The high pitch screamof deathechoed through the corridor, rousing him from his slumber. He rubbed his eyes half awake, his ears ready to confirm the source of the sound. His mother's voice. Then came a second, louder and longer wail, followed by an unsettling silence.
He sprang from his bed and descended the stairs as fast as his six-year-old legs could carry him. The outline of a man seeped like a shadow from his father’s study and out the door that led to the open fields of the keep. Curious, he edged towards the door.
As he pushed the handle, the sickening smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils. His eyes were drawn downward to the twisted figure of a woman lying still on the cold floor, her shift stained with the same blood that pooled around her, a luckenbooth brooch lying next to her.
His heart beat rapidly, and his muscles tensed as he moved closer to the body. “It is my da’s treasure,” he muttered near-voicelessly as he picked up the blood-stained brooch. “Where is…”
His eyes widened as he jerked away, quick as he could. The body of the dead woman shot up through the air, colliding with the ceiling. Blood dripped down her twisted neck, and she stared back at him with eyes that were just like his mother’s. Then, before he could run, she flew towards him.
Kendrick jolted up from his bed. His body was dappled with sweat as though he had been hunting a boar. But the pounding in his chest subsided as he realized it was merely a nightmare. He looked beside his bed to find the luckenbooth brooch.
Fourteen years had passed, yet the recollections of his mother's twisted neck and her frozen, dead brown eyes remained vivid. The memories of his father's sin had since been a bedside companion. Every night had been merciless.
He picked up the brooch—the one that had once belonged to his father, the one that had fallen next to his mother’s body the night he found her. He didn’t know why he kept it close. Perhaps he needed something to remind himself of his bitterness for his father, of his vow to not walk the same beastly path himself.
“Watch me, Father,” he mumbled. “I shall never become a wife slaughterer like ye. I shall live and die without a family.”
“Are ye all right, milaird?”
Kendrick gasped. It was only Catherine. She rubbed his shoulder in the early morning light, pressing her bare body against his.Shaken by thedamnednightmare, he had all but forgotten she had spent the night in his chamber.
"I'd like to be left on my own, Catherine,” he rasped. “Ye may leave now.”
“But milaird—” the maid started, her voice filled with tears. Her outburst unsettled him,as Catherine knew well. He didn’t allow any of his lovers to sleep in his bed, and she pushed her luck every time.
“Now, lass,” he growled, trying to keep his anger at bay.
With a sad little grimace, she rapidly dressed and turned to leave his chamber. "Ye may not care for me, milaird, but I care for ye. Whenever ye need me, ye ken where ye may find me.”
He watched as she opened the door to leave. To his dismay, Logan, his uncle and advisor, was waiting on the other side. He entered and looked at the girl with a smirk. Blushing from head to toe, Catherine gave Kendrick one last glance before leaving the men alone. For some reason, he felt guilty.
Laird! As if it were my fault she always pretends to be asleep!
"Why, what a little bairn ye are, still sleeping next to a maid!" Logan teased through bouts of laughter.
Kendrick pretended to not hear him. “Is there a problem?”
“The farmers seek yer attendance,” Logan explained, wiping his eyes. “They are concerned by the season’s harvest—aye, it does not look promising.”
“I will join ye shortly. I plea ye, keep the peace till I return,” said Kendrick.
“Alright, lad. Go wash and straighten yerself up. Ye look awful,” Logan added before walking out of the chamber.
* * *
Kendrick walked into a room filled with farmers almost twice his age. He was a young laird of twenty-two, leading a clan of hundreds. The laborers’ faces held not a whisper of happiness. Kendrick could only mirror their despair as he made his way to his chair, ready to listen to their grievances.
“Milaird,” said one of the farmers. “The fields refuse to bear fruit and our families rest on empty stomachs.”
“Pardon me, milaird, even our sheep and goats starve, and we cannot milk them,” another complained.
“The soils do not yield any safe grain, milaird! We shall die of starvation if a solution is not provided,” cried another voice from the crowd.
The shouts of about a hundred frustrated farmers begging for the Laird's assistance soon filled the hall. Hard though he may have pondered, Kendrick could not fathom what to say that might aid them. He frowned as he massaged his chin. When he tried to speak, all that came out was silence.
He finally forced the words from his mouth. “Quiet,” he intonated, shifting the focus of the disgruntled men back to himself. “Nae one shall die of starvation. I shall find a way. I ken how ye must feel, and I will make sure naeone will go to bed hungry anymore.”
“I do nae wish to question yer word, milaird, but how shall ye cater our demands?” one of the men inquired.