The Wicked Young Master

July 1305 of the Christian Era, summer, in the thirty-third year of the reign of Edward "Longshanks," King of England.

On Allen Island in the Firth of Clyde, Western Scotland, a tall oak stood incongruously among scrub-covered, gently rolling hills beside the coastal country road leading to the market town.

The sun blazed overhead. Beneath the oak's shade, two long-horned yellow oxen grazed on the grass, their tails constantly swishing away the insects that swarmed in early summer. A two-wheeled flatbed cart trailed behind their harnesses.

More than a dozen cloth sacks were neatly stacked on the cart. A few coarse, long loaves of hard bread and pieces of dried cheese poked out of loosely tied sack mouths. Four small round oak barrels and a pile of rock-hard salted beef sat at the front of the cart bed.

Beside the ox cart, a man with a fleshy, drink-reddened nose and a conspicuous cluster of red boils beneath his thick lips poured a hornful of ale from an oak barrel.

He tipped his head back and poured it into the bearded mouth full of rotten teeth. "Heard the news? That devil from Sir Colin's family is back on the island."

Beside Rednose stood a middle-aged man in a loose, coarse-woven tunic, a tartan kilt around his waist, and short cowhide boots, his brows tightly knitted.

His careworn face looked more creased than the tartan blanket draped over his shoulder. "Endless hell! Wasn't that filthy creature shut away in a monastery in Argyll? How did he escape back to the island?"

Rednose had already finished his hornful of ale. Smacking his lips, he said, "They say that devil fornicated with a nun from the convent next door."

"They discovered the nun was pregnant, and she named that devil. So he was expelled from the monastery."

"Who told you that?" Misery-face looked thoroughly skeptical.

Rednose leaned closer. "Yesterday I escorted the military provisions from Kildonan back to Brodick. I heard it with my own ears at the baron's residence."

"The fellow went there to visit his lordship, and his lordship sent him packing with a slap. As he left, his lordship even declared he would never acknowledge a nephew like that."

"Five whole years, and even a monastery couldn't keep that filthy creature down. Disaster's coming to Allen Island again."

Rednose adjusted the short sword at his waist belt that marked his official status, then spat a great mouthful of thick phlegm onto an ant crawling across the ground, thoroughly "imprisoning" it.

"Endless hell! What kind of world is this? His lordship leaves the island to fight every year, conscripts our able-bodied men every year, and squeezes taxes out of us. Hardly any Englishmen killed, yet the island's young men are nearly all dead. Now this bastard's escaped back here. Who knows how many more disasters he'll cause?" Having spoken, Misery-face raised his head toward the sky, closed his eyes, and crossed himself.

Rednose was the hundredman of Allen Island's all-but-defunct hundred. Ever since King Balliol had become a "guest" in England, the entire Kingdom of Scotland had fallen apart. His office, once a symbol of the Scottish crown's authority over its own lands, had been reduced entirely to that of private tax collector for Allen Island's baron, John Campbell.

The perpetually careworn middle-aged man was both brewery owner and village headman of Rocklanza Village in northern Allen Island. The two were collecting a "war tax" for the baron's campaign to drive out the English invaders. This was already Baron John's sixth "expedition."

Rednose wanted to pour himself some more ale from the oak barrel.

Misery-face hurried forward to protect it. "This is Rocklanza Village's tax payment to his lordship. You've drunk so much already. How are we supposed to account for it?"

He reached for the drinking horn in Rednose's hand.

Rednose turned, blocking Misery-face's outstretched hand. "Miser. Next time I'll suggest his lordship levy another ten percent on your brewery."

Unmoved, Misery-face kept trying to snatch it back.

Rednose shielded the drinking horn. "Hey, hey! Keep that up and I'll tell him how you levy extra taxes in his name and pocket the money."

Misery-face's hand stopped.

"That's more like it. You own a brewery anyway. Just make up the difference." Rednose went around to the side of the cart to pour more ale, only to find Misery-face staring south.

"Who are those fellows? Why are they taking that little path?" Rednose shaded his eyes with a hand. "Huh? Isn't that the mountain trail to your village?"

Rednose's little eyes widened, bunching the boils on his face together. "Is-isn't that the devil from Sir Colin's family?"

"God, your village is in for it again." He hurriedly traced the holy cross over his chest to ward off evil.

In northern Allen Island, the mountain trail leading to Rocklanza Village was rough and uneven. On an old piebald packhorse, a young master in his early twenties swayed crookedly with the animal's steps, the very picture of a dissolute wastrel.

The young master was tall and sturdy, with long, slightly curling brown hair tinged with yellow. Perhaps because he was always squinting into the sun, his eyes were unusually narrow.

A fitted tweed jacket, tight trousers of undyed wool, and leather boots with crisscrossed laces reaching his knees gave him a distinctly affluent appearance.

Two country ruffians followed the piebald packhorse. They wore conspicuously tight, short jackets, and one had pulled a cheap green knitted garment over his.

The other wore no undershirt at all, merely wrapping himself in a filthy, waist-length black cloak, hastily secured with a thick hemp rope.

Green Sweater followed close behind the young master. He was about eighteen or nineteen, with a bald patch on his head, probably a souvenir of some brawl. His old wooden-soled shoes kept slipping on the uneven stones.

Steadying himself, he hurried forward a few steps, raised his dirty, bruised face, and asked the young master on the packhorse with a fawning grin, "Young Master Roger, are those rumors about you and the nun really true?"

Distracted, the young master glanced at Goat Fell ahead and replied casually, "Which business between me and the nun do you mean?"

"The child in that slut's belly definitely wasn't mine. She was already pregnant when we crawled into the hay."

The young master spat and said bitterly, "Thinking back, that bitch's bastard must have belonged to one of those abbots. They lured me in just to fill their hole and take the blame."

"Enough about that."

The young master on horseback unconsciously touched the row of red marks on his face. Unwilling to revisit painful memories, he glanced at Green Sweater. "Say, Baldhead, you're certain that old fellow Gary isn't home today?"

Green Sweater rubbed his bald patch and answered confidently, "Don't worry, Young Master Roger. I've asked around. Gary went north with the fat tax collector today to collect taxes from a few villages. Only his big-titted daughter and the brewery's two young apprentices are home."

The words "big-titted" sent lust surging through the young master, and he began to grow hard. He kicked his horse onward. "Faster. Once I've had my fill, I'll let you two have a taste."

"Young master, we'll just watch from the side. We wouldn't dare share your meal."

"Good, good."

In northern Allen Island, the Ethan River carried water from Lake David in the Goat Fell Mountains down to the sea. Years of alluvial deposits had turned this broad coastal valley into fertile farmland.

Rocklanza Village sat amid those fields like a pig in a mud wallow.

Some twenty-odd cottages stood scattered around a courtyard enclosed by low stone walls. That little walled compound was the home of Rocklanza Village's wealthy farmer and headman, as well as one of only two breweries on Allen Island.

The winter wheat had already been harvested, tender shoots of spring wheat were sprouting in the fields, and blue viper's bugloss bloomed brilliantly all along the roadside. But the young master on the piebald packhorse had no leisure to admire them.

His mind was filled with the headman's daughter and her ample breasts and rounded hips.

As soon as the three entered the village, villagers carrying wicker baskets on their backs and bundles of dead branches for firewood slowly gathered on the muddy road. Several of the sturdier men had already picked up pokers.

The villagers did not immediately recognize the young master, but they knew the two ruffians beside his piebald horse all too well. Allen Island was not large, but these two fellows certainly had sizable reputations for villainy.

Nothing good could come of those two rotten scoundrels visiting the village.

"What's this? What's this?" The green-clad ruffian bulged his toadlike eyes at the men holding wooden clubs by the village entrance and shouted at them.

"Know who this is? Young Master Roger of Sir Colin's family. He's back!"

A few quick-witted villagers froze instinctively at the name "Roger," then immediately began backing away.

"Get out of the way. Young Master Roger's going to the Gary Household's brewery to buy ale. Don't block the road." Black Cloak, silent throughout the journey, also began barking orders.

The villagers, so fierce a moment earlier, promptly wilted. They slipped back into their ramshackle thatched cottages and watched the mounted young master through the cracks.

A few steps later, the horse and three men stopped outside the village's only courtyard.

Bang, bang, bang. Green Sweater had somehow acquired a thick stick as long as an arm and kept hammering it against the wooden courtyard gate.

After a while, the gate opened a crack. A thin, freckle-faced lad poked his head out, about to ask what the visitors wanted.

Green Sweater immediately kicked the gate. It flew open with a crash, sending the freckled lad in his shabby wool apron tumbling to the ground.

Without a word, the three barged into the compound. Black Cloak kicked the gate shut behind him, and Green Sweater brought his stick down on the fallen freckled lad's head. Meanwhile, Black Cloak raised his fists and attacked the other young apprentice emerging from the brewery.

The two young apprentices were no match for the ruffians. In moments, the courtyard fell silent.

Only then did the young master dismount from the piebald horse and saunter forward, rubbing his hands as he crept toward the main house.

Just then, the door of the main house opened. Having heard the strange noises outside, the headman's daughter came out.

She had been preparing food and still held a loaf of rye bread. Her pretty, seventeen- or eighteen-year-old face went blank with fright at the sight in the courtyard. Beneath her flour-dusted outer garment, her towering peaks were especially enticing.

Had she not been so choosy, she would have married long ago. Both her age and her body were quite mature enough.

The girl watched the young master approach with a lecherous grin plastered across his face, but it was already too late to flee.

The moment she turned, he caught her arm and hauled her back.

He twisted her arm behind her back and pinned her, frightening her into trembling all over.

The girl struggled desperately. "Who are you? Let me go."

"You'll know who I am in a moment." Keeping her hand twisted behind her, the young master shoved her toward the long table in a corner of the room.

Raised in a farming household, the girl had some strength. As she struggled, the young master actually found it hard to control her.

He clamped down on her hand and looked back at the two ruffians grinning wickedly in the doorway. "You two bastards! What are you staring at? Get over here and hold her down."

The two ruffians hurried forward, each seizing one of the girl's arms and forcing her down onto the long table.

The young master grabbed her neckline and yanked hard. Her outer garment tore and fell to the floor. Beneath it, she wore a knee-length linen shift.

The two ruffians twisted her arms harder, forcing her to arch backward in pain.

The young master stripped off her shift. Her pale body stirred his bestial lust; his throat went dry, his breathing quickened, and he reached for her breasts.

The girl screamed.

The young master quickly drew his hands back to undo his belt while the two ruffians pinned her arms and legs. She could not resist three strong men, but she kept writhing and crying out.

The young master thoroughly enjoyed the sight. He moved between her legs and lifted the hem of his clothes.

Just then, the girl's gaze shifted. Her eyes widened as she stared behind him.

The young master sensed danger. Both ruffians were staring at the naked girl on the long table. Only a chance of rescue could have drawn her attention away.

He turned his head, about to look toward the doorway.

A heavy club slammed viciously into his temple...