by Amanda Scott
One of his men-at-arms strode into the taproom through a doorway behind the single chair near the hearth, and before the door shut behind him, she caught a glimpse of a tidy sitting room, allowing her to deduce that the alemaster and his family, if he had one, lived on the premises. The man-at-arms carried a long-handled pike and banged the handle end on the floor to demand order.
With much shuffling of feet, coughing, sneezing, and fading chatter, the people in the room eventually took heed of him, and if they did not become silent, at least he could make himself heard when he shouted, “All stand for his worship, Sir Archibald Daviot, the King’s magistrate!”
As the onlookers noisily got to their feet, a sinewy man of middle age with wire-rimmed spectacles entered through the same door and went without ceremony to stand beside the table and its chair.
“Sit, sit, sit,” he commanded in a voice that sounded too big for him.
With much shuffling and comment, everyone obeyed.
“You there, Robert Fraser, shut your maw so a body can think!” he said testily, adding to his baillie, “Bring in the prisoner now and sit him in yonder chair. Watch him closely, mind. We’ll ha’ nae escapes from this court today.”
Sir Alex entered next. His father having provided him with a clean blue-velvet doublet and fresh hose, he entered with much of his usual aplomb despite the shackles on his wrists and ankles. When his gaze met Bab’s, his eyes narrowed, making her swallow hard to think he might be angry with her for coming, but then he smiled ruefully and shook his head at her as if he knew it would have been useless for his father to insist that she not do so.
She hoped he was not displeased, but it made no difference, for she could not have stayed away. She had done all she could to help him, and apparently her efforts had come to naught, so if anyone should be rueful, it was she. Hugo and Gibby were doubtless still trying to rouse supporters, but she doubted that they would succeed. Folks were too frightened of the Dalcross power to confront it.
“Faith, but ye must set another chair for our witnesses,” Sir Archibald said to his baillie. “Did ye think we’d make them stand to give their testimony?”
The man hurried to set a second chair beside the magistrate’s table, whereupon Sir Archibald snapped, “Call the case!”
“Aye, your worship.” Turning to the audience and squaring his shoulders, the baillie proclaimed in stentorian tones, “A bill being proffered to attaint Sir Alex Chisholm o’ Dundreggan Castle and Glen Affric, here present, for murder and other nefarious crimes, this properly-constituted jury o’ his peers will now proceed to determine his guilt or his innocence.”
Sir Archibald glanced at Alex. “How do you plead, sir?”
“Not guilty, your worship,” Alex said quietly.
“Swear the jury!”
The baillie gestured to the ten men sitting on the two benches in the corner, and all ten stood again, looking properly solemn as he recited the oath and they echoed it. When they had resumed their seats, the baillie declared without further ado, “Sheriff Substitute Francis Dalcross will speak now for the Crown and for his sovereign grace, James, fifth o’ that name to reign as High King o’ the Scots!”
Bab watched Francis cross the room to stand by the magistrate’s table, walking as haughtily as if he instead of James were King. He glanced at her, smiling faintly, and she knew he savored his victory. Doubtless, he believed he had already proven to her how wrong she had been to marry Alex instead of submitting to his own advances. She returned the look steadily, wishing she possessed magical powers and could make him vanish before he could present his case to the jury.
She could do nothing to stop him, however, and the room fell silent at last.
With a dramatic sigh, his gaze sweeping the audience before resting on the jury, Francis said, “Mine own father fell to this villain’s murderous hand. Sir Alex Chisholm, also known as Sionnach Dubh, the Highland Black Fox, besides robbery, interference with his grace’s lawfully appointed authorities, and other crimes, has egregiously broken the King’s peace by ending a life more honorable than his own. This man walked amongst us, pretending to be our friend, and then committed a heinous murder. God on High may forgive him for it. I shall not.”
Muttering filled the courtroom as Francis called his first witness, but Bab could not tell if the muttering was aimed at Alex or at Francis. It quickly became apparent, however, what Francis’s strategy would be.
One after another, he called his own men-at-arms, the first of whom swore that he had seen the Fox lurking near Sheriff’s House on the night of the murder. Two others swore they had seen him follow Sheriff Dalcross as he rode toward Bothyn Castle but had paid little heed, since the sheriff’s own men rode with him as usual. A member of that escort next testified that the sheriff’s men had given chase to a masked man on a black horse, thus leaving the sheriff alone at the pertinent time. And a fifth one of Dalcross’s men swore that the Fox had several nights later most daringly helped a prisoner escape from Sheriff’s House. That witness insisted that no man but Alex Chisholm, who had lived there off and on since childhood, knew Sheriff’s House well enough to have effected that escape.
At one point, hearing Lady Chisholm gasp, and turning to put a comforting hand on hers, Bab feared briefly that her ladyship might believe the worst of the wicked testimony. But her fear proved needless.
“Such villains to speak so,” Lady Chisholm murmured, glowering at the witness. “God should strike him down for uttering such horrid lies.”
As lies piled upon half-truths and the magistrate apparently accepted every word as evidence, Bab wilted with despair. Francis’s tame jury would hardly find Alex innocent in the face of such testimony, and his advocate, although clearly a respectable and learned gentleman, seemed unable to shake a single one of Francis’s witnesses from their carefully crafted tale.
Every man supported the one before him, and no one stepped forward to speak for Alex except members of his clan and friends such as Eric Mackintosh, none of whom could provide an alibi for him on the night in question other than to swear he was at Dundreggan, an alibi at which Francis and his jury openly scoffed.
When the last witness had spoken, Francis stood to sum up his case, saying with authority, “The Crown has proven beyond any doubt that Sir Alexander Chisholm, in the guise of Sionnach Dubh, killed my father and is thus guilty of many more crimes as well. I know you jurors will see your duty plain and will declare him guilty so that he may be taken from this room and hanged forthwith. Then we shall be done with the Fox and his dastardly acts forever.”
“I fear ’twill take more than hanging Alexander Chisholm to be done wi’ all that,” a deep voice declared from the back of the room. “That ye choose to dislike him, Francis Dalcross, doesna make him the murderer o’ your father, nor will it, for he didna kill the sheriff, as I’ll wager ye ken better than most.”
The audience, turning as one, gasped in astonishment. So firmly had Francis Dalcross’s attention been fixed on the jury and everyone else’s fixed on Francis, that no one had noticed the door at the rear of the taproom slowly opening, or seen the entrance of the black-cloaked, black-masked figure who stood there now.
Bab glanced at Alex to be sure he still sat in his chair, and then looked again at the newcomer, wondering at the familiar sound of his deep voice.
Could she have been wrong? Might there be some other explanation for the silver coins in the box in Alex’s bedchamber? But no, Hugo had admitted the truth.
The room being dimly lit and the corner near the door dark and shadowy, she could just make out the familiar, cloaked figure, like another dark shadow against the wall. His mask concealing all but his eyes, he stood still for a moment before, with a swirl of his cloak, he revealed the sleek-looking sword in his right hand.
Dalcross, clearly stunned, quickly recovered his wits. “That man must be an impostor,” he cried. “The Fox sits before us, proven guilty as charged!”
“Ye lie, Francis Dalcross,”
snapped the newcomer. “The only villain in this room be yourself, and if murder ha’ been done, ’tis no Sir Alex who ha’ done it.”
“We have witnesses,” Dalcross retorted.
“Aye, but your witnesses claimed ’twas the Fox, did they no? I ha’ two more witnesses outside who agreed after a wee bit o’ persuasion to swear ye killed your own father for the purpose o’ inheriting his wealth and taking his place as Sheriff o’ Inverness-shire. Moreover, they say, ’tis no the first time ye had done murder!”
Gasps and cries of shock and consternation from the gallery greeted this statement, but Dalcross remained undaunted. “You can have no such witnesses!”
“Aye, but I do. I’ll grant ye, this honest jury o’ yours might wonder if my witnesses be as tainted as your own, but I’ll give ye a personal trial m’self, fair and square, if ye still want this case to stand on the testimony ye’ve contrived for it.”
Dalcross sneered. “Dare we guess how you propose to effect such a trial?”
“Why by the sword man, by the sword! If ye’re telling the truth, which me very presence here declares a lie, surely God willna let me defeat ye. Sakes, if ye be telling the truth, I’m an impostor and lack the skill to defeat ye, for ye ha’ been telling everyone ye be the finest swordsman in the glens. What say ye to that?”
“I have no need to fight you,” Dalcross said. “This jury of sensible men will certainly find Sir Alex guilty of the murder, because he is guilty, and you—whoever you are—can have no affect on that outcome.” Turning to the jury, he said belligerently, “I trust that you have reached a verdict, have you not, lads?”
The jurors looked at one another, but before their spokesman could respond, the masked man at the rear of the room said quietly, “Afore ye declare your verdict, the lot o’ ye, I’d ha’ ye ken that there be a mob o’ folks outside who support Sir Alex. They be armed and ready to take matters into their own hands, knowing that any jury beholden to Francis Dalcross be most likely to produce whatever verdict he demands. They’ll no allow ye to proceed to a hanging on that verdict unless…”
When he paused dramatically, so quiet did it become in that room that one might have heard a mouse sneeze.
Belligerently, Dalcross snapped, “Unless what?”
“I’m offering ye a chance to make your case before the folks outside,” the masked man said. “This lot can join them there, and my lads will see fair play whilst ye and I let our swords speak for us. If ye win, I’ll let stand whatever verdict your jurors declare. If ye fail to win, Sir Alex goes free.”
Dalcross looked at the jury, the members of which were eyeing each other, showing no resolution one way or another.
“Aye then, I’ll fight you,” he declared angrily. “Fetch my sword, someone.”
“Nay,” Lucy cried, appearing suddenly in front of Claud and Catriona, who were observing the interesting activities in the courtroom from the lintel over the door into the little sitting room. “Where did he come from?”
Catriona smirked. “Ye think ye’re so smart, ye idle weed. I warrant ye want poor Alex Chisholm tae hang, thinking that if he does, I’ll ha’ failed.”
“Ye have failed, ye fliperous puffkin. Ye’re no fit tae be wi’ Claud, but the Host will look after ye well enough.”
“Is that why ye did this, Lucy?” Claud demanded. “Sakes, but ye must be the one that opened the door tae the tunnel so yon Dalcross would suspect Sir Alex!”
“Aye, I did that and more, and why not? If Sir Alex hangs, then she’ll ha’ failed even an she doesna see it yet, and if both men hang…”
“Then I’ll ha’ failed as well,” Maggie Malloch said, taking form beside Claud. “Is that what be at the root o’ this mischief, Lucy Fittletrot?”
Lucy did not speak but flitted away into the crowd of mortals.
As Francis gave the order to fetch his sword, Bab noted an odd, calculating look in his eyes, and as everyone else in the room turned excitedly to a neighbor to comment on the newest turn of events, she saw him stoop and reach into his boot. In a flash, he drew his dirk and leaped toward the still-shackled Alex.
Recognizing his intent, Bab threw herself forward, shrieking like a banshee as she thrust herself between them.
Francis’s dirk plunged toward her.
Staring into his eyes, terrified but determined, she believed for that single instant that Francis, rather than Alex, would be the last thing she saw in this life.
Dalcross’s furious gaze collided with hers, and in mid-arc, with a groan of frustration, he cast the dagger aside. Many hands grabbed him, pulling him away. Although his gaze remained riveted on her, she turned her back to make sure that Alex was unharmed.
He was gazing at her in stark horror.
“Seize him,” Dalcross bellowed, and Bab turned sharply to see him rip himself free of those who had grabbed him and point at the masked figure still standing patiently at the back of the room. “Seize the impostor!”
“So ye’re nobbut a timorsome hen-heart after all, a gutless, cringing feardie,” the latter said, his voice carrying, as he had before, despite the increased noise in the crowded room. “Dinna forget ye’ve an armed mob outside, hungering to riot.”
“I warrant that my men outnumber them,” Dalcross snapped, his cheeks reddening nearly to purple. “Still, I’ll meet you if only to unmask you and prove that you are not who you pretend to be. Then we’ll hang you alongside the Fox.”
“I want to see this,” Alex muttered.
Realizing that she was the only one who had heard him, because everyone else was crowding toward the exit, determined to witness whatever scene took place outside, Bab gestured to a nearby man-at-arms. Summoning her sternest tone of command, she said, “Escort Sir Alex outside at once. Indeed, if you have a key to those horrid fetters and manacles…”
He hesitated, looking around for the magistrate’s baillie, who was in the crowd pressing close behind Dalcross. Respectfully, the man-at-arms said, “I ha’ nae such key, my lady, even did I dare to unlock him.”
His willingness to help gave her hope that the tide of opinion had turned in Alex’s favor. But all depended on the man in the cloak, and since she had no notion who he could be, her hope was small.
As she turned to ask Alex if he knew the man, Chisholm and his lady joined them, and his lordship moved quickly to help the man-at-arms aid Alex. Between them, he was able to hobble to the doorway, but no one paid heed to Bab’s question. Following them, Bab felt a tug on her sleeve and turned back to find the magistrate holding out a key.
“You may unshackle his feet, my lady. I doubt that he will try to escape, and no one has a better right to witness the outcome of this little play.”
Snatching the key, Bab called to the others to stop and quickly bent to unlock the fetters. When she stood to undo the manacles, the magistrate said, “Nay, my lady, we’ll await the outcome afore taking that step, if you please.”
Grimacing, she met Alex’s gaze and then relaxed when she saw the twinkle in his eyes. They hurried out to the cobblestoned yard together, and to her surprise—for she had thought the impostor must have lied about the armed mob—she saw men with whom she had spoken over the past days, men who had insisted they dared interfere with nothing in which Francis Dalcross took a hand.
Two of them were standing together, sharing a dipper of water from the alehouse well, chatting as if they attended a fair. There were many others, too, nearly all of them armed, their weapons varying from pitchforks to swords, pikes, and axes. Many, however, still looked a bit fearful.
Bab could not blame them for their fear, because she had her own. Everyone knew that Francis Dalcross was the best swordsman in the Highlands save one, and she believed that one exception stood silently beside her. The impostor would soon be unmasked, and whoever he was, if he failed, she knew that Francis would make sure he paid the same high price that Alex would pay.
“Do you know who he is?” she murmured to Alex.
He shrugged, his gaze
fixed straight ahead where the crowd was forming a ring around Francis and the masked man. Spectators parted to make a path for him and for Bab, his parents, and the magistrate. When they reached the front, the swordsmen were facing each other.
Two of Dalcross’s men stepped forward threateningly, but the masked man held up his free hand, and they hesitated.
“We’ll have a fair fight, lads,” the masked man said gently.
They glanced as one at their master, who jerked a nod without taking his narrow-eyed gaze from his opponent.
Claud stood atop the well housing with Catriona, trying to watch every direction for Lucy, certain that she would attempt more mischief.
“I’ll not let her harm my lad, Claud,” Catriona said.
The men by the well had joined the crowd, and from her perch, Claud could see the two swordsmen eyeing each other.
There was no sign of Lucy Fittletrot.
As his searching gaze moved around the alehouse yard again, he noted in passing that the dipper rested in the bucket on the rim of the well and that the bucket was more than half full of water.
The two swordsmen circled warily, each measuring the other to judge his expertise. Their movements were graceful, but Bab saw that the masked man’s long cloak eddied around his legs as he moved. By contrast, Francis had removed the short black cloak he had worn while presenting his case and wore only his shirt, doublet, hose, and boots. Surely, the less restricted man would enjoy the advantage.
As the thought crossed her mind, the masked man shrugged his cloak back from his shoulders and said tauntingly, “Come at me then, Dalcross, if your coward’s feet will carry ye.”
Francis seemed to have lost his voice and his bluster, but at this taunt, he recovered swiftly and lunged.
