by Lisa Jackson
“Aye.” Jack studied the rocks and ferns on the ground. “Not only being held, but beaten as well. Two days past, they were flogged within an inch of their lives and when I left the castle on this hunt, one, the dark-haired one—”
“—Cormick.”
“Aye, he be the one. He … well, he was lingering near death. The priest had already been called to his cell.”
“Nay!”
Jack lifted his eyes. “Aye, Wolf. ’Tis the truth I speak.”
Robin’s grin disappeared and he swallowed as if with difficulty.
Guilt galloped through Wolf on sharp, steel-shod hooves that ripped at his heart and soul. He should have expected this, he decided, fingers clenching around the reins, but there was an unwritten law—a code of honor that outlaws and noblemen alike respected—that messengers were not to be handled as prisoners, though he knew some of his men had at times attacked the bearer of bad news rather than the source.
Torn, he glanced behind him, as if in studying the undergrowth he could determine what had happened to Megan. Surely she was safe and, after hearing of Holt’s reign of terror, he was grateful she hadn’t returned to Dwyrain … but where was she?
“We needs save Bjorn and Cormick,” Jagger reminded him, as if reading his pained thoughts. This was his fault—everything that had gone wrong could be laid at his own feet—but he could undo nothing, and if he followed his heart, he would chase down Megan wherever she was and demand that she become his wife—the bride of an outlaw of the forest. The thought was like salt water on a wound, for he physically jerked when he imagined giving up his freedom for a woman. But not any woman, he reminded himself bitterly—Holt’s wife.
Jagger cleared his throat and glared at Wolf as if he suspected him of some deep treason. “Aye,” Wolf agreed reluctantly, “we must save the men and then we will find Lady Megan. Dwyrain is but a day’s journey from here.” That thought, too, was worrisome. Mayhap Megan was indeed still trying to return to Dwyrain. Mayhap her horse was stolen or lame and she was on the road. If ’twere so, she had to be stopped afore she walked innocently through the gates of the keep, like a calf to the slaughter.
The knock on the door was firm. “Cayley, child,” Father Timothy greeted her as he let himself through the door. “I’ve come to pray with you.” He closed the door behind him and Cayley shivered at the thought of being alone with him. She was also expecting Rue soon; the nursemaid had promised to help her with plans for her escape. Time was passing much too quickly and if Cayley were to help her father, she had to ride for help soon—tonight, for the moon was full and bright in a cloudless sky. Drat and spit that this was the night the good father chose to come to help cleanse her soul.
“Kneel beside me,” he ordered, and Cayley lowered herself onto the rushes, where the priest was already positioned so that he could face the door. “Aye, that’s good,” he said when she was beside him. Clearing his throat, he held his breath for an instant, then said so softly she barely heard him, “I have a confession to make.”
“You?” she replied, sensing a trap.
“Aye. I’ve not always been faithful to my vows.” He clasped his hands in front of him as if he were praying. “I—I have strayed, been lured by the temptations of the flesh rather than traveling down the path that leads to the purification of the soul.”
She bit on her lip, refusing to be drawn into this unlikely confession. Father Timothy was a shrewd and not particularly pious man; she believed he had broken his vows a hundred times over, but she didn’t trust him enough to admit as much. He could be a spy sent by Holt to trap her into saying something incriminating. “Mayhap you should pray for God’s forgiveness,” she said.
“I have, child. Many times, but I feel that God is asking more of me than a simple confession. I think he wants me to prove myself, to show Him that I will not fall prey to the lust and greed that sometimes afflict me.” He was looking at her no longer, instead staring at the door over the fingertips of his tented hands, as if he expected someone to burst through at any second.
“Why are you confiding in me?”
“Because your heart is pure.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously in his throat. “ ’Tis true I’ve harbored a feeling akin to love for you … and not the love of a priest for one of his flock, Lady Cayley,” he said hesitantly, his eyes sliding her way for just a second. “Nay, I’ve wanted you as a man does a woman.”
She recoiled at the thought. “No, Father Timothy, do not say any more, please.”
But her words fell on deaf ears, for his words tumbled freely and more quickly from his mouth, like a stone gathering speed as it rolled downhill.
“ ’Twas vexed I was that I had pledged myself to God and the rules of the priesthood; aye, the vow of chastity became a burden, and I … I was jealous of those who did not have to abide by its rigid rules.”
“You need not tell me this—” she said, trying to scoot away, but he grabbed her hand and his eyes flared with a newfound conviction.
“Oh yes, I do, but ’tis not all that I must suffer,” he said as if humiliated beyond words. “I must offer myself up as a sacrifice to cleanse my soul.”
“Nay,” she said, trying to draw away, but his grip was strong and the fire in his gaze convinced her that he would not be denied. Whatever sacrificial torture he’d planned for himself, it somehow involved her. “You needs seek counsel. Mayhap the abbot—”
“I know the way to my salvation,” he said and reached beneath his vestments. Cayley nearly swooned. Was this man of God going to disrobe before her?
She yanked back her hand just as he pulled a long length of rope from beneath the folds of his robe. “What?”
“ ’Tis for your escape,” he said, and her heart turned to stone. If the priest knew of her plan, thin though it was, who else had guessed that she had plotted to break free of the castle walls? Fear pounded in her heart. She had no idea how she was to escape, only that she would swallow her pride and ride like the wind to Cysgod and beg Gwayne and his father, Nevin, for their help in overthrowing Holt and saving her father. Once that was accomplished, she would search for Megan. If, God forbid, she was refused help at Cysgod, she would ride to … where? Erbyn? Abergwynn? Ah, but ’twas nearly a week’s journey to Abergwynn. Pennick was closer … oh, ’twas too much to think of.
The priest, eyes fixed on the door, continued. “ ’Tis to Rue I spoke, and she told me of your plan.” He rubbed his chin with the tips of his fingers. “ ’Tis a prideful, blind, and ambitious man I’ve been, Cayley. Now I must atone.”
“By helping me?” she asked, not daring believe that she could trust him.
“Aye, ’tis one of my penances.” He reached deep into a pocket in his vestment and withdrew a small leather pouch. “ ’Tis money. Take it.”
“Money?”
“From the chapel.” He blushed. “Do not ask how I acquired it; ’tis yours now.”
“Another of your penances?”
“Aye.” He slapped the bag into her hand and she dropped it as if her flesh had been seared. The coins clinked loudly and Father Timothy shot a glance to the door. “Do not warn the guards,” he ordered.
She didn’t dare ask him if he had more penances. He could be either addled or trying to make her prove her disloyalty to Holt. He swept up the bag of coins and forced it into her hand, folding her fingers over the soft, worn leather. What if this was only a ruse? What if he hoped only to gain her confidence, then expose her to Holt? Nay, she could not trust him.
“I’ve made poor allegiances here in Dwyrain,” he admitted. “Today, when the men were beaten, I realized how badly I’ve chosen my friends, the men in whom I’ve trusted. I … God in heaven, forgive me. I’ve witnessed human suffering and felt that it was right, that I, as a priest, could mete out pain in the name of the Lord, that I had the right to be the judge of men whose only sin was they were as weak as I was. I was wrong.”
He sounded sincere, in his own guilty hell, but he could be a fine a
ctor, playing his part well. His eyes didn’t meet hers and he was shaking, but she remembered too many times when he’d enjoyed the belittlement of a sinner, the superiority he wore like a halo bestowed by God.
Swallowing hard, she shook her head. “I plan not to leave the castle,” she said, resting on her knees and beginning to sweat anxiously. Moisture collected beneath her hair and on her spine.
“Do not lie, child. Rue said—”
“Rue is kind, aye, but old and sometimes her mind strays. If you want to pray, Father, I’ll pray, but believe me, I plan not to go against Holt’s wishes. My father named him as the next baron and I would not go against his word.”
Timothy’s lips pursed. “One of the prisoners is near death,” he said.
Just as the sorcerer predicted! “Nay.”
“You might pray for his wretched soul.” He wiped his hands on his robes and sighed loudly. “For that of your sister, too, for if she returns to Dwyrain and has not been faithful to Holt, he will kill her.”
“No, please—”
The priest’s face was somber. “Say what you will, child, but mind, if you need my help, I’m at your service.” Climbing to his feet, he left the rope in the middle of the floor. “ ’Tis not that far to the bailey from here, and one of the stable boys left a hay cart filled with straw beneath your window. ’Twill be there until morning. Rue will be in to see you before you sleep, and, should you find a way out the window, she’ll untie the rope and drop it into the cart.”
“I told you I plan not to—”
Holding up a hand to silence her, he said, “I blame you not for how ye feel, Cayley. My thoughts of you haven’t always been pure, I’ve enjoyed too much the Lord’s wine, and I’ve been a prideful man worried about earthly things. I’ve … I’ve forgotten my purpose. But no longer. I pledge you this, my lady, I am your humble servant, as I am the servant of God.” He laid a cool hand on her shoulder, muttered a short prayer, and then hurried out of the room, leaving the length of rope and small sack of coins behind. She tucked the coils beneath her bed, hid the pouch in the thick fur coverlets piled over the mattress, then walked to the window and peered down the sheer rock walls of the keep.
As Father Timothy had promised, a farmer’s cart filled with hay was positioned beneath the window of her room. If she were brave and if she could trust the priest, she could secure the rope on one end to the foot or post of the bed, throw the coil through the window, slide down the thick hemp snake, and sneak to the stables.
Before fleeing, however, she would have to try to free the outlaws, and the sorcerer, to aid her. If Holt found her, he’d kill her or flog her as well. She cringed inside and wished that someone, anyone, would come to her rescue. She wasn’t cut out for danger and would rather be weaving or embroidering than doing anything so rebellious as plotting this escape.
But she had to work fast, before the prisoner died. Whether she wanted to or not, she was forced to trust the priest.
“ ’E’s dead, fer sure,” the jailer said. “Barely alive when we brought him in.”
Holt scowled down at the body. The stench and squalor of the dungeon turned his stomach and the glassy-eyed body, battered from the flogging, lay curled in a ball in the corner. Holt hadn’t intended to kill the man, not so soon, not until his tongue had been loosened, but the shorter, dark-haired outlaw had given up the ghost and died before uttering a word, not even his name.
“You’ll pay,” a deep, rolling voice warned.
Holt’s head snapped up at the ominous words coming from the next cell. The blond outlaw sat cross-legged in a corner, his eyes burning feverishly bright as they bored into Holt.
“Upon my mother’s grave, I vow, Holt of Dwyrain, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
“You’re in no position to start handing out death sentences.” Then why did his insides turn as weak as jelly? The man was locked and shackled, he could do nothing but talk, but Holt felt a tremor of trepidation slide down his backbone in this dark part of hell. “You’re the prisoner, not I.”
“All in good time.”
Through soggy rushes, Holt advanced upon the barred wall separating the cells. “But your time isn’t good now, is it?” he said with a nasty sense of satisfaction. “Your time is spent healing in this rat-infested hellhole. You’re in no position to bargain or threaten me.”
“As long as you live, I will be your enemy.”
“Nay,” Holt said, his temper snapping, “as long as you live, which, judging from your friend’s length of time on this earth, won’t be long. If I were you, my friend, I’d be less inclined to wag a tongue that could easily be cut off and be more interested in telling the truth so that I would be set free.”
The blond one had the audacity to laugh, sending Holt’s anger screaming through his blood. He was tired of being laughed at, furious that men—even this lowly prisoner—had the audacity to snicker at him. “You have one day to change your mind, and then, piece by piece, I will cut you apart. First, a finger or a toe, then part of your ear—even your balls—until you loosen your tongue.”
Furious because the man was not intimidated, he motioned to the body. “Burn or bury this and tell me when our prisoner changes his mind!”
The blond prisoner’s silent rage followed him up the steps like a shadow and Holt felt an unlikely tremor of fear. Outside, the night air was cold but fresh, and he shook off the dark images of the cells.
He had to do something. Things were not happening rapidly enough. Though there were men searching for the outlaw and Megan, it had been weeks since her capture. Wolf and his band had quite successfully eluded them. Since the day when they’d come upon the old camp by the creek where Connor had discovered Megan’s wedding ring, there had been no sign of the outlaw.
Until now when Wolf’s two messengers had appeared. Now, because of Holt’s harsh need for justice, one of the two men who knew where Megan was hidden was dead. The other—that big blond brute—had to be kept alive no matter what.
There was too much disloyalty in the castle as it was. Many of the men were beginning to doubt him. Oh, they’d been only too happy to swear their allegiance to him when they realized that Ewan of Dwyrain was failing, that his mind was no longer sharp, that he was not the dauntless and feared leader he’d once been, but now, ever since Megan had been captured and the men had been tested, their loyalty questioned, Holt had felt that the tides of allegiance had shifted from him and to the dying baron. Curse the old apothecary; had Jovan been right in his dosage, the old man would have died weeks ago, but instead Ewan of Dwyrain lived on, lingering in his bed, muttering his thoughts to a wife who was already in her grave.
Well, Holt was tired of waiting. Everyone expected news of the baron’s death and now they would get it. ’Twas only a matter of laying a thick robe over the elderly man’s face. He was too weak to struggle and he’d die quietly. Then Holt would summon the guard and the castle would learn the news that the old baron had left this earth to join his wife. Holt would become the new ruler.
Swiftly, he mounted the stairs, and with a nod to the guard, entered the baron’s room. He closed the door firmly behind him and saw in the quiet light the face of a once-strong man. He hesitated only a second, calling softly to the baron. Ewan’s blind eyes turned in his direction and he managed a weak smile.
“M’lord,” Holt said. “I’ve come to help you.”
“There’s news … of my daughter?” Hope brought a smile to his weathered face.
“Soon.”
“Ahh. ’Tis a pity.”
“That it is, m’lord. That it is.” Without another word, Holt snatched a fur coverlet, and using every ounce of his strength, held the once-comforting blanket tight over Ewan of Dwyrain’s face.
Twelve
ome,” the calm voice ordered.
Bjorn, seething with injustice, spit on the floor of his cell. His muscles were on fire, his face throbbing, his jaw swollen, perhaps broken.
“Come.” Again, the s
oft-spoken command.
“Go to hell,” Bjorn growled.
“Am I not already there?”
Bjorn’s jaw tightened and made a horrid cracking noise, but he didn’t budge. The prisoner in the next cell was certainly half crazed. Though everyone here thought him some kind of magician, what lord of darkness would allow himself to be caged like a pathetic animal? Nay, he was just a half-wit who spoke in a kind turn of phrase.
“Do not let your friend die for naught.”
“My friend will be avenged,” Bjorn vowed, his lips pulling tight against his teeth. Fury and injustice beat fiercely through him and he blamed himself for Cormick’s death. Had he been more cautious, been ready for the men they approached to turn on them, they would not have been captured and beaten and Cormick would not have been killed. He should have known there was no honor in Holt of Dwyrain and both he and Wolf had been foolish to think that Ewan’s good word would still be law.
“Aye, but Cormick will not be avenged by a beaten, savage man who wants only fast justice. Nay, the way to win this battle is to destroy Holt by more than fists and swords.”
“Ah, ye speak as if ye’ve got only half a brain.”
“Shuddup in there,” the jailer shouted. A rotund man who sat half the time at his post and walked the halls and stairs the rest of his shift, he glowered at the prisoners as he polished the blade of his sword. “There’ll be no talkin’.”
I can soothe your wounds. The words came to him, though he wasn’t certain the sorcerer had spoken. Bjorn glanced to the jailer, who hadn’t looked up and was busying himself with cleaning his weapon.
Through the flickering, smoky light, Bjorn stared into the next cage and was certain that he could see the sorcerer’s kind face. There was not a trace of malice, no evil, but his eyes glowed a deep summer blue. Come!
Bjorn jumped. This time he was certain the man had not spoken. His lips hadn’t moved and the noise that rattled through his brain sounded as if it had traveled a long distance, even through a long tunnel.