The Forest Laird(187)

I saw panic grow and blossom in his eyes as he struggled to put into words what should never have needed to be said. Finally, though, he found his voice, and for the next half-hour I lay and listened, appalled, to what he had to say.

“Everything’s gone to Hell, Jamie,” he began. “In the space o’ an hour, it a’ went bad … We went after the English, to keep an eye on whatever they might do wi’ Mirren, but we hadna been going for a quarter of an hour before one o’ Robertson’s bowmen found the body of wee Willie lying at the side of the road. It was an accident that he found it—he had moved off the road into the underbrush wi’ everybody else when word came back from the man in front that somebody was comin’, and he almost knelt on the wee boy before he saw him. There were no wounds on the body. Nothin’ to show what had killed him. He was just dead, and somebody had thrown him aside, into the bushes …”

I felt my heart threatening to burst, but I could neither move nor make a sound. But Ewan was far from finished.

“That was the start of it,” Ewan continued. “But once it had started, there was no stoppin’ it. I couldn’t even take time to bury the poor child, for fear I’d lose track o’ Mirren, so we set him aside and left him there until we could come back. When we reached Lanark, I left Robertson and his men to wait for me in the woods, and I went into the town to see what I could find out about the women. I went to the archers’ company attached to the garrison and spoke to the man in charge there. It was safe enough. None o’ the garrison archers would ha’e been out on the road that day.

“He was a Welshman, and I told him who I was, and that I’d served in Edward’s campaigns in England and France in the days before Edward became the King. His name was Gareth Owens, and we got along, and I fed him drink in a tavern later that night, then picked his brains on the sheriff and that knight called Redvers. I asked him what had happened to the women prisoners brought in that morning …”

There was roaring in my ears, and my head was still filled with images of the beautiful, laughing child who had been Will’s firstborn, but I could still hear Ewan talking, and later, when the pain and emptiness in my soul had receded for a while, I had no difficulty remembering what he had told me.

Owens had looked at him strangely when he asked about the women, and to disarm the fellow Ewan had chuckled lewdly and said he had seen them being brought in. Something in the look of the younger one, he told the man, had made him think she was a toothsome piece, even heavily pregnant as she was. She had roused his curiosity as well as his lust, and now he wanted to know if she would be held for long, or if he would be wasting his time lingering in town in hopes of seeing her when she was freed.

Owens sat staring at Ewan for long moments, as though trying to decide whether or not to believe what he had said, but then he twisted right around in his seat and called to a man sitting a few tables behind him.

“Sit ye down,” he said when the newcomer reached their table. “This man is Ewan Scrymgeour, one of us, though half Scotch, and an archer for years with Edward when he was still prince. Ewan, this is Dyllan. He is from south Wales and has never handled a bow in his life, and thanks be to God for that. The only thing this one is fit to handle is a ring of keys, but he handles those very well, don’t you, boyo? Dyllan is head jailer here, so he’s the one you need to talk with.” Ewan nodded a greeting at Dyllan, who was tall and cadaverously thin, with deep-set eyes over heavy, dark pouches. “Drink some beer with us, Dyllan. Ewan has some questions for you and talking is thirsty work.”

He waved an arm to one of the tavern wenches, signalling her to bring more beer, and when he turned back he found Dyllan staring at Ewan’s face.

“What happened to you?”

Ewan sniffed. “War club. A mace. At Lewes, against de Montfort and the barons. I was a boy, my bones still soft. Lucky, I was told.”

“Jesus,” the jailer said in a hushed voice, but then he fell silent as their fresh beer was brought to the table, and when the serving woman left he raised his pot in a silent salute and drank deeply, then belched appreciatively and sat back.

“What is it you want to know?” he asked. “Gareth’s not a man to waste another’s time, and if he says you’re good, then you’re good to me, so ask away.”

Ewan hesitated, seeking the best way to frame his question, but before he could speak at all, Gareth interjected. “There was two women taken in today, into your place. One of them was young, Ewan says, and comely. What can ye tell us about ’er?”