by Lisa Jackson
Do not be afraid.
“I fear nothing!” Bjorn stated fiercely.
“Yeah, and bully fer you,” the jailer said. “Now, hush! Jesus God, do ye want another beatin’? That’s what ye’re askin’ fer.”
The lady Cayley comes and will save you, but you must be strong to help her; a weak man will only slow her on her quest to find her sister.
“By the gods!” Bjorn thundered, standing and stepping to the other side of the cell, tripping on his shackles and falling against the screaming muscles of his back.
“Enough from ye!” The jailer jumped from his stool, forced his sword into its sheath, and strode to the door. “Sir ’Olt, ’e’s got no love fer ye. If ye were to ’ave a mite of an accident, ’e wouldn’t be cryin’ a river of tears over yer body, let me tell ye.”
“Untrue.” This time the strange one spoke. “Holt needs this man to take him to the outlaw who stole his wife, and if he is harmed, Holt will surely punish whoever it was who let the ‘mite of an accident’—I think you called it—happen. Think you twice afore you hurt the one man who can help Holt find his wife.”
“I’ll never—” Bjorn started, but that faraway voice stopped him.
Hush. The guard will leave us be.
“Bloody Christ,” the jailer muttered, but returned to his seat and removed his sword from his sheath again. With one eye on the cells, he snagged his rag and began to rub the blade with renewed fervor. Soon, with only the drip of water and sound of mice scurrying through the crevices in the walls for noise, the guard was caught up in his work.
Bjorn turned to the cripple.
Come to the cell wall. I will help you. Do not be afraid.
“I fear nothing,” Bjorn whispered, but, in truth, his heart was thundering loudly, his face and back throbbing in pain, and it took most of his courage to walk the few steps to the rusted bars separating his quarters from the sorcerer. Not long ago, he’d been nearly killed by a rampaging horse and Sorcha of Prydd had used some of the spells from the old ones to heal him. He’d been brought back to life from the brink of death. But this man—this cripple who could not heal himself—was different. Oddly reassuring and yet … By the gods, what did he have to lose? He was in prison, sure to be tortured again, probably killed. He had no choice but to place his trust and his life in the strange fellow’s hands. Squaring his inflamed shoulders, he shot his hands through the bars, and the sorcerer, who appeared to move without sound, placed his soothing fingers on Bjorn’s torn flesh.
“So, Lady Megan, you’ve traveled a great distance to see me,” Sorcha of Erbyn said as Megan slid to the muddy ground within the gates of the largest castle she’d ever seen. Thrice the size of Dwyrain, Erbyn rose like a great yellow-gray dragon from the very cliffs on which it stood. The battlements were high and wide, the towers strong, the keep massive. Servants, pages, and peasants scurried through the bailey; carts pulled by old workhorses and travelers on swifter palfreys and jennets passed through the gatehouse. Chickens clucked and squawked, cattle bawled, and children ran through the few flakes of snow that fell from thick, slate-colored clouds.
Sorcha held a forest-green cloak around her. The hood was trimmed in rabbit fur and the hem flapped loudly in the wind. “Come into the keep and have a cup of wine by the fire. You, too, sister. ’Tis much too cold a day for travel.”
Leah slid down from her spotted mare and embraced her sister. “So good to see you.”
“Aye, and you.” Sorcha held her sister at arm’s length and studied her face, as if searching for traces of unhappiness.
“How is my niece?” Leah asked.
Sorcha laughed, the sound ringing over the pounding of a carpenter’s hammer, the creak of the windmill’s sails, and the cursing of the master mason who was unhappy with one of the freemasons’ cuts of stone. “Bryanna is as beautiful as her aunt and mean-tempered as her father.”
“I heard that!” A big man with sharp eyes the color of ale, thick brows, and a vexed expression approached. By his dress and manner—that of pride and arrogance—Megan guessed him to be the baron, Lord Hagan of Erbyn. “You’re ever a sharp tongue, Sorcha.”
“And you’d not have it any other way,” she teased, clasping his hand. “Lady Megan of Dwyrain, please meet my husband, the ogre.”
Laughing, he placed an arm possessively around Sorcha’s small waist. “Forgive my wife; she sometimes forgets her manners.” He caught a page’s eye. “Have rooms prepared and tell the cook we have guests!”
The lad with straw-blond hair and crooked teeth nodded heartily, anxious to please. “Aye, m’lord.” He turned and ran toward the keep, while another boy of eight or nine appeared and, without a word, took the reins of their mounts and led the tired horses toward the stables.
The big man with tawny eyes smiled. “Now, Leah … so good to see you again.”
“And you, Lord Hagan.”
A pang of loneliness tore through Megan when she thought of her own family, so small now, but so close. Her father near death, or so she’d been led to believe, and her sister, fair and giddy, never thinking about the morrow—how did they fare? It had been weeks since she’d seen them and though she’d often fought with Cayley, now she wished to be able to sit down and talk to her, to confide in her.
Great snowflakes fell from the sky in earnest. Scowling at the dark clouds, Hagan shepherded them into the great hall. Once seated near the fire and drinking wine, pleasantries aside, Megan explained her reasons for riding to Erbyn. She told of marrying Holt and being kidnapped by an outlaw who, he claimed, was Ware of Abergwynn.
With the three sets of eyes steadily upon her, Megan barely touched her wine as she spoke. “ … I am worried that my father and I have been deceived by the man I married, a man I do not love. If it be true that he rode with your brother, Lady Sorcha, if he lied to my father, if, indeed, he committed the horrid crimes that Wolf claims, then Dwyrain is in jeopardy and … and I would want my marriage annulled. I need to know the truth and return to Dwyrain.” And to Wolf, she thought miserably, knowing that he would never again touch her, never speak to her, as she’d deceived him by lying with him, feigning sleep, then stealing his horses and leaving him stranded. That thought brought with it a deep ache in her heart, and her hands shook slightly as she took a long sip of wine.
“Everything Ware has told you is true,” Sorcha assured her with a thoughtful frown. “Leah knows.” The sisters’ gazes touched and they shared a silent painful moment before Sorcha looked at Megan again. “My brother was a cruel man with no thought but of his own wants. He cared not for Prydd, nor his family, nor the servants or peasants who lived within the castle walls.” She swallowed and stared at her hands before squaring her shoulders and tossing a mane of wild black hair over her shoulders. “Aye, Tadd raped Mary, the fisherman’s daughter. She was not his first, nor his last. On that day, there were several soldiers with him. Holt was there.”
“You remember him?”
“A bit.” Sorcha shivered. “ ’Twas a bad time in our lives.” She glanced at her sister.
“Aye. Our darkest hour.” Leah made a swift sign of the cross over her chest and blinked for a few seconds.
Relief that Wolf hadn’t lied came to her but the truth was damning, for she was married to this monster of a man. Leah said, “Megan has traveled a long distance and was ill when she was found by a local farmer who brought her to us. Now that she knows the truth, I think she should rest.”
“Nay, I must return to Dwyrain. My father—”
“Would want you to be well. Let us eat and rest. Tomorrow we can talk of traveling to Dwyrain,” Hagan interjected, his face a mask of hard determination.
But each day so far from home—away from Wolf—was an eternity to Megan. Since she knew the truth, she was eager to return, to face the man who had lied to become her husband.
“When you are strong enough to leave Erbyn, my best men will ride with you,” Hagan decided aloud. Though he stared at the fire, his eyes were trained on a far distance o
nly he could see. “I have waited long to purge the land of anyone who rode with Tadd or my brother Darton. I, too, will ride to Dwyrain.” A cold smile crossed his square jaw. “ ’Twill be a pleasure.”
A piercing cry rang from the rafters. Megan jumped.
“Ah,” Sorcha said with a smile. “The lady Bryanna is hungry. If you’ll excuse me.”
An ancient woman with gray hair descended the steps. Smiling and wizened, lines of age etching her skin, she was carrying a small, howling bundle. “I’ve never seen a babe with such lungs in her.”
“ ’Tis a sign for strength of character, Isolde,” Sorcha said as she took the crying infant from the old crone’s arms, and the nursemaid cackled affectionately. One little fist had escaped from the blankets and a head of black curls was visible as the babe let out another lusty cry. “Come, little one,” Sorcha cooed, kissing the child’s soft crown. “ ’Twill be only a minute. I know … I know.”
Hagan watched his wife ascend the steps and a kind, nearly reverent expression changed the hard contours of his face as his gaze followed her. The love in his eyes touched Megan. Here was a man who would lay down his life for his lady and child, a man devoted to her, a man, upright and law-abiding, who wanted only to provide for and protect his family and castle.
Unlike the renegade outlaw to whom she’d given her heart.
“Did Wolf kill Tadd?” she asked once Hagan had turned to her again.
“Aye. After Tadd nearly killed me.” He finished his wine and set his mazer on the hearth. Then he told her the story of Sorcha of Prydd, his wife, born with the birthmark of the kiss of the moon, an ancient prophecy stating that whosoever was born with the mark would become the savior of Prydd. Many had scoffed at the thought of a woman becoming a leader, mostly Tadd, Sorcha’s older brother, but in the end, she proved herself to be uncommonly brave and determined.
Megan withered inside. Sorcha had done so much for those who depended upon her, while Megan had brought only fear, distrust, and now, by marriage, the reign of a cruel baron. Unwittingly, she’d become the curse of Dwyrain. And now she was in love with a wild man, an outlaw of the forest, who used her only for revenge against a sworn enemy.
As if reading her thoughts, Hagan said, “Wolf breaks the law without a thought, he takes refuge in the forest and disdains life within a castle, he makes his own rules and lives by them, but he is a good man, Lady Megan; his heart is pure.”
“I—I believe you.”
“Good. Then eat the food that Cook has prepared and rest. We’ll talk of riding to Dwyrain tomorrow.”
Megan didn’t argue as a page brought in a trencher filled with eggs and eels, a round of cheese, and a few tart winter apples. The cold seeped from her bones and she realized how badly she missed a part of her life at Dwyrain. The adventure of living in the forest was appealing, though, and she thought of the outlaw band—grizzled Odell, innocent Robin, even-tempered Peter with his one eye—but she knew that the source of her fascination with the life of the thieves was their leader. Where was he now? Was he following her? Would he even now burst through the gates of Erbyn? If he asked, she would eagerly give up the comforts of the keep to be with him.
Silly girl. Foolish heart. He was probably glad to be rid of her and the problem of returning her to her husband.
Holt.
Her blood curdled at the thought that she was, in the eyes of the church and in accordance with the laws, bound to him for the rest of her life.
She’d finished eating when Sorcha, carrying the tiny babe, swept down the stairs. No longer wailing, the infant’s face had lost its scarlet hue and was as smooth and white as her mother’s. “She’ll not be an easy lass,” Sorcha said proudly. “Headstrong.”
“Like her mother.” Leah swallowed a last bite of eel and sighed contentedly. Fluttering her fingers, she indicated that she wanted to hold her tiny niece, and Sorcha reluctantly gave the swaddled babe to her sister.
“I know of Ware of Abergwynn,” Sorcha said. “I knew him first as Wolf, the outlaw. But he is Baron Garrick’s younger brother who, in his youth, was overly confident and eager to prove himself a man. Unfortunately, when his brother trusted him to rule the keep, he was overthrown by a traitor; his own cousin.” She crossed her legs and laced her fingers over a velvet-draped knee. “Ever since that time, Wolf has been a man haunted by his past, an outlaw who is forever chased by the demon guilt. Though Garrick blamed him not for losing Abergwynn years ago, I think that Wolf has never been able to redeem himself in his own eyes.
“At the time he and Lady Morgana’s—she is now married to Garrick—anyway, her brother, Cadell, escaped from the murderers only to be forced over the cliffs at Abergwynn and into the sea far below. Their bodies were never found. They were both thought dead for years until the outlaw Wolf turned out to be Ware of Abergwynn.”
“What happened to Morgana’s brother?” Megan asked.
“Never heard from since. ’Tis presumed that he died in the fall off the cliffs or drowned in the sea.”
“And Ware blames himself for this as well?”
Sorcha lifted a shoulder. “I say only what I’ve been told by those who were there. ’Twas a long time ago. Over ten years.” She cleared her throat, dispelling the dark mood that clouded her eyes. “ ’Tis late and you need your rest, Lady Megan.”
“Nay, now that I know the truth, I must return.”
“Tomorrow,” Sorcha said. “With Hagan and his army.”
“Curse your bones, Megan,” Cayley growled under her breath as her fingers curled more tightly over the rope. Fighting a fearsome dizziness, she climbed out the window, swallowed back her qualms, and began to lower herself slowly into the waiting cart filled with straw. If only her sister hadn’t gotten herself into such a mess, then she wouldn’t have to go through this torture. Her arms and shoulders ached from holding up her weight, her shoes slipped on the stones of the castle wall, and the rope felt as if it were shredding the skin off her hands even though she was wearing gloves.
Finally, she was close enough to the cart to jump. Silently counting to three, she let go and fell, landing in the piled straw with a soft thud. The night air was crisp and cold, her breath fogging, the moon shining bright and nearly full to give some light. Rolling off the cart, she alighted on the hard ground and twisted her ankle. Holy Mother, she wasn’t any good at this!
Biting the urge to cry out, she hurried onward. Fear crawled up her spine, and she was constantly looking over her shoulder, certain she was being followed. As she passed the fish pond, she heard a splash in the water and nearly screamed. Her hasty footsteps echoed down the path near the beehives and through the bedraggled gardens.
Beneath her black-hooded mantle, deep in a pouch strapped around her waist, was the small knife Rue had given her, and she prayed that she didn’t have to wrestle with the guard and his huge sword. Dear God in heaven, what was she doing?
Tamping down the dread that stole the spit from her mouth, she opened the door of the north tower and tiptoed quietly down the steps. A few rush lights still burned, fouling the air with their oily smoke and causing shadows to shift in the narrow, dark halls. This was no mission for a lady—no mission for a sane person—but she continued downward, half expecting some burly guard or ghost of a dead prisoner to jump out at her. God be with me, she silently prayed as she rounded the final corner.
She comes. Be ready! The unspoken words charged at Bjorn from the next cell, and he saw the stranger arise. Using some small piece of metal, the sorcerer silently unfastened the manacles over his wrists, then did the same with the shackles at his feet. Come closer. As Bjorn edged closer to the barred wall, a hand shot through the metal slats and a nail was dropped into his palm. Sweating nervously, Bjorn glanced up at the guard and worked at his own bindings.
The man was so strange, he frightened Bjorn, but Bjorn was thankful that the fire in his back had faded to a dull ache, and his face, swollen and no doubt bruised, was stiff and sore but no longer throbbed i
n agony. Whatever magic this man possessed, ’twas powerful.
Now, lure the guard into your cell and we will steal his keys. You are stronger than I if he resists.
Bjorn no longer questioned the sorcerer’s commands. As if he were a knight who had pledged fealty to this peculiar baron, he climbed to his feet and felt a new freedom in his ankles and wrists. Revenge tainted his blood and he wanted nothing more than to seek out Holt and slit his traitorous throat.
Later.
He had to appear weak, he had to appear as if he needed assistance, he had to worry the simpleton sentry. Grabbing a handful of the foul rushes on the floor, he shoved them into his mouth. Straw and hair, dirt and all manner of grime and refuse clogged his throat, and as he coughed it up, he began to retch violently, his body racking against the putrid matter.
“Hey—what?” The guard glanced up.
Bjorn kept coughing, spitting, and vomiting.
“Oh, ye gods, what’s ’appened to ye?” Disgust and worry edged the jailer’s words. He climbed off his fat rump and grabbed his keys, as well as a candle for light. “Don’t ye be dyin’ on me, ye hear? Sir ’olt, ’e wouldn’t like it if ye did somethin’ as infernally stupid as leavin’ this life.” Keys jangling, he opened the cell door and slipped through, slamming the heavy bars into place behind him. “ ’Ere now, what’s got into ye?”
Bjorn waited until the man was near, then he grabbed with both hands the manacles that had bound him, and with a quick lunge, forced the sentry backward. The candle dropped, hot wax sprayed on Bjorn’s legs, and the soggy rushes on the floor caught flame, only to sputter out.
“Hey! Wha—?” the startled jailer yelled as links of chain wrapped around his thick throat. Using his weight, Bjorn jammed his heavy body against the wall of bars that separated his cell from that of the stranger.
Coughing, choking, swearing, and stumbling backward, the guard kicked forward, attempting to wound Bjorn between his legs, but Bjorn, finding some sort of sweet justice, only tightened the noose. The guard wound his meaty fingers around the steel coil cutting off his wind, but Bjorn pressed harder until the man was backed against the bars, and the stranger wrapped his own manacles around one of the jailer’s legs, looping the chain through the bars and clamping on the other cuff to his free leg.