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  At the appointed time, the wronged spouse dragged his wife into the square, where she was made to straddle a long bench, with her feet tied to either side of the bench's stout legs and her hands secured in the same manner at the top of the bench. With that accomplished, the man ignored the poor woman's pleas and pulled her torn stockings down to her ankles. When he pushed her skirts up, laying her bare from the waist down, the crowd of gawkers cheered lustily. The distraught victim was generously endowed, with a large, full bottom and plump, shapely legs. Even under her overheated costume, Kathy shivered. The show was obviously exactly what the crowd wanted.

  Although she had been disposed, initially, to be on the woman's "side" of the issue, Kathy was surprised when the woman's demeanor did not seem in the least penitent. Her screeches of complaint were strewn liberally with a number of obscene oaths, most of them directed at her husband. The man was a butcher, and his wife did not appear to think highly of either his ability to support her, or of his own physical endowments, which she referred to at top volume as "that puny little carrot of yours." Kathy had the distinct sense that today's event was not a first for the lady.

  The instrument to be used on the struggling victim was traditional—a series of leather thongs, each perhaps a foot and a half long, and knotted at one end. The thongs had been tied into a bundle at one end, and wrapped tightly to make a sort of crude handle. "A cat of nine tails," she had heard it called. It was a fierce implement, even worse to look upon than she had imagined. As the slender thongs landed across the hapless woman's buttocks in the first blow, the lady nearly lifted herself off the bench, in spite of her restraints, and let out a shriek unlike anything Kathy had ever heard. The crowd seemed not in the least shocked by the goings-on, and several of the men were heard to hoot and jeer, and applaud the husband's more vigorous swats.

  The sentence had been twenty strokes, eight for the adulterous fornication and twelve for the lifting of a wallet, which seemed to Katherine a bit skewed, morally. When the whipping was over, the unfortunate woman was striped from her waist to her ankles, although the majority of the damage had definitely been applied to her backside, which— all things considered— had come through rather well. Once released, she was helped away by the magistrate, who appeared to be having some difficulty keeping his eyes politely off her scalded buttocks. And even though her bottom was now the approximate color of two overripe plums, she appeared to hold little malice toward her husband, who was now seated on the edge of the platform, sharing a tankard of ale in the company of his cronies.

  While difficult to watch, the flogging had given Kathy pause for thought. Stephen had often—mostly in jest— threatened to spank her until she "couldn't sit down for a week," a phrase a she had never given much thought to until this moment. If this poor creature were to sit down on her flogged bottom in anything less than a week, it would come as a great surprise to Kathy.

  "'T is a shocking thing, is it not, Sister?" someone asked, and Kathy realized with a sinking heart that the question had been directed to her. "That a woman could comport herself so shamefully, and bring a good man like Will Flowers to such public humiliation?"

  Kathy nodded dumbly, and bowed her head reverently. "May God forgive her," she intoned, hoping in an unChristian afterthought that "Will Flowers" might go directly to Hell.

  With the distraction of the flogging spectacle over, and the audience dispersed, Kathy was once again overwhelmed by a need to scratch. She slipped one hand as surreptitiously under the robe's wide sleeve and scratched vigorously, starting at her wrist and continuing to scratch all the way up to her shoulder, stopping only when a passing shopper, thinking the good sister was suffering some sort of seizure, stopped to stare curiously and ask if she were feeling well. Unsure of the proper response, Kathy smiled in her most beatific manner, made the sign of the cross, and hurried away, crazed with a fresh wave of itching. She found an obscure and isolated spot behind a loaded hay wagon, lifted the rear of her skirt, and gave her bottom and thighs a good scratching, sighing with the blessed relief of it. At that very moment, two men stopped in front of the wagon and began to argue.

  All Kathy could see, from her hiding place, were the men's boots, and the lower half of their legs. Only half-listening, and more concerned now with apprehending whatever it was that was crawling slowly up between her shoulder blades, she continued her search for vermin, until the man on the right raised his voice to be heard by his companion over the din in the street.

  "Fool! They could have come no other way!" he snarled. "Everyone traveling north must come through this miserable mudhole! Had you kept your eyes on the gate, as I ordered, they couldn't have gotten past! My God, man, McGregor's unmistakable, in that foolish garb he wears, and with that mammoth, bloody horse!"

  Katherine's hands flew to her mouth, and in one horrifying second, the terrible night of her parents' murder returned to her. Amidst the darkness and the terror and the flames, there had been one thing about that ghastly night that had etched itself in her memory, and remained there all these years as clearly as the small burn she carried on her wrist— the inhuman and transcendently evil Voice of the ruthless man who had come looking for her, after he had slaughtered her mother and father. On the other side of the hay wagon, she had just heard that malevolent Voice again, for the first time in more than twelve years, and it was as terrifying now as it had been then.

  With her heart beating so loudly she was certain it could be heard by the two men, Katherine shrank against the wagon and tried not to scream aloud. Inside her head, however, the screams were deafening, drowning out all the sensible advice she might have given herself. Oddly, though, it wasn't fear of the man that was rendering her unable to move, or to think—it was her rage.

  Her terror was made worse by the knowledge that Stephen and Duncan were in even greater danger than herself. At this very moment, they were searching for her in the marketplace and the village. While she might not be recognized by this man, whoever he was, Duncan McGregor was known. Katherine fought back tears, recognizing that her own foolishness might well result in the deaths of the two people she loved more than her own life.

  As she stood there, trembling, undecided what to do next, the decision was made for her. The two men exchanged a few final, muffled words and simply walked away.

  Katherine grabbed up the skirts of her habit and darted around the end of the wagon, just in time to see the two men disappear into a doorway across the small square—a tavern, it seemed. One of the pair was dressed entirely in black, and the other wore a dark green tunic with brown leggings. The head and face of the man in black were concealed under a black hood, but the most notable thing about his appearance was that he appeared to be missing an arm, with one empty sleeve pinned to his tunic. Tucking the escaping locks of her red hair back beneath the folds of her cowl, she scampered in a very un-nunlike manner across the muddy street, dodging carts, heavily laden donkeys, and a number of staring market-goers. She arrived at the tavern door hotter and more prickly than ever, and spattered head to toe with mud and animal dung. Taking a moment to rearrange her veil, which had twisted askew in her mad dash across the marketplace, she took a deep breath and entered the tavern, unwilling to risk losing sight of the pair she was following.

  As she stepped down into the dim and smoky tavern, conversation at the few tables stopped abruptly, and all eyes turned her way. Kathy hesitated for only a moment, and then thrust out her arm and shook her tin cup, rattling the few coins that were still in the bottom.

  "Alms?" she mumbled, her voice cracking slightly. "Alms for…for the poor, and um...for the needy?"

  The tavern keeper hurried up, tossed several coins in her cup and motioned to the door. "This here be no fit place for ye', good sister, nor for any woman. Ye'd best be on ye'r way, then." He indicated the door more forcefully, now, taking her elbow reverently and turning her toward the entranceway. Kathy went, but first let her eyes sweep around the room, looking for the two men she'd follow
ed, as well as for a second door by which they might have exited.

  The tavern was crowded, and poorly lit, but at the very back of the dingy room, in a dark alcove, she noticed two men who could be the ones she'd seen just minutes earlier. Their backs were to her, but they were dressed similarly to the men she'd overheard at the wagon—one in black, and his companion in what might be green. The man in black had pulled off his hood, but from the back, and in the near darkness, she couldn't be certain.

  By this time, the proprietor's patience was apparently at an end. He tightened his grip on her elbow and began to pull her toward the front door. And at that exact moment, though, the figure in black turned, raised his hand and beckoned to the distracted tavern-keeper for service. Kathy caught a brief glance of the man's face, in profile. Even in the dim light, the hideous scars were frightening. Struck suddenly by an overwhelming wave of nausea, Kathy's courage failed her. She pushed the tavern keeper away, and backed out of the tavern slowly, catching her heel on the low step, and nearly falling. For the first time in her life, she had seen the ravaged face of Alric Grymwald. And though he hadn't spoken again, and she didn't know his name, she knew who he was—and what he was. The scarred man was The Voice that haunted her nightmares.

  Once outside, she found a spot across the alley, where she could watch the building without being seen, and waited. Very soon, both men emerged and made their way across the square to where a churlish boy of perhaps ten, dressed shabbily, held two horses apparently belonging to the men. To her horror, she realized that they were about to ride away.

  It was at this point that Katherine Elspeth Drummond Lachlan, Lady of Drumannach and sometime country wife, added to her already considerable list of sins and became a horse thief— or, more precisely, a donkey thief. Although she had grown quite handy at stealing things over the years, the elderly donkey she enticed away from a shop-front with a handful of hay was the largest and perhaps the most valuable thing she had ever stolen. There had been Master Humfrid's sway-backed horse, of course, but she had returned the horse the very next day, after being caught just three miles from home. It had been one of her early attempts to return to Drumannach, and Duncan had forced her to return the sickly-looking beast to the Humfrid residence and apologize for the theft. Kathy rebelled, refused to deliver the required apology and explained instead that she had meant only to "borrow" the animal, whereupon an irritated Duncan McGregor had "borrowed" a big wooden hairbrush from Mistress Humfrid and spanked the unrepentant thief all the way down the winding lane home. The following day, a more subdued Kathy—with her bottom still stinging— walked back up the lane to return Mistress Humfrid's wretched hairbrush, and to apologize humbly.

  Now, groaning inwardly as she pulled the reluctant donkey through the crowded streets, trying to keep her quarry in sight, Kathy could only imagine the similar or worse walloping she would take when Stephen found out that she had taken up horse theft again, and when he was forced to pay for an unwanted and unneeded donkey of such an indefinite age.

  Later, as she tried to stay astride the trotting donkey in the cumbersome nun's garb, Kathy nudged her complaining mount mercilessly down the rutted road with both heels, trying to keep pace with the men on their elegant steeds. When she and the donkey were close to exhaustion, and the donkey had begun to make his position clear by sitting down on his haunches every hundred yards, she was enormously relieved to see the men turn off the main road, through a small wood, and ride south. As she watched from the trees, they rode through a series of green fields that were cross-fenced with tangled hedgerows and low stone walls. In the distance, perhaps a mile away, a hill appeared through the haze, crowned with a small but well-fortified castle, built in the Norman fashion, with slender, peaked turrets. Kathy halted the donkey, slid from his back, and crouched in a drainage ditch, watching through a tiny space in the hedgerow until she was certain of the men's destination.

  Shortly after dark, it began to rain, and her drainage ditch filled with water, adding to her misery. Now, her itching, reeking garments smelled of donkey hair, as well as sweat and onions. Finally, she left the tired donkey grazing peacefully in the wet grass and made her way closer to the castle, creeping alongside the hedgerows and walls and hoping fervently there would be no out-posted guards to witness her approach.

  She reached the bottom of the hill, where the road crossed a deep, rocky ditch by way of a narrow wooden bridge. There, from behind a bush, she looked up through the lowering fog at the castle that loomed above her, and shivered violently. Unlike the lovely, ivy-covered manor house of Drumannach, or even McGregor's own compact but solid Caisteal Gailleann, this place looked grim and forbidding, although she knew that it might have been only imagination or what she knew of its inhabitants that gave it such a doleful appearance. Still, as she peered down onto the deep trench that surrounded the edifice, she wouldn't have been surprised to see a swarm of ravenous crocodiles lounging on the sharp rocks, their mouths opened wide, waiting for unwary visitors.

  As she tried to find a comfortable perch behind the small bush, Kathy was woefully aware of the stupidity of what she had done, and of her own helplessness. For most of her life, she had thought about this moment, and what she would do. In her imaginings, she had always been well-armed, and at the head of a small but excellent contingent of bold knights, each ready to lay down his own life to avenge her murdered parents. Somehow, the fantasy had never gone much beyond that in its details. She would find the man, and kill him, and that would be that. Now, with the murderer almost within reach, she was huddled beneath a dripping bush, sopping wet and chilled to the bone, dressed in a filthy nun's habit that stank so badly it gagged her, and being driven wild by itching fleas. The moment was not at all as she had imagined it.

  But more than anything else, and to her surprise, Kathy was terrified. Alone, unarmed, and very, very close to a vicious enemy she now realized she had absolutely no chance at all of defeating.

  The only good thing that she could find in all this was that Stephen and Duncan had escaped being caught by the murderer who slept in the castle above her. If she left now, found the wandering donkey, and made her way back to the village, perhaps she could find the two of them, and together, they could get back to lovely, green Scotland, and to safety. Her resolve was strong, though. One day, with Duncan's help, she would return to this place—with a force large enough to wreak the vengeance she longed for. The monster, the Voice from her childhood, would have to wait for another day to die, and for another time— but die he would! And Katherine Drummond would be there to witness it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Outside the castle of Alric Grymwald, the following morning

  Whether from exhaustion or from the sudden fit of weeping that briefly overcame her as she pondered her abject failure, Kathy somehow drifted off to sleep under her bush. She hadn't slept for long, but when she woke with a start, the first cold streaks of dawn were already giving way to gold. The sun was beginning to rise, and to burn off the fog that hung low over the sodden fields—the fog that might have hidden her in its gray mist long enough to allow her to escape unseen into the distant woods. Now, with the mist receding, the short distance to the trees might as well have been a thousand yards. There was nothing else to do, though, but to try. Kathy crept silently from her hiding place, swearing under her breath.

  She had gone no more than two hundred yards, staying close to the ground and behind the hedgerows wherever she could, when she saw the rear portion of her stolen donkey, right where she had left him, munching the soft grass. He was very close and fairly well hidden among a small copse of dew-laden trees. With a quick look behind her, she stood up, stretched her aching arms and walked toward the donkey, calling softly.

  She stopped in her tracks when two men stepped suddenly from the trees, their weapons drawn and their expressions hard. They were attired in short black and red tunics emblazoned with a coat of arms unfamiliar to her.

  "I bid you a healthy morrow, good
sirs, and God's blessing!" she ventured. "I am grateful to see that you've found my errant little donkey, for whom I've searched high and low these many hours. Rascal that he is, he wandered off into the woods last night, leaving me quite alone in this place." She straightened her crooked veil, and brushed at her skirts. "I pray I haven't alarmed you by my untimely appearance, and I do beg thy pardon. I'll just take the little fellow and be on my way back to the convent, if ..."

  "Your name, Sister?" the first guard inquired. "And what be your purpose here?"

  Katherine gulped. "I am... Sister Thomasine, of the convent of....the convent in the village," she said. "In Thurlestone village, I should say...of course."

  The two men exchanged glances. "The name of the convent, and your order?" the taller one demanded.

  Katherine paled, and looked down at herself, hoping for a clue. The habit was brown, similar to that worn by every nun she'd ever seen. She gulped again, wishing fervently that she'd paid better attention to nuns, in general. "I am a sister at...of St. Duthac's, but our small...very small order is...well, small, of course, and not as well known as some— and outside the village at some distance. You...Thee, may quite possibly not know of it."

  "There is no church of St. Duthac's in Thurlestone village," the shorter one growled, snatching at sleeve of her habit. "Come with us, and we shall see as to your..."

  Kathy pulled away, and stepped backward toward the donkey.

  "Pray, permit me to go on my way in peace, gentleman. Mother Abbess will be sorely concerned by my lateness, and...."

  "Quiet!" the first guard shouted, and took her arm firmly. Before she could protest, the second guard had secured her other arm.