The Savage Knight mkoa-2 Read online

  Then, without warning, Megan got to her feet. “I can’t stand this heat for a moment longer. I’m going for a swim.”

  I thought about trying to persuade her otherwise. The lake was shallow at the edge but fell away sharply just a few yards out. From experience, though, I knew there would be no talking her out of the idea now her mind was made up.

  “Good idea,” I said, the exact opposite of what I was feeling. I insisted on going with her. Megan was a strong swimmer but anything could happen, and I wanted to be close by if she got into trouble.

  Giggling like small children, we ran back to the lake. Megan got there first; she had always been quicker on her feet than me. “Turn around,” she ordered. “Don’t look at me until I say you can.”

  I did as I was told and stared at the woods. My stomach lurched and tightened, and I felt a tingling between my legs. Then I heard her feet splashing through water. When she gasped with the sudden shock of cold it was all I could do to stop myself crying out.

  “You can turn around now,” she called, and I did so gladly.

  She had gone far enough out that the water had risen to the top of her chest. Her long blonde hair drifted out like a golden fan behind her. Squinting against the dazzling reflection of the sunlight I caught a glimpse of her body beneath the surface, the twin pink mounds of her breasts and, dimly, the mysterious dark triangle below her flat belly. It was wrong — oh, so wrong — but I made no effort to avert my eyes.

  “Aren’t you coming in?”

  I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Don’t be such a baby. The water’s not cold.”

  “It’s not that, I’m just hungry,” I lied. “Let’s go home and eat.”

  “Once I’ve cooled down. Come on, you might as well get in. We’re not going back just yet.”

  I knew how stubborn she could be once she got a notion inside her head. Uncomfortable with the thought of swimming naked like she was, I settled for slipping my shirt over my head and kicking my shoes off, and stepped gingerly into the lake. It was cold enough to take my breath away. Knowing she would only mock me if I scurried back out, I made myself wade out, squealing with each advance, until the water was over my waist, when I paused to get used to the cold.

  Without warning, Megan put her hands on my shoulders and pushed. I stumbled, fell, went under. Suddenly my ears were filled with a booming rumble. All I could see was a cloudy blur as my feet kicked against the steeply sloping bank. I panicked and swallowed great mouthfuls, flailing uselessly. Then I felt a burst of pain in my scalp as Megan grabbed my hair and pulled me up.

  I stood on unsteady legs, coughing and retching up water, snot running from my nose, my eyes streaming. I was scared and angry at the same time. Megan was an indistinct shape the other side of my tears. I almost yelled at her in fury. But then her arms reached out and she hugged me, crying that she was sorry, so sorry, over and over. The anger drained out of me. I pressed my face into her shoulder and whispered that it was all right and that I forgave her.

  Then I had to hurriedly break free from her and turn away before she felt the painful hardness that had sprung up between my legs. I rubbed at my eyes and spat the last of the water from my mouth until it had subsided. Then I grinned at her and she smiled back. I could not stay angry with her for long; she teased me at times, but she looked after me too. She would never deliberately hurt me.

  We swam around for a while, scaring away any fish that might otherwise have taken the bait. Eventually the cold started to get to us, and we decided that we’d had enough.

  “Y-you get out f-first,” she said. “Keep your b-back turned.”

  I nodded and splashed out of the water, hurrying past Megan’s clothes, which she had left just far enough away from the lakeside to keep them dry. I had dropped my shirt and shoes closer to the woods. The afternoon sun was still strong but the breeze was cold against my wet skin. I pulled the shirt on to keep off the chill while the rest of me dried and was just reaching for my shoes when I heard an echoing voice in the woods, calling out for Megan.

  “Oh no,” she groaned. “It’s only bloody Arwel.”

  Let me tell you about Arwel. He was our brehyrion’s son. It was said he had been born with the cord around his neck, stopping him from breathing. The midwife had shaken him hard enough to get his lungs working again, but it seemed as though it had broken something in his head.

  Although the same age as Megan, he had the mind of a child and was apt to lose his temper if he did not get his own way. He was big for his age, too, tall and wide and ungainly with it. He had a habit of tripping over his own feet. Unfortunately for my sister, this bovine oaf was obsessed with her. He followed her around, trying to join in with whatever she was doing. I was convinced she escaped to the hills whenever she could simply to get away from him.

  I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him, crashing through the undergrowth, calling her name. Having him find Megan would be bad enough; having him find her when she was as naked as a newborn babe would be mortifying.

  I heard running feet from behind and turned to see Megan sprinting towards me, naked and dripping water, arms crossed over her chest, holding her clothes in an untidy bundle. “Don’t look,” she snapped. “Just get into the woods before he sees us.”

  I ran for the cover of the trees and slowed my pace once I had reached them, lest Arwel hear me. We hurried away from him, moving as quickly as we could. I could hear the soft slap of my sister’s feet on the dry earth and her hitching, nervous breathing.

  “Megan!”

  I started. He sounded close but the woods made his voice echo; he could have been anywhere. Megan was not willing to risk being seen. I felt her hand grasp my forearm and she dragged me off the path. I kept my eyes on the ground, as though anxious not to lose my footing in the tangle of undergrowth. Megan put her hand in the small of my back, pushing me forward, guiding me between the trees.

  “There,” she whispered into my ear, and I looked up to see we had reached a place where the ferns grew dense and tall.

  We heard him call again. He sounded like he was almost on top of us. By chance, he must have taken the same path as us. We wasted no time, hurrying over to the tall ferns and hurling ourselves to the ground where we lay as still as we could, our faces pressed against the cool mossy grass of the forest floor, barely daring to breath. Heavy footsteps crashed towards us. I risked raising my head from the ground to peer through the greenery.

  “Megan!”

  Arwel was on the path directly ahead of me, walking slowly, looking into the ferns as though he could somehow sense us hiding there. He was big and ungainly, and ugly with it, piggy eyes squinting through the trees. His thin hair was parted down the middle and hung like damp fur on either side of his face. His heavy forehead glistened with sweat and his fat cheeks were flushed.

  I ducked out of sight, afraid he would see me. I could neither see nor feel Megan, but I sensed her at my side. Despite our predicament I felt myself becoming aroused again, doubly so when her hand found mine and squeezed it. Lake water had cooled and softened her skin.

  Then, from somewhere far away, came the barking of dogs.

  I frowned. There were hounds in the village, of course, but these sounded as if they were coming from high in the mountains overlooking the lake and woods. But there were no villages to be found there; the land was too rugged and desolate for anything other than wild goats and sheep to survive. And there were so many of them, more than we kept in the village. The noise was cacophonous. I could not be certain exactly how many; at a guess I would have said two or three dozen. Not wolves, either. There was no howling, only the belling of hounds. I recalled the tales we had been told as children, stories of Cwm Annwn, the hell hounds of Gwynn ap Nudd’s wild hunt. Arwel must have heard it too. I heard him cry out with fear and he ran headlong back along the path as though in mortal danger.

  The barking did not stop. It grew louder. I was certain the dogs were running towards us
, that they would find us and tear us apart. I reached out and pulled Megan towards me, to protect her with my body if I had to. Her eyes met mine, wide and bright, her mouth twisted with fear. I could not help myself. I pressed my lips against hers and kissed her.

  For a moment she struggled in my arms. Then, as the sound of the dogs worked deep into my head, I felt her relax and she returned the kiss, her probing tongue sliding between my teeth until it found mine.

  The sound of the dogs faded away and took the fear with it. I was lost in the moment, completely surrendering myself to the taste and the smell and the touch of her. One of my hands strayed to her breast.

  Megan pressed her hand to my belly and then slid it down into my trousers. I moaned as she took me in her hand. It was all I could do not to cry out.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my mouth harder against hers as a delicious pressure built inside me. Her hand moved, and I moved in time with it, the pressure building and building until something exploded within me. I was overwhelmed by a thrill so intense it was nearly painful.

  Suddenly she let go of me and groaned with disgust, whipping her hand from beneath my trousers and shoving me away.

  Whatever foul spell had been cast over us was now broken.

  I felt like a man waking from a troubled sleep. I lay on the ground, blinking in confusion at the sky, filled with revulsion at the thought of what we had done. We were brother and sister. What madness had possessed me? Possessed us, for it was fair to say I had not sinned alone. Megan had been as desperate for me as I had been for her. All that day I had felt strange yearnings for her. Now I began to wonder if she had harboured the same shameful desire for me.

  I could not bring myself to talk, and neither could she. I sat facing away from her while she dressed in silence, and did not move when she strode past me, without a word or a backwards glance. When she had walked far enough away that I could not see her, I got to my feet and set off back towards the village. Then I changed my mind and, stepping from the path, made my way to the lake. The lines were where we had left them, one swinging back and forth. I was not interested in taking the fish from the hook, so I left it to its struggle for freedom. I felt dirty, tainted. I needed to wash myself clean.

  I waded into the water. Once it had reached past my waist I held my arms out straight before me and dived in…

  The sun was close to setting by the time I reached home, but it was still uncomfortably warm and my clothes scratched my damp skin. I heard voices from the hall and could smell roasting lamb. Lacking the stomach for food or company, I continued straight on to our hut, hoping Megan and my parents would have joined the others for the evening meal. I ducked inside. It was deserted.

  I lay on my pallet and stared miserably at the smoke hole; the sky was turning dark. I still struggled to accept what Megan and I had done. I thought perhaps I should leave home, gather up what few possessions I had and make my way down to the lowlands, lose myself in the forest, search for a village where I could start a new life where no one would ever know of my disgrace. I would have done, too, except that I would be dead in a day, food for a bear or a pack of wolves. I was small and weedy.

  Eventually my mother returned with my sister. I feigned sickness to explain my absence at the hall. Megan did not so much as glance my way. She had reached the age where they felt they needed to shield her from my eyes — and what a success that had been — so they had suspended a blanket from the ceiling above one end of the hut where she could dress and sleep without being seen.

  Muttering that she was tired, she pushed past the blanket and disappeared.

  That was a long night. My mother and I talked quietly for a while, then she yawned and said she, too, was going to bed. I lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling, as laughter and raised voices drifted across from the hall. It was always that way. Once the women and children had left for the night, out would come the ale and the men would drink themselves stupid, and then my father would stagger home and pass out. That night he collapsed on his bed, with a grunt that wafted beery fumes over me, and was snoring in seconds.

  Minutes felt like hours, hours passed like days. I could not sleep. The heat did not help. I pulled the shirt over my head and dropped it to the floor beside the pallet. Still too hot, I took off my trousers and dropped them next to the shirt, leaving on my braies to preserve my dignity. An owl hooted. A sheep bawled. I closed my eyes and willed sleep to come.

  It must have, for I was aware of nothing until I felt a weight on my mattress. Someone was climbing quietly into the pallet next to me, and warm, moist flesh brushed against mine. Megan, I thought, with a sick feeling in my belly. I sat up and tried to push her away but the hands that gripped my wrists were too strong, forcing me back to the mattress. A heavy body, much heavier than Megan’s, slid over mine, pressing me down so I could not move.

  “Mother?” I gasped. There was no mistaking the smell of her. I tried to protest but her mouth smothered mine and my words were muffled and lost. Away in the hills above the village, I heard the barking of those hellish hounds, insinuating itself into my head like worms boring into the flesh of the dead. At once I was filled with a lust so strong it eclipsed all other thoughts. I was helpless to resist, it was as if it were happening to someone else, and I was a reluctant observer who could not turn away.

  I heard Megan cry out, heard the deep rumble of my father’s voice. After that there was nothing save that relentless baying, the heat of my mother’s breath in my mouth and the slickness of skin against skin as she wrapped her legs around me and drew me in.

  I will not speak of what happened after that. From the revulsion written in your faces I suspect you do not want to hear it either. Believe me, the disgust you feel for me is as nothing compared to my own self-loathing. Believe me also when I tell you what happened that night was the work of the devil himself. For in those long hours between midnight and dawn we were seized by a kind of madness. And by we I mean everyone, the entire village.

  That became apparent the following morning. When the rising sun woke me, I was alone in my bed. Raising myself up on one elbow, I could see my parents were asleep in theirs. Had I dreamt it all? The soreness between my legs told me otherwise, but surely we could not have slept so soundly if it had truly happened.

  A cockerel crowed, and slowly the village stirred into life. The atmosphere in our hut was muted; none of us would look the others in the eye. We knew we had done a terrible wrong, so terrible we dared not speak of it. How could we, when we couldn’t begin to understand why we had done it? My young mind could only suppose we had been possessed. Unable to bear it any longer, we made our way in gloomy silence to the hall to break fast with the villagers.

  Although I was not hungry, I felt a desperate need to be with others, to be among those who had not shared my awful sin, but it was apparent on entering the hall that my family had not been alone.

  No one spoke when we walked in. They were struggling with their own consciences and barely registered our presence. Gwyn, our brehyrion, looked as guilty as anyone in the room. His wife had died years ago and he had raised Arwel with the help of his mother, Bronwyn, a thin, harsh-voiced woman known to the children as Crow. She was a bad-tempered creature, too. I looked at her and then looked at Gwyn and had to swallow the bile in my throat.

  Days passed. Whatever madness had overwhelmed us had passed, for there was no more wickedness. The dogs, or whatever they had been, were not heard again. A month went by and, as is often the way with such matters, the memories gradually grew less raw until village life returned to something like normal. But then the consequence of our accursed couplings became evident. One by one, eight of the women of the village, my mother and sister among them, discovered they were with child.

  When I found out about Megan I ran from the hut and up the steep slope of the valley, not stopping until I reached the woods where she and I had… well. I stopped when I could run no further, and then I bent over and was violently sick. I collaps
ed to the ground and lay there, curled up in a ball of self-hatred and self-pity, until the sun set and the cooling air sent me home again.

  I will spare you the mundane details. We endured a cold winter, but there was little joy when spring finally arrived, for we all knew the babies would arrive with it. Megan was the first to give birth, maybe because she was the youngest. Even now I can hear her screams from the midwife’s hut when the child was delivered. Later I was to learn it had been born with mismatched eyes and six fingers and six toes.

  I never saw it. Immediately when it was born they took it somewhere away from inquisitive eyes, a shepherd’s hut away in the hills, fully expecting it to die. Against the odds it survived, as did the other seven born that spring. All were deformed in one way or another.

  I was not privy to the fierce argument that raged in the hall when the time came to decide what to do with them. Word gets around, though. Some wanted to smother them. Others said they should not be made to pay for the sins of their parents. Agreement could not be reached. Then Bronwyn the Crow stepped forward and told the assembled villagers: “I will take them into the mountains and look after them. They will live or die as fate decrees.”

  Whatever had passed between her and Gwyn on the night of the barking dogs, she had borne no children, and she had never been well-disposed towards them anyway. So coming from her of all people, her offer immediately silenced the room. To cut to the chase, it was agreed that this was what should happen, and that Arwel, who would not become brehyrion after his father because he was too dim in the head, should stay with them. He could hunt for their food and protect them from the predators that stalked the high places.

  And so it was that an expedition set out, taking the eight babies and their unlikely guardians into the mountains, to a valley where they could be hidden from the eyes of the world. They took with them basic comforts such as bedding and clothing, and weapons and tools for Arwel, who was good with his hands, to provide them with food and shelter. When the men who went with them returned after several days, a great weight seemed to lift from the village. The fruits of our sins were gone.