BLOOD FEUD – PROLOGUE

Northern England – Spring, 1511

            The chill of foreboding swept through Heming MacNachton’s blood as he dismounted before the inn.  He frowned at the sign hanging crookedly above the door.  The fact that the inn was called The Hanging Tree only added to his growing sense of unease.  Heming no longer thought the huge old tree a few yards away was an intriguing sight, despite how the moon turned the emerging leaves a soft silver color.  At least no one was still dangling from its thick, sturdy limbs, he thought, and reluctantly handed his reins to the stable boy.

            “I dinnae like this,” he said to his cousin Tearlach MacAdie as they approached the door to the inn.

            “We willnae stay long.”

            Heming nodded, recognizing that statement as Tearlach’s agreement that something felt wrong.   They could not falter in their search for information just because they felt a little uneasy about a place, however.  Their people were being hunted and the hunters were getting more organized.   The very survival of their people depended upon gathering as much information about their enemies as possible.

            Once inside the inn, however, Heming’s wariness grew even sharper.   He and Tearlach found a table set away from the others, their backs to the wall, but that did little to calm him.   A burly cold-eyed man served them ale and as Tearlach paid for it, Heming looked around.  The first thing he noticed was that there were no serving wenches to be seen.  That was odd but he knew there could be many reasons for that.    What could not be so easily explained was the fact that no one paid them much attention.   Two kilted Scotsmen in an English border inn should draw attention but aside from a few hasty, sidelong glances, everyone continued talking and laughing.   And there was a false note to all of that talk and good cheer, Heming thought as he drank his ale with more haste than enjoyment.

            It was not until the three well-dressed people, two of whom had actually shown a natural curiosity about two Scotsman in an English inn, got up and left that Heming knew he and Tearlach had made a serious error in judgment.  “The ale – “ he began as an odd feeling started to creep over him.

            “Was poisoned,” growled Tearlach as he slammed his empty tankard down on the scarred wood table.

            “Nay, not poisoned.  Something to weaken us or make us sleep.”  Heming saw that all those fleeting sidelong glances were becoming far more intent; the men obviously watching and waiting for whatever potion he and Tearlach had just drunk to take effect.   “Didnae taste it at first, but the taint of it is now verra clear.   I just thought the ale wasnae a verra good brew.”

Tearlach stood up and started for the door.  Heming quickly joined him.   The fact that everyone in the inn just sat and silently watched them caused Heming’s insides to chill with alarm.   Even before Tearlach opened the door, Heming knew they would not be escaping this trap.    His thoughts were already clouding over and he felt as if he was trying to walk through thick mud.   Once outside the cool night air did nothing to ease that.   Heming staggered and he saw Tearlach do the same.   They both managed to stumble along for a few more feet although Heming wondered why they even bothered for they would never make it to their horses.

            The next thing he knew he was on his knees.  Tearlach fell to his knees right beside him a heartbeat later.   Heming tried to fight the pull of the potion but was not really surprised when he next found himself sprawled in the dirt, Tearlach quickly sprawling at his side.   His last sight was of dozens of booted feet encircling them.

            Consciousness came to him slowly and painfully.   Heming felt as if his head was going to split apart.   Then he recalled sprawling in the dirt, dragged into unconsciousness by some herb or potion slipped into his ale.    He slowly opened his eyes and stared around him in utter disbelief.   He was in a cage, thick silver chains holding his wrists and ankles to the heavy iron bars surrounding him.  He was also naked and weaponless and there was no sign of Tearlach.   Hearing footsteps, Heming fought down his rage and the panic he felt twisting inside of him.  A moment later a tall, elegantly dressed man stood before his cage.

            “Weelcome to Rosscurrach,” the man drawled and coldly smiled.

            The name sounded familiar but it took Heming a moment to place it.   Then he recalled that he and Tearlach had stopped in an inn near the keep a few days ago.   It was the home of the Kerrs.   Their laird was named Sir Hervey Kerr and he was not well liked if Heming recalled correctly.   This slender man, dressed as if he was about to attend the king, did not look like the cold, brutal man they had heard whispers about, but Heming knew all too well that looks could be deceiving.

            “Tearlach,” he began, intending to demand to know where his cousin was.

            “Your companion?  I fear he is now the guest of the Carbonnels and enjoying all the comforts of a secure English dungeon.   My ally, Wyman Carbonnel, intends to make your cousin tell us all about the hiding places of your people.  We wish to locate your many nests so that we can clean them out.”

            “He will tell ye naught.   Nor will I.”

            “Oh, I dinnae intend to ask about where all of ye hide yourselves.   Nay, ‘tis my intention to find out all of your strengths and weaknesses.”  He lightly rubbed his pale, elegant hands together.   “I have many an idea on how to test them.   I fear ye willnae find that as enjoyable as I will, however.”

            “And just why have ye made us your enemies?”  Heming suspected the man knew far too much about the MacNachtons already, but wanted to hear the man admit to it.

            “Ye and your ilk are the enemies of all men.   Ye are an abomination.   I find it an insult that ye e’en look like a mon instead of displaying clearly the mark of the devil as ye should.   No mon of conscience can allow such spawn of hell to continue to exist.   Tis time the ones ye see as prey become the hunters.”

            Heming did not believe the man was truly on some righteous crusade against evil, but would not try to guess what his game really was.   “I am but a mon,” he said quietly.

            “Nay, ye are far more than that.   Dinnae play me for a fool.  Ye will soon show me all of your strengths and weaknesses; reveal all of your secrets.   Tis said that your kind can live forever and I mean to find out why.”

            Something in the tone of the man’s voice Heming that what the man had just said was a clue to his real intentions, but Heming’s head was throbbing too much for him to be able to sort it all out right now.   Once his head cleared, his first thoughts were going to be how to escape and then rescue Tearlach, not about what this swine wanted.   Heming refused to think that this was how he would meet his end – as a caged beast for this courtier to torment.   When the man took a few hasty steps back, Heming suspected his rage was revealing itself upon his face.

            “Ye cannae escape,” the man said, a faint tremor in his voice revealing his fear.  “Those chains are made of silver and, just in case that is a myth, the cage is made of iron.”

            “What?  In case I am fey as weel as a demon?”  Heming was not surprised to hear the low rumble of a growl in his voice for his anger was running hot and wild.   “Ye have heeded too many tales told to scare bairns.”

            “Och, nay, MacNachton.  I ken what ye are – a bloodsucking, soul-eating abomination.   I will learn all of your secrets, including why ye and yours should be blessed with such long lives.   Here is where the truth of your evil will be fully revealed and here is where ye will die.”

            Watching the man stride away, Heming murmured, “Nay, fool, the only marching toward that fate is you.   Ye are now a walking dead mon.”  It was a vow, one Heming full intended to fulfill no matter how long it took.

CHAPTER ONE

            He had eyes like her pets, almost solidly black as if the center had grown so that he could see more clearly in the dark.   Brona Kerr immediately decided that was not precisely true.  The man’s eyes were decidedly far more feral than her dog or even her cat’s.    The fact that both of her pets were tense, their fur bristling slightly, told her that she was not the only one who sensed a dangerous wildness in the man.   Yet she knew her pets were as confused as they were wary, as if they each sensed a friend as well as a foe.

            The man was caged like some feral animal, thick silver chains holding his wrists and ankles to the fat iron bars of the cage.   Water and a congealed stew sat in bowls set in one far corner of his cage and a bucket sat in the other.   There was no bedding for him, not even the thinnest of old blankets.  Despite the fact that he was naked, he did not appear troubled by the damp chill of the dungeon.   In the flickering light of the torches she had lit his skin appeared to be almost golden yet the wounds she could see on him should have left him as pale as a ghost.    Those wounds should also have bred away the fury she could see glittering in his feral eyes.   Eyes in which she could now see a hint of gold as the black circle eased back into a more human size.

            He watched her like some stalking predator, his golden eyes narrowed slightly and fixed unblinkingly upon her.   Thick raven hair hung almost to his trim waist.  He was lean and tautly muscular just as a predator should be.   Brona did not think she had ever seen a man like him before.   He should terrify her and, in some ways he did, but she also felt drawn to him.  That made no sense to her and she frowned.

            Heming studied the woman who was studying him.   She was an ethereal creature, not very tall and slender yet possessing lush breasts and nicely rounded hips.   Horror and curiosity were evenly blended in her expression.   The flickering shadows caused by the torches accentuated the fine lines of her face.   A thick braid of pale hair was draped over her right shoulder and hung down to the top of her thighs.   She smelled of woman, of clean skin and a hint of lavender.   It was a welcome change from the damp foul air of his prison.

            To her right sat a very large gray dog and to her left sat a large yellow cat.   Heming got the strong feeling that the animals were as much her companions as her pets.   It surprised him that Hervey Kerr even allowed pets at Rosscurrach.   The fact that this woman had the pets indicated that she was no mere servant of the keep.  Few of the poor had the time or the food to pamper an animal and these two animals looked very pampered.

            “Who are ye?” she asked, struggling to keep her gaze fixed upon his face and fighting the urge to look him over, very carefully, from head to toe.

            “Sir Heming MacNachton,” he replied, wondering if she was in league with Hervey and sought to trick some important truth out of him.

            “I have ne’er heard your name before.   Are ye one of my cousin’s enemies?”

            “I had ne’er e’en met the fool ere he captured me and brought me here.  And who are ye that ye dinnae ken that?”

            Brona heard the suspicion in his voice but was not troubled by it.   Chained naked in a cage as he was, the man had every right to be suspicious of everyone at Rosscurrach.   She had a few suspicions of her own about him.   She knew her cousin was not a good man, but she found it hard to believe that he would cage and torture a man he had never met and who had done no wrong.

            “I am Mistress Brona Kerr, first cousin to the laird,” she answered and could see by his hardening expression that she had only added to his mistrust.   “I heard some quickly hushed whispers about a prisoner and decided I would see just what the secret was.  No other prisoner has e’er warranted such mystery.”

            “Your cousin has a lot of prisoners, does he?”

            “Nay.”  She sighed.   “I fear he often just kills those he feels have wronged him.   When he does hold a prisoner ‘tis for ransom, or to torture a few secrets out of him ere he kills him.   What secrets does he think ye have?”

            “I ken naught that he needs to know.”

            “That doesnae really answer my question, does it.”   Brona idly scratched her dog Thor’s ears.   “Cousin Hervey is cold and cruel, but he is also lazy.   He has obviously expended a great deal of time and effort to hold ye here and try to get ye to tell him something.   I but wondered what it was.”

            “And why do ye need to ken such things?”

            “Knowledge is power.”  Her cat Havoc rubbed its head against her leg in a bid for attention and Brona briefly leaned down to scratch the cat’s back.   “Tis weel kenned round here that I dinnae hold with the torturing of a mon, but I doubt that it the only reason there is such an effort at secrecy about you.   My cousin is little interested, and even less moved, by my disapproval of his actions.    Nor are ye here for ransoming as no one has been sent out to take a demand to anyone.”   She shrugged.   “I have considered many a reason for this but each one only raised more questions so I decided to come here and ask ye.”

            “Ah, and I have told ye.   He thinks I can tell him something.”

            “But what?   What could he possibly wish to learn that is worth treating ye like this?”

            Heming carefully considered his answer.   The woman appeared honestly concerned, even appalled, over his mistreatment, but he dared not trust in that.   Hervey could be trying to trick him into revealing something.  Too many men had fallen victim to believing in a woman’s softness, in her wiles and words of coring.   Even a few of his kindred had stumbled into such traps.   He could, however, tell her exactly why Hervey had caged him and was torturing him so assiduously.   If he spoke in the right tone of voice, used the right words, he could make her see it all as utter nonsense.   He might even get her to question her cousin’s sanity.

            “He thinks I can tell him how to live forever,” he said, pleased by the scorn-filled drawl he was able to produce from his parched throat.

            Brona stared at the man and forced herself not to gape.    “Why would he think ye could do that?”

            “My kin are long-lived.  The fool thinks as far too many others do and sees such strength and health as the result of magic.”

            “Does he think ye have some potion?  Mayhap some muttered spell words?”

            When Heming nodded, she frowned, recalling that many of the men in her family died young and not all from battle wounds, either.   It was sad but she had never seen anything unusual in their deaths.   Each one was easily explained.   If this man spoke the truth, however, it could be that Hervey feared some curse or the like.   It would also be just like her cousin to want to find out if some rumor about a potion for long life was true, even if he doubted it at first.

            “Then ‘tis wrong of him to do this to ye,” she said quietly.  “Verra wrong.”

            A spark of hope stirred to life inside of Heming but he hastily doused it.  Just because this woman believed her cousin was doing wrong did not mean that she would help him.   Hervey was her kinsman and her laird.  Even though her words implied that she held no affection for the man, going against him to the extent of releasing a prisoner could cost her dearly.   A blood tie would not save her from punishment for such a betrayal.

            “Do ye think that troubles him?” he asked

            Brona nearly winced at the bitterness underlying his words.   “Nay, not at all.”

            “He will kill me in the end, ye ken.”

            “I ken it,” she whispered.

            “And ye will do naught to stop him?”   He felt guilty for trying to push her into helping him when he knew it would endanger her, but he was fighting for his life and that of his clan.

            “Nay on your word alone.”

            “Fair enough, but if ye havenae learned anything in the near sennight I have been trapped here, my word may be all ye have.”

            A pinch of shame pricked Brona’s heart.   She had been hesitant, had tried to ignore the whispers of the others at Rosscurrach and the cries of pain and rage she had heard in the night.   While she had struggled to keep herself safe from Hervey’s anger this man had suffered horribly.  While she had continued to do her best to stay out of Hervey’s sight as much as possible, this man had been tortured and humiliated.

It was time to stop thinking only of protecting herself, she decided.   Her cowardice appalled her.   She had not realized how deeply it had entrenched itself within her heart.   Brona knew her caution around her cousin was completely justified, but nothing Hervey could do to her was worth allowing this man to continue to suffer like this if he was truly innocent of any crime.

The urge to immediately release him from his chains and his cage was strong, but she resisted it.   He could be lying to her, trying to stir her sympathies.   Although what few whispers she had understood seemed to indicate that he was indeed imprisoned here because of some strange tales Hervey had heard about the man, it was not enough.   Even if this man did not kill her the moment she released him, Hervey might.   Her cousin would certainly punish her in ways he did not care to even think about.  

She needed more information.   This time she would actively seek out the truth instead of puzzling over the occasional whisper she overheard.   Repulsed as she was by the way Hervey treated men guilty of some crime, she would not free a guilty man.   Hervey was the laird of Rosscurrach and it was his right, his duty, to punish those who broke the law.   The most she would do is protest his cruelty in meting out his punishments.   But, if what this man said were true, then she would have to do far more than protest; she would have to free him.

A tremor of fear passed through her at the mere thought of doing such a thing.   Simply protesting Hervey’s actions often brought retribution that left her bruised and aching.   What she was considering could easily get her killed if only from the severity of the punishment that followed.   Brona knew she would not only have to decide what to do about this man, but make a plan to protect herself as well.   A selfish, terrified part of her told her to just ignore it all as she had ignored so much else, but Brona silenced it.    Some wrongs could not be ignored.

“I didnae try to learn anything,” she confessed in a soft voice.   “Knowledge may be power, but ignorance is sometimes all that keeps one safe.   Howbeit, now I will try to learn something.”

“And then do what?”  Heming was surprised at how hard he had to struggle not to believe in this woman, not to let his hopes rise.

“If my cousin is treating ye so cruelly simply because he thinks ye may have some potion or spell that will make him live longer, then I will set ye free.”

“But nay right now.”

“I cannae act against my kinsmon, my laird, on your word alone.   I will visit ye again soon.”

Heming watched her walk away, pausing only to douse the torches she had lit, and he fought the urge to call her back, to try to convince her to act now.   It was an odd feeling to suffer from since he knew he should neither trust her nor believe her.   Holding out some hope to a condemned man was just the kind of cruelty Hervey Kerr would enjoy yet Heming found himself unable to believe that the fey Brona would have any part of that.    He almost smiled when he realized his inability to believe she was hand in fist with her brutal cousin grew from the way she acted towards her pets and they acted toward her.   It was a thin branch to hang his hopes on.

He suddenly tensed as he realized Brona had halted just a few feet away.   Heming knew two men had been dragged down here two days ago and he felt sure she had halted near their prison.   Closing his eyes, he concentrated on listening closely to what was said.   His hearing was far better than any Outsider’s and he hoped something would be said to help him come to some decision 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 that was a real possibility.   He also knew that if he was driven to feed again on either of those men, he was doomed.  No one at Rosscurrach would help him then.

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