Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (34 page)

Suddenly, the constable recoiled. . .and struck her! Her body flew to the side before he heard the delayed sound—the smack of Wotherspoon’s hand!

His own body moved without thought, shedding the tattered cloak he’d worn for disguise as he burst into the street. The roar he’d heard had come from his own mouth, he realized, when he was suddenly out of air. He thought only to get to Wotherspoon, to kill him with his bare hands, to feel the destruction as it happened.

A few steps more.

The crowd moved in around him, and he worried they might impede his progress. There were already women kneeling beside Scotia. He was grateful since he’d be unable to care for her until the offender was dead.

He reached for the man.

The bastard raised a pistol.

It made no difference. A bullet couldn’t stop him.

But the pistol pointed away. . .at Scotia’s limp body.

Ash stopped and bid the red haze to recede, to let him see clearly.

The bastard’s eyes dared him to move.

Distinct clicks. Four of them.

He knew without looking Wotherspoon’s henchmen were holding pistols on him, but he would not look away from the rabid dog. The one he would destroy. In time.

Wotherspoon’s face was mottled with color. His hat sat low on his brow. He had Ash off his property, and now in his custody, and yet the man did not seem pleased. Something was amiss, but Ash doubted it was anything in his favor. In fact, his senses warned him he was in real danger.

Wotherspoon shook his head and seemed to recover from a haze of his own. He closed his eyes for a moment. Then, after a deep breath, he opened them again.

“Come,” he said. “Yer just in time fer yer own trial, Ashmoore.” To the pistol bearers, he said, “Bring all but the egg-haired Viscount. Take that one back to the jail. Unless his king comes for ‘im, he’s not to be released. I shall deal with ‘im after.”

The constable then tucked his pistol behind him, then resumed his march to the kirk as if nothing at all had happened.

Ash was prodded to follow. He exchanged a quick glance with Stanley. Three armed men were leading his friend off in the opposite direction. It was Stanley whose assignment for the morning was to get Finn Balliol into his carriage and out of the constable’s reach. Once that was accomplished, Stanley would attempt to use his royal position to intimidate. Neither of which he could do from inside a cell.

Of course they would find a way to get the lad to safety, and there was every chance Stan’s position in British society would hold no sway whatsoever considering the constable’s obvious distain. But Ash had a new concern that sent a shiver up his spine like so much sweat dripping backward.

It seemed there was, indeed, a spy at Brigadunn.

Ash looked to his left and found Martin looking at him expectantly. “Find the spy.”

Martin nodded smartly, and after a brief glance at his sleeping sister, shouldered his way back into the crowd.

CHAPTER FORTY

Considering the crowd, or rather, the entire village in attendance, there was no choice but to hold the public trial in the church. With the current weather, it would prove unwise to hold it on a hillside. The only other option in the area was Brigadunn Hall, but that would have never been considered. Once on his own land, Ash would be the highest authority. In town, just beyond Ash’s property, Wotherspoon ruled in most matters unless the District Sheriff was available. There was no bailiff, and Ash had been led to believe that the sheriff only came around once or twice a year, for Brigadunn was located far from the heart of the largest district in Scotland. And that district included much of the rather difficult-to-navigate Highlands.

With the darkness outside and the dimness of rush lights, the figures depicted in the stained glass windows appeared menacing. The shadows in the recesses of the chancel, behind the lattice, jumped and moved with the candlelight like a collection of unworldly beasts waiting to be unleashed as soon as someone was pronounced guilty.

For the moment, Ash was contained rather effectively on the second pew with two men wedged next to him on both sides. Three of the constable’s men sat behind him, and another three on the front row. If he tried to jump over the bench, he’d have to jump high enough to clear the tallest man. So it appeared he was going to be tried after all. At least it was gratifying to know the constable considered it necessary to assign ten men to control him alone.

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.