‘Unless they fought among themselves.’
‘I suppose so. Anyway, I think it’s clear enough that one man was killed in that yard, probably by beheading, possibly by a Lochaber axe and probably not by Riddoch himself, and his head put in a barrel of brine out of Mistress Riddoch’s brine-vat. I wonder who knew she had made brine that day?’
‘All the household, I suppose.’
‘Aye, but who else?’
‘And who sealed the barrel so expertly?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘That was done by a cooper — by a craftsman. Moreover, it is a noisy process. Riddoch showed me just now, and I have seen it before. It should have woken Mistress Riddoch, if not her man.’
‘She dreamed about the men working.’
‘You mean she may have heard the noise, but not woken?’
‘Aye. And when she did wake, she saw someone in black carrying something long and heavy towards the gate.’
‘And you think that is what we seek just now.’ Maistre Pierre gestured towards the spiralling crows.
‘It could be.’
‘Or it could be a dead sheep.’
‘We still have no name for him.’
‘Oh — and another thing I learned while you were making your notes. I remarked, as by chance you understand, that we were seeking the musician. I gave both his names, and Mistress Riddoch said, Oh, no, she had not seen Barty in the town for a week or two.’
‘So they did know a man with odd-coloured eyes. I rather thought so.’
‘She might not have been close enough to see his eyes,’ admitted the mason fairly, ‘but it is a very noticeable feature.’
‘If she knew him well enough to use his right name,’ said Gil, ‘she knew him enough to see the colour of his eyes. They are not good liars, either of them.’
‘Which makes it the more likely that they did not kill our man.’
‘True.’ Gil stopped talking while he persuaded his horse past a boulder which it seemed to find alarming. Once past, he continued, ‘I hope Andy has not carried out his threat to dismiss Billy.’
‘The carter, you mean? Indeed, yes. What did Riddoch say of him just now? He offered to keep watch so the other carters might go drinking,’ Maistre Pierre recalled, itemizing the points on one large hand, ‘he claimed to have seen only one man, improbably dressed for an evening’s thieving, running towards the gate, and he said nobody went near the carts.’
‘I wonder how much we can believe?’
‘You said yourself, Riddoch is a poor liar.’
‘I have no doubt he reported truthfully,’ agreed Gil, ‘but were the words he reported the truth?’
‘They corbies is fair noisy,’ commented Rob from behind them. Gil looked up, and checked his horse.
‘They are,’ he agreed. ‘There’s no doubt they’ve found something. Can you work out where it’s lying?’
The crows were circling above a stand of trees, off the track and up to their right, with much cawing and croaking, but after they had all studied the movement of the birds for a time Maistre Pierre said, ‘I think they come and go from behind that dyke yonder.’
‘And nane do ken that he lies there,’ said Gil. ‘I agree. If we stay a-horseback the birds won’t take fright, and we can keep the spot marked. Come on.’
‘Must we?’ muttered someone behind him.
Gil looked over his shoulder. ‘We’ll circle round,’ he said, ‘come down on it from upwind.’
This proved to be a necessary precaution. Even from upwind, the smell of death reached them several yards away.
‘Sweet St Giles,’ said Gil.
Luke gagged, and Rob said uneasily, ‘Likely it’s just a sheep, maister. Can we go now?’
‘Then sall erth of erth raise a foul stink. You can get back out of range,’ said Gil, wadding his handkerchief over his nose. The mason said nothing, but dismounted and gave his reins to Tam, who immediately led the animal away upwind. Two crows perched on the drystone wall watched with identical bright glares, and another flew up with something dangling from its long vicious beak as the two men approached across the rough grass of the field.
There was a ditch below the dyke, over which the grass grew long. The crows and other creatures had trampled a narrow path through it into the ditch; something pale could just be seen in the shadows, and the grasses themselves were spotted and specked with fragments, of flesh, of bristly skin. Gil pressed his handkerchief tighter against his nose, stepped forward and parted the grasses with his boot.
They looked in silence at what lay there.
‘Poor devil,’ said Gil after a moment.
‘How long, would you say?’ asked Maistre Pierre.
‘There’s been a fox at his legs, would you say, as well as the crows. Four or five days would be about right.’
‘He is well blown,’ agreed his companion, considering the bloated belly. ‘I think so too. That would account for the time the crows are said to have been here. Well, there is no more to be done.’ He backed away, and called over his shoulder, ‘We are both wrong, Rob. Neither a sheep nor a dead man, but a pig. A great boar, overturned in the ditch.’
They turned to tramp back across the rough grass to join the men. Rob said, ‘The burgh serjeant’s boar — ’
‘Maister Gil!’ said Tam urgently. ‘Look yonder!’ He gestured at the stand of trees where the crows were still circling and cawing.
Gil looked, and exclaimed sharply. He lunged forward to leap into his saddle, drawing his whinger as he found the stirrups, wheeling the horse about with his knees. His mount danced sideways, snorting, as the first of the men on foot reached them, and Gil was just in time to hack at the hand attempting to snatch his rein. The man fell back, shouting, but two more sprang past him, one armed with a sword, one with a cudgel, and joined in the fight.
Clashing metal behind him told Gil there were more attackers, but his attention was fully occupied. His horse, which was certainly not battle-trained, flattened its ears and plunged away from the swords. He collected it with seat and heels, managed to turn it, and charged down on the mêlée round Tam, who was already bleeding from a cut to the head. As Gil arrived he took another blow from the cudgel which made him cry out. Beyond him someone had fallen, and Luke and Rob were holding off another swordsman, who was leaping about their plunging horses slashing wildly with his blade.
‘Pierre! Over here!’ Gil shouted.
‘That’s them right enough!’ gasped one of the assailants. ‘Go for the packs, Willie.’ He ducked as Gil’s whinger whirred past his face, and two things happened almost simultaneously. Up the hillside from the direction they had come hurtled a low grey silent form which sprang at the man with the cudgel, knocked him over, and seized him by the throat; and as Gil struck away a blow aimed at the dog’s back a horn blew further up the hill, and four horsemen appeared round the curve of the track, approaching fast, light catching on their drawn swords.
‘Get the packs!’ shouted someone. ‘Cut the straps, Willie!’
‘No time!’ answered the man who was fending off Gil’s attack. ‘Get away! Save yersels!’
As the newcomers swept down towards them the attackers broke and ran in all directions, leaving three men lying in the grass. One was Tam, who had fallen off but had somehow kept hold of both sets of reins, one was the man who had gone down first and still lay unmoving, and the third was pinned down by a triumphant Socrates. The dog had a large paw planted firmly on the high leather collar of his captive’s jack. His entire set of white teeth was on display, and he was growling, very quietly, every time the man stirred.
‘Good dog!’ said Gil. ‘Leave. Leave it.’
Beyond them, Luke and Rob were grinning at each other, and Maistre Pierre, still afoot, was sheathing his weapon in a businesslike manner.