A Cup of Blood Read online

  A Cup of Blood

  Dark Fantasy in Post Arthurian Britain

  Troy A. Hill

  TH Media

  Copyright © 2018 by Troy A. Hill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design by Troy A. Hill

  Images via Deposit Photos

  Created with Vellum

  For Carol

  Thanks for letting me play with my imaginary friends

  Contents

  The Teulu

  1. Arrival

  2. A Guide

  3. An Unexpected Death

  4. A Knife in the Night

  5. We Run Together

  6. Splints

  7. We Are Pack

  8. Blades in the Forest

  9. Petram

  10. Playing with the Demon

  11. The Test

  12. Escape

  13. Fight the Demon

  14. I'm Sorry

  15. Dreams

  16. More Dreams

  17. Waking

  18. Stories by the Fire

  19. Through the Mists

  20. By the Lake

  21. A Wrong in the Land

  22. Carnage

  23. The Raven

  24. The Game

  25. We Will Run

  26. Scars

  27. Connections

  28. A visitor

  29. The monk

  30. Penllyn

  31. The Bride's Room

  32. Troubled News

  33. A slap in the night

  34. Apologies

  35. Blessings

  36. Wedding Vows

  37. Fadog

  38. The Abbot

  39. The Feast

  40. Unwanted Guests

  41. Enid’s Story

  42. Friends

  43. Chasing the Bride

  44. A Spiritual Night

  45. Questions

  46. Shivers in the Grove

  47. In the shadows

  The adventure continues

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  Welsh Pronunciations

  Glossary

  The Teulu

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  1

  Arrival

  I was hungry, but sucking the blood from a furry rat wasn’t what I wanted. If any of the sailors noticed me sink my fangs into the neck of one of the rodents that would have caused an uproar.

  "Maria, you don't want to swim from Francia to Britain, do you?" I asked myself every night when my hunger, my thirst rose. Each evening I sensed the hearts beating in the sailors as they manned the sails. I could hear the lust-full race of the captain's pulse whenever he glanced at me. Getting tossed off the ship because I was a monster, a blood witch, wasn't in my plans.

  After a month at sea, I was more than ready to sate my thirst. I craved the warm blood of a human which was far better than the blood of a rat. Fortunately, we arrived in port in the South Saxon kingdom before my inner demon, my hunger got the better of me.

  I call my hunger “her” and imagine it as separate from me. My own little demon. She is me, on a primal level. She’s what I become if I go too long without blood. So, I imagined my little demon locked in a cage. She was better there. I kept her content with the red nectar. She fed me the strength and speed I needed whenever my enemies found me. When that happened, I had to run. That’s what I was doing on the ship. Running again. Europe was too dangerous, however, I’m getting ahead of my tale.

  That first morning at sea, he let his eyes drift over me when I came to take his small cabin just before the sun rose. He glanced at his meager bed, then back at me and grinned.

  "I have paid for the use of this cabin," I told him. "That does not include you, dear captain. You can spend the day on deck while I rest. The sun fatigues me and cause pains in my head." He grumbled but moved toward the door. "Once the sun goes down, I will head out on deck, and you may have your bed again."

  The next morning his leers and suggestions to share the bed grew bolder. On the third day, with no land in sight, he stood in the doorway.

  "Just a kiss before I go out," he demanded once I was in his cabin. I frowned and pointed at the door. He stepped closer and grabbed my arms. A moment later, I jerked the door open, and shoved him out onto deck. He sucked in air, fell to the wooden deck. His hands clutched his groin as he writhed in pain.

  The fool didn't learn.

  "Just a kiss," he said the next day when I came in. This time he tried to grab my breast. I only broke two of his fingers and left other body parts bruised.

  "The next time you touch me, captain," I said, my voice loud enough to carry out to his men, "I will cut off your balls and your manhood." I kicked him out again. He grasped his broken fingers in his other hand, and tried to cup his groin, afraid I might apply my knee there. I slammed the door in his face. A few snickers from his men drifted in, then stopped abruptly.

  He left me alone after that. The sounds of our scuffles had drawn the attention of his crew. The sounds as well as his the swollen black eye were enough to caution his men from me. They, too, kept their distance. But that meant they wanted me off their ship. They were relieved when I finally announced I was leaving them in one of the ports in the southern Saxon lands.

  I paid the captain to escort me into town that night. He attempted to steer me into several seedy dives along the way. He looked away as I frowned at his suggestions. I wanted a guest house with fewer sailors and more merchants. Behaviour was less rowdy the farther away from the harbour we moved. If we moved too far into town, however, I’d be the only traveller in the alehouse.

  I spied one I wanted to try based on the lack of boisterous singing from within. The captain smiled an invitation to join him one last time. He half reached toward me, a greedy smile lighting his cheeks.

  "Do I need to break another of your fingers?"

  He crossed his arms under his cloak.

  “Your men will bring my chest?” I asked.

  “Aye,” he said. I passed him a small purse with the rest of the coins I had promised. He bounced it in his hand to get the weight.

  “You’ll have it once the cargo is unloaded,” he said and glanced down the road, back toward the harbour where the sailors went to drink and spend their pay.

  “Don’t forget my belongings,” I said. I didn’t bother to check to see if he went back to his ship, or off to find a woman to spend my former coins on.

  Even at this late hour, ox carts rolled along the cobblestone road from the harbour toward warehouses. Long ago, I had saw legionnaires direct the construction of such roads in many old Roman provinces across Europe. Now, more than a century since the last Roman soldiers had walked this road, the stones were worn smooth. An odd patch or two showed in the dim evening night where the locals had replaced cracked stones.

  I pulled the latch on the guest house door. The large common room on the main floor smelled of smoke and ale. There was a fire laid in its hearth, which brought me the warmth I hadn't
felt for almost a month.

  Inside the guest house, several men sat and laughed at a table. A serving girl passed them mugs of ale. The place didn’t reek of ale like the houses near the wharf. The odor of the alcohol was still here, but not as strong. The girl saw me and motioned that I should head toward a spare seat in the corner. An old crone, in ragged clothing, sat there by herself. I stepped toward her.

  “May I join you?”

  Her spoon dipped into the bowl and shovelled the last bite of stew from her bowl into her mouth. She didn't look up and pointed with her knife at a stool next to her at the small square table. She appeared older than I thought at first. The men at the tables would have called her a hag. Still, after being at sea with no company other than leering sailors, I was glad for female company.

  After a few minutes, the girl brought me a bowl, a hunk of bread and some ale. I passed her a small coin and thanked her. Once the girl left, the old woman cast a sly glance at the men near the hearth. My eyes moved, too. They gave us no attention. Usually, I caught at least a glance or two from men. I touched my hair and checked my dress and cloak. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Except that only the serving girl and the old crone paid me any mind. Strange.

  When I turned my attention back to the table, the bowl in front of me was empty. The hag's was full again. She winked at me as raised her mug again.

  “You were not of a mind to eat this food, were you?” She asked, then added. “They will pay us no mind. Speak freely here.” Her knife and spoon worked to finish my small bowl.

  She was correct. The men paid us no attention. I was thin, yet attractive. Preferences had shifted toward women with more flesh in this time. My skin was paler than average, but I had the brown eyes and dark wavy hair of a girl from the Italian peninsula. I was forever frozen as a woman in her early twenties, even after all my centuries. Although preferences among men had shifted to women of stouter body than mine, I should be drawing glances from the men. I knew I was pretty, even by this century's standards of beauty. Their lack of interest in me was ... odd.

  "I know what you are," she said between bites. "Your desire, what you thirst for, is over there. It runs red through their bodies." She jabbed her knife towards the men. Then she pointed at the mug of ale between us. "Be sure to wet your lips, maybe spill a little, so they think you're as drunk as they are before you go select one."

  Something was odd here. She knew too much about me. But how?

  “And you are?” I asked.

  “Old.” She shovelled another piece of meat from my almost empty bowl. “Some might have called me a lady once or twice. Those lot there, do not understand. No idea of what the land gives them. They only care about their money, their ale, and their women.”

  “And they don’t seem the least bit interested in us. Is that your doing?”

  The old woman just smiled a devious little grin and jabbed her knife into another hunk of meat in my former bowl. Was she a witch of some sort?

  “What do you want with me?” I asked. The hairs on the back of my neck had been on end for several minutes now. I wished I had a real blade on me, not just a belt knife.

  "I wanted to meet you. See what you were made of." The bowl was empty. She glanced at the men again, I glanced their way, too. Still no reaction from them. It's as if they didn't realise I was there. She had taken advantage of my distraction and dumped most of my mug into hers.

  “I left you enough for your charade,” she said between swallows.

  “Why are you interested in me?”

  She held my gaze with her old eyes. The wrinkles and lines in her face were deep, a face dotted with warts and brown moles. Her nose was broad and crooked where it protruded from her face, a loathly face. She wore her thinning grey hair tied back under her headscarf.

  She stared hard at me for a few seconds, then took another drink.

  “You’re the first of your kind on this land that isn’t here for evil,” she said. “You’re different from the others. I wanted to get to know you better.”

  Her blue eyes bored into my soul. I felt almost naked before her. I caught myself before I raised my hand to draw my cloak tight. Instead, I laid my hand back down and returned her stare. What was different? Something was odd about her.

  She blinked, just once.

  "Good. You are made of tough metal." She tipped the mug and took another drink. "You will meet your demons on this trip, girl."

  "That word has a special meaning for me," I said. The woman grinned.

  “You will be challenged and rewarded. If you make the right decisions. Tonight, though, you have a choice. Find a boat and head back east, and you will not be tested on this land.”

  I shook my head.

  “I came west to avoid danger, I will see what this land brings.”

  “Your choice, girl.” She held my eyes, unblinking. “The dangers here will challenge you down to your soul. Are you ready for such?”

  I chuckled at her prophecy of doom.

  “What kind of test?”

  “Worse than you can imagine.”

  "I can imagine some horrible things," I replied. "What kind of reward is worth that?"

  “Love, a family, a home.” She replied. Her grin was soft this time, some of her past beauty leaked through.

  “My family is long dead,” I said. Too many centuries had passed. “The world is my home. My kind don’t settle in one place for long.”

  Her eyes sparkled, like a promise yet to come.

  "Home and family are the only reasons to face death or worse, Maria," she said. I gave a start at her use of my true name. She winked again. Her smile was calming, friendly. "I can promise you nothing more. Will you face death to protect those you love?"

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  She tilted her mug back and drained the last of the ale from it.

  “There will come a time, several times, that you must face your demon,” she said. Her eyes went steel grey. “Remember,” she added, “love always wins.”

  “Funny, that was what my master always told me, love wins.”

  “A wise man,” the old hag said. She made to rise from her seat, and I placed a hand on her arm.

  “Two questions,” I said. “Other than the meal I bought, can I repay you for your information?”

  “A simple kiss would be nice,” she suggested. Despite the weird sensation earlier, I felt very comfortable with her. I chuckled and leaned in to press my lips to her cheek. “And your other question?”

  “Your name?”

  “Eventually, my dear,” she said, “You will figure that out. You won’t remember this conversation until you are ready. Then you will remember and know who I am.”

  2

  A Guide

  “Milord,” I said, as I stepped out of the forest along the rutted cart path. “Will you help a woman in need?”

  The man astride the horse started and swivelled in his saddle toward me. The red of the sunset had faded as he came upon me. I was still somewhere near the border in Western Mercia. Far from Sussex where I had landed six months earlier.

  The rider wasn’t bad for a Saxon. Not my type, judging by the bit of arrogance he held himself in as he turned toward me.

  Silly girl, I thought. If his blood is red, and you’re hungry, then he’s your type. You can find someone more to your liking for intimacy later. You need to feed your thirst.

  “I’m no lord.” The man on the horse chuckled. “What is the problem, Milady?” He spoke the Saxon language. His eyes swept the surrounding forest in the dim evening light. He turned in his saddle to search the other direction. I could have been a distraction.

  "Brigands," I said, and forced a note of panic into my voice. "I have walked since my caravan was set upon. I escaped into the wood, but the merchants and monks rode off fast after the brigands took their goods." Accurate enough, but I muddied the timeline.

  “A woman should not be alone, especially at night, milady…?” he drew out the
last word, in an invitation for me to share my name.

  "Maria, I travel from Sussex," I said. Enough immigrants came to these islands, so I didn't have to worry about my accent nor my foreign ways. The man glanced eyed the extended break in the trees. It was wide enough to help him feel more secure that I wasn't bait for an attack.

  He swung out of his saddle. His eyes scanned the tree line behind me. Only then did he smile at me.

  “Syram, of Deira. I hope to find a guesthouse, soon,” he said, with a motion for me to move toward the horse. “Please ride, and I’ll walk until we find shelter for the night.” I let him help me onto his horse. The blue of twilight faded toward the dark of night as we spoke.

  He was ruggedly attractive. I had no desire to bed him, but as a meal source he was good enough. Under his dark cloak, he wore a tunic and leggings, with soft leather boots. A long knife hung from his belt. His hair was dark and straight. Stubble on his face was a day or two old, but he kept himself clean shaven without facial hair. Probably from one of the Christianised areas since the Pagan men tended toward beards.

  Once I was in the saddle, he took the reins to the side and walked along next to me.