Revenge for Matty Groves

Matty Groves’ dark curls were always falling in his eyes. He’d swipe at ‘em, all unconscious-like. I loved his curls, his long fingers, his mischievous grin, his soft words ta’ me after the lovemakin’. He called me his comely lass. Me brother warned me Matty’s randy ways would get him killed. I thought he was happy enough being with me that he would na’ stray no more.

Matty Groves died, struck down in Lord Donald’s bedroom. You knows all that. Aye, the world had the knowing of it after that bard put the story to song.

A year later, thoughts of me poor Matty haunted ma mind. I wandered the town, near colliding with Lord Donald hisself outside the meeting house.

“Here, wench, be watching where ye step.”

I looked down at his good brown leather boots and mumbled apologies. Didna’ move away. A plan come to me.

A content widower was Lord Donald. A lass in need of a good meal and few coins found him willing to accommodate in exchange for a night in his bed.

Strong fingers gripped me chin, raised me face. Lord Donald’s blue eyes were not blocked by his straight blond hair. His grip become a caress. “Bonnie gel, come home with me.”

I shook me head and stepped back. “Sorry, ma lord.”

He laughed. “No lass denies me.”

I turned. Two stout lads in the lord’s livery blocked my way. Lord Donald’s hand landed on ma shoulder. “Come.”

I went, tremblin’ and shufflin’ ma feet. Let out a whimper or two on the way. I was special proud of the whimpers.

The swords were laid all casual-like on top of a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. He stripped off me clothes, then his own. He knew what he was about, though his focus was his own pleasure and not mine.

Ah, Matty, I miss your tender ways.

With me eyes closed I pretended it were Matty I was pleasuring. Matty in me hand, in me mouth, and later in me sweet spot, though the lord’s grunts and demands kept reminding me twasn’t Matty a’tall. I’d never be with him again in this life.

At last Lord Donald slept. Oh so slow-like I eased out of the bed and to the chest, awash in moonlight.

Which sword did the lord use to kill my Matty? Likely he used the better of them, no matter the bard’s song says otherwise.

I wrapped me hands round the hilt, raised it slowly. The scythe I used to harvest grain weighed more.

I measured the distance, swung the sword, harvested Lord Donald’s throat.

His eyes shot open, both hands gripped his neck. He gurgled as blood pulsed out.

“That’s for me Matty.”

There was a question on his face, but he couldna’ speak.

The gurgling slowed, his hands fell slack, the color faded from his eyes.

I placed the sword on the bed where I had laid and gathered me clothes.