Bold (The Handfasting) - By Becca St. John Page 0,37

her to his enemy.

CHAPTER 10 - THE WICKED

Chants rumbled on the breeze. Shadows, from the flicker of torch flames, writhed against monstrous standing stones, much as he expected the women would writhe this night.

His blood throbbed in anticipation. The steady stomp of his men’s feet, the thumping of their wooden staffs, ensured they felt the same.

Amid the acrid scent of a burning carcass, leftovers from a feast, women moved with solemn grace, circled a stone altar stained with the blood of sacrifice. A lamb led to slaughter, much like the youngest of the lasses this night, too naïve and trusting to understand the trap set for them.

They desired rituals of old, the promise of magic. It was not the season of Beltane, or dances of fertility, but they wanted celebrations. He was not at fault for turning their desires to his.

An owl passed over low, a sign: the wisdom of the ages looked down upon them. Fanciful superstition over no more than a predator looking for prey.

He withheld laughter. There would be time enough for that, once he broke through the circling, the twined lines of men in capes green of the forest, women wrapped in the brown of earth. The shades of their cloaks were faded, the hems ragged, for they were outlaws, with no warm home and hearth full of spinning and weaving. All they had was wickedness and the power it gave them.

Through deeds so perverse there was no forgiving, clans banished them. Sent them to live in the wilderness, as if that diminished their threat. As if they would not find each other, these renegades. As if they would not bond in their despicable ways, and grow as any family would grow.

This very night, they would dance a devils dance and prove the lassies of the highlands no safer from outlaws banished than with them nestled in the bosom of their kin.

Nor were the clans themselves safe, which was his doing. He played mischief with them, pitted one against another, never risked his own hide or that of his people. It was a deliciously devious plan. He had used their own might, their own vengeful selves, to create their demise.

They would destroy each other and he would rise up to have his way with the highlands just as he would have his way tonight.

He looked to the woman who stood opposite him, a deceitful, cunning and blasphemous whore. He licked his lips, his body aching for release.

She was the one who promised power from the old ways, taught the women to move as the sun and the moon, east to west, knowledge to intuition. She explained how the men, with their cocky strides, were to travel from earth to strength, north to south.

She was a willing partner in these dances, eagerly enticed young lasses to join their troupe for she knew his taste. The rebellious, the lonely, the insecure were sweet succor to his band.

The moment was ripe. It was time. As the Green Man, he stepped inside the circle, horns upon his head, a wooden staff in hand. She stood opposite, a large vessel cradled at her hip.

It was a familiar game. Catch me if you can, she teased. He was willing to be diverted. He knew how the night would end.

The human chain stopped in place, swayed and chanted, captured by the story unfolding before them. They expected the portrayal of his death and rebirth, unaware it was the ruin of innocence they would witness.

He used his staff as a shepherd’s hook, he worked to corral the woman, head her toward the altar. They sidled one way, then another, adversaries. He smiled again. He rather liked this sport, becoming The Green Man. It was a shame the season was wrong and he couldn’t create a mask of leaves and branches.

He swung out with his rod. Nimbly she jumped, twisted and taunted, beckoned as she did so, managing to hold her distance. He allowed it, drawing out the reckoning.

The wind toyed with their cloaks. The moon, as though in tune, played its game of light and dark. With a dip off his head, he showed off his antlers, a stag's crowned achievement, and held his ground.

The wench stood at the mouth of the south, vessel on hip, offered a saucy smile. The south was his place, the man’s place.

Melodic tinkling foreshadowed the emergence of her arm covered in silver bracelets. The other women raised their adorned limbs, shook them, for a musical backdrop to the