Chapter 5: The Shepherd's Confession
“My laird ” she began, her voice steady but low. “I have managed the flock for one summer. Since old man Tamer Hogg died The tallies from the years before… I don’t have them.or know them”
His fingers flexed against the table. A tiny movement. “Where are they?”
“Father Clement kept them. The old laird ordered it. The priest could read and write. We reported the counts to him . He marked them down.” She forced herself to hold his gaze. “He has the records.”
Aymen didn’t move. But something changed in the room, a subtle pressure drop like before a storm. Eadmund, by the window, let out a slow, almost silent breath. Aymen’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping once under clean-shaven skin. His eyes, sharp and watchful, seemed to look through her, calculating the implications of a priest hoarding the only written proof of his new estate’s wealth.
“He kept them,” Aymen repeated, the words flat.
“Yes.”
“And you. You know the flock. The land. The patterns.”
“I know what I’ve seen and what I’ve been told. Not what was written.”
He nodded, once. A decision reached somewhere behind those cold blue irises. He looked past her, to Eadmund. “Find him. Bring the books. Now.” the returned back to Euphemia
Eadmund didn’t bow. But gave a nod He just turned and left, his boots whispering on the rushes, blending into the shadows like smoke. Laird Aymen de Haye looked at Euphemia, giving her a curt dismissal with his hand, a flick of the wrist that sent her back into the misty morning.
She walked, the cold seeping through her kirtle. The meeting left a metallic taste in her mouth, like licking a rusty hinge. He’d gotten his answer about the tallies, and it had displeased him, but not surprised him. It was the priest’s secrecy that had sharpened his eyes.
She walked back to the sheep pen. The flock pressed against the hurdle fence, a restless, bleating mass. They’d eaten the clean stubble and now wanted the richer pickings in the fallow fields below. Their dense bodies radiated a stubborn warmth in the chill.
Euphemia unlatched the gate. She didn’t need to drive them. Tam led the way, trotting with purpose down the familiar track toward the patchwork of tenant fields. The others streamed after, a river of wool flowing around her legs.
She followed them down to the farmers’ fields, her stick tapping a rhythm on the hard ground. The mist was burning off, revealing the sad, wet green of the land. Her mind chewed over the lord’s cold efficiency, the silent fury behind his questions.
A cart rumbled past, its driver ignoring her. She focused on the sheep, on the simple truth of their movement from eaten ground to fresh. This was her language. Numbers, not letters. Living things, not symbols on parchment.
From the ridge above, she heard the distinct thock of an axe biting into wood. She looked up. Already, on the rise overlooking the high field, three men were wrestling a peeled log upright. Old Finn stood to the side, one hand on his bad back, the other pointing.
The watchtower. It was actually happening. The speed of it was a physical shock. He’d decided, and the world changed. She watched for a long minute, the sounds of construction a stark contrast to the silent calculations of the hall.
She moved the flock onto the MacGregor’s vacated strip. The work was automatic, her hands guiding, her eyes counting out of habit. The number felt fragile now, a temporary fact awaiting the priest’s hidden ledgers.
A shadow fell across her path. Her father leaned on the stone dyke, watching her. “Well?”
“He’s sending Eadmund for Clement’s books. He wasn’t… pleased.” She kept her voice low, though only the sheep could hear.
Angus spat into the dirt. “Clement’s been keeper of the tallies since before you were born. It was his power. It well be hard for him to give it up.”
“He’ll have to.” She thought of Eadmund’s quiet exit, the purpose in it. “They aren’t asking.”
Her father’s eyes, the same grey as the sky, held hers. “Aye. And when you take a man’s power, you’d best be ready for what he does to get it back.” He pushed off the dyke with a sigh. “Keep the flock clear of the Callahan land today. His sons are in a mood.”
He ambled away, leaving her with the sheep and the weight of his warning. The tower frame grew slowly against the sky. The sheep nibbled at frozen weeds. From the direction of the keep’s kennels, a chorus of high, desperate yips sliced through the air.
The whelps. They were still alive, for now. She tried to shut out the sound, focusing on the solid earth under her boots, the familiar stoop of her father’s back as he disappeared toward their croft. But the whines clung to the back of her neck, a reminder that every decision here had teeth.
Later, as the afternoon light began to fail, she saw the hunters return. Donnchad and the MacLarens crossed the lower field, their bows slung. They carried no carcasses this time. Their faces were grim, closed-off. One of them, the younger MacLaren, had a fresh, angry scratch down his forearm.
They’d been back to the woods. Hunting something else, or hunting for something. They didn’t look her way. They just walked toward the keep, their silence more telling than any boast.
She gathered the flock, turning them back toward the pen. The tower frame was a dark skeleton against a bloody sunset. It promised safety, visibility, order. As she latched the gate behind the last ewe, the distant whining from the kennels started up again, relentless and hungry.
She stood there, hand on the rough wood, caught between the rising frame and the captive cries. The old ways were being measured, logged, and dismantled. The new ones were being built from timber and leash. And she was right in the middle, just a woman who knew numbers, watching it all take shape.
And she was right in the middle, just a woman who knew numbers, watching it all take shape. The thought was a cold stone in her gut as she walked back to the croft. Mary had a broth simmering, the steam smelling of turnip and a single precious onion. “You’re quiet,” her mother said, stirring.
“They’re building the tower already.”
“That’s good.”
“aye
The sound of a disturbance carried from the keep’s direction—not a yell, but a sharp, collective murmur of voices, the kind that gathers when something unprecedented happens. Euphemia moved to the window, wiping a clear spot in the greasy hide. She saw a knot of people near the smithy, parting.
Eadmund walked through them, his pace deliberate. Beside him, robes swirling around his ankles, was Father Clement. The priest’s face was pale, his mouth a tight line. He was not being dragged, but he was most certainly not leading. Eadmund’s hand was resting lightly, almost politely, on the man’s elbow. It was a gesture of absolute control.
They disappeared into the shadow of the keep’s main door.
“God’s teeth,” Mary breathed, coming to look. “He’s fetching the priest like a misbehaving hound.”
“He’s fetching the tallies,” Euphemia corrected, her voice hollow. The cold stone in her gut sank deeper.
Inside the hall, the air was still. Aymen de Haye stood by the high table, a ledger before him. It was new, its vellum pages blank. He did not look up as the heavy door thudded shut behind the two men. The sound echoed in the rafters.
Eadmund released Clement’s elbow and stepped to the side, becoming a part of the room’s architecture again. Clement straightened his robes, his chin lifting. “My lord. You summoned me. I was preparing for Vespers.”
“This will not take long,” Aymen said, finally looking up. His blue eyes were like winter sky. “The sheep tallies. From the old laird’s time. You have them.”
It was not a question. Clement blinked. “I… keep certain parish records, yes. The spiritual welfare of the flock is my charge.”
“I am speaking of the four-legged flock, Father. The ones that grow wool and die in the wet rot. Their numbers. Where are the account books?”
The priest’s hands fidgeted within his wide sleeves. “Such temporal matters… the old laird wished them kept discreet. For the stability of the community. To avoid… envy.”
Aymen placed both palms flat on the table. He leaned forward, just a little. The movement was slow, predatory. “Discreet. You mean hidden. From me?” His voice dropped, soft and dangerous. “Is this the sin you and the old laird were up to? Cooking the books between prayer and penance?”
Clement’s pallor turned grey. “My lord, I must protest! That is a vile accusation. My work is the care of souls—”
“Your work,” Aymen interrupted, ” He pushed off from the table, walking around it until he stood directly before the trembling priest. “You have already confess your sin to the abbot at Kelso. In detail. But to be truly forgiven there must be redemption. So father you should have time to pray uninterfered with to God.So I will have a guard make sure your not interupted while you pray .
But your lordship I have duties to perform for God.
Aymer walked back to his desk.the parish priest will take over your duties so you have time to pray
Aymen’s voice was deceptive calm
Clement’s eyes darted to the shadowed corners of the hall, to Eadmund’s still form, anywhere but the lord’s relentless gaze. His throat worked, swallowing nothing. The sanctimonious veneer cracked, revealing the raw fear beneath. This was not a spiritual reckoning. This was an audit.
"My lord, I…" Clement stammered, his hands fluttering out before him. "There was a fire. In the sacristy, last winter. A terrible accident. The frost… the brazier…" He sucked in a shallow, whistling breath. "Everything was destroyed."
The silence that followed was absolute, thicker than the peat smoke clinging to the rafters. Aymen didn’t move. He simply stared, his blue eyes dissecting the priest’s face, weighing each twitch of his lip, each bead of sweat tracing a path through his stubble.
Eadmund, from his post by the door, let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. It was the sound of a man seeing a predictable, pathetic card played.