‘Bet you'd like’ – squeezing her breast – ‘me, how you did’ – puffing out his long moustache – ‘him, in your’ – twisting her nipple – ‘mouth’ – moaning.
‘Like in the fire ring?’ Bartok asked. He was at the hearth, supping ale. ‘Aye, sweet stuff, that was. Go on then, Cut-eye, give us a show.’
‘Better you knocks its teeth out first,’ Stick advised.
‘I said don't break the head,’ Bartok reminded. ‘It's wanted.’
The jerking into her stopped. Fingers touched her face, moved her chin. ‘It's a bit broke already,’ Cut-eye said. ‘Half her mouth don't shut.’
‘Then it can't bite,’ Stick said. ‘Go on, gives it some meat to chew on.’
‘Naw’ – the little man began thrusting again, faster – ‘this'll do it, this'll do it’ – but the idea was in his head, irresistible. Bartok called encouragement as he withdrew, shuffled on his knees, leggings round his ankles, up to Skaaha's side. ‘Pull her down a bit then,’ he panted. ‘She's too near the post.’
Stick obliged, grabbing her ankles while she thrashed again, yanking, pressing down to hold them as he watched, grinning, while Skaaha gagged, slavered, choked, accompanied by Cut-eye's grunts and moans and deeper, louder cries of ejaculation.
The rain was passing north. Soaked through, Ruan rode out of it just before rounding the bend on the hilltop above Kylerhea. The warmth of fire, dry clothes and hot food waited below, and Skaaha, and talk. Light lifted the sky. He slowed the horse to let it walk the slope, shook back his hood. There was no drift of smoke through the thatch of Erith's or any other house. He stopped the horse. The first thing Skaaha would have done was light a fire. Her horse was in the paddock next Lethra's house.
He scanned the village. In odd out-of-the-way spots, several small holes were dug. The wet cloak on his back clung tighter. Those puddled earth heaps were where the villagers had buried valued goods. Casting along the shore to the crossing jetty, he saw the boat, bumping level with it now the tide was up. A boat too big for one man to handle, it could carry half a dozen, less with goods.
25
Trying to calm the thunder of his heart, Ruan turned the horse, walked it back around the corner. Once out of sight of anyone below, he tied it loosely to a tree. Its presence would, at least, warn the homecoming Kylerheans if he did not return to release it first. He had no plan, other than to find out what awaited him below. Skaaha was fast, faster than outsiders. She might have run away. Smart, too, she may have bargained with them. Unless by accident, it was unlikely they would kill. He stilled his racing mind into the present moment. Pulling the sodden cloak to cover the yellow of his shirt, he climbed off the road into the scrub and began to make his way down the hill through the covering trees and shrubs.
‘Fire,’ Bartok said. Now the rain was off, he could get his coat dried out. ‘Fire, food, and more ale.’
Cut-eye scurried to the door then stopped. ‘Don't let Stick waste her,’ he said. ‘We could take her with us, all of a piece.’
Bartok glanced over at the girl, tied and crumpled next the post. ‘Aye, we could, for a bit.’ The left side of her face was bruised and swollen. On each breath, a bubble of spit blew and shrank from the corner of her drooping mouth. Body looked a bit battered, but it was the head he wanted nice. Time would fix that. They could all use a woman for a while yet. ‘Peat.’ He glared at Cut-eye. ‘I'll light the kindling.’
Cut-eye darted off outside. Bartok took the makings from the dry box next the hearth and struck the flint. There was shuffling from the girl. He looked round. Stick sat astride her body, playing the tip of his dagger round her bare breast.
‘I told you no,’ Bartok growled. ‘Stick her all you like, but not with that.’
‘Not killing,’ Stick muttered. ‘I just needs to see it bleed.’
The tinder flared. Bartok piled on chips of wood. Cut-eye was taking his time. He stood, walked over to look down on Stick's handiwork. In the girl's swollen face, a puffy red eye stared back. The tip of the blade circled her left breast, scoring it. Drops of blood oozed. Stick's free hand went to his crotch.
‘You're sick,’ Bartok said. Cut-eye had obviously found something else to dig up. He'd best go get the peat himself. As he left, Stick pocketed his blade, smeared blood on his hand and rubbed it on his swollen penis, groaning softly as he did.
Outside, Bartok walked to the peat stack at the side of the house. There was no sign of the little man. ‘You're asking for a slap, Cut-eye,’ he bellowed. For answer, the corner of his eye caught a yellow blur from behind the building, quickly followed by a crack he never heard. His unconscious body dropped on to the peat stack.
Inside, Stick scuffled with Skaaha's resistance, tearing away the remnant of her tattered dress as he turned her over. ‘Better you fights,’ he muttered. ‘I likes that. I likes that best.’
His grip round her gut was like a band of iron. His knees, between hers, spread her thighs, phallus poking the crack between her buttocks. She kicked out, tried to draw away, hanging on to the bedchamber post.
Outside, Ruan roped Bartok's wrists to his ankles. He couldn't easily carry this one to the forge. Dragging him would leave a track across the grass. On the cobbled path the noise might be heard. Grunts and scuffling came from inside the house. Ruan forced his breathing to stay deep and steady, to keep at bay the knots that tried to tie themselves in his inside. Rushing in, when he had no idea how many he'd face, would not help Skaaha – if she was even in there. Lacking a staff, he'd fetched a rod of iron from the forge, thrust Bartok's knife into his belt. The sling that downed the first two was useless as an indoor weapon. He yanked the tie tight.
Inside, Stick jerked his hips. Burning, hard and fierce, tore into Skaaha's backside. ‘Now you,’ Stick hissed, ‘gets it,’ as a howl issued, involuntary, from the girl's throat. ‘Now you’ – ramming in – ‘knows what’ – repeatedly – ‘you's for.’
Outside, the animalistic yowl ripped through Ruan's ears. He grabbed the bar of metal, ran for the roundhouse door. Let him not be too late. Bride, let her live, the words begged in his head. All he had, however many waited, was surprise and speed. Bursting through the doorway into the gloomy interior, the flickering flame in the hearth lit only one crouching, shadowy figure, back towards him. As its head turned, hearing feet, he saw the second body held in front. Ruan leapt, swung the iron bar. The man keeled over, writhing on the floor. The other body slumped, curled foetal. Ruan side-stepped as the man tried to rise, cracked the metal against his skull again.
Dropping to his knees, Ruan put his hand on Skahaa's back. Her skin flinched. He laid his forehead against the grime ground into her shoulders.
‘It's me,’ he said, ‘Ruan,’ slicing through the tie with Bartok's blade. Her head, against the post, was in shadow. ‘Skahaa’ – gritting his teeth – ‘tell me how many there are.’
Slowly, her arm extended from underneath. Painfully, she uncoiled her fist, showed him three fingers.
‘Three.’ Ruan let his breath out. Gently, heart burning with rage and grief at her broken face and body, he gathered her into his arms. ‘Then it's over.’
She was heavier in his arms than she'd ever been. The curtain from her chamber had gone. Carefully, he laid her down, checked her limbs, the bruising and swellings – all the time aware that the greatest hurt could not be seen.
‘Don't turn away,’ he said, cupping her head. She closed her eyes. Steeling himself to look at her battered face, he tracked her jaw-line with his thumbs. It was unhinged on the swollen side, not broken. ‘Sit up,’ he said to her shuttered face. ‘We can fix this.’ He took the remnant of cloth from her wrists, tore it, bound his thumbs. ‘It might hurt.’ Putting his padded thumbs in her mouth, he pressed down hard on her back teeth, felt the jaw pop into place, biting into him. Released, her mouth closed, head lowered, and she rolled over on to the bed, curled up, hugging herself.
Leaving her, he tied the man whose skull he'd cracked, dragged him o
utside, brought peats, built the fire, set a cauldron of water on the fire-dog spars. Then he carried Skaaha, silent and unresisting, to the sea. Sitting, chest deep in the waves, he bathed her bruised body and face, let the water wash her hair. Spiral scars scored one breast. Small crescent cuts bled in her palms, made by her own nails in clenched fists.
When the salt had done its work, he carried her back inside, laid her on sheepskins by the fire, washed her skin and hair with warm water, dried it and put her into bed. Again, she turned away, unable or unwilling to look at him or speak. He had no words now, and went outside, running back to the shore. Guilt hugged him like a shroud. Skaaha was here because of him. As if in mockery, the low afternoon sun cast a golden path across the water. Without stopping, he plunged back into the waves, cursing, slapping at the sea with his hands. When the tide reached his waist, he raised clenched fists, shaking them at the first pale stars, the rising moon, bellowing out his anguish to a disinterested sky.
Behind him, on the hill, hooves beat as the Ardvasar warriors rode down the slope, followed by the Glenelg school. Above them, the first Kylerheans rounded the corner, coming home.
Only the condition of the three outsiders saved them from the warriors. Bound by honour codes, unable to attack unarmed, constrained, unconscious bodies, they raged instead.
‘Let them loose,’ Fion roared at a sodden, dripping Ruan. ‘I'll feed them to the fish, gut first, piece by piece!’
‘Give them weapons,’ Jiya shrieked, ‘then go indoors!’
‘We'll deliver justice,’ Thum swore.
‘I want them,’ Eefay insisted. ‘They'll wish they'd not been born.’
Yona, shaken, stood side by side with the white-faced young druid, defending the indefensible until the law could take its course. Ard went straight to his daughter. Returning only moments later, he had to be restrained from tearing the intruders apart with his bare hands. Jiya couldn't look at Skaaha. Eefay tried to sit with her but had to leave, to move. Erith, struck silent, cleaned up her house around the broken girl then cleaned it again. Lethra wandered back and forth at the foot of the ridge, her old face haggard, wailing. Other women lamented with her. Inconceivable, this offence struck at them all. They wept and cursed wordlessly till it seemed the world went mad.
A new druid had come with them, sent by Suli to complete the Kylerhean cell. An older man, beard on to his chest, who would take Ruan's training to the next stage, he also insisted the law would operate. A court was called. Digging posts into the playing ground gave the men something to do. Warriors carted the outsiders to the stakes, roped them upright. Stick's head hung, still unconscious. The other two, floored by stones from Ruan's sling, came round. Bartok and Cut-eye, terrified, began protesting. They had just been passing, belonged on the mainland, had only meant to eat and sleep. Ard's claim that they'd robbed Kylerhea before was hurriedly denied.
‘So somebody has the same tattoo,’ Bartok blustered. ‘I never met him. Thieves got brands, hands missing.’
‘We didn't know it was stealing’ – Cut-eye's voice shook – ‘digging out that stuff.’ The boat loaded with Kylerhean goods was damning evidence of theft. ‘We thought it was a trash pit, stuff you didn't want.’
‘That girl came from nowhere.’ Bartok picked up the innocent plea. ‘She attacked us.’ Threats rose from the watching crowd encircling the court. ‘You can see the bruise on my arm,’ he protested, ‘the bite on Stick's hand.’
Vass, in charge of the captives, checked, nodded.
‘And she broke Cut-eye's head,’ Bartok elaborated.
‘Ow,’ the little man yelped as Vass looked for it. ‘Not that one. That was him,’ he nodded at Ruan, ‘and she got the back of my legs. Mad crazy, she was.’
Doubt rippled through the crowd. Skaaha was strong and fast. If she thought she disturbed robbers, there could be truth in the story. Her aunt had killed three of the last intruders.
‘We only tried to stop her,’ Bartok wheedled. ‘We're right sorry she got hurt.’
‘You used her,’ Ruan accused. ‘I saw him.’ He indicated Stick.
Bartok glanced sideways. The young man's head still drooped, saliva trickling. ‘We don't know what he was doing. We were outside.’
Stick groaned. His head rolled to the side. ‘You's a rat, Bartok,’ he muttered. His eyes, devoid of emotion, found Ruan. ‘We all fucks it,’ he drawled. ‘Him first.’ He nodded at Bartok. Grunting, he rested his head back against the post, still holding Ruan's gaze. ‘You asks Cut-eye what it eats.’ His mouth smiled. ‘I's the only one’ – he spat blood and saliva – ‘gets more'n you did.’
Bartok cursed him, screaming that they did nothing the girl didn't want, how she'd asked them to, went on about Beltane, how she was hungry now for other men and, name of Bride, they were only flesh and blood. Where was the harm in a bit of pleasure? Everybody knew the insatiable appetite of women. Any man would oblige. Ard already strode to the forge to fetch the tongs.
Skaaha lay, face to the wall, not responding to anyone, refusing food or drink as the village seethed and argued around her. Eefay came, and left. So, too, perhaps, did Jiya. Kaitlyn brought a fine wool shift to put on her. A new curtain screened her chamber. Sometimes she dragged herself to the pot Erith had left to save her visiting latrines. Yona put balm on her bruises and cuts. Ard, and others, raged outside. It meant nothing, none of it. Words rose and fell like tides against the house, meaningless.
Even the tortured screams of men, savage and high-pitched like crazed beasts, did nothing to shift the deadness, so deep it wasn't grief but the denial of living. Weeping, she heard weeping, and monumental moans that rose like walls before subsiding into bleating whimpers. The smell of the lit forge drifted to her, but no work was happening. Unnaturally quiet, mealtimes came and went. The warriors remained, like warrior ghosts. The village paused, waiting.
On the morning of the third day, Ruan came to her again. Kneeling by her bed, he offered water. ‘Please drink, Skaaha,’ he said. ‘There is something you must do. We can't let these men go till it's done.’
The puzzle of his words prompted her voice, a croak. ‘They're not dead?’
‘Worse than dead. They were punished according to the law. But you were wronged. The court must tell you its judgement before they can go.’ Silence filled the space he left. ‘You needn't see them. The priests will come to you, if that's easier.’
Skaaha's voice stuck in her throat. She turned in the bed, grabbed the cup of water, drank it down.
‘That won't be,’ she vowed. Pushing the covers aside, she rose and immediately toppled. Ruan caught her.
‘Careful,’ he said. ‘That knee's still swollen.’
‘Don't’ – she emphasized each word – ‘touch’ – avoiding his eyes – ‘me.’ He let go. She wavered, got her balance, limped to the door and out. A rush of light hit her, the sound of sea and birds.
On the playing field, the court awaited Ruan's return. No one expected Skaaha. When she appeared, hobbling over the grass, a frisson ran through the villagers, assembled again for the final act of this horrific affair. Those who were slow hurried back. All of them pocketed stones to see these men on their way in their emptied boat.
Eyes, Skaaha felt eyes on her every limping step of the way. Head bowed, she stared at the grass passing underfoot until she stopped in front of the druids. Ruan took his place next Yona. The new priest gave their judgement.
Lawbreakers were punished swiftly and released. It was the way of things. The law determined punishment to fit the crime, and prevent repetition. All three outsiders had dishonoured manhood, so it was removed by crushing their testicles. That painful castration caused the first screams she heard. Like geldings, they would never mate again or breed. With no certain evidence of previous theft, their foreheads had been branded. Further offences anywhere in druid lands would lose them each a hand. Bartok suffered first, and most. For his claims about Skaaha's willingness, Ard had torn out his tongue.
‘So he w
ill not speak of you again,’ the unfamiliar, bearded druid assured her. ‘If your honour is satisfied, justice is done.’
All she need do was nod or go, and it was over. A light breeze tugged her hair, played with the hem of her shift. White clouds streaked the sky over Alba's hills. Behind her, beasts lowed and bleated in their pens. But it was not her world. Not now. The sanctity of womanhood was a myth. Men could destroy it. All around, villagers strained to hear her response. Ard, her father, couldn't look at her. Nor did Lethra. The others did, even Ruan, but with sorrow in their eyes. Just as she stood apart from what was natural, so they were apart from her. She was a source of guilt, an object of their pity. Never mate again. Not one among them understood what had been done.
‘My honour,’ she said, ‘is not satisfied.’ The master druid leaned forward to pick up her words. ‘They hurt me,’ she stressed, ‘so they're mine.’
‘Any wrong that is not addressed will be righted,’ the priest advised, ‘within the law.’ His voice, a stranger's, was moderate, balanced. ‘Tell us.’
Steeling herself, Skaaha turned. The three men, their hands and feet tied, had been fed and watered, Bartok in the middle between the other two. They were tethered to the posts, the ropes round their chests loosed to let them lie to sleep. Raw brands burned on their foreheads. They still had pain, but that would pass. A sense of loathing filled her, so strong it made them difficult to look upon.
‘They are clothed,’ she said.
A lightness rippled through the crowd. The Glenelg women warriors, grouped behind the captives, were first to move. Happy to add humiliation to the men's distress, the young novices tore and cut off their clothes, issuing cheerful catcalls and disparaging lewd remarks as they did. Great play was made of the captives' bruised, empty scrotums. Insults hurled from the villagers targeted their shrivelled phalluses. When the fun was over, the new priest raised his hands. Silence fell.
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