by April Hill
They dragged her across the still-wet grass to the bridge and across it, pounding on the heavy gates for admittance. A small window in the right side opened, and a moment later, the tall, timbered gates swung open just wide enough to permit their entry.
The castle's barren courtyard was unlike any other Kathy had ever seen. There was no sign of servants, or of the usual stream of local peasants and tenant farmers who normally came and went. She saw no women at all and very little activity of a domestic nature. There were three open fires, around which a number of rough-looking men had gathered. Most of the men were armed with broadsword and daggers, as if prepared for battle. All of them wore the same livery as her guards— red and black tunics or surcoats with a rampant mythical animal in the act of disemboweling a greatly smaller animal. Stored against the sunken enclosure's stone walls were lances and crossbows, maces, and other objects of battle, and here and there on the wall, pieces of armor and chain mail had been hung on pegs, apparently for ready access.
Upon closer examination, she saw that the hill upon which the castle stood was actually a large outcropping of stone, its sheer surface forming the western side of the courtyard. Carved into the hill, about ten feet up from the ground, she noticed a series of tiny, iron-barred windows—cells, she assumed— of a prison. Whatever expectations Kathy still held for a good outcome to the day began to fade rapidly.
In a desperate attempt to maintain her rather unconvincing disguise, she drew the tin cup from the deep pocket of her wet habit, and as she was pulled along, she shook it in the armed men's direction.
"Alms?" she suggested hopefully. "For the poor?" Some of the men scowled at her, or made the sort of rude gestures one wouldn't expect in the presence of a nun. None of the men appeared to be interested in making a charitable contribution.
Her captors dragged her across the courtyard and through another well-armored door. She was still chattering cheerfully, trying to persuade the two men that she was a simple holy sister while they forced her up a winding stone staircase that finally emptied into a large, dimly lit antechamber overlooking the courtyard. Finally, Kathy stopped talking and waited.
Some moments later, a door opened just above her, and steps sounded on the staircase that apparently led to the upper floors. The room's heavy door slammed open, striking the wall with a resounding boom that echoed loudly, and caused her to jump. Two men entered the room, and Kathy had to fight back her terror. It was the same pair she had first seen in the village and followed here on her donkey. And now, just inches in front of her, dressed in a black-floor-length robe that bore the same frightening insignia, was the hideously-scarred man from the tavern—The Voice of her memory.
As she stood, frozen with terror, the scarred man walked slowly around her, occasionally touching her, flicking rudely at the corners of her habit.
"And what have we here?" he demanded, sneering. "You were described to me by this pair of idiot guards as a nun. Yet, before me I see no true nun, but a filthy ragamuffin from the streets, in an ill-fitting costume no doubt pilfered from some true holy sister. The question, of course, is for what vile purpose would even such a foul, gutter-born creature as yourself risk her eternal, though worthless soul?"
Suddenly, as though struck by a new thought, The Voice turned to his companion from the tavern.
"Tell me, Osbert, does this disgusting creature not seem familiar to you?"
Osbert squinted through closely set eyes at her. "Aye, m'lord Grymwald, she does. It is the same rather threadbare nun that came into The Hanged Goat yesterday, in Thurlestone village? The way she carries herself, I believe, and the tilt of the nose, perhaps. Also, though I am loathe to consider this, she appears to be rather a buxom wench, beneath that habit, is she not?"
The man Katherine now knew as Grymwald looked at her again more carefully.
"Correct, Osbert! I knew I had laid eyes on her before now! Did the bitch who bore you give you a name, guttersnipe?"
Kathy thrust her cup forward. "I came only to beg your kind and merciful charity, my lord, for God's poorest, nothing more."
Grymwald laughed, but the laugh was without mirth, and merely darkened the jagged scars that formed a permanent evil smile on his lips.
"Ah! The filthy little ragamuffin thinks us fools. We shall have to disabuse her of that thought, shall we not, Osbert?"
Osbert nodded, smiling. "My lord, if I may be so bold to point out that this wanton creature has offended not only the King's excellent and just laws, but the laws of God Himself—by striding about in this unholy and blasphemous masquerade?"
Grymwald sighed and shook his head.
"Excellent point. We must summon the good Bishop, to ask his counsel on what should be done with the blasphemous wretch. Send two men to St. Cuthbert's Abbey immediately to bring him here. In the meanwhile, however, I believe our first duty is to divest this slut of the habit of holy orders she has so wrongfully taken up. And, as you have so astutely observed, Osbert, even these coarse, heavy robes cannot hide the unGodly and lustful body of the licentious strumpet that lurks beneath." He reached over and pulled at Kathy's veil. "Still, she appears young, and without evident disease. Mayhap she is new to her trade. Remove the veil and cowl, so that we may better see what manner of rat we have caught in our rat trap." He lifted the hem of the patched habit with one disdainful finger and then slid his fingers up Kathy's bare thigh.
"Take your hands off me, you misbegotten swine!" Kathy shouted, striking his hand and scratching his wrist with her ragged nails.
Grymwald drew his hand back and touched the wound with the tip of his tongue, savoring the blood. "The strumpet's arrogance is remarkable. She smells of the gutter, yet shows nothing but contempt for her betters." He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. "Still, I suspect that under those rags, she might prove a tasty morsel with which to entertain ourselves on a cold morning. It will be some time before the good Bishop arrives, and I see no point in wasting such a gift, if it is as delectable as it seems. A bath is in order, though, lest she offend the Bishop's nostrils, as well as our own." He shoved Kathy across the room to the two guards. "Undress her."
Kathy screamed as she felt rough hands pin her to the wall and begin to tear the habit from her body. "I will see you dead for this outrage, you pile of...!" A guard reached out and slapped her hard across the mouth before she could finish the sentiment.
Grymwald smiled, his torn lips curling over yellowed teeth. "Ah, the little whore has a hot temper. A very cold bath, then. When I next speak to the creature, I will have her free of vermin. When she's been scrubbed with a stiff brush until her skin is raw, and blue with cold, she'll beg for the warmth of my flesh. Now, strip the bitch!"
The first guard managed to wrest the veil off her head and began to pull the tightly fitted cowl down, freeing her hair. Suddenly, the mass of bright red waves cascaded across Katherine's shoulders and down her back. When the guard began to drag her away, Grymwald threw his hand up, and screamed with fury.
"Stop! Bring her to me!"
Katherine struggled until the two guards were forced to lift her off her feet and carry her by her upper arms to where he stood. With one hand, Grymwald tore out a large strand of her hair, and held it up to the light streaming in through the room's small windows.
"Tell me your name, bitch!" he roared. "And where you come from! Lie and I'll have your tongue ripped out by the roots!"
"My name is Edwina Williams," Kathy said quickly. "I live behind the stables in Thurlestone village. I am a poor girl, sire, with no family! I undertook to steal from the holy sisters because of my dire need, and no other reason. I have committed no other crime, I swear it!"
"You will be beaten for such a crime in the village," he smiled. "Stripped naked, tied to a post, and flogged until you scream for mercy—a mercy which will not be forthcoming. Do you understand that?"
She nodded, bowed her head and attempted a small curtsy. "I do, good sir, and deserve no less for my great sin. I beg you to deliver me
to the town fathers at once, to atone for my offense as harshly as they see fit."
Grymwald lifted her chin and looked into her face. "Tell me, strumpet, do you know an old Scotsman by the name of McGregor?"
Kathy shook her head. "No, sire. I know of no Scot in my village, or nearby."
"Do you know a place called Drumannach, not far from here? A ruined manor house?"
"No, sire."
Thoughtfully, Grymwald twisted the shining red strands of Katherine's hair between his fingers.
"And your name would not be Katherine Drummond, then?"
"No, sire. I know no one of that name. Edwina Williams, I am, of Thurlestone village."
He smiled. "Of course." He turned again to the guards. "Remove Mistress Williams' clothing."
Kathy resisted vigorously, which gained her nothing but a thorough drubbing. The guards beat her across her head and shoulders with heavy fists, pummeled to the floor, and then, with the evil laughter of the man she still knew only as The Voice ringing in her ears, every stitch of clothing she wore was torn from her body. Somewhere in the midst of the trouncing, having bitten one of her assailants hard enough to draw blood, she was struck hard enough to make her lose consciousness. The last thing she saw as she drifted into an almost comforting darkness was the smirking, victorious face of the man who she had come here to kill.
* * * * *
She woke slowly, with her head aching, and her vision bleary. With no idea of how long it had been since the beating, she could only guess the time by the single slender shaft of sunlight that came through a narrow aperture high in the wall. Afternoon?
There was no need to guess where she was, though. She was in a dungeon—spread-eagled on a rough stone bench or table, with her head secured in some way, and her wrists and ankles bound so tightly that she could barely move to relieve the wrenching pain in her back and her strained muscles.
The dim, stone-walled room was large and airless, and smelled of mold and something else Kathy preferred not to think about. Aside from the tiny slit in the wall somewhere above her head, the only light was provided by two lit torches. Both of the torches had been thrust into heavy iron sconces on the damp and dripping walls on either side of the stone bench. There was a heavy metallic odor in the room, and somewhere very near, a fire. She sensed, rather than heard, several other people in the room. From her position, flat on her back, she could tell little else about her surroundings, but one thing was abundantly clear. Her chances of a quick escape did not appear promising. In fact, the only positive thing she could see about her situation was that she was finally rid of the flea- infested nun's habit.
But Kathy's half-hearted efforts at bravery and humor in the face of danger were beginning to wear very thin. She was trembling with fear and colder that she could ever remember being before in her entire life. And then, she remembered a night when she had felt colder and more frightened—a night when she was five years old and first heard The Voice.
Suddenly, she felt a small movement of air on her hip, and knew that someone was standing beside the stone table. Before he even spoke, she knew it was The Voice. She flinched as he touched her thigh, and then realized that it wasn't his hand that she had felt on her, but the end of a small leather whip with which he had begun idly tracing patterns and circles on her body. Kathy shivered violently, fighting to control her revulsion— and her terror
"I'm afraid we've made you very uncomfortable, Mistress Drummond," he said, tapping the whip on her stomach. "Yes, my dear, there is no point lying any further. Two of my men witnessed your return to Drumannach, and your subsequent departure in the company of Duncan McGregor and the young man. Your husband, I presume, or lover? A pity, really, since I had hoped to take your maidenhead myself, but my physician tells me, after the very brief examination he was able to make while you slept, that you are, alas, no longer a virgin."
He laid the whip between her legs, and drew it slowly upward, until it touched her vulva lightly, and Kathy's entire body shook with disgust.
"You have a lovely body, Mistress Drummond. I won't call you Lady Drummond, since your lands will very shortly be my own." He drew the whip further up, along her abdomen, and then to just below her breasts. "Some mysterious benefactor or admirer has paid the taxes for these long years you've been away. I can only assume that benefactor to be my old friend, Duncan McGregor. Laird McGregor is a difficult man to kill, and since this will be my second and possibly final opportunity to do so, your arrival here will prove to be a great boon to me."
He ran the whip down her right flank. "Growing up in Scotland as you did, Mistress, with McGregor, and all those wonderful salmon to catch, I would guess that you appreciate the art of fishing? I have always found that the secret of successful fishing is in using the correct bait. In this instance, you will be the bait, of course. Not coincidentally, the only other time I came close to catching McGregor, the bait was also Drummond and also quite lovely."
He came closer, and stroked her face and hair with the edge of the whip. "Tell me, mistress, how much do you know of the lovely lady Margaret— your father's elder sister? She was Duncan McGregor's whore, you know, before they were betrothed. I wasn't thought good enough to kiss the fair Margaret's shoe, of course. My father had been ruined by that Plantagenet degenerate, Henry, leaving me without land or cattle or castle, or even a meaningful title! My own attentions to the lady were rejected as 'unnatural,' yet she was happy enough to take to her bed a ragged highland nobody like McGregor. And he with nothing to his name other than a decrepit castle in that backward country of his, populated by tribes of starving, half-naked savages bent on butchering one another!"
Katherine tried to listen, but understood very little of what he was saying. She remembered her father speaking of his older sister with sadness, but all she relay knew was that Margaret Drummond had died as a young woman, long before her father and mother had even met and married. The connection to Duncan seemed impossible. In all the years she had known him, he had never made mention of anyone called Margaret Drummond, and yet, there was something she only vaguely remembered—about a young woman he had loved, many years ago. The Voice leaned close, leering as he whispered in her ear.
"You and I are going to become as well-acquainted as the lovely Margaret and I did, shortly before her untimely and highly unpleasant death." He stroked the inside of Kathy's thigh, and pinched the flesh painfully. "She, too, attempted to fight me, you know—and lost." Insidiously, his fingers moved slowly upward, and then penetrated her roughly. When she winced in pain and tried to pull away, he dealt her flank a vicious blow with the whip and slapped her face hard.
"Be still!" he hissed. "Your enjoyment in this— or lack of it— is a matter of no consequence. If you continue to struggle, I will instruct that man there..." He pointed to a bald giant of a man, dressed in a sleeveless leather tunic, "to suspend you from that wall by your wrists and whip you until you have learned better manners. Soon, when I have tired of toying with you, I will fuck you, and allow Osbert to fuck you. And then, you will be given to the soldiers you saw outside in the courtyard. When they are done with you, a week or so from now, I doubt very much if your young lover will want you back. Now, let us see how I can entertain myself with those delightful breasts of yours. I believe a riding whip used vigorously across each of them should improve your demeanor. And then, perhaps, a second use of the whip, between your legs, on your tender cunt? After that, perhaps you will be ready for more adult pleasures."
Suddenly, Grymwald leaned down, took her nipple between his fingers and gave it a vicious twist. Kathy gritted her teeth, and groaned.
"If you are going to try to be brave, my dear, I shall simply have to try harder to hurt you!" He reached for her breast again, but suddenly stopped, his hand in mid-air. Slowly, he reached out to touch the small, oddly shaped scar beneath her breast.
* * * * *
When Katherine was four years old, she had been permitted an afternoon outing with the gamekeepe
r, in the company of his cheerful wife and their three plump children, with whom she often played. The object was the catching of several fat salmon for supper, and while Owens, the gamekeeper, undertook to catch the elusive salmon, the four children searched avidly among the rocks for frogs and salamanders, and tried their hand at fishing with sticks, strings and worms. The day was great fun, but ended on a sour note when Katherine and Owens' youngest boy went in wading, and Katherine contrived to entangle herself in a fishing line. A very large, barbed hook became ensnared in her bodice, penetrating the lightweight fabric and imbedding itself deeply in her flesh.
There was a good deal of blood, and a hurried trip back home, with Kathy protesting in righteous fury about the outing being cancelled over such an insignificant wound. Back at Drumannach, the victim was held down on a kitchen table, shrieking like a banshee, while the hook was removed and the jagged scar stitched up. She was left with a small, four-pronged scar just above her ribcage that she insisted looked like a dragonfly, in remembrance of the otherwise pleasant day at the river, where she had caught her very first fish.
Shaped roughly like a cross, the scar had been discovered by Stephen on the first "outing" of their own, as his fingers caressed her left breast for the first time.
"And what might this be?" he asked, lifting her breast to tenderly trace the scar's cruciform shape with one finger and then plant a soft kiss on it.
Kathy sat up quickly. "It's nothing but a childish wound, Stephen. I know it's ugly. Does it offend you?"
He laughed. "Offend me? Of course not, but if I am to be your champion, you must tell me who it was that so cruelly shot you, so I can avenge the wrong."
"I am hopelessly ugly, is that it?" she wailed. "Deformed!"
He answered by pushing her gently back on the hay, and taking her left nipple between his lips. "It makes you even more beautiful, darling." Then, lifting her right breast, he kissed beneath it, as well. "Now, if you just had a butterfly, on this side...."
