by Barbara Bard
“Gavin is askin’ at the village now,” he replied, his fascinated stare not leaving the corpse. “When dae ye think she died?”
Greer shrugged, pushing his rage to the back of his mind. “I dinnae. Late last evening I’m guessin’. She must be dead, eight, ten hours now.”
“Poor lass.” Jared sighed, rubbing his head. “She were a bonny thing.”
“Aye.” Greer held his hand up in invitation for Jared to help him from the ravine. Seizing his wrist, Jared pulled him up until he stood on the edge, gazing back down at what was left of her.
“How many dae this make them now, Jared?” he asked. “A dozen? More?”
“Thirteen, tae be exact.” Jared replied, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Sure would like tae get my hands on the bugger who is doing this.”
“I get him first.”
At the sound of a horse snorting, Greer and Jared, as well as the other clansmen, turned to find Greer’s cousin, Gavin, and a band of villagers approaching at a walk. Two were on horseback, the rest on foot, and one of them a stout woman with a woolen scarf over her hair. Tears tracked down her cheeks, and fear filled her plump, pale face.
“Laird,” Greer breathed, tilting his head toward Jared. “I’ll wager that must be the lass’ mother.”
“I nae take that wager.”
Gavin offered Greer a half-salute as he dismounted, gesturing toward the other man on the horse.
“Greer, this is the village headman, Huston. Huston, Greer MacEilish, heir to the Laird MacEilish.”
Huston slid down from the saddle, and bowed.
“Laird. I thank ye fer being here, and findin’ the body. We dae hope and pray it nae be one of ours, but we hae a lass missin’.”
Greer glanced as the woman approached, then stepped in her way. “Ye sure ye want tae look? If that is yer lass, ye ne’er want tae be reminded that this will be yer last look on her.”
The woman, perhaps in her late thirties, gazed up at him. “I must look, Laird,” she whispered, “If it is my lass, I demand ye hunt down the beast that did this.”
“I swear it.”
The woman passed him by, and Greer turned to follow her, concerned for what her reaction might be. She stared down in the ravine, her skin drained of all color. Her mouth opened, her trembling hand rose to her lips as she stared down at the horror below.
“Maisy,” she whispered.
Before Greer could catch her, she collapsed into a dead faint, crumpling at his feet. His rage rising again, Greer picked her up in his arms and carried her to the villagers.
“Take her home,” he gritted. “She should hae never seen this.”
As the men took the grieving mother from him, Greer glared at Huston.
“She is your lass. When did she gae missin’?”
“She went tae the next village over,” Huston replied. “Was supposed tae return by dark, we all ken about the killer stalkin’ the moors by night. But she ne’er come home. We dinnae dare gae look, nae in the dark.”
Greer stared down at the body. “He tortured her.”
Then he gazed out over the moors. “Too far away tae hear her screams. He planned this well, he did.”
“Just like all the others,” Jared added. “Stalks them like deer, then cuts them up, and vanishes in the night.”
From his belt pouch, Greer pulled out some silver coins. He pressed them into the headman’s hand. “Fer her funeral and her family.”
Huston bowed. “We thank ye, my Laird.”
Greer nodded, then, with Jared at his side, strode back to where the horses grazed. Pulling his mount’s head from the lush green, he vaulted into his saddle. Reining around, he nudged the tall, stocky bay into a fast canter, heading south toward the border with England. The spring wind in his shaggy red hair cooled some of his rage, yet it continued to burn deep within him.
“What are ye doin’, Greer?” Jared asked, cantering alongside him. “Home is the other way.”
“I just wish tae hae a look,” Greer replied, “get a feel fer who did this.”
“Ye expect the sidhe tae tell ye?” Jared snorted with a faint grin. “They dinnae cross intae England, ye ken.”
Greer flushed, his own sheepish grin emerging. “I just ken that it is an Englishman who is killin’ these lasses, Jared,” he said. “My gut says sae.”
“Ask yer gut tae tell ye who ‘tis, then we hang the bugger.”
“My da claims it be highwaymen and robbers who be doin’ this,” Greer went on, ignoring Jared’s request. “But the lasses are never raped, just murdered. That points tae a single man, nae a band o’ them.”
Jared nodded thoughtfully, shifting in his saddle. “A single Sassenach who preys on young Scots lasses. He would be easy tae find, Greer. Only every man in England hates us Scots.”
“Sae we are lookin’ fer a sick bastard who preys on Scots women,” Greer said. “But nae just any Sassenach can cross the border, and scoot back in a night. He must be close by.”
“He has a horse.”
“And his comings and goings are ne’er questioned.”
Jared eyed him sidelong. “That could be anyone from a merchant tae a nobleman.”
“Aye.”
“That is a long list. Greer, how do ye plan tae find this murderer? Question every man who hae a horse and freedom o’ nights?”
Greer shook his head. “I’m workin’ on it, Jared. Thirteen women slaughtered like spring lambs isn’t just a small happening. This bastard means business, and he won’t stop till we kill him.”
Crossing the rolling moors, Greer and his companions rode for about ten miles, passing the border, and halting for a brief break near a small streamlet to water and rest the horses, taking time to munch strips of dried meat from their saddlebags. Leaving his clansmen to sit, eating and talking, Greer walked to the top of a nearby hill. As usual, Jared went with him, the two as nearly inseparable as twin brothers.
Squatting on the hill’s summit to not be seen as easily, Greer and Jared gazed south, into the lands of the Earl of Primshire. Greer rubbed the scar that ran from his left cheek to his jaw, a gift from a Sassenach dagger during a raid. Misty grey with distance, a castle loomed on the horizon, built atop a rocky pinnacle ages ago.
“Ye see that?” he asked Jared, gesturing.
“I do.”
“A man livin’ here can easily ride intae Scotland and do his killin’, then ride back.” Greer tried to recall all the locations where all the women had been slaughtered, and estimated every one of them were within a few hours riding distance of this castle. “How many villages are around here, towns large enough that a killer might come and go as he pleases?”
Jared sucked in his breath. “Only small villages with poor peasants be anywhere between here and the region the lasses be slain.”
“Aye.”
“Ye be thinkin’ our killer is there?”
“I do.”
At last, Jared nodded. “I agree. That is a place tae hold a murderer, he can ride tae Scotland and be back within a night.”
“The Earl be a rabid hater of Scots,” Greer added. “And he has a reputation for enjoying the kill.”
“Ye think he be our killer?”
“I dinnae. But I aim tae find out. We make camp a wee bit closer tae the castle and watch fer a day or two.”
***
Upon finding a spot in a tiny valley between three hills, Greer’s clansmen picketed the horses where they could graze. A small spring nearby provided water, and the top of the hill gave Greer a clear view of the Primshire Castle. Lying on his belly, hidden behind thickets, he watched the ordinary activity of a Sassenach castle. Which wasn’t truly different than a Scottish one.
Men-at-arms guarded the high stone walls, and gazed out over the rolling moors to watch for impending trouble. Sheep and cattle, as well as horses, grazed in the pastures, Greer finding plenty of holes in the castle’s protection of them. He knew he could raid the place, and run off with the herds
and flocks with ease.
“Maybe we should take a few o’ the Earl’s cattle when we depart, eh?” Jared suggested, rubbing his hands with glee.
“Aye,” Greer replied thoughtfully, tracing his scar with his thumb, his green eyes watching the men-at-arms practice their swordplay outside the bailey, servants coming and going while peasants trudged between the castle and the nearby village. “And his horses.”
Behind the low, misty clouds, the sun sank into the west. The peasants returned home to their huts, the men-at-arms sheathed their swords and vanished into the bailey, the servants dispersed. Neither Greer nor Jared saw any sign of the Earl as darkness fell. In the east, the moon rose golden and full, promising some light to see by.
Retreating down the hill where his men had built a small fire, Greer sat beside it as Gavin handed him a chunk of oatbread, hard cheese and cold roasted lamb. Nodding his thanks, he devoured the food, washing it down with a cup of crystal clear water from the spring.
“We set a watch on the castle,” he said, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. “Our killer may gae huntin’ again this night.”
“I will take the first watch,” Gavin said, rising.
“Good lad.”
Gavin vanished into darkness beyond the light of the fire, and Greer heard his steps climb the hill until they disappeared under the sound of the night wind over the heather. Once their meal was over, and with no need for its warmth, Greer kicked dirt over the fire, quenching it. If indeed their killer rode forth, he wanted no light that might be seen from a distance, even if their spot was well hidden from view.
Just as Greer considered rolling himself up into his blankets to sleep, Gavin raced back down the hill, breathless with news.
“Greer,” he hissed, his voice low. “Someone is approachin’ from the castle. And he is carryin’ a body.”
Chapter 3
Thomas, the unsmiling butler, loomed over Myra. “I need you to carry this note to your mistress,” he intoned in a dead voice, his nearly dead eyes gazing myopically down at her. “I believe she is currently in her quarters.”
Myra bobbed a quick curtesy, forcing her expression to maintain its ordinary, respectful mien when she wanted to grin. “I will, sir.”
He pressed a small piece of paper into the palm of her hand. “Go, child.”
Lilibet had taught her to read and write, but Myra had too much respect for her guardian to sneak a peek at what Thomas had written to her. Maybe it’s an invitation to a tryst on the moors. She giggled to herself at the thought of old Thomas on a tryst, even if Lilibet was yet attractive and young enough for such.
The head housekeeper’s spacious quarters, where Myra herself had lived from age four until nine when she began working as a servant in the Primshire household, lay on the far side of the keep. The most direct route to them was past the huge, hot kitchen and out a door that led into a central courtyard, open to the sky. Once through that, another postern door gave way to the grand hall where the current lord held court. From there, Myra would leave that chamber and climb the steps to Lilibet’s rooms.
A quiet girl by habit, Myra opened the door into the courtyard, and closed it behind her silently. The place was like a small garden with rose bushes and small groves of trees, a few shrubs lined the walls. Stepping lightly through without thought save what Thomas might be planning with Lilibet, she started across the courtyard, a mere shadow among the trees.
A strange noise struck her, halting her in her tracks. Her head cocked, not frightened, Myra listened closely, half thinking she heard one of the castle’s cats chasing a rodent. It came again – a moan. From a human throat. Is someone hurt? Could a guard have fallen from the rampart? Though she considered that idea unlikely, she thought perhaps she should investigate. Just in case someone did indeed need help.
Keeping to the shadows, the moonlight just barely edging over the top of the courtyard, Myra crept toward the moaning, the sound coming faster, quicker. Another noise mingled with the first, a low pitched groaning coupled with the sound of flesh striking flesh. Her heart now in her throat, growing scared yet far too curious to stop, Myra peered around the trunk of a tree.
A gasp shot from her mouth before she could stop it.
Lord Primshire, his trousers around his ankles, moved his bare hips back and forth against the Duchess of Greenbriar’s also naked lower body. She leaned her hands against the stone wall of the castle, her face thrown back over her shoulder at the Earl, her mouth open in a wide O as he seemingly pumped himself against her bottom. It was she who moaned like an animal as the Lord’s hands held her by the hips, his own low, thick groans emerging from his throat.
Myra covered her mouth with her fingers to prevent any noise from escaping, but it was too late. Her gasp of shock at the sight of the Earl committing strange act on the Duchess had been heard by them both. The Duchess gave a small shriek and straightened up, the Earl’s thing pulling from her. He himself turned his head, and saw Myra in the shadows. The moonlight clearly showed her his lowered brows, shadowed eyes, his lips thinned in his rage.
Frozen in terror, Myra hesitated, wondering what to do as the Lord yanked his britches up and strode toward her. Knowing it was too late to run, Myra whirled and tried it anyway. Running fast toward the far door that she should have long since passed through and been gone, she heard the Earl’s footsteps just behind her. Hitting the door, unable to open it, Myra turned around to face the advancing Lord, helpless in her panic. Something shiny in his fist, he swung it toward her head.
The last thing she remembered seeing were his cold eyes gazing into hers.
***
Pain. A deep, pounding throb in her head, and the faint trilling of birds, brought Myra into a semblance of wakefulness. She heard herself moan, felt her tongue, thick and fuzzy, sticking to the roof of her mouth. Opening her eyes proved a mistake, as the brilliant sunlight beaming full into her face stabbed into her aching head like a thousand tiny swords. She tried working saliva into her dry mouth, and succeeded in unsticking her tongue.
“Thirsty,” she muttered. “So thirsty.”
“Here, lass. Have o’ drink o’ this.”
A woman’s voice with an accent thicker than Lilibet’s Irish brogue filled her ears, and a hand lifted her throbbing head from the pillow it rested on. Myra scented the cold water before the cup reached her lips. With her hand on the woman’s, Myra drank the entire cup down, and craved more. She heard the splash of water, and the cup once more touched her lips.
“Thank you,” Myra murmured after finishing off the second cup.
“Ye be welcome, lass. Can ye open yer eyes?”
She nodded carefully. “It hurts.”
Listening to the sound of wood scrape against stone, Myra then heard footsteps cross the room. Welcome relief came as the woman closed the shutters over the window, then returned to her side. “Better?”
Now Myra could open her eyes without the stabbing agony. “Yes,” she whispered.
She glanced first at her benefactor. The woman who returned to the chair beside the bed Myra lay on was of medium height and wore a light brown dress with a leather vest over the bodice, bound together with thongs. Her auburn hair, braided into a thick rope that fell to her bosom, was a color Myra had not often seen before. She was beautiful, however, her brilliant green eyes smiled even as her lips pulled back from even white teeth in a smile.
“What be yer name, lass?” she asked.
“Myra Travers. Where am I?”
“This be the castle belongin’ tae the Laird o’ Clan MacEilish. I be his wife, Fiona.”
Myra’s heart beat faster in terror. She was in Scotland, a prisoner of the Scottish murderers! She shrank back in fear, unable to control her sudden and instinctive flinch. She knew her jaw slackened, and that her eyes had grown round in panic. Fiona’s smile faded, and her brow furrowed.
“Dinnae tell me ye be a victim o’ the tales that Scots be bloodthirsty heathen out to drink the blood o’ Sa
ssenach children,” she said, her voice cold.
Honest, Myra nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “I was told that when I was a child.”
Fiona snorted in disgust. “We here up north o’ the border hae sense enough tae teach our young the Sassenach be the enemy, but ne’er monsters. Had I wished ye dead, child, I’d hae killed ye, nae put a poultice oan yer head, and set ye in a clean bed, and fetched ye fresh water tae drink.”
Gingerly, Myra’s fingers groped for the thick wrap on the source of the heavy pounding in her head. “You cared for me?”
“Aye. Me lad brought ye home with him after he seen ye dumped like a piece o’ rubbish oan the moors.”
