"Town?", I enquired, raising my eyebrows. "You call this a town?"
"My home is this, stranger. Are you going to speak ill of Alconbury? We even have a church. A majes... majestic building, indeed. What are you doing here in the early morning, Master?" he slurred.
At least he was polite, so I engaged in a conversation. "I am trying to avoid a man called Dunter RedCap. The man wears a rust-coloured cloak and an iron spit. Have you seen anyone like that?"
The drunkard had turned abruptly pale and looked at me with wide eyes.
"What is it?", I asked impatiently. "Have you seen him?"
"Seen not, Master. But heard of him, and nothing good, I can whisper to you."
"Tell me then!" I became uneasy.
"Legend has it that Dunter, or RedCap, is a demon. He inhabits abandoned castles on the border between England and Scotland and he feeds on the blood of travellers. Armed with an iron spike and protected by iron-shod boots, he kills insidiously and with malice. He wears a cap or hood filled with the blood of his victims. As soon as it dries up, the demon needs a supply of fresh blood. Then he goes on the hunt. That little runt's a menace."
"Well, this runt was certainly not small. More like a giant, and he was on a donkey."
"A donkey, I see," the drunk groaned meaningfully. "When a Dunter leaves home, it doesn't bode well, that much is clear. Anyone who gets in his way is doomed."
I took a deep breath and thought of Richard and Amos with regret. "Damn!", I moaned softly.
Chapter 30
Over a week passed, during which I doggedly and quickly followed the Great North Road. I had stuck strictly to the plan and camped only in the countryside off the roads; the fear of RedCap was too much on my neck. Even though the nights were already getting cold, I had put up with the hardship. The ferret buff coat I had exchanged out of pity didn't keep me particularly warm, but it gave me a torn and inconspicuous appearance when I rode along the road during the day. I only used the black coat with the scarlet lining at night, in addition to my blanket, to get some warmth. Again and again I thought of Lady Isabelle, the room in Dover and the large, soft bed in which I had fucked and slept as if in a carefree dream. Isabelle ... Where was she now? Had she found her father's castle or had she been attacked defencelessly by bandits on the way there? I couldn't help thinking of her convincing performance of a man at the secret police checkpoint and couldn't help a wistful grin. No! This woman had already managed. She had certainly already reached her hometown and resumed her ancestral place in the noble hierarchy of her family. She was probably preparing to marry some French marquis and rarely thought of me. The thinking of it hurt. She had given me incomparable moments of happiness, but just as quickly she had let me fall. The humiliation and pain of her loss outweighed the fleeting memories of wild lovemaking. Had it perhaps been this heartlessness - this betrayal of my feelings - that had made me a traitor too? After pondering for a while, however, I had to answer this question, which I had asked myself, in the strictest rejection. Isabelle had neither betrayed me nor been heartless. She simply didn't want me to give up my dream just to be her lackey. Perhaps my betrayal had something to do with the fact that now with Isabelle out of my life, I had to make sure that I actually achieved this noble goal. Otherwise I would have lost everything, Lady Isabelle and my future in the Guard, or so it seemed.
Bitterly, I had to think again of Richard, whom I had betrayed as my only friend, and of Amos, whom I honestly didn't care much about. Had RedCap already snatched them up and used their blood to fill his cap? Who was this guy really? I didn't believe in ghosts and demons, but with Dunter I wasn't sure what to actually believe. Was he an ordinary man who only used this disguise to scare us greenhorns? After all, he hadn't come from some dark castle on the Scottish border. Stephen Fletcher himself had sent this guy after us.
All brooding did not help. All I had to do was not let him catch me and reach Dunnottar Castle unharmed. That's why I kept turning around, always afraid of noticing a red shadow behind me. I had passed the towns of Grantham, Doncaster and Darlington, always taking care to have only the absolute most necessary contact with the local population. I had merely taken care of my horse and had eaten a meal in the early hours of midday, which should have lasted me the whole day. At night, out in the open, I preferred to stay a little hungry, which encouraged a shallow sleep. Again and again I had asked for RedCap, although I had to be sure that at my pace I had long since lost him. I was driven by a strong fear of this visitation made flesh, which I can hardly describe. But one evening I became unreasonable. I had spent the last few nights shivering and freezing in the open and craved some warmth as I crossed the impressive Berwick Bridge after dusk and rode into Berwick-upon-Tweed. This town, I had read on the map, marked the border with Scotland. So I was inexorably approaching my destination. Although the town still belonged to England, the streets were full of men in belted plaids, those plaid blankets wrapped around the waist, the ends of which ended up as a sash over the shoulder. With strong beards and rolling R's in their pronunciation, they were impressive figures. I could hardly understand a word, their dialect sounded so strange.
I would have had the opportunity to take care of my horse as I did every evening and ride further north to camp somewhere in the wilderness, but this time I decided against it. I harboured the slight hope of having outrun RedCap by my speed, and besides, there were at least a dozen inns in town. The likelihood that the giant had caught up with me and would also choose the right inn from so many was extremely low. So I decided to stay in town, but I didn't look for the first inn I saw, but wandered around the narrow streets of the old town for a while until I discovered a small inn. 'The Dancing Goose' was written on a squiggly sign above the door and a strange-looking bird had been painted on a shield next to it. Maybe they served roast geese here, I thought to myself. I had enough money. So I didn't think any more about it and got out of the saddle to tie up my horse in front of the tavern.
The inside of the taproom was filled with a pleasant smell of food. I looked for a table in the corner from where I could see the door and asked the landlady about the speciality of the house: the aforementioned goose.
The landlady just laughed harshly and announced: "What smells so good here is not goose, but haggis."
I must have looked rather perplexed, because she immediately explained: "Haggis is a speciality of this area. Sheep's stomach is stuffed with heart, liver, lungs and kidney fat and finely seasoned with pepper, served with turnips and onions. Once eaten you will never want anything else, I can promise you that."
I strongly doubted this, as I almost had to suppress a gag reflex at her juicy description, but I didn't want to appear petty and at least try it, so I nodded cautiously, which the landlady accepted with satisfaction and moved away from my table again.
A little later, the steaming dish was in front of me. Two meatballs, surrounded by good-smelling vegetables, lay on the plate, reminding me of the testicles of a huge breeding bull. With this image in my mind, I didn't manage to taste them right away. I first took a hearty sip of ale to calm my thoughts. Who could have guessed that my greatest adventure to date was lying on a plate in a Scottish dive. I glanced around. There was a proper meal on every table next to me. There was obviously only the one dish served here. The men and women were picking up the filled portions and taking hearty bites. Judging by their expressions, they even seemed to like the taste, so I made a move, grabbed the first giant egg, smelled it inquiringly and then took a courageous bite. Contrary to expectations, the taste was not bad at all. It couldn't hold a candle to the legendary roast chicken à la Rahel, but what could?
After I had completely eaten the plate, not only due to my great hunger but also due to a slowly developing love for haggis, I wiped my hands, dripping with fat, on my already shabby clothes. That's when I heard a feminine voice at my back, speaking pointedly in my right ear, "A nice coat."
Irritated, I turned and looked into the grey-green eye
s of a youthful face dominated by a wry grin. The young woman could only be marginally older than me. She wore only a tattered linen dress and a cotton throw made of Scottish plaids. She had thrown it over her shoulder like a man. The dirt on the young woman's face was not very attractive. The long, red hair was dishevelled and carefree. Her flippant remark made me suspect she was mocking me. "Look at you!" so I countered rather clumsily, just to counter the perceived insult.
Her grin fell in on itself. "Slightly offended, the fine master?" she retorted defiantly.
Only now did I realise that my clothes must have seemed downright glamorous from her lowly perspective. The girl seemed to belong to the dregs of the local population. She would probably beg me for some money in a moment.
"I can see you are too good to strike up a conversation with a simple girl." She looked offended. "Have a good evening and I beg your pardon if I have disturbed your circles, noble sir."
Now I felt instantly bad. What kind of an ass had I become? First I betrayed my friends, then I treated poor people, to whom I myself had belonged only a few months ago, like horse manure. So I pulled myself together and patted the maiden on the shoulder, who then turned back to me in surprise.
"I didn't mean to be rude," I said apologetically. "I've just become a bit wary of anyone addressing me."
"That's all right. I know myself that I don't make a very pretty picture. But it still hurts to have it pointed out so clearly too."
It seemed I had actually offended her with my stupid remark. "Hey, I'd like to offer you a drink of ale, as a small apology, so to speak."
Immediately the beggar woman (I couldn't imagine any other profession for her with the best will in the world) had stepped up to my table and looked me in the eye. She wiped a small tear from the corner of her eye and looked bravely into my face. "You are a kind person, am I right?"
Slowly, I shook my head. "I wouldn't say that."
"So you are evil?" Her eyes widened as she realised the truth.
Slowly, I nodded. Underneath all the dirt, I suddenly thought I saw a feminine beauty that had remained hidden from me until now.
"How evil?" she asked in a husky voice.
Chapter 31
Gruffly, Mairead (she had been able to tell me her name) tore my shirt over my shoulder and grabbed roughly at my exposed body. She fell upon me like a ravenous she-wolf in a small room I had hastily rented. I couldn't explain to myself how it could have happened so quickly, but my dislike of the girl had suddenly given way to a fierce desire that swept me away like a storm.
She grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me close, breathing heavily. Willing and fascinated, I allowed her to kiss my lips resolutely. She brought her tongue into play. All this happened quickly and roughly, without vows of love or preliminaries.
I took off her linen dress in one go and reached for her breasts, which squirmed pliantly and softly under the pressure of my hands. My right hand slid lower, closed around one of the girl's buttocks and lifted her leg. I slid my fingertips through soft, frizzy hair between her legs. I thought I could already feel some moisture wetting my fingertips. My trousers suddenly felt uncomfortable. Grinning mischievously, Mairead moved her hand to the spot where it was most pressing and routinely opened the button placket. I'm sure it wasn't the first time she'd done that, it flashed through my mind as I felt her hand on my freed manhood.
"Are you going to pork me with that?" she gasped unrestrainedly. "Do you want to put that thick thing in my loose furrow?"
"Yes!" I moaned, clutching her buttocks. Mairead's vulgar language suggested that she did this sort of thing for a living, but I wasn't going to worry about that now. I lifted her up and pressed her against the quivering wall with a loud crash. Her twitching pelvis slid towards me. In a moment I would be ploughing the warm garden, which was covered in exotic-looking red growth. I groaned in anticipation of coupling as the beggar woman's elbow smashed emphatically against my temple. The blow had been delivered from above and turned with vehemence. With a booming skull, I let go of Mairead and slammed backwards onto the floorboards of the chamber. The pain on my temple was almost unbearable. I thought at that moment that nothing could be worse than this torment, when I was quickly proved wrong. Mairead had rammed her boot hard into my soft parts.
I cried out in anger and pain. My own damned stupidity! Completely unable to disengage myself from the cramped position the kick had earned me, I saw Mairead slip on her dress, search my doublet and pull the letter from the inside pocket of the lining with almost effortless ease - the letter with the royal seal. She touched her fingertips to her mouth and then pressed those fingers to my lips, smiling. It was probably meant to be a farewell kiss, because a blink of an eye later she had disappeared through the door of the chamber.
Panting, I struggled to my feet. The pain in my abdomen was unbearable, but I couldn't let the damned thief get away. Along with the letter, the deceitful creature had also stolen my future. I tucked my aching genitals back into my harem pants and opened the window. I quickly caught sight of the little thief. She stormed out of the tavern onto the forecourt and grabbed a horse tied to a railing in front of the establishment. She sat up effortlessly and gave the animal a good heeling.
The tavern was built quite low. There were only a few feet for me to climb to reach the ground from the first floor. I clambered out of the window, getting a little tangled with the bandolier of my rapier, then looked down to where my horse was waiting for me and jumped into the saddle with my legs spread. My shrill scream echoed through the night as I landed ungently with the middle of my body on the leather saddle cover. I had been able to break the fall a little with my hands, but only a little.
I looked around. The thief had just disappeared behind the next street corner. Impatiently I took up the chase. Mairead's horse was fast, but I still managed to keep up with her. We passed a dozing guard at the Berwick town gate and galloped out into the night countryside.
Mairead had already noticed that I was following her. She had increased her pace accordingly. However, she could not outrun me. The landscape had hardly any vegetation and thus no possibility of disappearing into cover. I always had her in sight.
Our path led north over rough rock and lichen-covered grassland. To our right, the road went steeply downhill towards the North Sea. The road ran directly along this rocky ridge, which did not make the chase any less dangerous. While the pain in my lumbar region gradually subsided, I thought about Mairead. The attack on me had not really been a surprise, come to think of it. All she had seen in me had been easy money. Just another sucker to be fleeced. Just another sucker who thought with his dick. Nothing simpler than that. But she hadn't stolen any money from me at all, just the royal letter. Why hadn't she been interested in my money bag? She must have known about the letter before the actual theft! What was going on here?
A mighty thunder filled the night sky. I looked to the east, where a wall of black was rolling towards us from the distance, broken only by occasional flashes of bright lightning. The wind, which had already been blowing heavily from the east all day, now took on stormy strength and ruffled my hair. The first raindrops splashed on my face. The thunder became more and more violent. Soon it felt as if hell had opened its gates. My skin was aching from the relentless rain and my horse's back felt unsteady and slippery.
We were rushing into a small valley surrounded by thick bushes when I heard a terrible sound in front of me. The panicked scream of a horse. I reined in my own mount as I realised that Mairead's horse had fallen over a fence next to a dilapidated croft and was now helplessly trying to get back on its feet. However, he would not succeed in this endeavour as the stallion's forelegs seemed to be broken. Shocked, I stopped some distance away. I looked around for the rider. Had she been crushed under the stallion's body? Moments later I had the answer. The thief had probably glided a few yards over the horse's back when it had stumbled. Now she came panting to him and pulled a pistol from the leather lining of the sa
ddle. She looked in my direction for a moment, but I thought she had difficulty perceiving me in the pelting rain. She must have assumed she had lost me. So I saw her turn back to her horse, patting his neck reassuringly. Then I saw a flash of lightning and heard the thunder of a gunshot. The horse went down with his skull crushed and didn't move anymore. Mairead, in a merciful act, had put an end to his suffering. At the same time, however, she had robbed herself of her means of defence against me. She took the saddlebag of the dead animal and at the same time pulled out an elongated item from a blanket. With these belongings she disappeared into the abandoned-looking dwelling.
I was shocked and fascinated at the same time. Mairead did not behave like a simple beggar or thief. Her demeanour was reminiscent of a shrewd fighter who knew her way around the craft of war. I had to be careful when facing her.
Soaked through, I jumped off my horse and tied it in the nearby branches. Then I drew the rapier from my bandolier and bravely set off. In the crack under the entrance door to the croft I could already see the slight glimmer of an oil lamp that Mairead must have lit. I opened the door without hesitation and without a sound, but when I found myself inside, the door slammed shut loudly, moved by the storm. The thief turned around, startled. She was holding a shiny thrusting sword in her hand. She had been expecting me.
"Get out of here Richard!" she shouted at me and pointed the blade at me.
"Richard?", I asked in astonishment, but did not lower my rapier. "What makes you think my name is Richard?"
"Just a hunch." She made a lunge before I could probe further. The blades touched with a fulminant clang. Sparks flew as she sharpened the blade of her rapier on the edge of mine, driving inexorably towards my neck. I fought back with a rehearsed parry, but Mairead was not to be ruffled. She shifted her weight, jumped back half a yard, and at the next opportunity lunged at me in a graceful spin. I parried her attack, but it was a feint. Mairead whirled around in a flash and the steel of her weapon slashed my shirt sleeve. Blood poured from a wound. I realised I had underestimated my opponent.
The Caledonian Race: A Pulp Adventure (George Glen Series Book 2) Page 18