The Bad Young Master

In July of the Christian Era 1305, the thirty-third year of the reign of Edward Longshanks, King of England, summer had arrived.

On Allen Island in the Firth of Clyde, Western Scotland, a tall oak tree stood abruptly amid shrub-covered, weed-choked rolling ground 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 mosquitoes thriving in early summer. A two-wheeled cart trailed behind their harnesses.

More than a dozen cloth sacks were neatly stacked on the cart. Several rough, long hard loaves and dry cheese protruded from the loosely tied openings, while four small round oak barrels and a pile of tough salted beef sat at the front of the cart bed.

Beside the ox cart, a man with a fleshy wine-red nose and a glaring cluster of red boils beneath the corners of his full mouth poured himself a hornful of ale from an oak barrel.

He tipped it back into his wide mouth, full of rotten teeth beneath his beard. "Did you hear? That demon from Sir Colin's Household has returned to the island."

Next to Red Nose stood a middle-aged man dressed in a loose homespun tunic, a tartan kilt around his waist, and short cowhide boots on his feet, his brows tightly furrowed.

His grief-stricken face looked even more wrinkled than the plaid blanket slung over one shoulder. "Endless hells! Wasn't that filthy thing locked up in a monastery in Argyll? How did he escape back to the island?"

Red Nose had already drained his hornful of ale. Smacking his lips, he said, "They say that demon fornicated with a nun from the convent next door."

"When the nun's swollen belly was discovered, she named the demon, and he was expelled from the monastery."

"Who did you hear that from?" The sorrowful-faced man was full of suspicion.

Red Nose leaned closer. "Yesterday, while I was escorting Kildonan's military provisions back to Brodick, I heard it with my own ears at the baron's residence."

"That fellow went to visit the baron and got slapped away by him. Before he left, the baron even declared that he would never acknowledge such a nephew."

"It's been five whole years. Even the monastery couldn't keep that filthy thing down. Allen Island is about to suffer again."

Red Nose adjusted the short sword on his belt, the symbol of his official position, then spat a thick gob of phlegm onto a crawling ant, thoroughly "imprisoning" it.

"Endless hells, what kind of times are these? The baron leaves the island to fight every year, drafts able-bodied men every year, and forcibly collects taxes every year. The English haven't been killed in any great number, but the island's young men are nearly all dead. Now this bastard has escaped back here. Who knows how much trouble he'll cause again?" After speaking, the sorrowful-faced man looked up at the sky, closed his eyes, and traced a cross over his chest.

Red Nose was the nominal captain of Allen Island's hundred-household district. Ever since King Balliol had become a "guest" of England, the entire Kingdom of Scotland had fallen apart. As captain, supposedly a symbol of the Scottish crown's rule over its directly administered lands, he had become nothing more than Baron John Campbell's private tax collector on Allen Island.

The middle-aged man who always wore a sorrowful expression was the owner of a brewing workshop and the village head of Rocklanza Village in northern Allen Island. The two men were collecting a "war tax" for the Baron of Allen Island's campaign to drive out the English invaders. This was already Baron John's sixth "expedition."

Red Nose was about to pour himself more ale from the oak barrel.

The sorrowful-faced man hurried forward and shielded the barrel. "This is Rocklanza Village's tax payment to the baron. You've drunk so much already. How are we supposed to account for it later?"

As he spoke, he reached for the horn cup in Red Nose's hand.

Red Nose twisted around to block the hand reaching for him. "Miser, next time I'll advise the baron to raise your brewing workshop's tax by another tenth."

The sorrowful-faced man remained unmoved and continued trying to seize it.

Red Nose protected the horn cup. "Hey, hey. Believe me, I'll expose how you use the baron's name to impose extra taxes and keep them for yourself."

The sorrowful-faced man stopped.

"That's more like it. Your Household has a brewing workshop anyway. At worst, you can make up the difference." Red Nose went around to the ox cart to pour himself a drink, only to find the sorrowful-faced man staring fixedly southward.

"Who are those fellows? Why did they take the side path?" Red Nose raised a hand over his brow and looked. "Eh? Isn't that the mountain path leading to your village?"

Red Nose's small eyes widened, and the boils on his face squeezed together. "Th-that isn't the demon from Sir Colin's Household, is it?"

"God, your village is going to have bad luck again." With that, he hurriedly traced a holy cross over his chest to ward off evil.

In northern Allen Island, the mountain path leading to Rocklanza Village was rugged and uneven. On a mottled old packhorse, a young master in his early twenties swayed crookedly with the animal's steps, looking every bit the dissolute wastrel.

The young master was tall and strong. His long brown hair was slightly curled and yellowish, and perhaps because he was always squinting at the sun, his eyes were especially narrow.

He wore a fitted tweed jacket with undyed woolen hose, leather boots below, and crisscrossed bootlaces tied all the way to his knees. It was quite an affluent outfit.

Two country ruffians followed behind the mottled packhorse. They wore conspicuously tight short tunics, one of them with a cheap green woolen outer garment over his.

The other did not even have an undershirt. He merely wrapped himself in a filthy black half-cloak, hastily tied around his waist with a coarse hemp rope.

The one in green followed closely behind the young master. About eighteen or nineteen, he had a bald patch on his head, probably a souvenir from some brawl. The old wooden-soled shoes on his feet kept slipping over 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 that nun true after all?"

The young master was distracted. He glanced at Goat Fell ahead and casually replied, "Which thing between me and a nun are you talking about?"

"The child in that slut's belly definitely isn't mine. By the time I rolled into the hay with her, her belly was already swollen."

The young master spat and said bitterly, "Thinking back on it now, the bastard in that bitch's belly must have belonged to one of those abbots. I was simply lured in to fill their hole and take the blame."

"Don't mention it."

The young master on horseback unconsciously touched the row of red marks on his face. Unwilling to revisit that painful memory, he shot the man in green a sidelong glance. "Hey, Baldy, are you sure that old bastard Gary isn't home today?"

The man in green rubbed his bald patch and said with certainty, "Rest assured, Young Master Roger. I asked around. Gary went with that fat tax official to collect taxes from several northern villages today. Only his busty daughter and two young apprentices from the brewery are left at home."

At the word "busty," desire surged through the young master. His lower body stiffened, and he kicked the horse to urge it onward. "Faster. Once I've had enough fun, I'll let you two have a taste too."

"Young Master, we'll be content just watching from the side. We wouldn't dare share your meal."

"Good, good."

In northern Allen Island, the Ethan River carried the waters of Lake David in the Goat Fell mountains toward the sea. Years of sediment had turned this coastal valley into fertile farmland.

Rocklanza Village sat in the middle of the fields like a pig in a mudhole.

About twenty small cottages were scattered around a courtyard enclosed by a low stone wall. That stone-walled courtyard was the residence of Rocklanza Village's wealthy farmer village head and one of only two brewing workshops on Allen Island.

The winter wheat had already been harvested, and spring wheat shoots had emerged in the fields. Blue thistles bloomed brightly along the road, but the young master riding the mottled packhorse had no mind to admire them.

His thoughts were filled with the village head's well-endowed, curvy daughter.

The moment the three entered the village, villagers carrying wicker baskets on their backs and bundles of dry branches for firewood slowly gathered along the muddy road. Several sturdier villagers had already picked up fire pokers.

The villagers did not recognize the young master at first, but the two ruffians following the piebald horse were all too familiar. Allen Island was not large, but their infamy was clearly not small either.

Those two rotten eggs coming to the village could mean nothing good.

"What are you doing? What are you doing?" The green-clad ruffian bulged his toad-like eyes and shouted at several men near the village entrance holding wooden clubs.

"Do you know who this is? Young Master Roger from Sir Colin's Household. He's back!"

Several quick-witted villagers froze reflexively when they heard the name "Roger," then immediately began shrinking back.

"Get out of the way. Young Master Roger is going to Gary's workshop to buy ale. Don't block the road." The black-cloaked man, silent all along, began barking orders as well.

The villagers who had looked fierce moments ago immediately wilted and retreated into their shabby huts, peering through the cracks at the young master on horseback.

After only a few steps, the horse and three men stopped before the village's only courtyard.

Bang! Bang! Bang! The man in green had somehow acquired a thick, arm-length stick. Holding it in his hand, he repeatedly pounded on the courtyard's wooden gate.

After a while, the gate opened a crack, and a small, thin figure with a freckled face poked his head out, about to ask who had come.

The man in green kicked the gate first. With a loud crash, it flew open, and the freckled youth in a worn woolen apron tumbled to the ground.

Without a word, the three barged straight into the courtyard. The black-cloaked man kicked the gate shut behind him, while the man in green raised his club and smashed it onto the freckled youth's head. At the same time, the black-cloaked man threw a fist at another young apprentice emerging from the brewery.

The two young apprentices were no match for the ruffians. In the blink of an eye, the courtyard fell quiet.

Only then did the young master dismount from the piebald horse and slowly approach, rubbing his hands as he made for the main house.

Just then, the door of the main house opened, and the village head's daughter came out after hearing the disturbance in the courtyard.

She had been preparing food and still held a piece of rye bread in one hand. Her pretty seventeen- or eighteen-year-old face stared blankly at the scene in terror, and the high curves beneath her flour-dusted clothes were especially alluring.

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

The girl watched the young master approach with a lecherous grin, but it was already too late to run.

The instant she turned around, the young master grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

He twisted her arm behind her back and held her down, making her tremble all over in fear.

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

"You'll know who I am soon enough." The young master kept her arm twisted behind her and shoved her toward the long table in the corner of the room.

The girl came from a farming family and naturally had some strength. As she struggled, the young master actually found it difficult to handle her.

The young master pressed down hard on her hand, then turned to the two ruffians at the door, both wearing wicked grins. "You two bastards, what are you staring at? Hurry up and hold her down."

The two ruffians hurried over, each grabbing one of the girl's arms and pressing them hard against the long table.

The young master seized the girl by the collar and yanked downward. Her robe tore and fell to the floor, leaving her in a knee-length linen shift.

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

The young master stripped off her shift. The sight of her pale body stirred his beastly desire. His throat went dry, his breathing grew more urgent, and his hands reached for the girl's breasts.

The girl screamed.

The young master quickly pulled his hands back to undo his belt, while the two ruffians pinned down her arms and legs. She could not possibly resist three strong men, yet she continued to struggle and cry out.

The young master greatly enjoyed the sight. Moving between her legs, he lifted the hem of his clothes.

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

The young master sensed danger. Both ruffians were staring at the exposed girl on the table. The only thing that could draw the girl's attention away was the chance of rescue.

The young master turned around, about to glance toward the door.

A heavy club smashed viciously into his temple...