by Barbara Bard
Myra nodded with a tiny smile. “That’s all right. Just as long as I get my riding lesson in.”
“Ye wi’.”
After he finished eating, he gave both Fiona and Myra fast pecks on their cheeks, then dashed up the stairs of the keep to see Kerr. His sire sat on his bed, propped up by pillows, talking with the village headman. The remains of his own meal sat on the table beside him, and he raised a grin upon seeing his son.
“I hear ye been teaching the women tae fight,” he said, grasping Greer’s hand. “Good lad. They may need the skills tae defend themselves against this evil monster.”
“Ye be lookin’ well, Da,” Greer said, seating himself on a chair, offering the headman a respectful nod.
“I wi’ be outta bed by tomorrow,” Kerr replied with a grimace. “I would be out today if yer mom would let me.”
Greer grinned. “Resting another day will dae ye good.”
“I been thinking, lad,” Kerr said. “We took the Earl’s prey from him, but he may seek another.”
Cold washed Greer’s good mood from him. “What prey might he seek next?”
“I dinnae,” Kerr replied, shaking his head. “I just feel in me bones that he cannae stop killing, even if his chosen prey be nowhere about.”
“Ye think he may murder lads now?”
“Aye, perhaps. Or older women, married and wi’ bairns.”
“Christ.” Greer ran his hands through his red locks. “This nae be o’er then.”
“Nay, lad. Set guards on all the villages, and call fer warriors from villages tae the north, east and west. Send riders out now, lad. We must protect our people.”
“We wi’ begin closing the gates tae the palisades around our village,” the headman said. “We can set our own watchers as well.”
Kerr nodded. “We cannae grant this murderer access tae our people. All the towns must set watches and guards, clansmen wi’ them. Nae one gae out after dark, the gates close at dark. Understood?”
“Aye, Da.”
“Aye, Laird.”
Kerr set back against his pillows, his smile grim. “We wi’ starve this bugger o’ his victims, make him turn oan his own people. Then maybe they wi’ help us hang the Earl o’ Primshire.”
Busy sending out messengers to the villages as well as to the MacEilish clan allies to the north, west and east, Greer missed out on Myra’s knife tutoring, but hoped he might be able to give her a riding lesson later in the day. He caught glimpses of the women practicing with their tutors, but could not identify Myra among them.
In the bailey, as Greer instructed the clan riders, the men in brigandines mounting their horses, a sudden hush fell over the meadow. The clack of wood striking wood ceased all at once, as though everyone lowered their mock knives at the same time Heads in the bailey turned toward the tall gates, whispers spread like wildfire upon the light wind from the moors. Troubled, Greer walked toward the meadow, wondering what had stopped the activity so dramatically.
A scream of pain and anguish rose over the whispers, the unnerving silence. Greer, confused, stepped out of the gates and saw the crumpled body lying on the ground in the midst of the tall grass and heather. He recognized Idina weeping, shrieking over the woman on the ground, a woman with a wealth of dark hair spilling amid the green and purple around her.
Myra.
“Nay!” Greer screamed, running, stumbling, his sword catching between his legs as he ran and threatening to toss him headlong to the earth.
He fell to his knees beside her, seeing the blood gushing from the gaping wound on her head, her closed eyes, her too pale complexion. Knowing full well he shouldn’t move her, as doing so may cause more damage, Greer pulled her limp body to him, holding her close, rocking her back and forth.
Whispering her name over and over, Greer gripped her close to him, snarling like a feral animal when someone sought to take her from him.
Myra! Dinnae gae where I cannae follow! Come back tae me. Myra! Come back!
Chapter 12
He hunted the moors night after night, seeking prey. No nubile girls hurrying home from a nearby village crossed his path. He cantered his horse across the moors, searching for his human victims, finding none. Riding close to a Scottish village, he found the palisade gates shut against him, guards on steps behind their sharpened spikes watching for his approach.
Growling low in his throat like a wolf, he reined his horse around, his bloodlust surging through him like a terrible wave, drowning him in it. He must kill, or the horrible urge from deep within him will tear him apart. Not even killing his agent in the MacEilish household sated his need to slay. Spurring hard toward the village of Coombs where he had dragged the young woman from her home after striking her hard in the head with the hilt of his dagger, he hoped for better luck.
His luck failed to ride with him.
Here, too, he found guards and gates, Scottish clansmen in their brigandines and sharp swords riding patrol as peasants armed with bows, spears and sharply pointed rakes stood watch. He melted away into the night, unseen, unheard. Once out of earshot of the village, he lifted his face to the splinter of the moon and howled.
Without anyone to kill, his burning rage within him would consume him. He knew it, felt its growing hunger. “Scots must die,” he rumbled low in his throat. “I must kill the Scots.”
He had no Scots to slay. They knew of him now, knew how to protect themselves. Despite the murderous need deep within him, he dared not ride past them, dared not seek out other villages that may not be guarded. He knew they, too, would be shut against him, the vile clans united to deter if not kill him. They protected their own like the feral animals they were.
Defeated, he rode back south, crossing back into England. His need to kill, his desire for blood, unsated, roiled within him, blacking out his mind, his ability to reason. Only when he killed did the darkness within pass, and his ability to think come through. His horse, sensing his black mood, obeyed his every instruction with alacrity, and loped across the moors toward his castle.
As he had roamed further west than normal, Primshire Castle lay to the east of him. Directing his horse and yet also leaving the gelding to find home and food, he gazed up at the diamonds in the sky. In the distance, sheep bleated at the sound of his approach, their white wooly bodies shining under the starlight. Where there were sheep were the shepherd boys who guarded them.
Eager now, sensing his kill, he left his horse tied to a thicket and approached the flock on foot. The boys often had dogs with them, but none barked as he slipped from shadow to shadow, keeping low to the ground. There. The boy. His keen night vision saw the youth napping against the trunk of a tree, his now alarmed flock scattering, bleating in fear. The boy woke instantly, glancing around for the wolf he expected, lifting his sling with the rock already inside its pocket.
Creeping behind rocks and thickets, his blade already locked into his fist, he closed in on the one who watched for a four legged predator and failed to search for a two legged wolf. His hilt crashed into the side of the boy’s head, knocking him unconscious immediately. His lust for blood surging through him, he almost failed to heed his protective instincts. Stripping quickly, he set his clothes aside, clear of blood spray, then waited for the boy to awaken.
Naked, feeling the wind off the moors caressing his skin, his entire body on fire with the eagerness to feel his knife cut through skin, he lifted his face to the stars and shut his eyes. How alive he felt, how utterly in control of his fate, his destiny. None could touch him, he knew, none knew who stalked the moors and slayed at will. He was free to hunt his prey, English or Scottish, killing like the wolf he was.
The boy at his feet stirred, groaning, and looked up. His eyes widened in terror, the agony of his split head forgotten. Under the starlight and the boy’s screams, he went to work.
***
Lord Marsden Platt, the Earl of Primshire, woke hours after daylight dawned, the muted sunlight shining through the low lying clouds. Peering at the window, he sa
w the weather had turned from sunny to a slow wet drizzle. He stretched under the thick blankets, yawning, then finally rose from his bed. His manservant, James, stood ready to help him dress, shave and comb his hair.
James had served him for years, and did so in near silence. Primshire never cared for idle conversation, and demanded the man do his work with only the minimal about of talk. After so many years, James knew what was expected of him, and now had no reason at all to speak. A knock at the outer door raised annoyance in Primshire, but he gestured for James to go answer it.
The man servant returned with his seneschal, Lord Avery. Avery bowed low.
“Good morrow, My Lord,” he said. “I apologize for interrupting, but I have a situation that must be brought to your attention.”
“Are the Scottish invading?” Primshire asked, irritated. “Assembling at the border?”
“Well, no, My Lord.”
“Then there is hardly anything more important than that to disturb me with.”
“Even a murderer preying upon your people?”
Feigning slight surprise, Primshire lifted a brow. “Murder?”
He recalled his inability to find a Scottish life to take the previous night, and how he was forced to kill the young shepherd in order to appease the dark forces within him. The blackness in his soul that would rip him apart if he didn’t sate its cravings on others. He preferred to hunt the Scottish as they were vile creatures, and not fit to be considered human at all.
“Yes, My Lord. A young boy guarding his flocks.”
Primshire snorted with derision. “You trouble me with the death of a peasant boy? A serf?”
He saw Avery’s lips tighten in disapproval, but he gave no other outward show of his emotions. “The boy served you, My Lord, by protecting the sheep that bring you income. He was, after all, a life.”
“What makes you so certain it was murder?” Primshire asked. “Perhaps a pack of wolves killed him.”
“No wolf I know carries or kills with a dagger, My Lord,” Avery replied calmly. “Would you care to inspect the body before it is turned over to his grieving family for burial?”
“No, I would not. Seeing a corpse before breaking my fast might quite turn my stomach.”
“By your leave then, My Lord, I will see to it.”
Primshire didn’t answer as Avery bowed low and turned to walk out the door. Mildly curious, he strolled to the window, and gazed out and down. His rooms in the keep looked out over the bailey, and far below he saw a cluster of men-at-arms and peasants in drab clothing, wool scarves over their heads to keep off the rain.
Cries and the sounds of weeping drifted up to him as they gathered around a small cart pulled by a donkey, a wrapped body inside it. Even from this height he saw the dark blood staining the pale cloth. He felt a small sting of regret, never guilt, over the boy’s death. The Scottish heathens that were to blame. If they hadn’t closed themselves away, cut off his supply of victims, he would never have had to turn on his own.
They don’t deserve to live, and I should have the freedom to mow them down like barley.
After dining hugely to break his fast, Primshire strode out into the bailey wearing a heavy cloak and hood to keep him dry, ordering his grooms to saddle his horse. The serfs had taken the boy’s body and were gone, leaving him to wonder where else he would find a victim the next time the urge to kill came upon him. They came faster now, days after his previous kill whereby it used to come upon him once a month or so.
His men-at-arms saddled their horses in preparation to accompany him, the dreary weather dampening their usual banter and talk. Or perhaps it was the boy’s death that robbed them of their cheer. It didn’t matter to him anyway. He preferred them silent. Mounting his tall chestnut, his escort already in their saddles, Primshire set his spurs to shaggy red hide and loped out of the bailey.
He enjoyed riding out across the moors, observing the lands and villages that belonged to him, brought silver and gold into his coffers, made him one of the richest men in northern England. On this day, however, he found a pair of riders crossing the hills toward him, a small banner over their heads flapping in the breeze they made. Strangers. Reining in, he waited for them to approach, at last recognizing the royal crest of England on the banner.
Emissaries from King Edward.
The pair halted their mounts a short distance from him. One stood in his stirrups to call out, “We seek the Earl of Primshire.”
“I am he.”
“May we approach, My Lord?”
“You may.”
Walking their horses toward him, the foremost introduced himself after a short bow from his saddle. “I am His Majesty’s royal courier with a message for you, My Lord.”
Primshire nodded. “Speak.”
“His Majesty has received complaints from the Scottish King regarding a series of murders conducted by an Englishman in Scottish lands.”
Feeling his blood run cold, Primshire stiffened, his eyes narrowing.
How can my work be reaching the ears of King Edward?
“What has this to do with me?”
“His Majesty charges you with locating this killer, and hanging him, My Lord,” the courier replied. “Leaving this murderer roaming free to kill the Scots will risk the tenuous peace England has with Scotland.”
“How does His Majesty know for certain an Englishman is doing this?” he demanded. “Perhaps a Scotsman is committing these crimes.”
“The Scots say they have proof the murderer is an Englishman,” he replied, his tone cool. “His Majesty charges you with this task, My Lord. Find this man and bring him to swift and royal justice.”
Walking his horse toward Primshire, the courier handed him a scroll sealed with King Edward’s signet. “By your leave, My Lord.”
Reining his mount around, the courier and his banner bearer trotted away, then vanished from sight. Primshire stared down at the King’s royal missive, grinding his teeth. He tucked the letter inside his cloak, then turned his horse back toward his castle, his escort on his heels.
I never believed killing the Scots would bring any attention at all, much less from Edward. They are little more than animals.
Pondering his dilemma, he knew he couldn’t just accuse a man, claim he was the murderer and hang him, for his innocence would be proven once Primshire started killing again. Nor could he simply stop – the urge to slay was far too powerful for him to control now. Not heeding the need to kill would destroy him, he knew that as well as he knew the sun set in the west.
I cannot let it destroy me. I cannot.
Chapter 13
Greer refused to leave Myra’s side as she lay, unconscious once again, and tended by Fiona. Seated in a chair beside her bed in the guest chambers, he gazed at her waxy pale features, her closed eyes, the thick bandage on her brow. From Fiona’s tense expression, he knew Myra’s condition was far from good.
“Two head injuries tae close together,” she murmured, clicking her tongue. “I nae like it.”
After his fear-wrought insanity wore off and Myra’s taken to her rooms to be cared for, Greer learned what had happened. Truly an accident, and one that occurred from time to time when training for combat, Myra’s instructor, Gavin, feinted a blow to Myra’s head with his heavy wooden practice blade. He expected her to duck as she always had before, and thus avoid it. This time, however, she had been distracted at the last instant, and Gavin’s blow hit her hard.
Ignoring Gavin’s frantic apologies, Greer stayed at Myra’s side, partly because if he saw Gavin again, he would not be able to control himself. His hands fisted in his lap as he visualized himself tearing his cousin apart. Forcing himself to relax, he drew in a deep breath and glanced at his mother.
“Be there any hope?” he asked.
“There always be hope,” she replied. “Myra be a strong lass, ye ken.”
“Why dinnae she awaken?”
“It only be a few hours, Greer,” Fiona replied. “Her head be heali
ng as it done afore.”
Outside, dusk ventured toward the castle, and Greer found it difficult to believe it had only been a few hours since she got hurt. To him, it seemed like days had passed as he sat beside her. Across the room, so silent and still that Greer often forgot she was even there, Idina sat in a corner, her hands folded in her lap. She, too, refused to leave the chambers, and neither Greer nor Fiona had the heart to force her out.
A soft moan escaped Myra’s lips, her brow furrowed as her head rolled from side to side on the pillow.
“She be waking up, lad,” Fiona said, rising.
A rush of hope surged through him as Greer also stood, bending over Myra’s bed. “Myra?” he whispered. “It be me, Greer.”
