Page 1 of Kilty Plea
Prologue
“To the Hunter!The King’s Hunter!”
Payton MacIntyre didn’t want to drink, but he had to at least acknowledge the toast. So he stood, lifted his mug, and nodded to the revelers.
They, being halfway to drunk already, gave a mighty cheer at his acknowledgement.
After what they’ve been through, they’d likely cheer the sound of a bug’s fart.
Payton resettled himself in the chair—a finely carved one with a thick cushion—beside the Abbot and rested his untouched mug on his knee.
The Abbot, who was seated in an even finer chair, nodded at the mug. “Ye’re no’ drinking with us, brother Hunter?”
Payton didn’t drink while on assignment, and while this celebration was an indication his assignment was over and he’d soon be on his way to his family’s holding for Hogmanay, he still wasn’t going to drink with these people.
Or the Abbot.
The whole Abbey of the People itself, really, was creepy as fook, and he wasn’t certain why the Kingcaredabout them.
Still, ‘twas easier to fall back on what was expected rather than explain the truth. So, he tapped the steel helmet he always wore on assignment. “This makes it difficult to imbibe, Father.”
The Abbot, a man who was only a decade or two older than Payton, with thick brown hair and a winning smile, scoffed good-naturedly. “Surelyye must eat and drink while on missions, brother? Ye cannae fault us for offering ye such hospitality after ye’ve saved us from such evil!”
The man laughed then, his broad gesture encompassing the men and women—and aye, even children—who cavorted and danced below their dais. Payton made a noncommittal noise and lifted the mug in salute, but was careful to place it at the table by his side without drinking.
The helm was constructed such that hecouldlift it just enough to drink or eat if necessary. And of course, he didn’t wear itallthe time…just when he was around others while on a mission.
As his commander had taught him, a Hunter’s helmet was a symbol, and symbols were powerful reminders of the King’s law and order. The man under the helmet mattered less than the symbol of the King’s Hunters in general. It didn’t matterwhomaintained the King’s laws, as long as they were maintained.
The isolated Abbey of the People in remote, western Campbell land had reported having their lands attacked by bandits. His Majesty, anxious to remain in good standing with the Church, had dispatched Payton, who was on his way to visit his own family.
The bandits had been easy to defeat, especially with the fear the helmet evoked on Payton’s side. But he was pleased he didn’t have to stay any longer at the Abbey; the short time he spent in the Abbot’s company made him wonder if the place was associated with the Church at all.
For one thing, there were no saints venerated, no holy hours. The people who lived here were a strange mix; there were some monks, aye, but more laymen and their families, and quite a few unmarried lasses as well.
This place was more like a town and less like an abbey…except therewasa clear and definite leader: their charismatic Abbot, who even now was watching Payton with a sharp gleam in his eyes.
“We are a puir community, brother,” he was saying, “and we cannae offer much in thanks other than our food and drink.”
Payton made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Nae thanks are necessary, Father. I am doing the King’s bidding. Write yer thanks to him.”
“Still, we owe ye much, brother.”
Fook, always with the ‘brother’. Payton got enough of that when he visited his parents’ home; here he wasn’t a brother any more than these drunken fools were.
His gaze still on the people below, Payton tried not to allow his irritation to creep into his voice. “Ye owe me naught.”
“We have much to offer a man such as yerself.” The Abbot shifted closer, his breath smelling of something too sweet. “A warrior must celebrate his victories, I ken it. What better way than to sink into the pleasures of the flesh, eh?” When Payton shifted in his chair, torn between intrigue and disgust, the Abbot chuckled almost lewdly. “Food, drink, and a lovely lass.”
Payton couldn’t help the way his head turned to watch the group of young women who moved among the revelers, their heads down as they offered trays of mugs or bowls of food to others.
One caught his eye; a skinny waif in a too-big gown, her feet bare despite the winter’s cold. Lank hair fell into her eyes, and she kept her gaze directed at the ground. But as he watched, one of the men slapped her arse as he passed, and she froze. Slowly, she straightened and sent a glare at the man’s back which was fierce enough to make Payton’s lips curl beneath his helmet.
She was underfed, aye, but she had a woman’s curves and fire in her gaze.
At his side, the Abbot chuckled again. “These women arenae free to be used, brother, although I ken ye have a warrior’s urges. There are whores in the next town for those needs; these aremylasses, and are meant for marriage.”
There was something about the way the Abbot bragged which made Payton’s skin crawl. “I understand,” he said gruffly, although he didn’t. A woman sworn to a holy house should be meant for vows, not marriage.
