Dungeon of Darkness Read online

  There was no avoiding Thurlestone, however, for it was a large market town that straddled the road, with a swiftly flowing river on one side and open meadows on the other. To ride around was impossible. To ride through was perilous, at best.

  Thurlestone was bustling that market morning, jammed with townspeople and farmers and the dozens of small merchants and tradespeople there to display their wares and hawk their services. Clusters of simple wooden carts stood about the noisy town square, piled high with grain and produce, crates of ducks and chickens, and a seemingly endless variety of other merchandise. Smaller goods, from trinkets to tools, had been spread out on simple blankets laid directly on the ground, making progress through the square slow.

  After entering the main gate, the trio was forced to dismount and lead their weary horses through the crowded square and its surrounding streets, which were also clogged with makeshift booths and rude stalls and thronged with shoppers. And it was here, as they turned into a quiet alleyway to avoid the worst of the mob, that Kathy made an impetuous and very unwise decision. With this morning's spanking still fresh in her mind and the sting of the leather scabbard still throbbing in her backside, she was in no mood to forgive either Stephen, who had done the spanking, or Duncan, who had found it so amusing. To Kathy's way of thinking, the event had been humiliating and unfair, and her anger had not diminished in the ensuing hours. And with each mile they'd come since then, with her bottom sore and her temper seething, her determination to prove to her traveling companions that she was not so easily pushed about had grown stronger. The two of them needed to learn that she was perfectly capable of making her own way, and her own decisions. And the way to do that, she decided finally, was to return to Drumannach—alone— and seek the answers everyone was so eager to keep from her.

  The ideal opportunity to escape presented itself just after they entered the alley—and escape was something at which Kathy was well practiced.

  At the age of six, immediately upon their arrival at his village of Cala, Duncan had seen to it that Kathy began attendance at the parish school of St. Ebba the Elder. Over the years, an assortment of exasperated nuns had done their best to provide her the excellent education the Laird McGregor demanded, while making her into a proper lady and potential wife at the same time. The education had "taken," but the making of a proper wife had proven more difficult. Katherine had spent many hours each day in the company of the good and gentle sisters, studying deportment, embroidery, and cooking. She had helped the sisters in the kitchen and in the laundry, sometimes out of charity, but more often as an assigned penance for some misbehavior.

  Which was why, when she passed down the alley at Thurlestone and glanced in the rear gate of a small convent, Kathy felt quite at ease slipping through the gate, unnoticed by either Stephen or McGregor, who walked some distance ahead of her, leading their horses and hers.

  It was only a short walk through the convent's weed-choked vegetable garden to the back of the building, where she found the privy, and, quite unexpectedly, the washhouse. Her original intention had been to elude her two unwanted guardians by merely passing through the convent garden and re-entering the town square from the other side. When she came upon the washhouse, though, with its sagging lines of freshly laundered wimples and veils and coarse woolen tunics, it occurred to her that a disguise might prove an excellent idea. And what better disguise than a simple holy sister, humble, unassuming—and invisible.

  Katherine was annoyed to find everything on the line wet and still dripping. Her plan appeared doomed to failure until she spied a large basket heaped with what she took to be dry, laundered clothing, ready to be returned to its owners. The order must be a poor one, Kathy thought sadly, as most of the clothing in the basket was worn and often patched. Quickly, she gathered up a complete habit—a brown woolen tunic and scapular, black cowl and veil, and the mandatory thick stockings, and then stole quickly away through a convenient side gate. She slipped into a dark recess off the alleyway and changed hurriedly. Cramming her unruly mass of red hair under the snug cowl, she stepped out of her own blue tunic and kirtle and donned the heavy woolen habit and stockings. The transformation was almost complete with the addition of the linen scapular. With no looking glass available, she positioned the wrinkled black material atop her head as best she could and looked down at herself. All she lacked were the simple sandals and long wooden rosary about her waist that she'd seen on the nuns at St. Ebba's. Still, though, while the missing accessories might well raise the suspicions of a particularly scrupulous Mother Superior, it was doubtful that anyone else would notice.

  The nun disguise proved to be not as clever an idea as Katherine had originally thought. By the time she walked the length of the alley and approached the square, the layers of thick wool had already become insufferably hot and prickly against her skin—and against her sore bottom, especially. And as she grew even warmer, she began to notice a highly disagreeable odor emanating from her threadbare costume, a faint stench that made it clear that the pile of clothing she had chosen to steal had not been washed, at all. The garments smelled, in point of fact, as if they had never been laundered in their very long, hard years of service. As the temperature rose, it also became clear that the habit's former owner had practiced something well short of rigorous personal hygiene. By the time she ventured into the street, Kathy was sweating miserably. Her face was red, her nose was running and the urge to stop and scratch was becoming almost impossible to resist. When a careful look around the bust market square revealed no sign of either Stephen or Duncan, she mingled among the crowd to make her way back to the main gate of the village. She was almost at the gate when it suddenly occurred to her that she had forgotten the bundle of her own clothing.

  Kathy groaned. It appeared that her time as a nun might be far longer than expected.

  She had eaten nothing other than a small apple that morning, and as she passed by stall after stall offering sweets, meat pasties and a wondrous array of other edibles, it also occurred to her that she had no money—not a farthing. What little she had left had been in the inner pouch of her cloak—inside the bundle with her other clothing. The lack of funds was a problem more easily solved, however, than the maddening itch that was developing on her person. As she inspected a tinsmith's wares, she kept a sharp eye on his transactions, and when he turned aside to help a customer, Katherine simply slipped a small metal cup into the deep pocket of the scruffy habit. As she hurried away, she thought the merchant gave her a suspicious glance, but she didn't stop when he called to her, and soon, she was lost again in the crowd of shoppers, seeking a good spot to beg for her supper.

  After an hour of begging, she found that what charitable contributions had been dropped into her cup were appallingly meager, a collection of the most worthless of coins and two worn wooden buttons. Hardly sufficient to exchange for a small meat pie, let alone for one of the plump roasted capons she'd spied at the fowl-butcher's stall. When she paused in front of the stall, the busy butcher bid her good day, gave her a pleasant smile, and turned to count out change to a well-dressed woman with a small child. Having already selected the bird she wanted, Kathy moved swiftly to make it hers, and found helping herself to the butcher's fat capon even simpler than pinching her metal cup from the tin merchant.

  As she walked along, tearing the succulent meat from her ill-gotten capon with great satisfaction, Kathy was troubled by only the tiniest twinge of guilt, which was forgotten at once as the greasy but delectable morsels quelled her pangs of hunger. After all, she reasoned, even the most devoutly made vow of poverty shouldn't extend to needlessly starving oneself in the midst of such plenty.

  When she had finished the best parts of her feast, Kathy sat down on a wall, gave the remainder of her supper to a mongrel dog and began to ponder her options, none of which sounded especially pleasant at the moment.

  Her poorly thought-out plan had been to slip away, find her way back to Drumannach,

  and in some vague m
anner she hadn't worked out, to learn the whereabouts of the man who had killed her parents. But now, with no money, no horse, and no idea where or of whom to ask information, the plan she had nurtured since childhood suddenly seemed unfeasible and frankly ludicrous. Katherine had secretly hoped that when Stephen and McGregor arrived at Drumannach, they would be so moved by her boldness and determination that they would relent and help in her quest. Instead, she had been whipped like a runaway child, and would have been dragged back home, had she not made this daring, if poorly conceived, escape. With a sinking heart, Katherine Drummond began to understand that she had been stupid and selfish, the very phrase she had uttered to Stephen without meaning one word of it. Now, it was finally clear to her. She would have to wait, just as Duncan had always told her, for the proper moment in time.

  But first, she would have to try to undo some of the damage she'd already done, whatever the cost to her pride—and to her backside. The next question of course, was what would happen if she simply went looking for Stephen and Duncan. Kathy sighed. She had caused the two of them a great deal of worry and lost time, and it didn't take a great deal of imagination to see herself in the midst of Thurlestone market, sprawled across Stephen's knee being soundly and immodestly spanked—and dressed as a bare-bottomed nun.

  And that embarrassing image brought to mind a silly little jest Stephen had made just two days before she ran away to Drumannach—a jest having to do with a riding crop.

  He had come home that afternoon to find the rear door of their cottage riddled from lintel to thresh-hold with dozens of deep, unexplained puncture wounds. Kathy had suggested crows, and returned to what she was doing, humming cheerfully. It wasn't until they had finished supper that Stephen thought to inspect the razor-sharp "dirk" he normally wore tucked in the top of his boot. The dagger was nicked and dull, in dire need of sharpening. Kathy had been practicing again.

  "It seems, my love," he had remarked, idly twirling the short braided leather quirt in his hand, "that paddles and switches and wooden spoons haven't been quite as effective in curing your bloodthirsty tendencies as I had hoped."

  "Come now, Stephen," she had teased. "Surely you don't expect me to believe that you would use a thing like that on my poor bottom. You don't even use it on your horse!"

  "Ah, yes, darling," he had countered, "but my horse is an obedient well-mannered beast, who has never given me the trouble you have, rarely throws plates at my head or answers me rudely, and he has never once ruined either my dagger or my back door by playing at war."

  "I am sure you regard that remark as extremely amusing, Stephen," she had pouted. "If I found being unfavorably compared to your horse a compliment, I would no doubt appreciate the jest more fully."

  Stephen grinned. "I don't recall speaking in jest," he replied, slapping the crop smartly across his thigh. "Ouch! Great Heaven! That does sting! I should be careful to avoid it, if I were you, my sweet." He picked up the riding crop and started from the room. "I believe I shall go out to the stable now, and give my noble horse the same wise advice."

  Kathy had responded with a sly smirk. "I would suggest, my love, since you find your good horse such amiable company, that you sleep with her this night, kiss her soft lips, fondle her ample backside, and see what pleasure she offers in return. And when she finds herself with child, think how pleased your mother will be! A sorrel colt for her first grandson, perhaps, with his mother's hairy ass and his father's blue eyes?"

  The short spanking that ensued was no doubt given in a playful mood, although Katherine's shrieks of complaint would not have sounded that way to a passer-by through the open window. Bent over the kitchen table with her skirts and apron over her head, her feet dangling inches off the floor and her bare bottom wriggling frantically, Kathy discovered that the long wooden handle of a stirring spoon could find its way into some very disagreeable places. Not quite as disagreeable or as numerous, perhaps, as a riding crop, but quite disagreeable enough.

  * * * * *

  It was not surprising that Katherine was a bit preoccupied with the subject of being spanked, or more accurately, being whipped. The sting in her hindquarters was still achingly fresh from Stephen's early-morning "reminder"—a reminder not to attempt again the very course of action upon which she had now embarked.

  Although it had come as a bit of a shock when Stephen spanked her that first time in Duncan's garden, it wasn't something with which young Katherine Drummond was unfamiliar. Obedience and docility were not traits common to Drummond women, perhaps because the blood of ancient Celtic princesses ran hot in their veins, as she had often suggested to McGregor as she grew up. It was a theory that Duncan McGregor held in very low esteem, however. He explained to her with an amused chuckle that the even hotter blood of Highland chieftains ran through his veins, which would guarantee her an uncommonly hot, painful backside should princess ever meet chieftain on the field of battle.

  Thus, when she reached marriageable age and left McGregor's house, Katherine had assumed that she would be her own mistress, now. She promised with all her heart to love Stephen with all and to honor him always, but the final part of her wedding vows, the part that included the word "obey" went unheard, partly due to her lust to hurry their guests out of the house as quickly as possible and get on with the consummation—or re-consummation— of their vows. Several details of the agreement had simply been overlooked in her haste, she explained later.

  "Obey!" she cried. "But surely, the entire phrase is archaic, and of a poetic nature!"

  Stephen, who was already resigned to accepting in his unconventional new bride a wide range of behaviors that would have shocked most new husbands, conceded the point—to a degree.

  "I will never demand obedience of you, my love, you must know that. But there are times when good sense requires a certain…" He paused, looking for the right word—to no avail. "A reasonable degree of… decorum?"

  "Decorum!" Kathy shouted. "And pray explain to me what you find amiss with my present decorum?" Stephen sighed. He had looked upon Duncan's remarks about Kathy as fatherly humor and hyperbole, but his advice was beginning to sound more prophetic with every day that passed.

  "Ye'll have to watch her like a hawk," McGregor had warned. "Or she'll be off on another perilous lark, gettin' herself into a fine mess, and yeas well, no doubt. She's got a mouth on her that's naught but trouble, and a stubborn way about her that wants what she wants, whatever be the cost. She's a bright, clever lass, with a good heart and a braw' one, but she shows more spirit than good sense, now and again, and ye'll need a firm hand until she finds her way to full womanhood. Two years from now, Kate Drummond will be all a man could want. Until then, she'll be all he can handle. Get yer'self that paddle I spoke of, and keep it near to hand. When words won't make the case with our Katie, a few swift, hard smacks on the backside will often do the trick. Not always, mind ye,' but often enough to preserve a man's sanity."

  * * * * *

  Kathy wandered through the village with no idea at all of how to find Stephen and Duncan or her way back to Drumannach. She was still very much regretting having abandoned her own clothing for the solemn liturgical habit that was now driving her mad. Beneath the coarse wool and tightly fitting cowl that swathed her head and neck, every inch of her was itching unbearably. It occurred to Katherine now that the habit's former inhabitant, aside from her shocking lack of cleanliness, may have also been afflicted with head lice.

  As she walked about, scratching whenever she could and whatever she could, she noticed a crowd gathering in a far corner of the square. A low wooden platform had been set up, upon which sat a single, long wooden bench of the common sort that could be found in any public gathering place. People jostled one another to gain a spot nearest the front, and here and there, a quarrel broke out over who had arrived first. Whatever the performance that was scheduled, it would obviously be well attended.

  As the crowd in front of the platform grew in size, the crowded conditions became oppressiv
e. Katherine was about to move on when a blowsy woman standing next to her nudged her in the arm, and then, noting the habit, apologized for her forwardness.

  "Forgive my affront, good sister. It was only that I was in need of gettin' some idea o' when the floggin' is to start, on account o' me havin' to relieve m'self, ye know, and not wishin' to lose m' place in the front, like."

  "Flogging!" Katherine cried. "Now?"

  The woman nodded. "Well, I should hope it's to be now, or right soon. Some have been waitin' on it fer a good hour, with supper to get, and what have ye.' A body o' my years can't wait so long, y' know, without she finds it tiresome."

  "But who is to be beaten?" Katherine asked. "What is the unfortunate person's crime?"

  "Unfortunate, m' own fat ass!" the woman crowed. "She's but a whorin' slut and a cutpurse, she is, and well-deserves the latherin' what's comin.' " A moment later, though, she flushed, thinking better of her crude remarks in the presence of a holy sister.

  Katherine gulped. "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," she repeated, for lack of any other reply. Kathy was always pleased when she remembered something useful from her years in church. It made the nuns' sacrifices on her behalf seem worthwhile.

  As she could piece together the victim's crimes, the criminal was a woman, who was to be flogged for the twin offenses of adultery and petty theft—a combination of crimes that granted several parties the right to "justice." Since fornication had apparently been judged the more serious offense, the poor woman's spouse had been granted the dubious privilege of administering the penalty. Kathy's curiosity overcame her squeamishness, and she decided, against her better judgment, to stay long enough to witness at least part of the punishment.