Highland Thirst. Lynsay Sands
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about Mistress Brona Kerr.
“Why have ye been thrown down here?” she asked the men.
“The laird says we have failed in our duty to him,” replied a man with a deep, rough voice, bitterness dripping from every word.
“Failed, Colin? How could ye and your brother have failed in anything? Ye work from sunrise to sunset.”
“Then mayhap we should have worked until moonrise, mistress.”
“Who cares for your family? For your poor mother and your other siblings?”
“Ranald and Mangus are of an age to be the heads of the household.”
“Has my cousin told ye what your punishment will be?”
“He gave us each ten lashes, mistress, and we thought that the end of it, but then he threw us in here.”
“I think he means to feed us to the monster,” said another man, his voice weak and a little unsteady.
“What monster, Fergus?”
“The one ye just went to look at.”
“There is no monster there, just a mon.”
“Nay, mistress, that is no a mon e’en if he appears to be one,” said Colin. “Ye havenae heard him. He makes sounds like a beast, howling and snarling, e’en hissing. And the laird tortures him for hours demanding answers no mon could e’er give, asking questions about living forever and all of that. And the mon should be dead by now or near to it after all the laird has done to him, yet he isnae, is he.”
“Colin, I was just there, seeing him and speaking with him. He is just a mon.”
“He killed Peter. The laird dragged Peter down here last night and when the poor fool was carried back by us he wasnae alive and his neck was all torn up, like some beast had ripped it open.”
Heming winced even as he felt an urge to protest. He had not torn up Peter’s neck. Hervey had sliced the man’s neck, drawing blood, and then had his guards force the poor man closer and closer to Heming. Weakened by loss of blood, nearly maddened by pain, Heming had been unable to fight the dark hunger stirred to life by the scent of Peter’s blood. He could not be sure, but he may have roughened the wound already there when he had fed off the man. He was sure, however, that Peter had been alive when he had been dragged away, alive and well able to recover given a little care.
“What are ye saying, Colin? That the mon down there, the mon chained hand and foot to an iron cage, ripped open Peter’s throat and fed on him?”
“’Tis what it looked like. Chained hand and foot, ye say?”
“Aye, naked and caged like an animal.”
“If ye had seen Peter, mistress, ye wouldnae doubt us. Me and Fergus fear we will be next, that we are being kept here to feed that demon. Mayhap the laird thinks that will be the only way he can keep the monster alive and get the answers he seeks. The laird is bargaining with the devil, he is.”
“What crime had Peter committed?” Brona asked, her voice little more than a whisper, but Heming could hear the shock she felt trembling in every word.
“Ach, mistress, ’tis nay something I can tell ye.”
“Tell me, Colin. Ye have just told me I have been speaking to a demon who rips out men’s throats and drinks their blood. I think there is little else ye could tell me that would shock me more than that.”
“Peter was a bonnie lad, aye? Slim and fair with a bonnie face.”
Heming could almost smell the tension in the silence that followed that statement.
“My cousin loves men?” Brona asked after a few moments.
“Aye, mistress. I am thinking he likes the lasses too. ’Tis against the church’s law and all that, but I dinnae judge such men. They do nay harm, nay more than any other. S’truth, I ken one or two such men and they are good men, aye? Peter wasnae one of them, though, and he told the laird so, but the laird doesnae like to be told nay, does he. A lass can be forced, aye? ’Tisnae so easy to force a mon, especially when ye dinnae want the world and its mother to ken what ye are about.”
“Then mayhap Peter isnae dead. Mayhap it was all done to force Peter to say aye.”
“He must be dead. The demon took his soul. ’Tis what demons do, aye?”
“Colin, I find it verra difficult to believe the mon I just spoke with is a demon. If naught else, surely he would have the power to get away from Hervey. That my cousin may lust after men was something I had begun to suspect. Only the fact that I kenned all too weel that he beds women kept me from being sure of it. I didnae realize ye could lust after both. I had another cousin, a woman, who only loved other women, so I am nay ignorant of such things. Aye, I was a little shocked but, as ye say, I cannae condemn as the church does. God made us all, didnae he, and I cannae see how loving someone, anyone, can be such a great sin. Lusting as my cousin does, aye. Love, nay. But, to harm or kill a person because he or she doesnae share your lust is wrong. Verra wrong. I thought it was all done willingly.”
“Most times it is, mistress. E’en the lasses who dinnae really want to warm the laird’s bed make no real complaint when they are called there. It isnae worth it, aye?”
“There will ne’er be another nay uttered now,” said Fergus. “Nay when it could mean a demon will be fed your soul.”
“Ye cannae be sure that is what happened, Fergus,” said Brona. “I came down here because I heard whispers about a mon down here, a mon caged like an animal and being tortured. I decided I needed to ken what my cousin was doing and why. Now I have e’en more I must learn about such as what has happened to Peter. And why the two of ye are still held here. I must go now, however, for my cousin will soon be arriving. Answer me this, Colin—do ye and yours have anywhere safe ye can flee to?”
“Aye, mistress. Why?”
“I am nay sure yet, but this is wrong. All of this is so verra, verra wrong.”
Heming heard the soft rustle of skirts as Brona fled the dungeon. The rapid click of the dog’s claws against the stone floor told him that Mistress Brona was running away. It was no surprise. The fear of being discovered down here might be enough to make her run, but he suspected talk of demons and murder gave her speed as well.
He sighed and tried to get into a more comfortable seated position. It appeared that Mistress Brona Kerr was just what she seemed to be—a young woman appalled by the actions of her kinsman and struggling to decide what, if anything, she could do to right things. Unfortunately, that young woman now had to wonder if he was a demon who had killed a man by ripping out his throat and drinking his blood along with his soul. Heming had to wonder if she would even bother to try to find out the truth now. It would not surprise him to discover that she no longer even thought he was innocent of all but attracting her cousin’s interest in the impossible.
It was difficult not to rage against a lost chance at freedom. Heming knew that, if Peter was dead, all chance of Mistress Brona helping him to escape her cousin was gone. She might not fully believe he was some soul-sucking demon, but she would certainly think him some dangerous madman.
An all too familiar footstep dragged Heming from his morose thoughts and his whole body tensed. Hervey was returning and with at least three men. The blood that had been forced upon him had almost healed all of his wounds and restored his strength, so Heming knew that this time the torture would last for a long time simply because he was now strong enough to endure it. He pushed aside a sudden overwhelming sense of defeat. He could not let Hervey know that he was slowly winning this uneven battle. He prayed that Mistress Brona would judge him innocent and find a way to free him from this hell for he knew he was doomed to madness if this constant torture continued for very much longer.
He also prayed that Hervey did not want to see the drinking of blood again. Colin and Fergus feared they were being held for just that reason and Heming knew