AFTER CONFESSING HER sins to Father Thomas and receiving the priest's instructions on how she might cleanse her mortal soul, Maeve returned to the bawdy house.
She entered quietly through the garden gate, keeping her head lowered as she made her way inside.
She passed by the busy kitchen and went directly to Barbara's private quarters, where after hesitating for a moment, she raised her hand and gently rapped timidly upon the closed door.
"Come in." Barbara called from within.
Maeve pushed the door open and stepped inside.
They sat for a long while in the cozy little sitting room where Maeve had first encountered Barbara. The older woman sat comfortably in a chair, watching the girl with an attentive expression as Maeve spoke in a quiet, halting voice.
At first, Barbara offered no interruptions, she merely listened, her eyes fixed upon Maeve as the girl recounted what had passed between herself and Father Thomas, and the instructions the priest had given her.
When Maeve finally fell silent, Barbara remained quiet for several moments.
"Is that all he told you?" she asked softly. Maeve nodded.
"My dear child," Barbara began, her voice softening into something almost sympathetic, "your so called 'holy man' who counsels the poor, unfortunate men and women of this village to repent their sins and seek salvation from God is himself guilty of perversions far worse than those he condemns."
Maeve stared at her, her fingers tightening around the teacup she held within her hand.
"Father Thomas," Barbara continued, lowering her voice, "has his own sins to answer for. He abuses the altar boys entrusted to his care, and when he is finished with them, he gives them a few coins and threatens them into silence, lest they tell their parents what he has done."
Maeve's face had gone quit pale.
Barbara watched her closely before reaching across the table and gently nudging the plate of biscuits toward her.
"Come now, finish your tea, child." She paused, studying Maeve beneath slightly raised brows.
"Then tell me something." Maeve swallowed.
"Do you truly wish to be rid of the babe growing within your belly?"
Maeve drained the last of her tea, the delicate porcelain cup rattling against its saucer in her trembling hands.
Barbara immediately reached out and removed the cup and saucer from the girl's grasp, placing them carefully upon the tray resting on the table beside her.
"We do not want to chip the expensive china, now do we my dear," she admonished, her tone suddenly sharper than before.
"Now, answer me honestly. Do you wish to rid yourself of Johnas's evil seed, which has found purchase within your womb, or not?"
Maeve was taken aback by Barbara's abrupt manner.
She had never heard the woman speak to anyone with such coldness before.
For several moments, she could do nothing but stare at her.
Barbara's expression remained unreadable as she waited for an answer.
Maeve lowered her eyes, clasping her trembling hands tightly together in her lap.
"I... I do not know," she whispered. Barbara leaned back in her chair. "That is not what I asked you, child."
Maeve looked up at her, startled by the hardness in her voice.
"I asked whether you wish to be rid of it."
"Do not worry, child. I know someone who can help you dispose of the babe, if that is truly what you desire."
Barbara leaned forward, lowering her voice as though sharing a confidence.
"Do you think you are the first girl to find herself in such trouble? No, my dear. Many of my girls have found themselves in your predicament at one time or another. It is an unfortunate occupational hazard of our line of work." A knowing smirk touched her lips. "I myself have been no luckier."
"Though, of course, that was in my younger days, mind you," she added with a small laugh.
"Thankfully, with age comes the ceasing of one's monthly courses, and with it, freedom from the worry of falling pregnant."
Barbara's voice had returned to its former gentle timbre, almost as though her earlier harshness had not occurred.
Maeve remained silent, her eyes fixed upon the woman before her.
"Would it..." she began hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Would it hurt?
"When the babe comes away, yes, it may hurt a bit," Barbara reassured her. "You will bleed for a short while afterward, much as you would during your monthlies. Then, in time, all will be well."
She reached across the table and gave Maeve's hand a kindly pat, her expression softening.
Maeve swallowed hard before finally nodding.
"Then yes," she whispered. "Please help me rid myself of this unwanted burden."
"Good!" Barbara exclaimed, sitting back in her chair. "Then that is settled. I shall seek out my friend, and she will soon see you right."
Maeve's shoulders sagged with relief.
With that, Barbara rose and gently ushered the girl toward the door. Maeve glanced back at her once, but Barbara was already turning away. The door closing softly behind her.
Barbara waited until she heard Maeve's footsteps retreat down the passage before her kindly expression vanished.
A slow, satisfied smile crept across her face.
After the girl had left Barbara in her sitting room, she went to her desk, removing a vial from her pocket, where she had secreted it.
Holding it up, she examined it contents before replacing it in the drawer, locking it with the key she wore around her neck.
She had spilled some of its contents into Maeve's tea before she handing her the cup, sure that the child would agree to her plans.
Barbara's mother had been a wise woman who had taught her daughter well. She knew many ways to prevent a woman from conceiving, as well as methods for ending a pregnancy once a babe had already taken root within the womb.
Barbara smiled slyly to herself.
Soon enough, the girl's problem would be gone.
Maeve had proven herself a profitable asset, particularly with her distinctive flame-colored hair, and Barbara was not willing to surrender such an asset without a fight.
The girl's work in the bawdy house would continue for as long as she brought in good money for her services, or until Barbara decided she was no longer worth keeping.
With that thought in mind, Barbara sat before her vanity and began making her own preparations for the evening's business of selling flesh for profit.
* * *
Maeve doubled over with a cry, clutching herself as another wave of pain tore through her, within moments, the cramping had become so severe that she could barely remain on her feet.
"Help me!" she cried out.
Julia came rushing into the room, a look of alarm upon her face. She stopped dead when she saw the blood.
"Oh, my God!" she exclaimed, and immediately turned and fled through the doorway, calling down from the top of the landing.
"Samuel! Samuel, come quickly! I need your help!"
One of the large stews came bounding up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.
Julia hurried along behind him, scarcely able to keep pace.
Samuel had expected to find an intruder, but he was wholly unprepared for what awaited him.
Maeve lay curled upon the floor, barely conscious, the front of her dress stained dark with blood.
"Good Lord!"
Samuel dropped to his knees beside her, unsure for a moment what to do.
"Get Hugh!" he shouted toward the hallway. "Hugh! Come here and help me get her onto the bed!"
Then he looked toward Julia.
"You, go and fetch Barbara. Quickly!"
Julia nodded frantically before turning and racing from the room. Samuel glanced down at Maeve again.
"Stay with me, girl," he murmured, trying to keep the fear from his voice.
"Come on now. Stay with me."
Julia pounded frantically upon Barbara's door, barely able to catch her breath.
When Barbara opened it, Julia stumbled forward, trying desperately to explain what had happened. But the words came out as little more than, incoherent babble.
"Maeve... blood... she's dying!" Barbara's patience snapped.
She struck the hysterical girl hard across the face, the blow sending Julia sprawling upon the kitchen floor.
"Enough!"
Barbara dropped to her knees beside her, seized Julia firmly by the shoulders, and gave the sobbing girl a sharp shake.
"Now, tell me exactly what happened," she demanded. "Start at the beginning. What did you see?"
Julia struggled to catch her breath.
"She was in her room... getting ready... then she cried out. There was blood, Barbara. So much blood. Sam went to her, and he sent me to fetch you."
Barbara released her.
"Stay here."
She rose quickly and crossed to her dressing table. From beneath a folded shawl, she retrieved a small wooden box and tucking it beneath her arm.
Without another word, she stepped over the still sobbing girl and hurried through the kitchen toward the back stairs.
Barbara turned to Samuel.
"Fetch me a glass of water."
The man hurried from the room and returned moments later with a cup in his hand.
Barbara took it without a word.
She opened the small wooden box resting upon her lap and removed one of the tiny glass vials nestled within, pulling the stopper, she tipped a measure of the dark, viscous liquid into the water.
The strange substance curled through the clear water in dark tendrils. Barbara stirred it with her finger before setting the vial aside.
"Hold her head."
Samuel hesitated, but obeyed.
Barbara slipped one arm beneath Maeve's shoulders and lifted her head from the pillows as she pressed the cup to the girl's lips.
"Drink child," she commanded.
Maeve was barely conscious, so Barbara tipped the cup, forcing the liquid down her throat.
Maeve suddenly gasped and began to cough, struggling weakly as Barbara emptied the contents of the glass into her mouth.
Her eyes flew open.
For one brief moment, she stared at Barbara.
There was horror in her gaze and something else, mistrust.
Maeve seemed to understand, even through her fading consciousness, that something was horribly wrong.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and her head fell back against the pillows, and she lay utterly still.
Behind her, Samuel and Hugh stood frozen, their faces pale as they watched what had just occurred.
Barbara turned toward them.
"Go downstairs and open the house." she barked.
Neither man moved for a moment, then Barbara's expression hardened.
"I said go."
The steel in her voice broke their hesitation.
Samuel and Hugh exchanged an uneasy glance before retreating from the room.
Barbara waited until they had disappeared down the stairs, and then she turned back toward the unconscious girl.
* * *
Once the stews had departed to attend to their duties, Barbara slipped quietly down the back stairs of the house.
She passed through the bustling kitchen, where pots simmered over the hearth and the scullery maids hurried about their work. Several of them paused to give Barbara a quizzical look as she passed, but none dared question her.
Barbara continued through the rear door and crossed the yard to the wash house at the back of the property. There, she opened a cabinet and retrieved several pieces of clean linen.
She then drew fresh water into a wooden bucket and carried it carefully back toward the house.
Retracing her steps, Barbara made her way once more to Maeve's room.
By the time she entered, the commotion had subsided, and the house beyond the closed door had returned to its usual bustle.
Barbara set the bucket beside the bed, placing the folded linen within easy reach.
Then she turned her attention to the unconscious girl.
Sitting on the edge of Maeve's bed she gently examined the girl, noting the blood that had already soaked through the linen beneath her. The bleeding appeared to be slowing, helped along, no doubt, by the elixir she had administered earlier.
While Maeve remained unconscious, Barbara set about cleaning the girl, washing the blood from her legs and replacing the soiled linen with fresh.
She worked in silence, her movements practiced and methodical.
After a time, Maeve's body gave a final shudder.
The tiny stillborn child was delivered amidst a rush of blood. Barbara caught the babe with her hands and stared down at him.
Though impossibly small, he was unmistakably a perfectly formed little boy.
For several moments, Barbara said nothing.
"One less man in the world is no great loss," Barbara thought bitterly.
She wrapped the tiny body in a piece of bloodstained linen and set it aside.
Later, when the opportunity presented itself, she would dispose of the remains in the ocean.
For now, however, she still had work to do. Barbara returned her attention to Maeve.
She made certain that nothing remained that might endanger the girl, working methodically until she was satisfied that the afterbirth had been completely delivered.
Having completed her task, Barbara sat back.
The danger having passed she placed fresh linen between Maeve's legs to absorb the remaining blood, then gently closed her legs and adjusted the girl's dress over them.
Barbara pulled the blankets up, concealing the stained sheets beneath them.
She studied the pale, unconscious girl for a moment.
When Maeve awoke, she would be sore, weak, and frightened. But she would live.
Barbara slipped the small wooden box into her pocket, then gathered the bundle containing the babe and the blood-soaked rags. She placed everything into the bucket, concealing its contents beneath a clean piece of linen.
With the bucket in hand, she made her way down the back stairs.
At this late hour, the kitchen stood empty. The only light coming from the dying embers glowing faintly within the hearth, casting long shadows across the deserted room.
Barbara crossed the kitchen and slipped out into the back garden. She made her way toward the gate at the far end of the property.
Its rusted hinges groaned in protest as she pushed it open, the sound carrying eerily through the stillness of the night.
Beyond the gate, a narrow path wound upward toward the cliffs overlooking the bay.
Barbara followed it until she reached the top.
Below, the dark water churned against the rocks, the waves breaking white in the moonlight.
She set down the bucket and removed the bundle.
Opening it, she added several stones, carefully weighing the bundle down.
Then, without hesitation, Barbara stepped to the edge of the cliff and flung it into the darkness.
The bundle disappeared into the churning waves below. Barbara watched until the sea had swallowed every trace of it.
Then she gathered the empty bucket and turning back toward the path, leaving the tumultuous waters behind her.
Exhausted from the night's labors, Barbara lowered herself onto the stool before the vanity.
She stared at her own reflection in the mirror above it, scarcely recognizing the weary, world worn woman who stared back at her.
For a long while, she sat in silence.
Then, quite unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears. A soft sob escaped her lips.
She did not know whether she wept for the tiny babe who had died by her hands, or for its mother who had come so perilously close to losing her life as well, or for the miserable soul she had become.
Perhaps it was all three.
Whatever the reason, Barbara could not halt the tears.
She bowed her head as the tears continued to flow unchecked, sitting alone in the dimly lit room, as she wept for the first time in more years than she could recall.
* * *
Johnas paced restlessly around his study, his agitation growing with every passing hour.
It had been three days since he had dispatched his correspondence to his friend at court, yet still no reply had arrived.
He cursed Henry Sneed and the slow moving nag he insisted upon riding. Bertha had assured him that she had placed the letter directly into Sneed's hands herself, paying him with the coins Johnas had provided for its swift delivery.
Three days.
Johnas was beginning to wonder whether Sneed had even bothered to make the journey.
He was about to summon Bertha to his study when a thunderous pounding shook the front door.
Johnas stopped pacing as Bertha hurried to answer it.
He could hear Bertha speaking quietly to whoever stood upon the other side, though he could not make out the words.
Then came the sound of Bertha's shuffling footsteps as she approached the study, the heavy footsteps of someone following close behind here their footsteps echoing ominously against the wooden floorboards.
The footsteps halted just outside the studies entrance, and for a moment there was silence.
Then Bertha opened the door.
When Johnas turned to see who had accompanied Bertha, he was astonished to find his old friend standing in the doorway.
Bertha curtsied.
"Sir Gavin Mowbray to see you."
With that, she quickly retreated from the room, pulling the door tightly shut behind her.
"My dear friend, Mowbray!" Johnas exclaimed, his face breaking into a broad smile. "I never expected you to come in person when I sent my missive. I was expecting a messenger, not the man himself!"
The two men embraced warmly.
"I am sorry, old friend, but I never received any message," Mowbray replied. "I was visiting Lady Philippa in Norfolk. As I happened to be passing through the village on my return, I thought what a pleasure it would be to visit my old friend Johnas. Perhaps we might share some of your fine whiskey, and I could bring you news of what has transpired at court while you have been away."
Mowbray crossed the room and sprawled comfortably in the chair beside the fire, stretching his long legs before him.
Johnas watched him for a moment, still wearing his delighted smile.
"Well, then," he said, moving toward the drinks cabinet, "I cannot think of a better reason for your unexpected visit."
Johnas was mildly annoyed that Mowbray had presumed to claim the most comfortable chair in the study, leaving him with the narrower of the two seats beside the fire.
He watched as Mowbray helped himself to a generous measure of Johnas's whiskey from the decanter now resting upon the table beside him.
There was no denying that Mowbray was a fine figure of a man, broad of shoulder, yet narrow of waist, with the easy bearing of someone accustomed to being admired.
All the ladies at court had sought to catch his favor, yet he had eyes only for Lady Philippa.
Who was a beauty in her own right, blessed with a fair face and pleasing figure.
Her long golden tresses held a simple side plait leaving her graceful white neck and delicate, shell shaped ears exposed, the better to be admired by all who sought her favors.
Mowbray's fair hair and neatly pointed beard, only accentuated his rugged good looks, made the two an exceptionally handsome match, though Lady Philippa twenty-two summers was much younger than Mowbray's fifty-some summers.
Johnas smiled to himself.
"Still devoted to your Lady Philippa, I see," he remarked.
Johnas had heard that Lady Philippa had left court not long after he himself had been sent away, though he had never learned precisely why. He could, however, hazard a guess.
There had been whispers that Mowbray's good lady wife had discovered something concerning her husband and Lady Philippa, and the private assignations the two had been enjoying.
Johnas wondered if Mowbray's sudden visit might have something to do with that very affair.
He poured himself a generous amount of whiskey before lowering his considerable bulk into the narrower chair beside the fire.
"How is Lady Philippa? I heard she had left court. She is not ill I hope?" He inquired.
"No, no, no, the lady is in excellent health, I can assure you." Mowbray said with a wink. "Her younger sister, Lady Anne, has been unwell, and so she left court to attend to her. They are very dependent on each other as you well know my friend." He sneered.
Johnas drank from his glass avoiding Mowbray's accusing look.
"Yes, she is a sweet child, if a bit of a hysteric," he replied. A dark look in his eyes.
Lady Anne had been the reason for Johnas's banishment from court and his exile to this miserable village, Johnas ruminated.
The foolish girl had refused his attentions, and in a fit of rage he had taken what she had denied him.
Had his family not been the holders of the royal purse strings, the King might well have demanded his head for what he had done.
Instead, Johnas had been banished from court and sent to this backwards place.
The last he had heard of Lady Anne, she had been confined to a nunnery, having gone quite mad, after their encounter.
Johnas took a slow drink of his whiskey.
"So, what was this message you sent to me about, Johnas?" Mowbray inquired, pulling his old friend from his thoughts.
"Ah, yes." Johnas shifted in his chair. "It seems we have a witch hiding in the forest."
"A witch?" Mowbray retorted in amusement.
"A healer, or so they say. She has cursed and killed several of the village children. We tried to burn her, but somehow she vanished from the pyre before we could accomplish the task."
Mowbray raised an eyebrow, taking another leisurely sip of his whiskey. "The village men have proved themselves more than useless at hunting the woman down," Johnas continued, his irritation evident. "So I sent word to you in the hope that you might lend me some of your good men. Men capable of tracking her through the forest and bringing her back alive." He leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"I mean to see this woman captured, Mowbray. Whatever she is, she has been allowed to run free for far too long."
Mowbray studied his old friend over the rim of his glass.
"A witch? Have you lost your senses, Johnas, in your isolation?" Mowbray brayed with laughter.
Johnas leapt from his chair, anger flashing across his face. He paced back and forth before the fire, until Mowbray's laughter faded away.
"Damn it man she IS a witch!" Johnas boomed. "Is the existence of a witch any more unbelievable than the Vampires you claimed to have killed?" he asked.
Mowbray stood, towering above Johnas, a warning look clouding his eyes, turning their pale blue eyes to a stormy grey.
"If you wish for my help Johnas you should learn to hold your tongue!" he growled.
Johnas recoiled, then sat back down, quelled by the man's wrath.
"Very well, My old friend, I apologize. Please sit. Have some more whiskey. As a matter of fact why don't you stay for supper? Bertha is a fine cook, and perhaps over our meal we can discuss the witch. If after you hear my tale you do not wish to assist me then you can be on your way back to court, and your good lady wife. I'm sure she misses you when you are away." Johnas couldn't resist the jib at Mowbray, knowing how much he detested Lady Mary.
Theirs had been an arranged marriage, and by all accounts, not a particularly happy one.
Lady Mary was a plain, pinched faced woman, possessed of a jealous nature and a fiery temper that matched the flaming red of her hair.
She was, however, one of the Queen's most trusted ladies in waiting, a position that afforded her considerable influence at court.
That was precisely why Lady Philippa had been sent away.
When Mowbray's wife discovered that her husband had been spending an inordinate amount of time in the young lady's company, she had wasted little time in making her displeasure known.
Johnas suspected that Lady Mary's influence with the Queen had made it abundantly clear to Mowbray that his continued attentions toward Philippa would come at a price neither could afford.
Mowbray reluctantly agreed to stay for supper, secretly wishing he had continued on his journey rather than calling upon Johnas.
He had forgotten what unpleasant company his old friend could be when someone dared to disagree with him. Johnas had always possessed a temper, but exile seemed to have sharpened it into something altogether more disagreeable.
Even the whiskey, usually one of Johnas's finer indulgences, tasted like tin upon Mowbray's tongue.
Johnas, apparently oblivious to his friend's discomfort, reached for the bell and rang for Bertha.
When she appeared, he informed her that Sir Gavin Mowbray would be joining him for the evening meal.
"See that the dining room is prepared," he ordered. "And Bertha make sure to bring out something worthy of my guest."
* * *
Bertha muttered under her breath as she made her way back toward the kitchen.
She hoped his lordship enjoyed sharing his portion with his friend, for she had prepared only enough food to satisfy Johnas's considerable appetite.
And there was rarely enough left over from one of Johnas's meals to feed another man.
When she reached the dimly lit kitchen she searched the sparsely stocked pantry for anything she could prepare quickly to supplement the evenings meal to accommodate the master friend.
She walked out into the garden hoping the small flock of chickens she kept there would provide enough eggs for an omelet.
Bertha loved the house and small garden, but Johnas was a hard man to work for. He demanded everything was just so, and being over-long in his presence made her skin crawl.
She endeavored to spend as much time in her kitchen as possible whenever Johnas was in residence.
She also kept her door firmly locked at night.
She might be an old woman, but she had heard terrible sounds coming from Johnas's bedchamber on more than one occasion, and she was taking no chances. God alone knew what he might attempt if he were drunk enough, and he drank heavily most nights.
Of late, she had found him passed out in his chair before the dead fire with increasing frequency, an empty whiskey decanter sitting beside him. It seemed that the more he drank, the more unpredictable, and more dangerous, he became.
Bertha had no intention of being anywhere near when that happened. She had heard him muttering to himself on more than one occasion, murmuring darkly about the healer woman who had so enraged him.
He had sworn that he would bring hell's own fury down upon her, and the venom in his voice had frightened Bertha more than she cared to admit. She had her ideas of what the woman had done to earn Johnas's wrath, and Bertha wanted no part of it.
She prayed the healer had, had the good sense to flee far away from here.
"The healer is no more a witch than I am." Bertha mumbled to herself as she searched the nesting boxes in the hen house for eggs.
Bertha had heard a few rumors from the healer woman's neighbors while doing her shopping in the market on the day the healer had disappeared. They had whispered of seeing Johnas visiting the woman's cottage on the outskirts of the village, and those self same neighbors claimed they had heard a terrible row between the healer and Johnas, followed by the sight of the woman fleeing her cottage with the bodice of her dress torn.
Johnas had emerged not long afterward, sauntering away with a look of fury upon his face.
Bertha had thought little of the gossip at the time.
Though now, remembering what she had heard, she wondered if there had been rather more to the story than anyone in the village dared say aloud. Bertha settled the eggs she had gathered into her apron, bunching it around them, before returning to the kitchen.
As Bertha cracked the eggs into a large bowl and began whisking them in preparation for the omelet, her thoughts returned to the rumors she had heard in the market that day.
She felt sorry for the poor wee woman, especially if she was still alone somewhere in that forest with winter rapidly approaching.
But the cold was not the only thing that made Bertha fear for the healer's life.
It was Johnas.
Bertha had seen the look in his eyes when he spoke of the woman, and she had heard the fury in his voice when he swore he would find her.
Whatever refuge the healer had found in the forest, Bertha feared it might not be enough to keep her safe.
Bertha had also heard disturbing tales from the men who ventured into the woods to set their traps and hunt.
They spoke of a shadow shaped like a man, with burning crimson eyes.
A phantom that moved silently between the trees and seemed to exude a menacing presence.
Bertha herself had never encountered such a creature while gathering mushrooms within the wood, and the wild herbs that grew beneath the trees. Still, that did not mean she was willing to linger long among the forest's deepest shadows.
Every night, as she knelt beside her bed to say her prayers, Bertha asked God to watch over the poor wee woman.
She prayed that the healer had made it safely back to her home village, far from the lecherous clutches of Johnas and men of his ilk.
For if the stories of the red eyed phantom were true, Bertha could only hope that whatever haunted those woods was a greater danger to Johnas than the healer was to him.
* * *
As the two men dined upon the meal Bertha had provided, Johnas recounted his version of what Eldra had supposedly done to the children under her care.
With each telling, he added another detail, shaping the story to suit his own purposes until the truth was almost entirely buried beneath his lies. He accused Eldra of being seen dancing naked around a fire, her body smeared with the blood of a stillborn babe belonging to a village woman she had attended earlier that very day.
Mowbray leaned back in his chair, plucking an apple from the bowl Bertha had placed at the center of the table.
He drew his knife and began peeling the fruit with leisurely precision as Johnas continued his tale, his expression giving little indication of what he thought of his friend's increasingly extravagant accusations.
"The villagers and I had her within our clutches," Johnas continued. "She was lashed to the stake, the faggots piled around her and ready to be lit, when suddenly, she vanished."
He snorted derisively.
"The superstitious fools scattered in terror. Some ran for their hovels, while still others dropped to their knees and began praying, convinced that Satan himself had whisked woman away. Others claimed it was the shadow man from the forest, the one with the burning eyes, that had taken her. Whatever the truth, she was gone in an instant."
Mowbray, who had been idly cutting slices from the apple in his hand, suddenly sat forward.
"A shadow man?" he repeated.
There was something different in his voice now.
Johnas eyed Mowbray a look of puzzlement on his visage.
"It's not but a fancy of the men who poach the forest for game Mowbray. An old wives tale of a human shaped phantom that watches the hunters from the trees when the forest grows dark. It is said to possess the red eyes of the devil himself. It's just a bunch of suspicious rot. Tis just a Boggart story, told by the villagers around the fire, to keep the local children from venturing into the forest after dark." Johnas said.
"No, Johnas. It may be more than merely a local legend."
Mowbray set the peeled apple aside and leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious.
"You know well the stories I have told you of the creatures my father, his men, and I hunted many years ago."
Johnas stared at him.
"Tell me," Mowbray continued, "how long has this phantom been seen in these woods?
"I cannot rightly recall," Johnas answered. "It has been spoken of for more than the ten years I have been here, though I have never paid much heed to the tale."
He glanced toward the door.
"Let me call for Bertha. She may remember more than I."
Johnas called for Bertha, she appeared almost at once, as though she had been lurking just outside the dining room door.
"You called, sir?" she asked, her expression betraying a hint of guilt at having been caught eavesdropping.
"Tell me, Bertha," Johnas said, a note of vexation creeping into his voice, "how long has this shadow man been seen in the forest surrounding the village?"
"Since before I came here with my husband, sir. That would be near twenty year ago now."
"Twenty years?"
"Aye, sir. Though if ye wish to know when it was first sighted, ye would do better to ask one of the older villagers."
Bertha glanced toward the kitchen.
"Will that be all, sir? I have duties that require my attention."
He waved a dismissive hand in her direction, as if swatting away a bothersome fly.
Bertha returned to her place outside the dinning halls door, where she had been listening to the men talking before being summoned.
What kind of creatures had the stranger been speaking of, she wondered? Perhaps bears or wolves, Bertha thought with a shrug.
She pushed the thought from her mind and returned to her duties. As the two men departed to the study for their after-supper drinks, Bertha entered the dining room to clear away the dishes.
She had gathered only a few plates when something caught her eye.
One of the knives had been thrust deep into the tabletop where the stranger had been sitting.
Bertha stopped.
She stared at it for a moment, a cold uneasiness creeping over her.
She glanced toward the closed door leading to the study, then back at the knife.