‘The Edge of the World.’
That was what they called this place – this vast, rocky promontory which lay across the Kingdom of Northumberland like a slumbering dragon. It was here that the Emperor Hadrian had chosen to build the great wall that marked the very edge of the Roman Empire, making use of the natural barriers of cliffs and crags in his bid to keep out the barbarians beyond.
He stood on the Edge of the World and gazed out over the bleak, rock-strewn moorlands below, pinched into ridges and escarpments like the waves of some petrified sea.
It was to that country he was bound. His work for this day, given to him by the Fates themselves, was done and he could go back now to his cool and silent vault, hidden deep in the crags and rocks of the Northumbrian fells. There he would tell this tale to his Lady, and to Lancelot, his one-time companion-in-arms as they slept their eternal sleep.
He smiled as he thought of his Lady and felt the spilled blood on his face bristle and crack. She was his love, his only true love, and he imagined kissing her smooth, white brow, taking her limp, slim fingers in his and telling her of the killing.
Ah, yes – the killing. His smile spread wide and the mask of gore tightened and pulled. With the memory he became aware of the familiar weight of the sword hanging, always ready, at his side. Instinctively he reached down and touched the grip. Perhaps his Lady was not his only love after all.
He allowed himself to luxuriate in the recollection of the long, elegant blade sliding so easily into the Gypsy’s body and stilling the heart inside. He remembered how with the tip of that blade, he had searched out the place where the ribs ended and the soft, yielding flesh of the belly began, how he had sliced deeply into the intricately embroidered waistcoat and watched the flesh beneath it parting obediently before the steel. And then, because this was a gift, he had carved open the flesh for a second time and formed the broad ‘X’ of a crux decussata.
The apex of that cross had gaped wide and beckoned him to the viscera within. It had gaped wide enough for him to push in his hand, wide enough for him to reach into the ribcage and wide enough for him to tear out the heart.
He glanced down at the clod of bloody flesh still grasped in his hand. It was cold now, cooled by the chilly dawn winds. He would wait until he was back with his Lady before he devoured the rest of it. It seemed only right to do so. She would know then that he truly was the victor.