by Lisa Jackson
“You’ll regret you ever crossed me, woman.” He thrust at her with the knife and she spun away, knocking over the basket of firewood. Small logs rolled free.
“Keep far from me!”
“Not until you beg for mercy.”
Without thinking, she snatched up what had once been a branch and heaved it at him. He ducked, but the corner of the log caught him on the edge of his jaw and sent him spinning into the wall, where he cracked his head on a crucifix hung near the door. Megan, certain she’d killed him, dropped a second piece of oak and stumbled backward. “Oh, God, please help me,” she cried.
He groaned and lay still.
Never before had she taken a life, and though she hated Holt with all her heart, she’d never truly believed that she’d have to kill him. She nearly retched, but told herself to keep going, this was her chance. Grabbing her mantle and boots, she stepped over his bleeding body. Fingers fumbling, heart pounding, she threw on her mantle, pried the knife from his fingers, and bolted for the door. It opened without a sound and soon she was in the corridor for the first time in days.
“God be with me,” she whispered, thankful as she locked the door behind her that Holt had dismissed the guards.
The air in the corridor was cool. The rush lights flickered dimly, casting shadows against the walls, but Megan’s steps were sure. She’d grown up in this castle and knew connecting routes to back stairs and seldom-used passages. Walking barefoot and noiselessly, she slipped unseen through the hallways. Most of the castle was asleep—only a few nodding guards stood their posts—but Megan hurried down a curving staircase, through the gallery, past a door leading to the priest’s quarters, and finally down another set of steps to the kitchen.
A cat lurked near the door, but it only watched with amber eyes as she stole outside where the moon, not quite full, bathed the bailey in its silvery glow. The gallows, with its noose swaying softly, loomed like a huge, ungainly beast, casting a horrid shadow over the grass. In her mind’s eye, Megan saw her beloved Wolf swinging from the hangman’s rope, and she sped forward, past the evil structure and the pillory to Rue’s hut.
Quietly, she tapped on a window until it was opened by a sour-faced Rue, who grimaced as if she were about to give whoever was bothering her a tongue-lashing.
“Megan,” she said in surprise, “come in, come in.” Within seconds, the door was open and Megan threw herself into the nursemaid’s outstretched arms.
“ ’Tis worried I’ve been. Holt, he would not let me visit ye and I feared … oh, Lord, child, don’t worry about what I feared.” Her small hut was warm, a banked fire radiating heat. From the rafters hung bundles of herbs that Rue had collected and had suspended to dry.
“I’ve not much time,” Megan said, her words coming out in short, wild bursts. “I killed Holt and now—”
“Killed him?” Rue crossed herself. “What were ye thinking, child? The punishment for murdering a baron is—”
“—what he deserved. He killed Father and Bevan. He admitted as much to me.” She was suddenly shaking, her teeth chattering as she talked, the cold in her soul deep and mind-numbing.
“There now, lass, worry not about it. What is it ye want from me?”
“I want to know who is loyal to my father, who would rise against Holt’s soldiers; and then I need a disguise, for I’m going to set Wolf and the rest of the prisoners free.”
“Holy Mother,” Rue said, her face wrinkling in concentration and worry. “Think ye it’s wise to—”
“I killed Holt!” Megan said again. “I have no choice.”
Rue nodded and rubbed her hands, with their big knuckles, together nervously. “Many in the castle despise Holt, but would they take up arms against his men? I know not.” Shaking her head, she said, “There is Ellen, Tom’s mother; she would do anything to free her boy, for she’s certain that Holt will make him hang from the very structure her husband built.”
“She has many children—boys,” Megan said. “I need one of their—George’s, as he’s near my size—his tunic and breeches.”
“His clothes?”
“For my disguise, of course.”
“Oh. Of course.” Rue looked more worried than before.
Megan rattled on. “And I’ll need someone to go with me to the dungeon.”
“Yes.”
“And more—I’ll need my own guards posted to warn me of any soldiers approaching.”
Rue bit her lower lip and grabbed both of Megan’s shoulders in her long, bony fingers. “Ye should have been the baron, ye know, if the king would allow a woman to rule. Ye’d be as good a ruler as your father and far better than Bevan would have been.” Tears sprang to her old eyes. “Ewan, proud he’d be of ye.”
“Aye, but we have not time for this now,” Megan said, her throat growing thick with the sorrow she held back. “Hurry!”
“Come. We’ll talk with Ellen,” Rue agreed, reaching for the door. Before she stepped into the bailey, she turned and her face softened. She touched a hand to Megan’s crown. “God be with ye, lass.”
“Halt!” the guard commanded as he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. “Who be ye?”
“ ’Tis only me, Ronald, and me helpmate Stanley,” a boy answered, and Wolf recognized the voice as belonging to one of the peasant children whose job it was to bring down buckets of food and water as well as empty pails in which he and the other prisoners were supposed to relieve themselves. Stanley was younger, with a pockmarked face and a stutter that was so difficult to understand, he rarely tried to speak.
“ ’Tis late ye be,” the guard said with a yawn. There was an edge of suspicion to his voice.
“Aye,” Ronald replied. “Cook fergot to give us these buckets of slop earlier.”
“Could not it have waited ’til morn?” The guard was on his feet to greet the boys. A nervous man, he’d been watching Wolf most of the night, as if he expected some plot to set him free. The sentry was a big man and one who had sworn to Holt that there would be no attempts at escape under his watch. Too many times lately had a prisoner tried to flee. To strengthen his words, he was heavily armed with two daggers and a sword lying unsheathed upon his table.
“Ye’d have thought morning would be soon enough,” Ronald agreed around a yawn as he and his friend set the heavy pails on the guard’s small table. “But ye know Cook. ‘Waste not, want not,’ ’e’s always preachin’. Worse than Father Tim, he is.”
The guard chuckled. “Right ye are about that, boy.” He motioned toward the cells. “Come, we’ll feed the animals, then we both can get some sleep.”
Wolf felt something in the air, a breath of breeze laden with a familiar scent, and his heart jolted as the boy Stanley turned and faced him. Amber eyes held his for an instant and his throat was suddenly tight with fear. Megan! What was she doing here? She’d only get herself killed! Frantic, he shook his head quickly, trying to discourage her. Whatever she had planned, she should not be risking her life or that of their child.
“ ’Ere we go,” the guard said, starting with Jack’s cell. “Come, huntsman, for some of the leftovers.” Keys jangled loudly, rattling Wolf’s nerves. The rusted cell door squeaked open on old hinges. Wolf’s heart thudded as slop was poured into a bucket on the floor. Did the others not know? Were they not ready to ambush the guard?
Wolf had never been a man of strong faith, but now he prayed to God and watched as the small trio moved to the next cell. Robin’s cage. Holy Christ, the boy would surely recognize her and blurt her name, and everything would be lost. Sweat ran down Wolf’s arms as he saw Robin meet the silent boy’s eyes and his mouth drop open, but before the guard noticed, he fell into a squatting position next to the pail, staring at its unappetizing contents as if starving. To the next cell, Tom’s, the guard and his helpers moved, and now Wolf could see her plainly, a few wayward strands of mahogany hair poking from her cowl, her small upturned nose. How much she appeared as she had at the camp when he’d tried to disguise her fema
le curves from his men. His throat went dry and love beat wildly in his heart.
Wolf’s mind screamed for her to be careful, to forget her plan, whatever it was, that ’twas not worth risking her life for his, but he held his tongue and as the cell door swung open, he was on the balls of his feet, every muscle in his body strung tight. As “Stanley” poured the slop into his pail, the guard watched him. “Be careful,” he said. “This one—Wolf, they call him—is truly a beast and would gladly rip out both yer throats, but he’s calmer now, in pain from the beatings he’s been given.”
“Is that so?” Ronald asked, and Megan, in her disguise, feigned tripping over the pail, sending slop everywhere.
“Oh, son, look at the mess ye’ve made! Bloody Christ!” the guard reprimanded.
Reacting by instinct, Wolf caught her and felt her body close. She clutched his hand but for an instant, leaving a small knife in his fingers.
“Come on, ever’body out!” the guard ordered. “Wolf, ’e won’t get to taste any of Cook’s fine—”
Wolf leaped onto the man’s back.
“Hey! Stop!” He whirled and Megan, grabbing a bucket from the floor, slammed it against the guard’s big head as Wolf plunged the knife into the man’s shoulder. They fell against the cell walls, rattling the bars, the guard starting to yell.
“Say a word and I’ll slit your throat!” Wolf promised, his blade at the sentry’s thick Adam’s apple as he still rode the burly man’s back.
“He—”
The blade pressed closer and blood oozed. The sentry’s voice suddenly failed him.
“That’s better,” Wolf said as Megan lifted the man’s keys from his belt.
Within seconds, the guard was bound and locked in Wolf’s cell, the other prisoners released. The weapons—two buckets, two knives, and a sword—were distributed as they headed for the stairs. “This was foolish,” Wolf reprimanded her in a low whisper.
“I could not let you die.”
God, how he loved her! “So you risked your neck and that of our babe?”
“How—how did you know?” she asked, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Was she not the most beautiful woman in the king’s lands?
He glanced at her abdomen covered in tattered clothes and placed his hand over her flat stomach. “Cadell—the magician—he told me.”
Her fingers folded over his and he melted inside. “The sorcerer is Lady Morgana’s lost brother?” she asked in wonder.
“Aye, but let us not tarry. I will tell you everything once I have killed Holt and we have fled Dwyrain.” Reluctantly, he turned to the task at hand. They were not yet free of the walls of the dungeon.
“Do not worry about Holt,” Megan said, and then crossed herself in the dim, flickering light. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Holt hardly dared believe his good luck.
“Aye,” she said and he felt her shake. Her golden gaze was troubled, her chin jutted out defiantly.
“You killed him?”
“ ’Twas either that or share his bed.”
Wolf’s heart warmed for this woman. He held her close for a second, then brushed his lips over hers. “ ’Twould have been all right,” he said, reassuring her. “Nothing is worth your life.”
She shook her head vigorously. “Nay, I could never—”
“Let’s go!” Jack growled.
Jagger, carrying a knife in one big hand, agreed. “Aye, there’s time for talk later. Now listen, Robin, Jack, and me—we’ll take care of the guards in the gatehouse. You, Wolf, and Megan and Tom, get the horses from the stables. We’ll open the gates as soon as we see you with the beasts.”
Wolf nodded. ’Twas as good as any plan they could conjure without more time. “We’ll meet in the shadow of this very tower.”
Without another word, they hastened up the stairs. At the door, Wolf motioned for everyone to wait. He stepped into the moon-washed bailey first, the guard’s sword at ready. As his foot touched the ground outside, he whirled lithely, but no one accosted him, and aside for a few sentries positioned as they ever were in the watchtowers, the castle was quiet.
Was it possible? Could Holt be dead, slain by his wife, and no one in the keep be aware of his death? His heart leapt at the thought, for finally he and Megan could be together—as man and wife. If she were widowed, he could surely ask for her hand. Though she had killed Holt, Wolf was certain Megan would be acquitted of any crime and he … he would give up living as a criminal in the forest, if only she would be at his side.
He motioned to Jagger and the prisoners split into two groups. Jagger, Jack, and Robin, pressed close to the stones of the bailey wall, hid in the shadows as they hurried toward the gatehouse. Megan, Tom, and Wolf crept into the stables and, sliding through the half-open door, spoke softly to the animals as they chose six swift horses.
Despite their caution, several nervous stallions whinnied noisily. “Damn it all to hell,” Wolf muttered under his breath.
A bleary-eyed stableboy opened the door. Wolf set upon him, his sword at the lad’s throat. “You’ll say nothing,” Wolf commanded in an authoritative whisper.
“Nay, nay, nothing!” The boy gulped. “Wolf, is it?” Even in the partial darkness, Wolf noticed the youth’s face lit in admiration. “Can I come with ye? I’ve fancied meself an outlaw for a long time now.”
“ ’Tis not as glorious as you may think,” Wolf said, hoping to discourage the lad. How many boys had he met like this one who thought living the life of a criminal and outrunning the law was a grand adventure? Had he not thought the very same?
His attempts to dissuade the boy were in vain.
“I’d be a good thief,” the lad insisted.
“We must be off,” Tom said, but the stableboy wasn’t finished.
“Ian’s me name, and I’ve stolen from the baker and armorer and poached in the baron’s woods and not been caught,” he boasted.
Foolish youth! Wolf remembered the guard who had complained of his son getting into trouble. ’Twould be better if he left the boy here, but he had no time to argue. “I wouldn’t be bragging of your crimes,” he reprimanded. “Now, hush. Come with us if ye will, but understand that if ye be caught, ye’ll hang.”
“I won’t be,” he said with the confidence of youth.
“Then keep these beasts quiet and come along!”
They led the horses from the stables, and with Ian along, the horses quieted and were less nervous. Wolf’s heart was drumming, his nerves stretched tighter than a dying man on the rack, dread inching up his spine. Surely their escape wouldn’t come so easily. Everyone in the castle had suffered Holt’s wrath when Cayley and Bjorn had stolen their freedom, and certainly the guards would be doubly vigilant, on the lookout for another attempted break from the dungeons, rather than feel the sting of Holt’s anger.
The wind was chill and moist, promising rain, though no clouds blocked the moon, the castle silent except for their muffled tread. Their breath fogged in the night. Freedom was so close . . .
Silently they approached the gate, but the portcullis hadn’t been lifted.
Wolf sensed trouble. There had been more than ample time to winch up the iron gate. Holding Megan’s small hand in one of his, he silently prayed. The fingers of his other hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. Something was wrong. Looking upward, he scoured the battlements and towers, but nothing appeared amiss.
Come on, come on! Jagger and Jack were strong men; winching up the gate would be no trouble.
Unless they’d been caught.
Unless even now they’d been taken prisoner again.
Dread thudded through his brain.
“Well, well, well.” Holt’s voice, deep and foreboding, rang through the bailey.
For the love of God, no! Whirling, sword ready to cleave anyone who should try to thwart him, Wolf found his old nemesis, not dead as Megan had vowed, but very much alive and standing proudly upon the gallows as he glared pointedly at Wolf and Megan. His voi
ce was deadly as he said to the sleeping castle at large, “If it isn’t my murdering wife and her outlaw of a lover trying to flee!”
Sixteen
ow, Wolf, outlaw of the forest, you die,” Holt announced with some difficulty, and Megan’s heart turned to stone. They were doomed, and the glint in her husband’s eyes warned her that he would extract his revenge upon each and every one of them. Absently, she touched her abdomen, to the low spot where her baby was growing—so innocent, so perfect. She could not endanger this fragile life.
“Let’s kill him,” Tom muttered under his breath.
“Aye,” Ian said.
Wolf shook his head. “Not yet.”
’Twas idle hopes. Lurking in the shadows were soldiers who had been hiding in the towers, behind the hayricks, under carts. They came forward with bows strung tight and arrows aimed at Wolf’s heart. Oh, love, Megan silently cried, and her mouth was suddenly dry with fear.
The horses, sensing danger, fidgeted, pulling tight on their reins, whinnying and snorting, but Wolf held them firmly.
Holt was not finished. Swaying slightly, standing as if with great effort, he said, “Before I send you to hell where you belong, you pathetic outlaw”—he ran a hand over the fresh wood of a support beam of the gallows—“you’ll watch each of your men die, one by one. Now!” He snapped his fingers and grimaced in the pale moonlight.
Megan shivered, not from the cold of the wind that blew past the thick stone walls, but from the despair gathering in her heart, the fear that she’d never see her beloved Wolf again. “Please be with him,” she murmured to a fierce God who, she sensed, had abandoned her this night. “Save him and my child.”
Sentries in the watchtower opened the door of the gatehouse and pushed their captives into the bailey. Jack, Jagger, and young Robin shuffled forward, their eyes blindfolded, their mouths gagged, their hands tied in front of them.
Megan’s legs threatened to give way, and had it not been for Wolf’s strong arm supporting her, she would have swooned on the frozen grass of the bailey.