by Lisa Jackson
“But they are dangerous and should be chained outside near the gate.”
Cayley never had much cared for Timothy. “Mayhap you would like to take them to the gatekeeper.”
The priest’s thin lips drew tight, as if a drawstring had pursed them. “Mayhap one of the guards should slay them both.”
“My father would not be pleased.”
Father Timothy offered her a patient, tenuous smile. “I was only joking, child. These beasts shall stay with the baron. Now, let us pray,” he suggested, and though his words had a soft, even cadence, the thin man who was baron did not move beneath his blankets and the hounds who guarded him never gave up their tense, growling vigil.
The priest was in the middle of the third decade of the rosary when the door swung open and Holt strode in. He stopped near the fire, surprised to find anyone with the baron. Father Timothy, unhappy about being interrupted, motioned Holt to close the door and fall to his knees as the priest continued his litany. Cayley shot a glance at her brother-in-law and her heart turned to ice. How had she ever thought him handsome or kind?
Strong he was and possessing an authority few questioned, but there was a menacing cruelty about him she hadn’t noticed before. ’Twas as if she’d been blind and some angel had touched her eyes and given her sight.
When the prayers were finished, Holt helped Cayley from her knees. “Your father, did he awaken?”
“Only long enough to ask about Megan,” she said just as the sentries gave up a shout. There was a pounding on the door, which flew open, and one of the guards, breathless and smiling, snapped to attention in front of Holt. “The sheriff and some of his men have returned,” he announced.
Cayley’s heart knocked in anticipation.
“They’ve located Wolf and my wife,” Holt said, his eyes flaming with triumph and vengeance.
“Nay, m’lord,” the guard replied and Holt’s jaw turned to granite.
Cayley bit hard on her lip.
“Why have they returned?”
The guard slid a glance to Father Timothy. “They found a man in the woods, a sorcerer lurking about the forest of Dwyrain, a man who limps.”
“The crippled prophet?” the priest asked, a look of fear sliding through his eyes before he straightened his spine.
“Aye.”
Holt’s face grew thoughtful. “Bring him to my chamber.”
“Should he not be chained and locked in a dungeon? He’s nothing but a heathen,” Father Timothy protested.
“There’s time for that later. First, we needs discover what he knows.”
Cayley started to follow the men out of the room, but Holt, hearing her footsteps, stopped at the door and turned on her. “This concerns you not, sister-in-law.”
“It concerns me greatly,” she argued. “He may be the man who cursed Dwyrain, and if he is, I want to be the first to condemn his soul to eternal damnation!”
Seven
his is the sorcerer who cursed Dwyrain?” Holt said, eyeing the pathetic creature the guards held in the gatehouse. He was tall and thin with the coarse, tattered clothes of a beggar and a mud-colored cape with a hood that had been yanked from his head. His hair was lank and uncut, his beard a scraggly uneven growth hiding his chin. His hands were bound and shackles hobbled his gait, but he appeared calm and fearless, mayhap even a simpleton.
“Cursed?” the man said, and when he looked into Holt’s eyes, the would-be baron felt certain fear. This man was no weakling as he’d first thought, and his soft-spoken voice was deceptive—the truth lay in his eyes, cold and blue as a clear winter morning. “I cursed nothing.”
Cayley, who had the nerve to defy Holt, strode up to the captive. “Are you not the sorcerer who met Megan in the woods two winters past?”
The man’s smile was crooked and self-deprecating, indicating the kind of humble intelligence that caused a tremor of fear to pierce Holt’s heart.
“Aye, I came upon her in the forest. Her mare was lame.”
“You healed the horse and cursed us all!” Cayley cried, fury twisting her face. “Mother, Bevan, even tiny Roz—” Flinging herself at him, she began to batter him with her fists and Holt didn’t stop her. If this man were as powerful as was believed, then he could shield himself from her blows, untie the ropes that bound his hands and feet, and stop her, but he didn’t. Instead he stood proudly, unflinching, and didn’t say a word as she cursed him and flailed mercilessly at his face and chest.
“By the gods,” Reginald muttered under his breath. “Has she lost all sense?”
“Cayley—” Holt finally restrained her, but not until most of the fight had left her and she was sobbing pitifully, tears running from her eyes, her throat so clogged she could barely speak, her pain raw as the wind that tore through the outer bailey. “Take her away,” he said to several of the guards, and she fought them off.
“Unhand me!” she cried.
The guards stopped for a second.
Holt’s fury grabbed his tongue. “I said, ‘Take her away.’ ” Were all his men so soft they wouldn’t restrain a woman? God’s eyes, he was surrounded by fools. Pitiful fools. Soon, he would take care of this stubborn woman. Cayley was fast becoming a thorn in his side. The sooner he got rid of her, the better.
“Don’t touch me! I’m still the baron’s daughter.”
The man held prisoner said in a voice as calm as deep water, “Megan is safe, Lady Cayley.”
Holt’s gut twisted. “Know you where my wife is?” he demanded, new rage burning through his blood.
“Nay, only that she’s safe.” The prisoner’s face was so untroubled Holt felt another sharp jab of fear. The man should have been furious for being restrained, resentful that the hellcat of a woman had attacked him, or, if not angry, then afraid for his very life that he was to be held in the castle to which he brought such tragedy and pain. But he was serene, as tranquil as a lazy summer day.
“Where is she? Who is she with?”
“ ’Tis only a feeling,” the strange man explained.
“So you don’t know she’s safe? ’Tis but a sense?”
“Aye.” The man’s gaze moved to Cayley again. “Be strong.”
“You lying bastard!” Cayley cried. “You know where she is! You—” Two guards clamped powerful hands around her arms.
The sorcerer stepped forward as if to help her, but he nearly tripped, his bad leg dragging a bit. A soldier yanked him back and he fell to the gatehouse floor, cracking his head against the worn stones. Cayley gasped, and Holt felt nothing but loathing and fear for this pitiful excuse of a man.
“Throw him into the dungeon,” he commanded, “and when he wants to tell me more about where I can find my wife, bring him to me. Otherwise, leave him to rot. No food, no water, nothing!”
Cayley shook her head. “You cannot—”
“You’re the one who condemned him to hell, m’lady,” Holt sneered. “I’m just carrying out your request.”
“Nay—”
“Take her to her room. Place a guard at her door.”
“You cannot restrain me.”
“You’re not in your right mind, I’m afraid,” Holt said. “Do not fret, Lady Cayley. ’Tis for your own good.”
Megan watched the boiling water steam and thought longingly of a warm bath. Snow was drifting from the dark sky and a cold wind whistled through the surrounding trees, causing their dark, leafless branches to dance eerily. Feeling alone, she shivered. Wolf had left the camp. Again. There were days when he was gone for hours. Sometimes he rode alone; other times, some of his men accompanied him. She was never asked or allowed to ride with him, nor was she told what he did. But when he left, one guard was always asked to watch her closely, and no matter how she flirted with the man or complained of needing time to herself, she was never alone for a minute. No one wanted to incur Wolf’s wrath should she escape.
She was surprised how the camp changed when Wolf was away. The men were more silent and brooding, and she felt as if s
omething vital, the heart of their small group, had stopped beating. Even Cormick, the kindest of the lot, was in a foul mood.
“Fool,” she muttered under her breath as she plucked the feathers of a goose unlucky enough to have been on the wrong end of one of Robin’s arrows. These days, the boy was always off hunting, trying to avoid her, as if sensing that she and Wolf had grown closer.
She dipped the carcass into a pot of boiling water, soaking all the quills and pinfeathers as she’d seen some of the serving girls at Dwyrain do. Working swiftly, she plucked the wet feathers and dropped them into a bucket. Her breath fogged in the air and her fingers grew numb, but she didn’t complain. Jagger and Cormick spent hours chopping wood; Peter, brushing the horses and cleaning up after them; Robin, sharpening knives; and others cooking, cleaning, shoring up tents, tanning hides, and mending or polishing weapons. Each man worked hard and complained only a bit now and again.
As the wet feathers stuck to her hands, she glanced at the slate-colored sky. Surely the Christmas revels had begun at Dwyrain. ’Twas that time of year when the castle would be decorated with holly and ivy, and the Yule log—the trunk of a great tree—would be dragged by horses from the surrounding woods and hauled into the great hall to burn for days. Music, wine, dancing … she missed it, and thought often of her ailing father. And yet, would she return? If she had no threat of her marriage to Holt, would she think of Dwyrain as her home?
Surely Wolf would send a messenger soon with ransom demands, though he hadn’t as yet, and he was cross most of the time, snapping at his men and ordering her about as if she were his servant. He’d taken his post at the door of the chapel, and had never kissed her again. After the day when they’d nearly made love on his pallet, he had not touched her and kept his own counsel. The men had begun to mutter behind his back, remarking on his black mood, and sliding worried glances in her direction.
The day before, Jagger had once questioned him about the ransom and Wolf had leaped to his feet, grabbed his dagger, and demanded to know if the big knight was asking for a fight. Jagger had held up his hands and backed away and Wolf, his jaw working in quiet fury, reminded everyone in the camp that he gave the orders.
Odell had been amused, Robin wide-eyed and frightened, Peter disgusted, and Bjorn ready to take on either man who became victor.
“This is your fault, ye know,” Odell had whispered to her later when they were alone. She had been adding chunks of wood to the fire and trying to avoid the smoke while Odell was skewering three skinned rabbits for the spit.
“Mine?”
“Aye. Wolf’s got a woman on his mind. Like as not, ’tis ye.”
“How can you tell?”
“ ’Tis easy. Wolf is usually a silent man who leads with a low voice and a strong fist. Of late, he’s been moody, growling at the men, expecting perfection, and there’s a dark look in his eyes all the time.” Carefully, Odell placed the crossbar over the forked sticks that held the meat over the flames. “Anyone who stumbles across the Wolf’s path is likely to get a tongue-lashing, if not more. ’E’s spoilin’ fer a fight, ’e is.”
“I don’t see how you can blame me.”
Odell made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, then spit into the fire. “Do you not see it?” Gray eyebrows lifted as flakes of snow drifted from the leaden sky. “The way ’e looks at ye, m’lady. I’ve been with Wolf a long time—years—and I’ve never seen his expression like this afore.” He lifted his hood over his head. “Tell me this, why do ye think ’e’s takin’ so long to ransom ye, eh? He puts the whole camp in danger—not that we care, mind ye—by keeping ye here, and yet he does nothin’ to change things. I’m tellin’ ye, it ain’t like Wolf.”
Now, she finished plucking the bird, then singed its skin in order to remove a few stubborn quills. The task was nearly finished when she heard the thunder of horses’ hooves resounding through the forest. Megan’s heart soared and she looked up to see Wolf’s steed galloping through the underbrush. But the smile on her face vanished when she realized that Wolf wasn’t alone and saw the blood on his face and hands. He was holding Robin’s slack body, and as the horse slid to a stop, Wolf, still carrying the lad, leaped to the ground.
“Boil more water. Hurry!” Megan ordered Odell as the men gathered around. “Find me some cloth—”
“Bring his pallet into the chapel,” Wolf yelled at Peter.
“Dear Lord, what happened?” Megan asked, her eyes settling on Robin’s pale face as they hurried into the old building.
“Robin nearly killed himself trying to slay a boar. The animal was wounded and had knocked Robin’s quiver to the ground when I came upon them.” Peter, hurrying, lay Robin’s pallet near the fire and gently, Wolf placed the boy on his bed. Robin gave a soft moan, but his eyes didn’t flutter open and he was white as death.
Not waiting for anyone’s approval, Megan bent over the boy and lifted his bloodstained tunic to reveal a jagged, bloody rip near the boy’s waist. The damage from the tusk, however, did not appear to have pierced his organs. Blood, sticky and hot, was smeared across his white skin. “Hand me that bag,” she ordered Peter as she motioned toward the sack wherein her white tunic was hidden. As Peter tossed her the bag, she sent up a prayer, then catching the sack, she opened it, withdrew the tunic, and began ripping it into strips. Peter and Heath built a fire in the chapel where the roof had given way and Odell carried in a pot of near-boiling water. Smoke curled upward through the opening in the rotting thatch and snowflakes drifted into the room, only to melt as they met the heat of the fire.
Please, don’t take this young one’s life, Megan silently prayed, remembering all the other times her prayers had gone unanswered.
“Now, Robin,” she said gently, “you just hold on. We’ll tend to you and see that you get better.”
Wishing she had the herbs Rue used, Megan soaked some of the strips of silk, then washed the blood away. “Find a needle and thread,” she said. “Dominic was mending earlier.” Within seconds, she was stitching the wound, hoping the torn flesh would hold, worrying about the blood that continued to flow. She wrapped his torso in the lengths of white silk, and prayed that they would not stain scarlet.
Wolf watched her work in silence, listening to her talk to the boy who could not hear her, noting that she tore up her wedding tunic as if it were already rags. She was efficient and calm, ordering the men as if she expected to be obeyed, stitching confidently, without qualm, offering all of herself for the boy’s life—just as Mary had given him his own life back so many years before. ’Twas funny, he thought, for after Mary had disappeared, he’d told himself he never again would care for another woman, never desire one as he had her.
Now, because of Megan, all of his promises to himself seemed foolish and so easily broken.
“Why in the name of the Virgin would ’e go after a boar alone?” Odell asked, scratching his head.
Wolf’s eyes trained on Megan. “Mayhap to impress someone.”
“Me?” she asked, her fingers never stopping their fluid movements.
“The lad was seeking the lady’s approval.”
“No!” Megan shook her head. “Why would he do anything so foolish?” she asked, but blushed, as if she heard the truth in his words and felt a sense of guilt that he might well be right.
“Because he is smitten with you, m’lady,” Wolf said, anger causing the blood to rush from his face, and he shot a furious glance at the outlaws gathered in the decrepit chapel. “As are half the men in this band.”
Several of the men visibly started at his accusation and Jagger appeared about to argue, but spying Wolf’s white-lipped fury, he had the good sense to keep whatever was on his mind to himself. Jagger cleared his throat. “Methinks you bring us ill luck, Megan of Dwyrain.”
“Ahh, then mayhap we’re even,” she shot back, though her eyes were fixed on Wolf. “You’ve been the curse of my existence for nearly a fortnight.”
“And you’ll be mine to the end of m
y days,” he muttered under his breath.
A tiny hole ripped in her heart, but she pretended it didn’t exist and went about her work as if she felt no pain, as if his words didn’t have the strength to wound her.
When she was finished and the boy was resting, she glanced up at Wolf. “Now, what about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“I think not. Lift your tunic.”
“What? I’ll not—”
“Lift your tunic, Wolf, for you are the leader of these men and they depend upon you.” She motioned to the crowd of his followers, who were lingering in the room. “Yea, even I am forced to rely on you, though I detest it.”
“Do you?” he said, his eyes narrowing as he lifted his tunic, and she saw his wounds, not as deep as Robin’s, but nasty gouges from the swipe of a tusk. The slashes across his skin from the day were not his first. Scars of all sizes cut across his dark skin.
“You’ve been in your share of fights.”
“More than my share.”
“And flogged as well,” she guessed.
His mouth curved into a half-grin that caused her stomach to tighten. “More than once.”
“Why?”
“I’m not good at taking orders.”
“And what of this?” she asked, running a finger along the cleft of his brow.
“A gift from Tadd of Prydd, so I forget him not.”
“ ’Twas then that you met Holt.”
“Aye,” he said, his voice sounding far away, as if it were in a cavern, and his face turned fierce, the way it always did whenever Holt’s name was brought up.
“Sit,” she ordered, and with only a slight hesitation, he did as he was bid, glaring at his men as if he expected some of them to make comments about him taking orders from a woman.
“One of you stay with Robin. Two others—Dominic and Heath—go and retrieve the boar from the other side of the river,” Wolf commanded. “It lies near a small knoll in a thicket of oak and ferns. The rest of you have work, do you not?”
With a few glances cast among them, the men took their leave, and she was alone with him again, aside for the still-unconscious Robin. She cleaned his shoulders, abdomen, and back, washing each cut and scrape, sewing only a few stitches in the largest of the claw marks, trying not to notice the ripple of his muscles when he moved or the dark hair spanning his chest and arrowing down to the band of his breeches. Beneath her fingers, his skin was warm, his muscles hard as stone, and his eyes, smoky blue, watched her beneath half-lowered lids. “ ’Tis true, you know,” he said when she’d bitten off a length of thread.