The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “I shall be going to Cryton’s hovel,” he said, “and I shall take the coin with me.”

  Turning, he dropped the money pouch into the horsehair sporran that hung from his belt and left the ancient kirk. It was only a middling walk to Old Town. Less than a full mile. The city disintegrated with every stride.

  Near Gregor Wynd, an old woman sat hunched and immobile on a stump fashioned into a stool. Outside a tilted pub, a dog leaned against its leash and snarled a slavering warning.

  At the corner of two crooked, unmarked streets, a tall, narrow house slumped towards an alley. Its foundation was sagging, its mortar crumbling. Two men lounged beside the listing door. One was tall and scrawny. The other was short and scrawny.

  They rose warily to their feet as he stopped nearby.

  “Sod off,” said the smaller of the two.

  “Good day to you, too, lad,” Mackay rumbled.

  The pair glanced narrowly at him then each other.

  “Who the devil are you and what do you want?”

  “I am naught but a man of peace,” Mackay said and gave them his best smile, but some had likened his best to a snarling glower.

  “Gaw, them men of peace be awful big buggers these days ain’t they?” the tall one said and his companion guffawed.

  Mackay made certain his own expression never changed. To this sort fear was like the scent of blood to a starving hound. “I’ve come to see Cryton.”

  The short, scrawny lad shifted restlessly. “I don’t know no one by that name.”

  “Nay?” He held his smile with stout resolve. “Then I’ve come to see whoever you’re beholden to.”

  “I ain’t beholden to no man,” said the tall one, but just then the door opened. A round-faced fellow with a top hat set at a jaunty angle sauntered through, his right arm thrown over the bare shoulders of a woman one could only call a trollop.

  “Ho there, what goes on here?” he asked, voice jovial and a little too loud.

  “This bloke here says he wants to talk to Cryton. I says I don’t know no one by that name.”

  The man in the top hat shifted his gaze to Mackay and smiled. “Brother Brenan,” he said. “You have to forgive Kerry here. He don’t have no good memory. ’Tis a pleasure to see you again.”

  Mackay remained as he was. He was a man of peace, but at times such as these it was difficult to remember why. “I’ve come for a boy,” he said.

  The man called Cryton stared at him for a moment, then threw back his head and guffawed at the murky sky. “Ah, you wouldn’t know it to look at him would you, luv?” he said, addressing the girl at his side. “But the big beast of a Highlander here has a weakness for the lads.”

  The girl turned her eyes towards Mackay, but they were all but dead to the world. Too far gone to save. He had seen it a hundred times.

  “I heard you have a child called Burch.”

  “Burch?” Cryton grinned again. His teeth were straight and unstained. His soul was not. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Brother. We’re good-hearted people here. But we ain’t running no foundry.”

  “Nay, you’re––” Mackay began, but stopped himself carefully. “I’ve coin for his release, same as the last time.”

  “Release! You make it sound as if we’ve got children chained to the walls. That’s not the case atall, is it, Sil?”

  The tall fellow shook his head.

  “Sure we stumble across the odd orphan now and again, but we do the godly thing. Give them a place to sleep, maybe a loaf of bread to keep ’em from death’s yawning door.”

  Anger rumbled ominously in Mackay’s innards. “You make them steal and beat them senseless if they fail to produce––” He stopped himself again. “As I said at the outset, I’m a man of peace and willing to pay for the child.”

  Cryton canted his head. “Wear out the last lad so soon, did you?”

  Mackay felt his hands grind into fists. “There are brothels and rum houses on half the streets in this burg. Bring the boy out now or I’ll take me coin elsewhere.”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t have no spare lads lying about.”

  Mackay stared at him a long moment, then nodded once and turned away, but Cryton caught his arm. Mackay stared at the hand on his biceps, kept his emotions in careful check, then slowly glanced over his shoulder at the offender.

  The younger man dropped his hand and took a cautious step back. “All the lads are out earning their keep.” He grinned, but his cockiness had frayed a bit. “Delivering milk and whatnot. Ain’t that right, Annie, luv?” he asked. She nodded vaguely, eyes bruised and ancient.

  “Why don’t you come in and sit for a bit?” Cryton invited. “They’re certain to be back soon.”

  “Aye.” The shorter of the two guards pushed the door wide. It moaned like a tortured ghost. “Aye, come on in. We’ll fetch you some tea and crumpets.”

  Mackay knew better than to comply. Knew a serpent when he heard its hiss, but according to his sources the boy named Burch had just arrived there two days before. Not too long to bring him back from the brink. Not too long to find his soul.

  He took a long step across the broken threshold.

  Inside, it was dark and musty. Debris was scattered across the bare wood floor. He scanned it briefly. No children were in sight, but a slim woman stood against the far wall with her back to them. She was dressed in a ragged, grey frock facing a window that had long ago lost its panes.

  “Here we are. Home sweet home. It looks a bit rough now, but … Swift!” His tone took on a bright menace. “I believe I told you to clean up this mess.”

  Mackay’s heart thumped at the sound of the name, stopped as she turned towards them.

  It was her in flesh and blood. The lass who had struck him unconscious. The lass who had stolen the kirk’s alms. But what had they done to her? There was a welt on her temple and purple bruises stretched like long fingers across her throat. Chains encircled her ankles, chafing the skin of her bare feet, but her eyes were the same, sparking with intellect, snapping with life.

  Their gazes met with a clash. For a second there was something there. Hope or regret or fear. He wasn’t sure which, but in a moment she turned to Cryton and smiled. “Go to hell.” Her voice was as softly melodious as he remembered.

  The villain’s lips curved into a snarl. Then he leapt across the floor and struck her across the face. She staggered back, hitting the wall with a sickening thud.

  The sheer violence of it stole Mackay’s breath away, but Cryton was moving again, grabbing her by the hair, drawing back his fist for another strike.

  Without being entirely aware he had moved, Mackay crossed the distance and caught the villain’s wrist, twisting hard, then turning to watch the room at large.

  “Hey!” Sil yelled. “Let him go ’less you want your brains spattered clear to Holyrood.”

  Mackay stood perfectly still, eyes steady on the man with the pistol. “I’m a man of peace.” The words were more for himself than anyone. A mild reminder not to snap the other’s arm like a dry chicken bone. “Don’t make me do something for which I must pay penance.”

  “Get your fookin’ hands off me!” Cryton snarled.

  Mackay smiled. The expression felt predatory and tight. “That which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth the man.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” Cryton hissed, bent away at the waist.

  “I’m talking about you telling the tall scrawny lad there to put the gun down.”

  “Go to––”

  Mackay cranked up his arm a little, refusing to enjoy the other’s whimper of pain.

  “Sil!” he shrieked. “God dammit, drop the pistol.”

  “But––”

  “Drop it!”

  Mackay watched it hit the floor and drew a careful breath through his nose. “Now tell the other scrawny lad to drop the knife.”

  “He ain’t got no––”

  A little more pressure on his arm. “Tell him.�
��

  “Kerry!”

  An eight-inch blade struck the hardwood.

  “Much better.”

  “You’re dead, you’re worse than dead,” Cryton snarled, but Mackay ignored him.

  “I’ve changed me mind,” he announced to the room, looking at no one in particular. “I want the lass there instead of the boy.”

  A slow smile spread across Cryton’s pale complexion. “Titties like that could make a saint randy, aye?”

  Mackay refrained from shattering the bone, though it was a close thing. “You’ll let her go,” he said.

  “The fook I will. She was poaching goods on my turf.”

  “Leave her to me. She’ll poach no more.”

  “Going to keep her too busy on her back to––” he began, then grunted in pain.

  “Unchain her and I’ll give you the coin intended for the lad.”

  Cryton sniggered. “You’re bad cooked, old––”

  “What lad?” Swift asked.

  Mackay didn’t turn towards her, though he heard her chains clatter as she moved. “Release her,” he ordered.

  “What lad?” she asked again and strode towards him, links jangling. He glanced at her against his will. Anger burned like acid at the sight of her bruises.

  “Good Brother Brenan here comes to our side of town to buy a fair-haired lad now and again,” Cryton said.

  “Why?” Her eyes were steady.

  “Why do you think, girl?” Cryton asked and made a rude gesture with the arm that wasn’t trapped behind his back.

  Her face paled as she turned towards Mackay. “Is that true?”

  He said nothing in his defence.

  “The boy in the kirk …” She paused as if remembering back. “The one eating bread and jam …” She cleared her throat. “The one you called Rye. He was one of them?”

  “I did not bring him from here,” Mackay said.

  “But you took him in. Fed him.”

  “Maybe he likes his slaves fat when he foo––” Cryton began, then shrieked in pain.

  Swift jerked her gaze from Cryton to Mackay. “Tavis … you’ll find him in Newberry House on Wendy Close. Take him. He’s a good lad. Kind-hearted. Take him before stench like this get their hands on him.

  “Stench am I?” Cryton snarled.

  “Go now!” Swift pleaded. “Before …”

  But just then there was a sliver of noise from behind, a momentary warning. Mackay twisted about. A pistol appeared against the mouldering window frame. Fire exploded from its muzzle. Pain seared the side of his head. Swift screamed He stumbled backwards. Something struck him from behind, and then he fell, dropping into darkness.

  “Are you alive?” a voice hissed.

  Mackay opened his eyes, but it did little good. The world was as black as old sins. His head pounded with pain, his body throbbed with feverish heat.

  “Wake up.” The voice again, whispered from deep shadows. But he recognized it as Swift’s. It was still melodious though it had lost the polished sheen he’d first heard from her lips.

  “Where am I?” His own voice was barely human, guttural with pain, rusty with disuse.

  “The cellar.”

  Thoughts swirled murkily in his head. Memories streamed past. “Beneath Cryton’s hovel?”

  “Aye.”

  “And the lads he keeps?”

  “Upstairs.”

  He nodded. She exhaled quietly as if she’d been holding her breath.

  “For such a brawny big bloke, you go down terrible easy, Highlander.” Her words may have been sardonic, but her voice trembled, cranking up a little guilt for the worry he had caused her. “Do you oft let others knock you unconscious?”

  He raised a hand, testing the wound. Pain shot through him, but the bullet seemed to have just grazed his skull. As luck went, that was as good as his was likely to get. “’Tis a poor habit of mine. That I see now.”

  “And little else in this damnable hole. Why the devil––”

  “This defileth the man.” he quoted numbly. His head rocked with pain.

  She was silent for a moment. “You don’t approve of cursing?”

  “Nay, but this seems the proper place for it if there be such a thing.”

  “Can you sit?”

  He shifted, trying. It took all his effort, but finally he was slumped against the rocky wall. She sat beside him, leaning her head against the damp stone. He saw now for the first time that she was chained again and realized that he was too.

  “Are you well?” he asked.

  “Well?” There may have been humour in her voice, which did not seem quite right considering the circumstances. “They’ve taken my hard-won baubles. I’m chained to a wall, and … oh, Cryton plans to kill me upon his return, but otherwise, aye, I’m fair to middling.”

  “Why would he wish you dead?”

  “You heard him, Highlander,” she said. “I was picking pockets in his territory. And doing a rather handsome job of it.”

  “If you’re good at the task, wouldn’t he be wiser to use your skills than kill you?”

  “Wiser?” she said and laughed a little. “Aye, I’ll mention that to him. He’s sure to see sense.”

  Mackay exhaled wearily. “Me apologies,” he said.

  “Apologies?” Her voice was soft.

  “For this …” He motioned towards the darkness. “I did not mean to cause you trouble.”

  She was silent for a long moment. “What did you mean, Highlander?”

  He remained silent.

  “Why did you come? Truly.”

  A fine question. He glanced to his right, perhaps looking for a way out, but there was little to see. “To make amends, mayhap.”

  “I believe I struck you.”

  So she had, clever little nymph. Truth to tell, he didn’t oft allow that to happen. He must be getting old. “Amends to God,” he corrected. “Or mayhap …” He shook his head. It hurt. “Mayhap to the world at large if there be no god.”

  She didn’t seem to wish to argue religion. “So you truly do take in lads.”

  “I’ve no wish to see them end up to be the likes of me.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Foolish enough to let themselves be bested twice in one week?”

  He snorted softly. That hurt too. “Without skills,” he said. “Good for naught but killing.”

  “Is that what you are then?”

  “’Tis what they wished me to be. ’Tis why they sent me to battle. To war. And war is killing,” he said. “Little matter how you dress it in pageantry and honour. ’Tis naught but murder made legal. But the murderers are allowed to walk free. Nay, are honoured as if they were heroes and not beasts sent to slaughter the––” His voice failed him. He pressed his eyes closed.

  “You are no beast,” she whispered.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that she sat a little closer.

  “You know not what I’ve done, lass. I have––” he began, but she reached up and cupped his cheek with her palm. Her touch was warm and tender.

  “I know you came to save a boy you’ve not met,” she whispered.

  “’Tis only––” he began again, but she trailed a finger across his lips.

  “I know you would have saved me.”

  For a moment he was lost in her eyes, but he would not allow himself to be soothed. He shook his head.

  “Do not make me out to be sommat I am not.”

  “Very well. But I insist you do the same. You are not a beast,” she whispered and he wished to believe.

  “What am I then, lass?”

  She smiled a little. “You are a man,” she said. “The good and the bad of it. But in you …” She splayed her fingers gently across his cheek. “I think there is more good.”

  “Then ye are mistaken.”

  She was silent for a moment. “And here I was thinking the scriptures mentioned something of forgiveness.”

  “As it turns out, I am not well suited for that sort of thing. For
myself or others,” he said and she laughed.

  “Something amuses ye, lass?’

  “Tell your stories to someone who didn’t see you spare Cryton. Or me, come to that.”

  He ignored the latter part of her statement. “Mayhap you forgot his minions were armed.”

  “They were not armed like you,” she said and slipping her hand from his cheek, ran it down his biceps. “No,” she said. “You are good. Better than this world deserves.”

  Their gazes met. A thousand hopeless wishes soared momentarily between them. Each was more foolish than the last, and yet he could not resist kissing her.

  Their lips met with careful warmth, pressed, held, healed.

  She drew back, breathless. “You’re rather good at that for a priest, Highlander.”

  “Postulant hopeful,” he corrected.

  She smiled, then sobered and slipped her hand across his chest and on to his throat. Her fingers seemed to burn there. “I’ve a favour to ask.”

  He nodded once. It was all he could manage. How long had it been since he’d felt a kind woman’s touch?

  “Will you take Tav to the kirk where you reside?”

  He drew a careful breath through his nostrils. “The boy on Wendy Close.”

  “Aye.”

  He lifted an arm. A chain drooped from it. “I fear I’ve no means to do so, lass.”

  She nodded stiffly, lavender eyes painfully solemn in the darkness. “If I can free you, will you care for him?”

  “If we are free why not care for him your––”

  A scrape of noise from above stopped his words.

  “Shh!” She jerked towards the sound, then scooted closer, lips all but touching his ear. “Cryton will return in a minute.” He could feel her shiver. “To gloat and to …” She paused. “He likes untried girls. He’ll not kill me before he takes me.”

  Mackay sat very still, absorbing her words and trying to remain calm. But the beast in him was already rearing its vengeful head.

  “He’ll have the keys to our chains on his person. I can filch them and toss them to you.”

  “I cannot kill him, lass,” he said, but even in the darkness he could discern the welt on her temple and felt rage flare through him like flame set to pitch. “Though I ache to avenge the marks he put on …” He drew a deep breath. “I’ve made a vow.”