by Barbara Bard
“Shoot them in the legs,” Primshire commanded.
Arrows dropped a fraction. The soldiers fired. Crying out in agony as the arrows ripped into their legs, the deserters dropped to the ground, unable to stand much less put up a fight. Writhing in pain, bleeding from thighs, knees, calves, they lay in the tall grass. Lord Avery trotted around the rocks that had hidden him and seized their swords from their slack hands.
The man Avery shot was forced to join his companions as Avery yelled for their horses to be caught and brought forward. “Bind up their wounds,” Primshire ordered. “I don’t want them bleeding to death.”
He grinned down into their panicked, pain-wracked faces. “Not yet.”
“Mercy, My Lord,” one of them, a man Primshire knew as John. “We beg you in God’s name, have mercy on us.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked conversationally. “You broke your oaths of loyalty, fled your posts like craven cowards. You know the penalty for desertion.”
His men moved among them, snapping off arrows lodged in legs, incurring screams of pain, and tightly bound up the wounds that bled profusely. Their captured mounts were brought up, and the deserters forced into the saddles. Primshire ordered their hands tied to the pommels to prevent them from leaping off in perhaps a bid for a quick death.
Full night had fallen by the time Primshire, his war band and his prisoners returned to his castle. Hungry and tired but satisfied, he clattered into the bailey lit with torches. Grooms emerged to take the horses from him and Lord Avery, while his men dismounted all around him. The frightened eyes of servants stared from windows as well as the bailey, ragged peasants scampered to get out of the way of the big horses.
“Chain the prisoners to the wall,” Primshire ordered. “They will be executed an hour after dawn. For tonight, let them be reviled and spat upon, cursed for the cowards they are.”
Dragged from their mounts, the prisoners, crying out in pain, were chained by heavy rings around their necks to the walls of the bailey. Despite his hunger, Primshire stood and watched as servants, men-at-arms, villagers lined up to pass them, spitting on them as they sat in their misery and endured the humiliation. Primshire knew the show of revulsion was out of fear of what might happen if they disobeyed rather than from true feelings of hatred for cowards and deserters.
He suspected they all wished they could escape him and the monster within him.
In the vast hall, Primshire ordered casks of ale opened and distributed among the men-at-arms seated at the tables below him. Jessica looked on, her face neutral, inscrutable, as he stood up, his own pewter cup in his hand. “To my loyal men,” he roared. “To those willing to fight at the side of their liege lord.”
Tilting his head back, Primshire drank his ale as his soldiers shouted, “Primshire!” “To the Earl!” then drank their own ale in the toast.
Even to his ears, the accolade seemed half-hearted, a mere shadow of what he felt he deserved from them. Returning to his chair and filled plate, he scowled darkly down from the dais as they spoke among themselves, their conversation muted, without laughter. “They hate and fear me,” he muttered.
“When does that matter?” Jessica asked.
He glanced at her, then continued to drink his ale. Cutting his meat with his dagger, he slapped it onto a hunk of bread and chewed without answering her.
“They are not obligated to love you, Marsden,” Jessica went on, leaning forward, giving him a view of her ample bosom barely concealed in the bodice of her gown. “They are only required to obey you. And that obedience you have. After you execute the traitors, none will dare test your hand again.”
***
Striding across the bailey an hour after dawn, Primshire spoke with Lord Avery. “Assemble the entire castle, servants, everyone. Gather the serfs from the fields, send riders to the village. Everyone on my lands will witness the extent of my wrath.”
“Right away, My Lord.”
Avery bowed and departed on his errands. With a handful of his soldiers, he walked to the chained prisoners and gazed down at them. “Do you wish to see a priest?”
John nodded wearily, his skin ashen, his eyes lowered. “Yes, My Lord.”
Primshire turned to the soldier nearest him. “Fetch the castle priest.”
Saluting, the man ran off, holding his sword by the hilt to prevent it from tripping him. “Let them have privacy to speak their confessions,” he said. “Once the people are assembled, they will be hung from the ramparts. Fetch ropes and take them up.”
Men scrambled to obey him. Servants and serfs poured from the keep into the bailey, staring at the chained men as they filed outside the castle’s high walls. Standing to one side, his hands clasped behind his back, Primshire watched their fear, their trepidation, cross their expressions. A few wept, and none dared glance toward him as though looking at him meant their own execution.
“You are being merciful,” Jessica said, strolling up to him while eyeing the priest hear the confessions of the condemned and grant them last rites.
Primshire shrugged. “It does not matter to me if they choose to face their deaths in this fashion. Mercy has little to do with it.”
“You do not believe in the mercy of heaven?”
“Of course not,” he replied with a derisive snort. “Nor in heaven or hell, or the soul living on after death.”
“How extraordinary.”
“Why does that surprise you?”
“It does not, my dear Marsden,” she said with a tiny smile. “What surprises me is that you would say it. You know perfectly well the church frowns on non believers.”
“The church does not concern me.”
“And you do not think your little hobby is an act of evil?”
“Killing Scots is a service to England.”
“Ah, but you are killing your own English people.”
Primshire stared hard at her. “What makes you so sure I am killing my own serfs?”
Jessica tittered. “I know many things, Marsden.”
“You may want to consider keeping what you know to yourself.”
“Why, I am hardly in any danger from you. My death means your own.”
Gritting his teeth together, Primshire did not comment. Watching the priest deliver last rites, praying over the prisoners, he wondered why she dared to taunt him as she did. Its as though she wants to provoke me, to see what I will do. In his mind, he knew that if she kept on antagonizing him, her precious letter might not save her after all. If it even existed.
From the direction of the village, riders herded small groups of people as others wandered in from the fields. Primshire signaled for Lord Avery to take the prisoners up to the walls. Taking Jessica lightly by the arm, he guided her out of the bailey to stand in a spot where they both had a clear view of the condemned men’s executions, yet not mingling with the commoners. Above them, one by one, Lord Avery tied ropes around the deserters’ necks, standing them in a line at the edge of the rampart. Soldiers held them up on their injured legs, preventing them from falling from the wall too soon, or collapsing in a heap.
“Hear me,” Primshire bellowed. “These men have been found guilty of treason against me, desertion and cowardice. You all bear witness to the fates of those who desert their posts in the night, and steal their lord’s horses to flee upon. Know that this fate will come to all who disavow their loyalty to me.”
Primshire raised his hand, then brought it down in a chopping motion. The men-at-arms supporting the condemned backed away as Lord Avery kicked each man off the ramparts. The crowd remained silent, watching, as the men hanging at the end of the ropes strangled to death, kicking and struggling. Primshire gazed up without emotion either on his face or in his heart. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jessica also stared up, her expression neutral.
It took long minutes for the men to die. Once it was over, and they hung quiet and still, Primshire addressed the hushed crowd again. “Their heads will be placed on pikes as a reminder and
a warning to you all, their corpses fed to the ravens and scavengers. Remember this day, my people, for any serf or soldier who runs away from my service will be hunted down and executed. This I will.”
At his next signal, Avery cut the ropes. The corpses fell to the ground at the base of the wall, the commoners shying away from them like nervous horses. “Return to your duties,” Primshire ordered them. “Disperse.”
They seemed more than happy to obey. Scurrying like mice, the people returned inside the castle or headed back to the village. As men with axes descended upon the dead men to cut off their heads, Primshire stalked back into the bailey with Jessica hurrying to keep up.
“An execution before breakfast,” she commented lightly. “It never fails to get my blood moving.”
Ignoring her, Primshire felt the darkness converge on him. The hunt for the traitors and their execution was far from what he needed to keep the urge to bathe in blood from tearing him apart. The killing of the English wench from two nights past did little to appease the lust for screams from stirring deep within him. “I must go out again,” he muttered thickly in his throat. “I must hear them scream.”
“Try not to ruin your clothes this time, Marsden,” Jessica replied easily. “I won’t wait up for you, either.”
***
He rode out a few hours before midnight, the lust to kill raging through his veins. Kill the vermin, kill the vermin. The refrain refused to leave his mind as he spurred toward the Scottish border, seeking, ever seeking, his prey. His hopes ran wild this night, surely the Scottish have relaxed their guard, surely a young wench, or even a boy, might unwittingly cross his path. Hours he rode, one with the darkness, a predator, a wolf once more.
There.
Not far from the village of Coombs, a shadow moved across the moors, heading toward it and the safety of its spiked walls. No armed clansman rode near, no protector stood guard. Reining his horse in, Primshire dismounted and tied it to a thicket of bramble. Unsheathing his knife, he stalked his prey, hurrying behind his victim, his urgent need to kill making him hasty, created the potential for mistakes.
As silent as the wolf, he watched the girl hurry toward the distant, twinkling lights of the village. The thrill of the hunt, of the chase overwhelmed him. He panted with eagerness, the need to hear her scream, to feel her blood splash over his hands, his naked body filling him with excitement. She knew he was behind her, for she began suddenly to run.
He was faster than she. His greater weight took her down, the hilt of his dagger silencing her before she could draw breath to scream. She fell under him, still, silent, unmoving. Sheathing his blade until he needed it again, he took her back the way he had come, out of earshot of the village. He anticipated hearing her screams of anguish, her cries for mercy, when he finally set his dagger to her flesh.
Near the back of a stream, not far from where he left his horse, Primshire quickly stripped himself naked, and set his clothes aside. Kneeling on the grass beside her, he waited for her to wake up. Time passed, and she did not. Growing impatient, his need consuming him, Primshire patted her cheeks, slapping her face. Her head rolled bonelessly back and forth. His alarm grew.
His fingers on her chin rolled her face toward the moon. Her eyes had already begun to glaze, filmed over in death. “No,” he whispered, horrified. “No.”
Groping for the spot on her head where his hilt crashed into it, he felt only a small trickle of blood mixed with her hair. Under his probing fingers, her skull had been caved in. He had killed her instantly.
Standing up, naked, deprived of her screams, her blood, Primshire threw back his head and howled. “No,” he bellowed. “No, no, no, no.”
Only silence and the sough of the wind over the heather answered his desperate cries.
Chapter 23
After a week of hosting the McTavish laird, his sons and the clansmen he brought with him, Myra stood hand in hand with Greer as the McTavish and Kerr clasped arms, grinning at one another. “Now ye come back and attack me castle again,” Kerr told McTavish. “I had fun, sae I did.”
“Nay, ye auld bastard,” McTavish replied. “Ye come north. It be me turn to feast ye.”
McTavish glanced at Myra and Greer, his grin widening. “Now if I dinnae get a wedding invitation, I wi’ make war oan ye.”
“Allen,” Myra said, disentangling her hand from Greer’s to stroll to him. “I’m not even engaged yet. Besides, I may decide to take up either Lundy’s or Roland’s offer of marriage. A girl should have a choice when selecting a husband.”
Grinning wickedly, Myra shot a glance over her shoulder at Greer, whose smile had vanished and a dark scowl took its place. McTavish seized her in a huge hug, his lips smacking her cheek. “Now ye make that lad jealous and there’s apt tae be trouble, ye wee minx. I see true love when it be waved in me face, sae be a good lass and marry him.”
“If he ever asks me.”
He patted her arm. “He wi’, lass. He wi’. Remember now, an invitation.”
“Of course. God speed, Allen.”
McTavish gave Fiona the same hearty embrace and kissed her cheek. “Look after that auld bugger, Fiona lass.”
“I will. It be sae good tae see ye again, Allen.”
“And ye.”
McTavish clasped Greer’s arm. “Ye got a good one there, lad. Dinnae let her gae.”
Myra watched Greer’s frown vanish and a grin blossom in its place. “I ken it. And I will nae.”
McTavish mounted his horse in a swift, fluid move. “Thank ye fer yer hospitality, MacEilish.”
“Ye drank all me ale, ye bastard.”
“Ach, I did ye a favor.”
Waving to the small watching to see them off, McTavish reined his horse around and nudged the animal into a fast lope. Lundy and Roland followed him, as did the other three clansmen who accompanied him to the MacEilish lands. Myra watched them go as Greer rested his arm over her shoulders. She leaned into him with a sigh.
“I just love that man,” she murmured.
“Which one?”
Myra jabbed him in the ribs with her fist. “Allen, you red-headed frog. Who else would I mean?”
“I dinnae. Ye did say ye were considerin’ marrying one o’ the lads.”
“And I was also jesting, Greer.”
Greer squeezed her tightly to him. “Me sense o’ humor be absent sometimes, lass.”
He guided her across the bailey toward the keep, Kerr and Fiona breaking off from them to head toward the barns. They had not gotten very far when shouts erupted from the meadows. Myra exchanged a glance with Greer, then watched him bolt toward the bailey entrance, Kerr on his heels. Hiking her skirts, Myra ran as fast as she could, Fiona running beside her.
Clansmen on horses escorted a small cart pulled by a donkey, three women in head scarves walking beside it. Myra sucked in her breath when she saw they were weeping. Two male serfs led the donkey, one to each side, their heads bowed. “Oh, no, not another one,” Myra muttered.
Greer and Kerr reached the peasants and their cart, the clansmen offering their laird and his son salutes. Myra, still running, watched as Greer banged his fist against the cart’s wooden side, his expression enraged. Kerr stared into it without moving or speaking. Neither appeared to notice as she and Fiona halted beside the wagon.
After hearing the tales of how the women were butchered, Myra braced herself to see blood, and lots of it. Instead, she found the waxy white face of a young dead woman, her blue eyes filmed, and a small amount of blood on the side of her head. Instantly, Myra’s mind flashed back to the earl of Primshire’s evil, cold eyes, the glimpse of something in his hand, then darkness.
“It was him again, wasn’t it,” she said, trembling, shaking, feeling sick. “He had hit me like that, on the side of my head. But she died and I didn’t.”
“We think sae, lass,” Kerr replied, his tone cold. “He hits them tae knock them out cold. Then he kills them slowly while they scream.”
“But he didn�
��t do that to her.”
Greer finally met her eyes. “He hit this lass tae hard, Myra,” he said, his voice almost as cold as Kerr’s. “Bashed her skull in. And wi’ ye, he ne’er had time as we were oan him, he had tae run.”
“Oh, God.” Myra clung to the side of the cart for support. “I could have been one of them,” she whispered.
Fiona gripped her shoulder. “But ye were nae, Myra. Hold on tae that.”
“How did this happen?” Kerr asked the serfs, glared at his clansmen. “Nae one out after dark, I ordered.”
One of the peasants touched his knuckles to his brow. “She were me lass, Laird,” he muttered, his face lowered. “I did gie her me blessing tae visit her sister in the next village. I dinnae ken why she dinnae leave afore dark.”
