On the tenth anniversary of the failed Tartan Rebellion, Mornay Camran determined it was high time that he pay his respects at the burial site for that ill-fated uprising’s leader: Colan Fetzroy. His friend’s final resting place lay within the towering Highmoor Cathedral, which had long shared its name with the surrounding hamlet nestled in the Upper Fells of northwestern Avenlor.
It was, of course, unusual for a wannabe usurper to be so honored - enshrined as he was alongside the remains of several venerated saints at one of the kingdom’s most revered holy sites - but Fetzroy was cousin to the Queen, and she had been adamant that he be interred within the cathedral.
The last gasp of Fetzroy’s revolt had been snuffed out in the hummocks that rolled in undulating, grassy green waves away from the town in every direction, far as the eye could see. It was a savage brawl to the bitter end that would forever be known as the Battle of the Bloody Moor.
Mornay’s oxcart slowed and jolted to a halt in front of the cathedral’s soaring facade. The clansman clambered down awkwardly onto the muddy town square - his boots squelching in sodden earth. He had suffered grievous wounds to the left half of his body in a battle many years past, which left him with limited use of his limbs on that particular side.
He doffed his woolen bonnet in good-natured greeting as he limped past townsfolk. More than a few suspicious glances were cast in the direction of the stranger with the weathered face. There was a time when Mornay would have been considered quite handsome, but the ravages of war were now etched in angry, jagged lines across his rugged visage.
As he approached the cathedral’s grand West End, a pair of patrolling watchmen strutted self-importantly to block his path. Stout, wooden truncheons swung at their sides, and each had a flintlock pistol thrust carelessly into his belt.
“Haven’t seen you in town before, stranger,” one of the duo - a youth on the cusp of adulthood, wearing a pinched and unpleasant expression - remarked haughtily. “What’s your business in town?”
“Just here to pay my respects at this fine church of yours.”
“And who might you be paying your respects to?”
“Well, that’s between me and myself isn’t it, friend?”
Mornay’s interrogator bristled and gripped the handle of his cudgel, while his wolfish compatriot leered hungrily at a passing gaggle of effervescent young women dressed in bright, flowing gowns. “Best watch who you mouth off to, mister. We’re the law ‘round these parts - you don’t want to be running afoul of us.”
“Of course not,” Mornay concurred in a bemused tone. “I meant no offense, good sirs. Now, if you’ll be kind enough to let me pass, I’ll be on my way.”
“Not so fast, Highland mongrel. You’re not going anywhere with those weapons,” the heretofore silent, ogling watchman interjected. His truncheon was in his fist, prodding Mornay with the rounded tip as his hostile gaze fixated on the clansman’s dirk and basket-hilted sword.
Mornay tensed defensively, but preserved his impassive stance. “There is no law that I know of against a citizen in good standing within these lands to bear personal arms.”
“We’ll decide whether or not you’re in good standing, cheeky bastard! So far, the odds seem to not be in your favor.”
Mornay Camran’s patience was running thin with the arrogant and pernicious wardens. Thankfully, he was saved from taking any action that he might later regret by the timely arrival of the town constable.
“What is the meaning of this?!” The rangy, gray haired law keeper - complete with an appropriately officious demeanor - stormed. “How many times must I tell the two of you not to harass the townsfolk?”
“This one’s not a townsfolk,” Mornay’s assailant retorted, maintaining his aggressive posture.
The constable’s authoritative gaze fell on the clansman and recognition widened his amber colored eyes. “God and all his angels in the high heavens! Is that really you, Mornay Camran?!”
“Aye, Benji, it’s really me.”
Benjon Murray clasped the highlander by his shoulder. “Never thought I’d ever be seeing you again, my friend. You’re supposed to be dead!”
“Yes, well, I’ve let those rumors persist by keeping to myself mostly all these years. Makes life easier, what with everyone fancying I’ve gone and shuffled free of my mortal coil.”
“What brings you back to the land of the living?”
“Well, it’s been ten years, hasn’t it?”
“Ah, Fetzroy.”
“Aye: Fetzroy.”
Murray turned on his subordinates, who continued to brood nearby. “You gentlemen are free to go about your business. I have the situation well in hand.”
The duo of antagonistic watchmen curtly acknowledged their orders before slinking off through the muck and mire of the square.
“Best keep an eye on those two,” Mornay observed. “They’ll bring you nothing but trouble.”
“You’d know all about causing trouble, wouldn’t you, Mornay?” The blunt remark was merely an observation; made without judgment or accusation.
“I’m here only to pay my respects, Benjon: I swear it.”
“Aye, I know you are. I also know you’ve just made a pair of enemies for life, so you’d best get to it - before those daft bastards take matters into their own hands.”
Dazzling sunlight streamed through arched stained glass windows from high above.
Mornay Camran knelt down reverently at the tomb of his long dead comrade amidst kaleidoscopic dapples of radiance that blanketed the intricately marble floor. Tears welled in eyes of fading blue: eyes that had once beheld the horrors of that faraway afternoon, when Colan Fetzroy and his doomed revolutionaries were butchered among the serene hills residing just beyond where he now slumbered for all eternity.
The eyes and ears of his memory could still register the belching of cannons that spat forth angry clusters of scorching grapeshot and the bloodcurdling screams of dying men as they were scythed down in their tracks by sword and musket and artillery fire. His ravaged flesh ached and throbbed with a ferocity that he thought had long since dulled. So swept up in the emotions flooding his senses was Mornay that he was nearly entirely oblivious to the commotion that had suddenly erupted out in the cathedral nave.
Hobbling as fast as his tortured left leg would allow, he came upon the rector consoling a weeping young woman who was unceremoniously tangled up within the priest’s reassuring grasp. The first thing Mornay noticed was that the forlorn lass’s gaudy, peach hued gown was muddy and torn.
“What’s happened here, Father?”
“I’m not entirely certain: I can’t get the poor child to cease her wailing long enough to explain herself.”
“Mind if I give it a go?” The rector’s concerned gaze studied Mornay’s disfigured countenance for several uncertain moments before he relinquished his hold and allowed the strange Highlander to grip the girl about her narrow shoulders with rough hands. “What’s going on, lass? You dinna know me, but I swear to you that I’m your friend. Are you hurt?”
She melted in his grasp and went limp; only his firm hold kept her from collapsing into an undignified puddle of brightly colored fabric on the cathedral floor.
“Lass!” Mornay gave a gentle, insistent shake in an attempt to rouse the bereaved girl from her swooning. “Lass?! I canna help you if you won’t tell me what’s happened.”
He need not have bothered, for Mornay got his answer soon enough in the form of the same pair of wardens who had accosted him outside in the town square striding forcefully into the nave. Their muddy boots pounded stridently against the marble, and their leering faces were twisted up in outrage. If the sanctity of the pious and reverential space had not been diminished by the hysterical young woman’s dramatic entry, it was entirely shattered at the coming of the two irate watchmen.
“You again!” snarled Pinch Face: the youth who had initiated the previous altercation. The dismayed rector moved to intercept the interlocutors; all the while protesting vehemently that the cathedral was a place of peace and sanctuary. His indignant remonstrations were silenced when he was struck a paralyzing blow atop his head from the baton of Pinch Face’s predatory accomplice.
“Best mind your own business, Father,” he spat as the good-hearted clergyman crumpled to the ground; hands clutching at his bleeding crown. There was a collective gasp of horror from a small crowd of townspeople - going about their daily spiritual business when all the commotion started - who had gone entirely unnoticed by the Highlander until now. The offending warden turned his sneering gaze towards the onlookers. “You lot as well, before I come through and knock all of your heads!”
As the watchmen approached, he could see angry red gouges on the face of the one who had bashed the rector. Mornay gently laid the dazed girl on a nearby pew and whispered in her ear, “Ah, now I understand what’s going on here. Dinna fash, lass. You just leave this rabble to me.”
“Hand over the strumpet, or even Ol’ Benjon’s not gonna be able to save you this time.”
“Nor you, you raping bastard.”
Bloody Face shrugged. “Perks of the job.”
“Fine dress this one’s wearing. Likely the daughter of some well-to-do peacock. You sure you want to be taking those kinds of liberties?”
“If you Highlanders didn’t want your women to be ravaged by their betters, your friend Fetzroy should’ve fought harder.”
Mornay’s stubbled jaw twitched. “You dinna know who I am, do you?”
“Just another dead Highland tramp as far as I’m concerned.” Bloody Face advanced with his stout baton - ready to rain deadly blows upon his prey. The truncheon arced down with murderous intent; Mornay’s diminished left arm swept upward to intercept the blow; his dirk leapt into his right hand, and was thrust violently into the sadistic watchman’s midsection several times over.
The skewered man’s head lolled and his body spasmed as he fought desperately to cling to consciousness. Mornay had Bloody Face in an iron grip by the folds of his coat, and he gave a sharp, authoritative jerk that brought them even closer together.
As his wilting victim’s life force faded away, the Highlander leaned forward and growled with such feral intensity that all who heard his words were chilled to the very core of their beings: “I’m the Mad Bastard of the Bloody Moor!”
Author’s Note: This short story is set within the same world as my Legends of the Revolution fantasy anthology. It takes place roughly 70(ish) years prior to the events of the main series.
Click below to read other stories set within this fantasy world:
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