Dungeon of Darkness

by April Hill

  McGregor had killed six good men on his first pass, most of Grymwald's entire guard, using little more than the giant claymore he carried and his fury. The surviving guards had turned and fled before he could wheel his horse and come at them once again. When the two enemies finally met, Duncan McGregor was already exhausted, severely injured, and losing blood from three great wounds. The battle was brief but brutal, and both combatants had come away scarred and crippled for life. But when Alric Grymwald fled the field in what should have been ignominious defeat, he was nonetheless the clear victor.

  McGregor had succeeded in destroying the once-handsome face of his detested opponent. He had delivered the savage blow that struck off the coward's right arm below the elbow, and driven him into hiding. But Grymwald's wounds, however disfiguring, would heal, in time. It was the lifelong, irreparable wound to Duncan McGregor's heart that would leave him in lasting grief, and unspeakable pain.

  * * * * *

  Alric Grymwald was annoyed. The Bishop of St. Cuthbert's Abbey would probably not arrive for several hours yet, and there was some question as to the legality of any interrogation of a suspected witch without the Bishop's austere presence. Father Duvalier, in essence, was little more than a "technician" in these cases, and since the late King Henry had instituted his irritating laws concerning trial by jury and other such nonsense, the role of even the church in these sensitive matters was sometimes difficult. Under different circumstances, of course, legality or its lack was not something over which Grymwald would trouble himself, but the questioning of Katherine Drummond must appear in all respects "legal." He would enjoy the "questioning" immensely, but it was the outcome that was the more important consideration here. When the Drummond woman was named a witch and burned at the stake tomorrow morning, all proper legalities must appear to have been observed.

  The initial questioning had gone badly. The girl confessed nothing under threat of torture and admitted to no unholy alliances. Even with the prospect of having her thumbs submitted to the "pilniewinks," the dreaded thumbscrews, she had denied the charge. The "witch pricker" had then detected several tiny but suspicious moles and a blister on her heel, which she claimed to be the result of an ill-fitting shoe. Even the undeniable "witch's teat" beneath her breast, upon which her kind were wont to suckle demons, she had boldly proclaimed to be the result of a childhood "fishing" accident.

  Irrefutable evidence of her bestial habits had been found in the very pocket of the stolen holy vestments in which she had arrived—an object so revolting that even the good father found it loathsome to touch. She scoffed when the object was presented to her as the hideously gnawed wrist bone of a newborn male infant, and even had the effrontery to call the thing "the leg of a roasted capon"! On her right wrist, the witch bore the sign of the Beast himself, yet the insufferable slut dismissed the mark as a "burn."

  "Suffered on the very night you murdered my mother and father and their entire household!" she had screamed at her host, straining at the straps on her ankles and wrists. Indeed, Father Duvalier observed, it seemed that the witch would fly from the table and tear out Lord Grymwald's very throat, were she able. Even these violent contortions, the priest explained, were evidence of possession, and a demon-given ability to levitate, were she to be even briefly released. Subjected to submersion and near drowning for close to an hour, she sputtered, gagged and then spit a blasphemous mouthful of water at Father Duvalier himself.

  "There is no question," the exhausted prelate had concluded, "that she has consorted with demons, and perhaps with Satan himself." Wiping water from his face as he spoke, he explained his findings to the man who had asked him there. "I have heard evidence in her cries that she converses in unknown tongues with Asomodeus, Balam, and even Behemoth. The inverted cross beneath her breast alone speaks clearly of her possession. She is proven virtuous, and has no doubt sacrificed her virginity in some hideous, unholy Sabbat. And now, she has mocked Heaven itself, by covering her lascivious body with the raiment of a holy order. 'Now are the works of the flesh made manifest,' it is said. Still, m'lord, we cannot fully ascertain a witch's guilt until she has been put to rigorous torture and confessed. We must wait for the Lord Bishop, at which time, I will continue the trial, by way of red hot irons and a witch's bridle, perhaps. We have found that the removal of the fingernails often brings a prompt confession, as well. With your permission, Lord Grymwald, I would prefer to continue my examination with the witch gagged."

  Kathy closed her eyes and tried very hard to see Stephen's face.

  * * * * *

  When the Bishop failed to arrive, Alric Grymwald walked the floors of his chambers, enraged by the delay, and swearing vengeance on the two trusted men he had sent to bring him here. He had hoped to put the Drummond bitch under torture before burning her, but the idiot priest Duvalier had suddenly developed scruples. There were, it appeared, strict rules about these things. Grymwald believed in the actual existence of witches and demons in the same way he believed in the fairy folk and unicorns, but the guise of pious witch hunter had proven a convenient way to dispose of those who annoyed him, or stood in the way of one of his nefarious activities. Finally, after mulling the problem over for a while, he chose the only reasonable option. The girl would burn at once, before McGregor could came looking for her. Within the month, he would be lord of Drumannach.

  * * * * *

  It was still dark when two guards in leather tunics and masks dragged Kathy from the tiny cell where she had spent the night, too exhausted by her ordeal to be as frightened as she knew she should be. When she was dragged down the steps and hurled down on her hands and knees, though, she saw the tall wooden stake The Voice had prepared for her. It stood in the center of the barren courtyard, with a towering pile of branches and straw arranged around its base. They had allowed her to put on her shift, but she shivered in the cold air and fought to control her trembling. Behind her, the French priest was intoning what she assumed was a prayer or the last rites. The pounding of her heart and the rush of blood in her ears made it difficult to hear his words, and she wondered bitterly what would happen if she fainted. Would they attempt to revive her first? There probably wasn't a good deal of amusement to be had in burning an unconscious witch. Katherine shuddered and hoped her sense of humor wouldn't fail when she needed it most.

  Suddenly, one of the guards thrust a torch deep into the stack of dry branches. A small tongue of flame appeared, creeping slowly but relentlessly upward, toward the tall wooden stake.

  Despite her best efforts, Kathy knew that she was about to start crying.

  Someone took her elbow and yanked her up from the ground, pushing her across the courtyard to the foot of the pyre and up the set of crude steps, with the priest right behind her. One the guards shoved her roughly up against the tall stake, holding her there while the priest explained that if she confessed now, she would be hanged first, taken down unconscious (in the name of mercy,) and then burned. If she refused to confess, she would simply burn, still awake. Since neither choice appealed to Katherine, she stopped crying and spat in the priest's face. Somewhere, she knew that Alric Grymwald would be watching, and it was the only gesture she could think of.

  As the flames crept closer, the masked guard pulled her tightly against the wooden stake, drew her arms behind her, and began to lash her in place. Kathy closed her eyes and tried to remember at least one of the prayers she had been taught.

  During the long night, Kathy had decided that if matters reached the point they now had, she would not struggle. There was nothing noble in this decision, but she knew that she couldn't win such a fight and that her struggle would only increase Grymwald's pleasure and satisfaction. She would have no control over what happened when the fire reached her, but this much, she could manage—maybe. She closed her eyes, sighed deeply and tried to see Stephen's face.

  As another guard came up the steps, carrying a second torch, Kathy felt her knees buckle beneath her. The guard was reaching out to steady her
when suddenly, he seemed to freeze in place, with an odd look of surprise on his ugly face. As the torch fell from his hands and tumbled down the steps, the man sank to his knees and fell forward, against her legs. Thinking she had imagined it, Kathy glanced up and saw that he had two arrows in his broad back.

  In the pandemonium that followed, Kathy remained bewildered for several seconds, watching the guard fall face-forward into the flames that had now crept within inches of her feet. The French priest was on his knees, praying, but whether his supplication was for the benefit of her soul or his own was difficult to tell amid the confusion and noise. Then, as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water in her face, she came awake, and fought to free her hands. The guard who had been lashing her to the post had simply vanished, leaving his task unfinished.

  By the time she had worked her hands free, the flames were leaping skyward, and she could feel the searing heat against her bare legs. Kathy stood for a moment at the edge of the singed platform and hurled herself across the flames to the courtyard, landing somewhat immodestly on her knees, with her naked bottom peeking out from beneath her scorched shift. Though it wasn't the costume that she had envisioned herself wearing when she finally did battle with her hated enemy, she was grateful not to be encumbered by yards of female skirts.

  Keeping as low to the ground as she could, Kathy raced across the courtyard to the wall where she had seen the cache of stored weapons. All around her, Grymwald's men lay on the ground with arrows sticking out of them. One of them lay flat on his back, an axe planted squarely between his eyes. Others were at the wall, attempting frantically to arm themselves. Still others were already armed with crossbows, and looking up at the battlements for their unseen attackers. A guard grabbed for her as she reached the wall, but she darted beneath his arm and managed to snatch a long bow and filled quiver from its peg. She was still groggy, and while it was mostly luck that she was able to evade capture, it was obvious that the trapped men in the courtyard were more interested in escaping the rain of arrows than in apprehending one escaping witch.

  Kathy clambered up onto a low wall and teetered precariously for a moment before crawling further up to a higher one, looking for a secure spot from which to shoot. Duncan had always told her to go for height when outnumbered, and now, she did just that. Moments later, she downed her first guard, with an arrow through his kneecap. Not fatal, but crippling. Better than nothing. Her next arrow found its target between a fat guard's shoulder blades—a definite kill. The next was a clean shot into the left chest —an almost sure kill. Disappointing, she thought. Duncan had taught her better.

  She had no doubt at all who was attempting to rescue her, although she hadn't yet caught sight of either Stephen or Duncan. Then, she glanced up and saw a dark, crouching figure running along the parapets. Kathy sighed with relief. Stephen!

  By now, most of the guards who were still alive had retreated into several covered sheds. Kathy counted thirteen bodies lying in the courtyard and several injured who had crawled away into the shadows. Some of these were no doubt dead, as well, and from what she had seen of The Voice's force, there weren't many left. But where was the cowardly murderer?

  Seeing no other available targets, Katherine walked cautiously down from the wall and across the courtyard, stopping only once to pull a dagger from the chest of a dead guard. By the doorway, huddled into a sort of ball and weeping hysterically, she found the French priest. Disgusted, but too weary to take any sort of vengeance on such a poor excuse for a man, she stepped over him, and continued. Suddenly, a guard in the now familiar red and black surcoat came up behind her, and Kathy whirled to slash at him with the dagger. The man grabbed her wrist in mid-air and laughed.

  "Excellent form, my love, but not high enough, had I been an enemy!"

  "Stephen!" she cried, and threw herself into his arms, weeping.

  For several moments, she stood wrapped in his embrace, waiting for her heart to stop racing, and to stop crying.

  "Where is Duncan?" she asked suddenly, looking quickly around the silent courtyard. "And the man who brought me here?"

  Stephen nodded upward, toward the stairwell. "His name was Alric Grymwald," he said simply, "and he's dead. Duncan seems unhurt."

  Together, they went inside, and climbed the long stone steps to the first floor. In the same room where she had first been questioned, they found Duncan, standing by a window at the back, and looking out across the open fields. Some feet away, the body of Alric Grymwald lay in a pool of blood, his eyes still open and staring at the ceiling. Katherine walked to Duncan, and leaned against his chest. He slipped his cloak over her shivering shoulders, wrapped an arm around her and kissed the top of the head.

  "Are ye ready to go home, yet, Katie Drummond? Back to Scotland."

  "Oh, yes, Duncan!" she cried. "Yes!"

  * * * * *

  Afterward, they simply walked out of the front gate, leaving everything, and not looking back as they rode away across the green fields and through the hedgerows. By the time they reached the road, the sun had broken through the clouds, shining brightly on the swaying trees. As they passed, Katherine saw the little donkey, still grazing contentedly in the wet grass where she had left him. Not far away, covered hastily with leaves and branches, lay the stripped bodies of the two guardsmen whose stolen black and red uniforms had gained Stephen and Duncan McGregor access to the well-guarded castle. Kathy closed her eyes and shook her head, knowing that if these men had gotten as far as the Abbey and brought the Bishop, as ordered…

  They had ridden for over an hour before Kathy dropped briefly back behind the two men, and looking up, noticed a stain on the back of Duncan's tunic. She spurred her horse forward, and touched his arm.

  "You've been wounded!" she cried, indicating his left shoulder. "We must stop, at once!"

  "Nonsense, lass," McGregor grinned. "'T is a scratch. When ye've been a warrior for a few more years, ye'll know that it's a rare fight you walk away from unbloodied. Which brings to mind your own deeds back there. Ye did yer'self proud, Katie. I'd have thee at my back in battle any day."

  She sighed. "I wanted to kill him myself. It's all I have dreamed of since I was a child."

  Duncan shook his head. "A man's death is never a good thing to have on one's soul, lass—even an evil man's death. Alric Grymwald and I made our appointment together years before ye'r own. Besides, my love, ye were quite well occupied elsewhere, as I recall."

  "It's my fault you were wounded," she said softly, and Duncan raised an eyebrow.

  He laughed. "Is it now? I would have said the fault was Alric Grymwald's, but if ye're determined to take the fault, remind yer'self each day that what needed doing is done. None of us was safe until the man was dead, Katie. It was now, or some other time not far away. It's over, and we'll speak of it no more." He lifted her hand, and kissed the raw spot on her inner wrist where she had been tied. "Which does not mean," he said with a chuckle, "that y'er not in for the paddling of y'er life when we get thee home! And this one, Stephen'll have to fight me for!"

  Some days later, as the evening mist was beginning to settle around the cottages and pathways of Cala, the three travelers arrived home, weary, and each of them older than when they left.

  * * * * *

  Duncan McGregor died six days later, of the deep wound he had sworn didn't exist. They buried him beside Johanna, under the Rowan tree on the hill above Caisteal Gailleann, where Kathy could see it from her window. There was no ceremony, because Duncan had detested ceremony, and Kathy cried as little as possible, because Duncan had disliked tears as fervently as he had ceremony.

  With Gailleann hers now, she and Stephen moved from their own cottage into McGregor's small but Spartan castle, and Kathy set about making it a comfortable home. Upon their return to Cala, she had noticed a gradual change in herself. Being a country wife didn't seem quite as stifling as it once had—with some exceptions. And though she didn't know it yet, she would soon become a mother to a boy they would
name Duncan. She had decided that she would probably never return to Drumannach and rebuild it. That part of her life was over, and, as Duncan had said, "We'll speak of it no more."

  Kathy's own injuries in the ordeal had been slight, and quickly forgotten. But her "transgression" had not. It was more than a month later when Stephen walked into their bedroom one afternoon, carrying a large wooden paddle he had fashioned for himself that very morning. When Kathy seemed startled, he smiled. "The time has come, my love, to pay the piper. I made you a promise in far off Thurlestone village that I have not forgotten and neither have you."

  "I have forgotten!" she lied. "What sort of..."

  "I will add that lie to your list of crimes, darling, which is growing very long. Remove your clothing, my love—all of it. I will have you comfortable for this spanking, since I'm afraid it will take some time."

  When she had done as he asked, Stephen took her by the hand and led her to the bed, where he sat down and then pulled her across his lap, with her head and arms quite comfortably arranged on the thick coverlet.

  Katherine didn't resist, knowing very well that she richly deserved whatever he had in mind. Still, when he pulled her closer against him, and wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her in place, she groaned.

  After that, he said nothing else, but laid the first of perhaps twenty blistering smacks across her trembling buttocks with the sturdy paddle, while Kathy took the edge of the coverlet between her teeth to stifle her cries. As each blow landed with a startling crack, she tried not to make a sound, but failed, not so much from the pain, which she had expected, but from the emotional exhaustion, which she had not. She moaned throughout the whipping and wept— not loudly, but so he could hear her. When he had finished, she didn't move at once, but lay there, sobbing softly, her head on her arms.

  Before today, Kathy had never actually wept during a spanking, but now, she didn't seem able to stop. Suddenly, it was as if all of her emotions, all the crying she had denied herself, swept over her like a wave of grief and pain that had nothing at all to do with the whipping, or with the ache in her backside.