Ravenheart (19 page)

Galliott the Borderer would describe himself a pragmatic man. He had no ideology, though he voiced with apparent passion the prevailing political view of Varlish superiority, and no religious beliefs, though he attended church every week, sang in the choir, and held the position of honorary deacon. Galliott’s belief system, if such it could be called, was based on the maintenance of the status quo: everything—and everyone—in its place. When people obeyed the Moidart’s laws, society ran smoothly. When society ran smoothly, Galliott’s job was easy, his life content. Principles of right and wrong played little part in Galliott’s thinking, except that what was right maintained the balance, allowing society to function in the
time-honored fashion, and what was wrong caused dissent, confusion, and anarchy.

In short, Galliott was a political animal. When faced with small evils, he would consider “the larger picture.” This view he was now struggling to maintain.

As he stood in the lantern light looking down on the corpse of Chara Ward, he was not content. Not only because a girl was dead but because her death would—unless he acted with great care and skill—cause grave complications both to society and to his own well-being.

The apothecary Ramus was kneeling on one side of the corpse, Captain Mulgrave on the other. The rope was still about Chara Ward’s neck, and her face was mottled and dark, her mouth and eyes open. When she had been discovered hanging from a high limb, Galliott had been irritated. Questions would have to be asked, forms filled in. Why was the wood not patrolled? Why had his men not seen her entering the area? At least, however, the case had been complete in itself. A young girl, obviously deranged, had come into the woods with a rope and hanged herself. The case would have been put to rest within a day or so.

Not so now, thanks to the interfering little apothecary. The officer Mulgrave glanced back to where crowds had gathered beyond the roped-off area. “Move those people back, if you would, Captain,” he asked Galliott. The Borderer summoned several soldiers and relayed the orders to them. The crowds were pushed back, many of them grumbling.

Ramus was examining the dead girl’s hands now, while Mulgrave held a lantern close. Chara Ward had been a pretty girl, bright and vivacious. Now she was a problem. Galliott moved in closer to the two men. “There is no evidence that she did not climb the tree and throw herself off,” said Galliott. “Can you be sure, Apothecary?”

The little apothecary turned the dead girl’s hand, showing the palm to Galliott. “The bole of the tree is covered in moss and fungi. The outer bark is rotten. There are no marks upon
her palms, and if you examine the trunk of the tree, you will see no scuffing.”

Ramus noticed that the girl’s eyes were still open, and he closed them gently. “Your eyes are better than mine, Captain,” he said to Mulgrave. “Take a look at her fingernails. What do you see?”

Mulgrave took the girl’s hand and leaned in close. “I think it is blood,” he said.

“I concur. I believe she scratched her assailant—or assailants.”

Ramus transferred his attention to the lower part of the body, lifting the heavy skirt.

“What on earth do you think you are doing?” asked Galliott. Ramus ignored him and drew back the garment. Galliott turned his back on the scene, ordering his soldiers to do likewise. Had he been alone with Ramus, he would have stopped him forcibly.

Unfortunately, as the officer in charge of security, Mulgrave was the ranking soldier, and he seemed content to acquiesce in this disgusting examination.

“You may turn back now, Captain,” said Ramus. “The investigation is complete.”

“And what did you discover, pray?” asked Galliott, struggling to keep the anger from his voice.

“Either the girl was a virgin before the attack or a sharp implement has been used on her. I would guess the former, since there is very little blood. She was raped before being murdered.”

“I agree,” said Mulgrave, rising from beside the body. “There are deep foot marks beneath the limb. After the rape she was strangled before being hanged from the bough.”

“How do you arrive at such a conclusion?” asked Galliott. “Why would she have been strangled first?”

Mulgrave moved away from the body. “I think it unlikely that rapists would have come ready with a rope. My guess would be that she fought for her honor and was then killed. The killer—or killers—realizing what they had done, set out
to disguise their deed. They fetched a rope and strung her body up, making it appear to be suicide.”

“You keep saying ‘they,’ Captain Mulgrave.”

“She was tall and not unduly slender. I think a single man would have experienced difficulty hauling up her body and then tying the rope to the trunk.”

“No witnesses have come forward,” said Galliott, “and the ground around the body has now been churned. It will be difficult to identify the culprits.”

“Witnesses
will
be found,” said Mulgrave. “Someone carried a rope from the Five Fields and entered the wood. Others will have seen that. Added to which there is blood under four of her fingernails. At least one of the men is carrying her mark, probably on his face or neck.”

Galliott felt his belly tighten. “I shall order my men to begin inquiries tomorrow,” he said.

“Tonight, Captain Galliott, while the crowds are still gathered. The main questions to be asked are: Did anyone see Chara Ward enter the woods, and did anyone see men carrying ropes toward the trees?”

“It will be as you order, Captain Mulgrave. My thanks for your assistance in this matter. You too, Apothecary.”

Galliott walked away, his mind racing. Mulgrave was right. Someone would have seen men with a rope. He took a deep breath. Only an hour earlier he himself had seen Sergeant Bindoe with deep scratches on his face. Bindoe maintained that they had come from a highland woman who had entered the Varlish area and refused to be escorted quietly back. Even without that damning evidence everything about the crime pointed to Bindoe. Twice before he had been accused of rapes against highland women, and twice Galliott had found ways of saving him. Not for his sake but for the honor of the Beetleback regiment.

If Bindoe was found guilty of this crime, it would throw a harsh light on previous accusations. That light could prove embarrassing to Galliott himself, perhaps resulting in his dismissal. Or worse.

Galliott weighed these thoughts in his mind as he left the woods. The girl was dead, which was a tragedy, but nothing would bring her back. Equally, nothing would be achieved if a fine officer like himself was made a scapegoat for a piece of filth like Bindoe.

I should have rid myself of him long ago, he thought. Galliott would have, except for the fact that Bindoe was an expert tracker and a fine fighting man. He was also, within his dark limitations, loyal to Galliott and the regiment.

As the Borderer walked down the short slope to where the crowds were still gathering, he spotted Sergeant Packard, an eight-year veteran and a friend of Bindoe’s. Galliott called him over.

Swiftly he relayed the orders given by Mulgrave to question the crowd. “We will need all the men we have here, and any others not on watch should be sent for,” he said. “After the debacle of the fight tourney there may be unrest later.”

“Yes, sir.”

Galliott paused, aware that he needed to choose his words with care. “Sergeant Bindoe did ask me for compassionate leave earlier. One of his relatives has taken sick in Scardyke. Find him and tell him he can leave immediately.”

“I believe he has already gone back to the barracks, sir,” said Packard. “He was injured by a highland woman earlier.”

“I see,” said Galliott. “Well, give out the orders first, then relay my message to Sergeant Bindoe.”

“Yes, sir. What happened up there, sir?”

“That has still to be ascertained. We’ll know more by morning.”

Satisfied that he had done all he could to rectify and restore the situation, Galliott proceeded across the field to the main feasting pits. His wife, Morain, was in charge of the roasting, and she was a fine cook, probably the best in Eldacre.

As he walked through the throng, many people spoke to him, prominent citizens and merchants and even two members of the Sacrifice clergy. All wanted to know the circumstances of the girl’s death. Galliott assumed the expected
expression of grave concern and answered them with reassuring banalities: The situation was under control, the investigation was proceeding, his men were even now questioning possible witnesses.

“Could it have been highlanders?” asked the bishop.

Would that it could, thought Galliott. It would muddy the proceedings wonderfully. Unfortunately, the area leading into the woods was entirely within the Varlish field. He pondered the possibility of several highlanders climbing over the patrolled fence on the far side of Five Fields and making their way through to the Varlish area unnoticed. At another time it might have been expedient to let this theory fly for a while, but not today. The Gorain-Grymauch fight had left a bad feeling in the air, and it would not take much for a riot to ensue. Such a disturbance would reflect badly on Galliott’s ability to control the crowd.

Aware that others were waiting for his answer, Galliott raised his voice. “No highlanders were involved,” he said. “It is possible that the young woman took her own life. If not, then her assailants were certainly Varlish.”

“Incredible,” muttered the bishop.

“Indeed so, my lord. I am heartsick at the possibility. But be assured I shall not rest until this matter is resolved. If the girl was killed, we will hunt down her killers and make them pay.”

Galliott bowed and moved on.

Despite being an animal, Bindoe was no fool. The message to take compassionate leave would be understood. He would flee the country. Then this whole sorry mess could be allowed to fade away.

The smell of prime beef wafted to his nostrils.

As he approached the roasting pit, he saw Morain coming toward him, holding a platter of meat, gravy, and freshly baked bread. He smiled at her.

“Was it that strumpet Chara Ward, as people are saying?” Morain’s pinched face was set in a stern expression of disapproval.

Reaching out, Galliott stroked his wife’s dark, graying hair. “Aye, it was.”

“Serves her right for taking up with highland scum. Women with no sense of morality always come to a bad end.”

“Indeed they do, my dove,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

She was a good wife, he thought. The best.

Kaelin Ring was numb with shock and grief. The moment Chain Shada had spoken of a dead girl, he had known with terrible certainty her identity. Even so he had allowed himself to hope that it was not Chara Ward. That hope had been short-lived.

Aunt Maev had urged him to return home with her and Jaim and Banny, but he had refused. Taybard Jaekel was sitting on the ground close by, his head in his hands. Kaelin approached him and squatted down. “It’s not your fault,” he said.

Taybard’s shoulders sagged, and when he looked up, Kaelin saw that his eyes were wet with tears. “It
is
my fault. She walked through with me. I let Bindoe lead her away. I loved her, Kaelin. And I let her down.”

“We both let her down, Tay,” Kaelin said softly.

“How did she die?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t believe this. It’s like the worst of dreams.” Taybard Jaekel pushed himself to his feet. “I can’t stay here. I need to be alone. Look at me. I’m weeping like a child.” He walked off toward Old Hills, and Kaelin was left alone to deal with his own roiling guilt-filled thoughts. He should have found her. He should have waited by the entrance after Bindoe had forced her to pass through the Varlish entrance.

Bindoe.

The man’s hatchet face appeared in his mind. Twice now Bindoe had been cleared of attacks on women. And Taybard Jaekel had seen him walking away with Chara Ward. Anger
touched the young Rigante, deep and burning, tearing at his heart with talons of fire.

He was leaning on the separation fence, watching the woods, when he saw the white-haired officer Mulgrave walking down the slope. The apothecary Ramus was with him. Behind them came a stretcher party. Kaelin watched as the stretcher came into view. A blanket had been hastily thrown over the body, but a section of Chara’s heavy skirt was hanging free. Kaelin felt a terrible tightness in his stomach, but the shock was still heavy upon him, and he had not yet had time to register his grief. He called out: “Captain Mulgrave! Captain Mulgrave!” The officer turned, saw him, and walked across to where he stood.

“What can I do for you, young man?”

“We met at Old Hills. Your master saved me from a beating.”

“Ah, yes, I remember. Kaelin, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Chara is … was … my friend. How did she die?”

“Did you see her today?”

“Yes. We came to the feast together, but she was not allowed to walk through to the clan area. She had to register first as a Varlish. She was to meet us later.”

“I am sorry, Kaelin. She was murdered. We are looking for her assailants.”

“You think to find them?”

“One of them at least was badly scratched—probably on the face. I think we will locate him. He will then tell us the names of his associates.”

Kaelin pondered this for a moment. “Do you know Sergeant Bindoe?” he asked.

“I have heard the name,” answered Mulgrave, his voice suddenly noncommittal.

“He was seen taking Chara away from the crowd.”

“I see. Where did you come by this information?”

“A Varlish named Taybard Jaekel told me. He was one of the boys I was fighting when you helped me. He was in love with Chara.”

“I will look into what you say.”

“Aye, but will there be justice?” said Kaelin, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

“Why should there not be?” countered Mulgrave.

“She was ‘kilted Varlish.’ Her family is poor, and she was seen walking with a highlander. Justice doesn’t visit such people. Bindoe has twice raped highland women. Both times he has been declared innocent. I have no great expectation that this time will be any different.”