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‘It’s told that he died young, after a miserable life, sunk in ruin and depravity. How he died exactly is lost to history, but it was the curse for sure, and it stalks them still, the Moncurs. Are you not a little afraid to venture there now?’
‘No.’
‘But the curse is true. The Moncur lairds have all had short lives and brutal ends. None died in their beds of old age. For generations, that curse has hung over Sgathach Dun, like a rank fog that will not lift. Best steer clear of it, for ‘tis an evil place and all you’ll find there is the Devil.’
‘The Devil and I are bedfellows these many years, and Silas, you do know that the Devil likes a loose tongue?’
‘What?’
‘It is said that if you mention his name, he will come. Can you not see him?’
‘Who?’
‘The Devil, here, at my shoulder.’
‘No.’ Silas shook his head.
‘Look closer, he is there, and he seesyou, my friend.’
The stranger pulled back his hood, and he was not at all what Silas had expected so he backed away, hairs rising on the back of his neck. He should not have come over here. He wished he had never met this stranger. Something about the man’s tone chilled him, something flat and cold, something amiss. It was not what was there. It was what was missing. He rushed away with a scrape of his chair against the floor and scurried outside, with the stranger’s laughter ringing in his ears.
Humiliated, he determined not to go back inside. He would head home. Yes, that was best. He had intended to stay and finish the food and ale, for he was fearfully hungry, but he did not want to be anywhere near that man.
Silas went around the back of the inn. The trees were making a hissing sound as they thrashed in the wind. Steam rose off his piss in the cold night air as he relieved himself by the light of a lantern, for autumn’s chill was already tipping into winter in this part of the Highlands. The ale had dimmed his senses somewhat, and it was not until there was a change in the air around him that he happened to glance sideways.
The man was standing quietly at this shoulder, making Silas jump back and spray urine all over his boots. Fear nipped at his spine. Why had he not heard him approach?
‘Here’s a lesson for you, my friend. If you talk of the Devil, you invite him in.’
‘What…I?’
The blade flashed in the moonlight and, in a second, opened his throat. Silas fell to his knees, his life’s blood gushing from the gaping wound, fear pumping it out faster and faster. As the light went from his eyes he felt a light pressure on his shoulder where the man took his blade and wiped it clean and then…darkness.
***
Remote Scottish Highlands, 1661
Sgathach Dun Castle, Stronghold of Clan Moncur
The dank walls pressed in on her as Kenna descended further into the bowels of the castle. Daylight had long since faded behind her, and ahead lay only murky, flickering darkness which seemed alive in the candlelight, where fell things hid in the shadows, feeding on her fear. The walls were slimy and cold against her palm as she tried to feel her way and stay on the crumbling, winding steps, curling downwards and in on themselves like a snail shell. Falling here would mean a broken leg or twisted ankle, but that would not be the worst of it. No one would come looking for her for hours. She would have to lie alone in this fetid darkness, where every minute felt like an hour.
Trying to force her shaking legs forward, ears straining for the slightest sound, nerves screaming, she reached the hole. It was barely visible in the light from a few meagre torches, and she could hardly bear to look at it and imagine what was within. The stench was there as always, assaulting her nostrils, foul, offensive, speaking of the grave and everything that was rotten, of flesh turning to dust. She gasped in a little breath and gathered her courage, for there would be punishment for certain if she did not do as she had been bid.
She reached the edge of the hole and peered down. A low moan drifted up, barely audible and then, nothing. Did her fear conjure it up, or was it real? Kenna froze, hairs pricking on the back of her neck as a chill enveloped her body. Her breath shrank to nothing, and there was only a desperate urge to scream and run and not look back. But she couldn’t fail. She couldn’t be the coward she longed to be, for then she would be as bad as the evil in that place.
Again it came, and she flinched. Deep at first, then rising to a terrible wail, like a banshee crying across the moors, mournful, ethereal, not of this world. It seemed to be coming from right behind her, and in her mind’s eye, she could feel it reach out bony fingers, white and bloodless in death, grabbing her by the shoulder and turning her to look into that awful, hellish face. Her fingers were dug into the stale bread in her hand so hard it broke in two and fell to the damp floor. Another moan from the gaping darkness below pushed Kenna over the edge. She stooped and flung the bread into the hole and turned and fled as fast as she could, stumbling on the stairs and bloodying her knees and the pad of her thumb, heading desperately towards the light.
When she emerged into the yard, she fell against the wall, panting. She sucked hard on her hand as much to stay a scream as to clear the blood, ignoring the pain of her scraped knees and the soft, misty rain falling on her face.
Euan, the least pleasant of her father’s henchmen, was staring at her, as usual, from across the yard. He smirked, enjoying her fear, no doubt. But Kenna ignored him, for she had no thought in her head, no sensation, save one - dread, forming a heavy lump around her heart. Whatever was in that hole was taking a very long time to die, and she was now absolutely sure that it was not the only thing down there in the darkness.
Chapter One
Elspeth Muir pulled down the bodice of her dress, thinking that Conall Campbell was just about the most handsome young man she had ever seen in her life and the son of a laird at that. She kissed him hard and fast on his sensuous mouth, burying her hands in his thick black hair and running them all over his hard body.
Months it had taken her to catch his eye, as there were so many other lassies trying to do the same, but Elspeth, whilst not the prettiest of them, was certainly the boldest. Her relentless pursuit of Conall, since he had been sent by his father to live at Dunslair, with looks and winks and leaning over in front of him to show off her ample bosom, had finally paid off. Like a cuckoo in the nest pushing out all the other fledglings, she had overcome the efforts of other girls eager to catch his eye and now here was her reward. She had caught Conall’s wandering eye, and he was on top of her in the hay, pulling down his breeches and about to go inside her.
Elspeth was breathless in anticipation. Conall may have only recently come into his manhood, but already he had a reputation as an invincible swordsman, a fearless rider and, if the gossip was to be believed, an absolutely heroic lover. True, he was still slightly drunk, but she was sure a big, lusty lad such as Conall would not be hampered by a few too many cups of ale.
