Epilogue

The smell of rot and dampness wafted up from the Thames. The place was rank with sweat and sin as if its walls had been tainted by years of corruption and bodies sliding together in a parody of love.

‘Can you not hasten? I wish to be away from this cesspit.’

‘I must choose carefully,’ he replied, grey eyes sliding over a company of whores.

The familiar glint in his eye betrayed his brutal lust – that terrible itch he had to scratch. It had been swelling these last weeks. If she’d ever desired him, she would be riven with jealousy. Instead, she had to swallow irritation.

She sneered. ‘You know which one you want, so why the pretence?’

‘And tell me, my lovely, which is it?’ he said, pacing the room.

‘That one,’ she said, pointing at the whore with striking, light red hair. The woman met her gaze, for she could not see the malice burning in her breast.

‘Why her?’ he said.

‘She has a bold eye and bears a passing resemblance to MacCreadie’s daughter. I know you have coveted her relentlessly since we visited his rat hole of a keep.’

‘How well you dissect my desires, my dear.’ He glanced back at the whore. ‘She is only passably pretty, a little stunted, and her teeth are crooked. Do you think she will do?’

‘She lacks a certain ripeness, but for our purposes, yes, she will do.’ She smiled at the whore. ‘And we need not keep her long.’

‘I agree.’ He turned to the whore. ‘Go and ready yourself to come with us.’

‘For how long? My master will want to know,’ said the whore.

He slapped the slut hard enough to make her stagger. ‘For however long it pleases me to keep you,’ he hissed. He took hold of the whore’s chin. Her chest heaved as she stifled a sob. Clever lass, for tears only spurred him on.

‘You do not please me. Go!’ he bellowed at all the other women, and they fled. He pushed his chosen whore away, and she squirmed under his gaze.

Sir Henry grimaced. ‘I would much prefer the real thing. Had that fool Carstairs done as I bid, I would have the slut in my power now.’

She glanced at the whore. It did not matter that she heard, for she would never tell anyone.

‘You will have your little toy eventually,’ she continued. ‘But you must be patient. Glendenning, Bannerman and Strachan are the hardest nuts to crack. And when they are gone, you will hold the West March in the palm of your hand.’

‘And you will have your vengeance for the wrongs they did you.’ He smiled. ‘Do you still burn over your degradation?’

‘As they will burn? Yes.’

His cold grey eyes flashed with cruelty. ‘And they all took part in it. Tell me again what those men did to you when you were young and oh so innocent.’

And so she did, for he liked to hear it. As she spun her lies, he never took his eyes off her face. But then, she had always been good at feigning womanly distress.

‘Is that violation what twisted you, dearest one?’

‘Yes. I was pure of heart and body, and they ripped away my innocence.’ He had never believed her lie, but he liked to imagine the violence. It was how she held him in carnal bondage.

‘I am in need, dearest one,’ he said. ‘On your knees.’

She stared at the wall while Sir Henry inflicted himself on her body, and the whore watched. He had never offered her the dignity of marriage, but she had no need of it. As his mistress, her hold over him was stronger. He was her puppet to manage. But occasionally, she let him play at being her master.

A laugh swelled in her throat, which she had to stifle lest he hear. Instead, she grinned at the wall, imagining all the awful indignities she would heap on that red whore to work off her rage. His icy fingers grabbed the back of her neck and squeezed hard enough to hurt, nails digging in. It meant nothing. She often imagined herself a great spider spinning a web of lies to catch foolish men and hold them fast. The thought of them helpless as she sucked them dry brought a sickly sweet bile of joy bubbling into her throat.

Sir Henry Harclaw had the ear of the King of England, but if he ever lost his influence, he was easily replaced. Already, she was the darling of the court, with wealthy admirers fawning over her. How she had been wasted on Scotland.

Jasper Glendenning, Caolan Bannerman and Peyton Strachan would pay for the death of her dear brother, Robert. They would suffer for taking Fellscarp - her birthright - and for sending her into exile. They would curse the day they ever crossed Elene Strachan.