Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere)

by Muir, L. L.

  One guard held on to the rope tied to Finn. Two guards hovered over Blair Balliol’s body after they laid her on the front pew. He added the pair to the list he was creating in his mind—the list of people who would pay dearly for laying a hand on his woman. Or rather, The Reaper’s.

  He turned slightly, to view the crowd behind him, to see where his own men were stationed, but his movement made the ten men around him far too nervous and he was instructed to face forward. He laughed low in his chest. The two men immediately at his sides tried to put a little space between them, but the next men on the bench prevented it.

  They repeated this same dance fifty times in the next two hours while they were forced to wait. For what, the constable would not say, only that all parties were not yet accounted for. Ash only hoped there were no officers available to search Brigadunn manor for Everhardt. Wotherspoon had more planned here than just a trial, and the six nooses were a clue. Ash simply could not think which six people those nooses were meant for. If the constable wished to hang himself, Blair, Finn and Everhardt—not that this combination made any sense—then who were the other two? Collier and Jarvill? Was the man so set on bringing The Reaper to justice he would hang every suspect? But why the boy?

  And why now? As far as Ash understood, the constable had meddled little in The Reaper’s crimes. Martin had hinted the constable might have demanded a portion of The Reaper’s booty in exchange for turning a blind eye. Then why hunt The Reaper now? Had the man beneath the hood suddenly ceased paying the price?

  The kirk doors opened wide and Wotherspoon looked up with a wide smile. Twenty large men, all dressed uniformly in blue, filed inside the church and down both walls. When they stepped forward, there were two men between each set of pillars.

  Next entered a man in barrister robes. The door was closed behind him.

  “Welcome, Milord Sheriff.” The constable grinned.

  The lethargic crowd roused and murmured with excitement. Wotherspoon bowed deeply as the sheriff marched smartly up the left aisle and waved an impatient hand for the constable to get out of his way. He took his place behind a long table and sat.

  Ash should have been relieved to have a level-minded man of the law presiding over the trail, but that niggling would not cease. Wotherspoon was far too happy to see the sheriff. He had to know something Ash did not. Perhaps the new authority had already been bribed.

  “Summon the first criminal,” the sheriff called. Then he waved one of his men to him and they spoke low, ignoring the constable.

  “If it please the court,” Wotherspoon called to the rafters, “I call Finnian Balliol to face the charge of conspiracy.”

  A fat man nudged Finn from behind until the boy stepped into the prisoner’s box stationed at the head of the aisle to the right.

  “A child? You said nothing of a child, constable.”

  Wotherspoon forced a smile. “When I sent my request, Milord Sheriff, I did not believe I could catch him in time.”

  The sheriff looked doubtful. “You’ve charged him with conspiracy? You truly believe this Reaper fellow would conspire with a child?”

  “I do,” said Wotherspoon. He turned to Finn. “Finn Balliol, when my men and I found you, you admitted you were on yer way to The Witch’s Vale, to the home of The Reaper. Do you deny it?”

  “Yes. I was trying to feed my owl. Now it’s likely dead because of ye.”

  Someone shouted, “Murderer!” The crowd laughed. The sheriff pounded on his table, demanding attention.

  Perhaps it was the constable’s determination to see a child hanged, or perhaps it was the fact that Blair had yet to awaken, but Ash could feel the red haze rising. He took a deep breath and pushed it back, bid it to wait. He could not simply tear apart an entire church full of innocent people in order to save one.

  The constable turned to the crowd. “It has always been common knowledge The Reaper’s lair is in The Witch’s Vale. This lad’s testimony confirms it well enough I think.” He turned to the Sheriff and waited while the other man considered.

  “I hope there is more to this trial than deliberating where the villain lays his head, Constable.”

  Wotherspoon rubbed his hands together and turned an unsettling smile on Finn. “Worry not, Milord Sheriff. The Highland Reaper will be unmasked today, I assure ye. And his accomplices.”

  It was no surprise when the lad squirmed in his seat and bit his bottom lip. Ash had no doubt the lad feared for his sister and worried he might let slip his tongue and seal her fate.

  The sight of the lad fidgeting brought to mind a conversation they’d had recently about how a gentleman, in dire need to relieve himself, should resist dancing about even if his eyes should cross.

  Ash frowned and lifted his chin to get Finn’s attention. Once the constable moved to one side, the lad noticed him and lifted his brows in silent question.

  Ash immediately crossed his eyes, hoping the lad might also remember conversation and understand Ash’s prompt. With Stanley no longer available to spirit the lad away, it was important the lad help rescue himself.

  Finn suddenly giggled. When Wotherspoon examined him closely, the lad’s face pinched as if he were in pain.

  “What’s this?” the constable demanded.

  Finn swallowed hard and sheepishly turned his head to the side as if embarrassed. “Ye gave me no time this morn. Took me away before I was awake, even.” He leaned forward as if he were going to whisper. “I’m in dire need of a piss, sir,” he said in full voice.

  The crowd laughed. Ash was tempted to applaud the little actor; he could not have done a better job of it himself.

  “Auch! I doona believe it in the least!” Wotherspoon roared above the chaos.

  A woman brought forth a tankard for the sheriff. His shoulders relaxed. “Now, now, Wotherspoon. You canna use such cruel methods on your prisoners in a court of law. Let him get to it. Send a guard along. After all, we’d allow you to do the same, aye?”

  The crowd laughed again.

  Ash jumped to his feet, as did the ten men surrounding him. Since none were nearly as tall as he, Ash was still able to look Finn in the eye over the top of the three heads in the front row.

  “Finn Balliol,” his voice boomed, “I’ll expect you to remember all you’ve learned at my house about honor. About doing the honorable thing.”

  Finn nodded and smiled as he was led toward a door in the transept by a limping, slow-looking man with a kilt so short he was difficult to watch. One of the sheriff’s guards, standing at that door, followed them out.

  “Back on yer arse, Ashmoore,” spat the constable. “Yer turn will come soon enough.”

  “Look here,” said the sheriff. “You’ll address him as Lord Ashmoore, Wotherspoon, or you’ll address him not at all.”

  The nasty man smiled to one side of his face and gave the sheriff a shallow bow. “As ye say, Milord Sheriff.”

  Because he was feeling contrary, Ash decided to remain standing until he was asked nicely, so he folded his arms and waited.

  Wotherspoon glanced at someone behind Ash and a pistol cocked.

  “That’s is quite enough, Constable,” said the sheriff. “Your men will holster their weapons for the duration, is that clear? This is a kirk, after all. And your choice, as well.” He nodded respectfully at the trio of priests who’d been sitting silently on a row of chairs before altar and sanctuary as if guarding them from the sight of unworthy eyes.

  As one, they inclined their heads in appreciation of the sheriff’s show of respect.

  Ash noticed the blur of red out the corner of his eye and turned to see Blair sitting up in the pew where she’d been laid. She held a hand to her left cheek where the constable’s hand had struck and turned to look about the chapel. Her eyes found Ash immediately and it pleased him to note her look of panic easing away. Her brow pinched again, and, after a cursory glance to either side of her, her gaze returned to him.

  “Where’s Finn?” she shouted over the low murmurs
that filled both the chamber and the arched ceiling.

  “Where, indeed,” snarled Wotherspoon. With a nod, he sent two guards out the side door where Finn and his over-exposed babysitter had fled. The sheriff’s man was in all likelihood, chasing after the boy.

  A man leaned from two rows behind Blair and spoke to her. Then her attention turned to the transept.

  A long moment later, the two guards returned with the babysitter puffing in their wake.

  “He’s escaped, yer lairdship,” said one man to the sheriff.

  The constable roared. “I’m nay surprised in the least,” he spit in Ash’s direction. “Ye put him up to this.”

  Ash couldn’t help but smile, especially when Blair gave him a look of sincere thanks. He would of course tell her the truth sometime in the distant future, that it was Finn’s quick thinking that got him out of the constable’s clutches.

  Much later.

  For now, he’d bask in the fact she supposed he was her hero. The mere taste of it made him determined to make it so in truth.

  Unfair or not, he wanted her love. But if that weren’t possible, he wanted her happy. And as soon as he knew for certain where her happiness would lie, either with him or with The Reaper, then he would do whatever possible to ensure that happiness.

  For the moment, however, they would all be much happier when this farce of a trial was over.

  “Move along, Constable.” The sheriff drained his tankard, looked ruefully into its depths, then set it aside. “Who do you charge next, and what are the charges?”

  “Blair Balliol!” The constable turned an ugly smile on her, then gestured to the prisoner’s box.

  For a moment, she only sat and stared at the little platform with the rail encircling it on three sides. Ash had to admit, it did look rather out of place in such an elegantly designed church. The scuffed rails made the box look like a beggar come to pray.

  Blair stood slowly, then clutched at the guard to her right who bent to aid her. The men surrounding him tensed and he realized he was bent over the front pew as if he meant to fly to her side, which of course, he was prepared to do. If necessary, his guards could be shook off like so many flies.

  Hands tugged at his elbows as the men around him summoned enough courage to finally touch him.

  “Please, laird,” said one. “We’ll all suffer if ye should get away, sir.”

  He turned to frown at the young man still holding his left arm, then replayed his words in his mind. He looked again at Blair. She was walking, with her guard’s assistance, to the box. A brief glance his way. A slight shake of the head. A slight tug to one corner of her lips, then it was gone.

  Ash stopped himself from grinning like a fool, but only just. He was so relieved. Apparently, young Finn had learned his acting skills from his sister. The constable’s attack hadn’t taken quite the toll he’d feared, thank heavens.

  He felt a bit like Finn at that moment and thought it might be best if he sat down and placed his tongue between his teeth to keep from giving something away. His guards released an audible sigh and he chuckled silently.

  She stepped inside the box and leaned delicately on the rail. Her guard stood just outside the rail, poised to come to her aid, no doubt.

  “Forgive me, Milord Sheriff,” she said and raised a hand to her head. “Constable Wotherspoon’s blow has me a wee out of sorts, aye? I canna remember what I might have done to upset the man.”

  For a moment, the sheriff considered her dispassionately. He made no indication he’d even heard her words. Eventually, he gave a slight nod and turned to the constable. “This is the woman you’ve told me about?”

  “She is, milord. This is The Reaper’s Whore.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  When the blood ceased pounding in Ash’s ears, he was pleased to realize the church had gone eerily silent. None gasped. None laughed. None murmured. The only sound was the stirring of air as a hundred people silently breathed in and out. . .and waited.

  “Verra well,” said the sheriff. “I’ve done a bit of investigating on this Reaper fellow, and I’ve been told he has a woman who rides with him betimes. I trust you have proof this is the woman?”

  “I do, milord,” said Wotherspoon. “My men and I came upon young Finn Balliol three days hence and he told me—”

  “I object, Milord Sheriff,” Ash said calmly. “Finn Balliol is not here to question or give testimony.”

  Wotherspoon’s nose curled to one side. “Aye, my lord Ashmoore,” he enunciated clearly, “but my men were witnesses, aye? They can tell what they saw and heard. I only thought to keep from wasting the sheriff’s time by recounting my own bit of the story. . .”

  “Very well,” said the sheriff. “Objection noted, but I will hear it. Constable Wotherspoon will then produce his other witnesses for confirmation. Proceed.”

  “As I was saying,” the man said dramatically, “we came upon Finn, all running and out of breath. . .headed toward the Witch’s Vale. I asked him why his tail was afire. He said he was headed up the mountain to fetch his wee owl. Now, everyone in town kens of Finn and his owl, Shakespeare. So I asked him why his owl was on the mountain. He said The Reaper took it and he was going to bring the bird back.”

  In the rush of his rehearsed report, the man had run quite out of breath and paused to catch it again. Then he began again.

  “I asked Finn how he knew The Reaper took Shakespeare, for I’m always on the lookout for thieves and the like, aye? Even if it was only a bird what was took.”

  The crowd chuckled at this, but the fool thought they were laughing at some joke he’d made. When they’d actually been laughing at him.

  “And what did the boy say?” The sheriff cocked his head and waited.

  “He said his sister told him. That his sister lives with The Reaper in The Witch’s Vale. And again, it is common knowledge The Reaper often raids with a woman at his side. So if this is The Reaper’s companion, she is guilty as The Reaper himself. Over the past two years, I have had nigh a hundred testimonies of The Highland Reaper’s thievery. I beg ye, Milord Sheriff, to pronounce sentence on this woman so we might move on to punishing the rest of them.”

  This was met with a furious outcry from the onlookers which took the constable by surprise so much that he took a step back and bumped up against the sheriff’s table.

  The Sheriff then pounded on that table until the crowd quieted.

  “That is a lie,” Ash called out. “The lad would never say such a thing about his own sister. And how convenient he is not here to argue for himself. In fact, are you quite certain, Wotherspoon, that you did not instruct your man to let the boy escape?”

  While the sheriff beat upon his table to no avail, Ash realized he’d only drawn attention away from Blair momentarily. There was nothing he could legally do, nothing he could say to get her out of her predicament. There was no one available to testify that Blair was anywhere other than at The Reaper’s side; it was common knowledge her father believed for the past two years that she was dead. What other hope was there? That The Reaper would appear at any moment and claim not to know her?

  His sudden idea was so dangerous he knew he should take a moment and reconsider, but he was afraid he might do just that.

  As he pushed himself to his feet, he had a fleeting impression of Blair and her Reaper riding off toward the misty vale with no trouble chasing them from behind, her head turned back over her shoulder, in her eyes, a look of gratitude.

  He shook the image away and found Blair frowning at him from her box. Her brows crushed together in concern and worry. For a moment, he simply took in the sight of her.

  He would give anything for her. Anything for her happiness.

  “Point of order!” he called out to the sheriff.

  Slowly, the crowd gave up their murmurs and the room fell quiet but for whispering.

  “Lord Ashmoore?” The sheriff waved the constable to one side so he could see. “Since you seem to think of yourself as th
e woman’s council, I will allow you to speak, but only if you have something in mind other than inciting a mob.”

  Ash bowed. “I do, my lord.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Proceed.”

  Ash was careful to hold the constable’s gaze before he spoke the next.

  “I believe I can satisfy the constable and convince him to drop the charges against Blair Balliol, but I would need to speak to the pair of you privately.”

  “I doona believe it in the least, milord.” Wotherspoon pointed at Ash. His arm shaking with panic. “‘Tis a trick! Dinna let him move from that spot or we’ll all wake up in our graves!”

  The sheriff shook his head. “I am afraid the constable is right in this.”

  Ash felt all eyes upon him as he considered his next move. But there was one set of eyes he felt more pointedly than the rest. He resisted looking in her direction for as long as he could stand, but finally, he stopped fighting himself and faced her.

  Whatever she read in his eyes, she did not like and began shaking her head. “What are ye about?”

  He sent her a wink, then lifted his chin. “I will confess,” he told the sheriff, “if you let this woman free and vow there will be no charges made against her.”

  Wotherspoon’s mouth fell, but he recovered himself and hurried to the sheriff’s table for a private conversation.

  “No!” Blair cried. “What can ye be thinking?!”

  “Done!” the constable shouted as he turned. “But do not release her quite yet. The villain’s confession must be enough to warrant her release. If he confesses to beating his servants, or some such, it will buy him naught.”

  “Ash! No!”

  Ash ignored Blair outright. He truly would have preferred to have done this in private, but then again, the town would know all soon enough.

  He looked squarely at the sheriff and said, “I am The Highland Reaper.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Blair’s heart exploded in her chest. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. And all she could hear was her own blood coursing through her ears.