see it that way?”
“Probably not,” he said. “But then, neither would an English judge hold Sweeney, Inchcape, or Weems accountable for my father’s death. In fact, they might even receive a promotion for their part in it.” He passed a palm over the stubble on his jaw. “I see no need to bring any of this before a court of law.”
She sat abruptly, as though her knees gave out under her. “Are ye saying ye are not going to arrest me?”
“That is what I’m saying,” he said, with a nod of his head.
“What about Gram?”
“Earlier tonight,” he said, “I executed justice upon Inchcape, who was guilty in my own eyes. I cannot fault Gram for doing the same. In trial by combat, men use axes and swords, whereas women employ more subtle means.”
“Like poison,” she said.
He shrugged his shoulders. “In the end,” he said, “justice prevails, no matter the weapon used to bring it about.”
“So, ye aren’t going to arrest Gram, either?”
“I cannot do so without proof of her guilt,” he said. “Mere conjecture on my part will never support a case against her. I am only a sheriff’s deputy, not a judge. Gram must stand before her Maker to answer for her deeds, as I must when that time comes.”
“But I heartily wished for Archer’s death,” she said, “and I rejoiced when it came to pass.”
“If everyone who thought about harming their neighbor was arrested for it,” he said, “there would not be dungeons enough to hold them all.”
She studied his face for a moment. “Gram wants to go up north,” she said at last. “She wants to spend some time with her family. She’s unwell, ye know, more so than she lets on.” She watched him closely as she added, “She asked me to go with her, to help her whenever she gets too weak to help herself.”
Kyle felt an unexpected sense of loss and loneliness at the thought of her departure. “So, you’re moving up north, are you?”
“Only for as long as Gram needs me,” she said. “I want to raise my son down here, in the house and on the land that belonged to my husband. I shall hold that property for him until he comes of age.”
He lifted his eyes to gaze over the rooftops to the east. The whole expanse of sky on that side was beginning to lighten. Along the street, the houses that were earlier smothered by darkness slowly took on shape and substance with the dawning of the new day.
“When someone you love dies,” he said, “part of your heart dies with them. But life goes on, and so must we. You must mourn the loss of your husband, just as I must put to rest the ghosts of my past. We must look forward, not back, for who knows what the future may hold.”
He rose to his feet and was about to take his leave when he remembered a purchase he’d made at the Glasgow market. He opened his coin purse and removed a tiny parcel from within. “Here is something to remember me by,” he said, pressing it into her hand.
She opened the parcel to find a gold ribbon and a green ribbon rolled up together. She shook them out to admire the silky streamers gleaming in the muted light. “Even without these,” she said, looking up at him, “I shall never forget ye.”
He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. As he kissed each of her fingers, his heart thudded violently against his ribs. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow, despite the chill in the early morning air. “I shall never forget you, either,” he said, releasing her hand.
She got to her feet to catch both of his hands in hers. She laid her cheek on them, causing her light auburn hair to cascade over his wrists. “I might be gone some months,” she said, raising her head to gaze at him.
His turbulent heart moved up into his throat, choking him quietly. “I’ll be here, waiting for you,” he said, his spellbound stare fixed on her hazel eyes, which took on a greenish cast in the growing
light of day.
They stood together for a long moment, moved but unmoving, their hands clasped, unwilling to part, until a woman in the house across the street opened her door to empty the slops from a chamber pot into the gutter.
Each let go of the other’s hands with reluctance.
“The northward roads are unsafe these days,” he said. “I would like to serve as your escort when Gram is ready to leave.”
“I would like that,” she said, clearly pleased at his offer.
“Till then,” he said. He gathered up his gear and mounted the gelding. With a wave of his hand, he set out up the street. On reaching the corner, he turned in the saddle to look back. He was gratified to see her standing where he’d left her, cradling the hand he’d kissed, with the ribbons dangling from her fingers.
At that moment, he felt lighter of heart than he had in years. In fact, if asked, he would say that he was almost happy. Of course, that was not enough, but it was a start. It would do for now.
Chapter 20
Epilogue
May 15, 1297
Dusk was well on its way to becoming twilight as Kyle rode along Harbour Street, headed for the Bull and Bear. Sweet olive bushes along the River Ayr exuded a delicate scent that lingered in the air. Light shone through an unshuttered window here and there as women set about preparing the evening meal for their families.
He wanted to have a chat with Neyll without being overheard, and there was no place more conducive to privacy than a public tavern. He turned into the courtyard and dismounted, handing the reins to the young groom who came out to meet him. He entered the tavern, which was hazy with smoke from oil lamps and filled with noisy chatter from soldiers eating and drinking and gaming. He spotted Neyll in a far corner in a dark blue cotte with matching leggings and walked over to his table.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” he said. Before Neyll could reply, he slid onto the bench across from him.
“I’m waiting for someone,” Neyll said coldly.
“I don’t mind at all,” Kyle said. “In the meantime, perhaps you can help with something that’s been troubling me.”
