Outlaw Heart

by Samantha James

  "Your death will be avenged, Father! This I swear by the Holy Rood. I will not rest until I have found this blasted English earl and he lies dead at my feet."

  Thus began her thirst for vengeance.

  Chapter 1

  He was called the Bastard Earl.

  But not a man in the whole of England would dare to say it to his face.

  The sheer power of his presence was such that it wrought first silence, then whispers to the fore, whispers that had little to do with his heritage—or lack of it. His size alone inspired no little amount of awe. It took naught but a look to strip many a brave man of courage and will.

  But on this particular warm spring afternoon, Thorne de Wilde sat his steed with bone-stiff weariness. He'd been at Weston when King Edward's summons had come. Edward and the Welsh princes had signed the treaty of Aberconway more than four years past. For a time there had been a cautious peace. But of late, skirmishes blazed anew along the border Marches. It was for that very reason that Edward had called him to London.

  It was there Thorne learned he was to join forces with Geoffrey of Fairhaven, Lord Roger Newbury, and Sir Quentin of Hargrove at mighty Castle Langley. Newbury's lands adjoined the late Earl of Langley's, while Sir Quentin had been a vassal of the old Earl's. Thorne had spent mere hours in London before continuing on to the Marches and Castle Langley. Indeed, he could scarce recall the last time he'd had a proper night's rest. With a grimace of relief, he swung from his destrier, weariness plainly etched on his features.

  The inner bailey of Castle Langley was teeming. Geese and ducks dipped lo and about, flapping their wings wildly to make way for the stream of men and horses filing through the gate. High above, a parade of soldiers patrolled the wall- walk.

  A young groom scurried out to greet him. Thorne tossed his reins to the boy, while another horse and rider drew up alongside him. He waited as Geoffrey of Fairhaven, a baron from York, leaped to the ground beside him.

  Though the two were well matched in height and breadth, Geoffrey was as fair as Thorne was dark. Like Sir Quentin, Geoffrey had also been a vassal of the Earl of Langley. Thorne had visited Geoffrey's manor many times, and it was Geoffrey who had helped Thorne draw up the plans for his own castle. Thorne was pleased to call Geoffrey his friend, for Geoffrey was one of the few he was certain judged him on his own merit.

  "I hope you fared better than I," Geoffrey said, greeting him. "Mine was a wasted trip if ever there was one. The Dragon is a crafty foe, indeed."

  Thorne's mouth thinned to an ominous line. There had been no respite from the troublesome Welsh of late. They were hell-bent on rebellion. King Edward was furious. He was determined to put the stubborn Welsh in their place once and for all, and so he had placed Thorne in command of the united forces at Langley. But their task here was twofold. He and the others were to seek and stamp out the pockets of resistance in the border lands—and roust out this elusive, scarlet- mantled brigand the Welsh hailed as the Dragon.

  He suspected it would be no small task.

  Though Edward's patience was worn thin, he had recognized the storm clouds brewing ahead. He had concurred with Thorne's request to proceed with caution. Thorne was determined not to flood the region with his troops, for needless bloodshed would only antagonize the Welsh further. In time, a mighty show of force might well be unavoidable. For the moment, Thorne was determined to maintain the delicate balance that existed up until now.

  To this end, he'd divided the troops among the other lords gathered here at Langley. Their first charge was to ferret out information about the man known as the Dragon, and those who aided him.

  In truth, Thorne longed for the day this campaign was over and done, so that he might make haste back to Weston. A stab of regret pierced him. Weston was his pride and joy, indeed his greatest accomplishment. His tenants had proved themselves loyal and true, for he had shown himself to be a strong but just overlord. It was there, high upon a hilltop overlooking the sea, that he'd built his castle, grand and sprawling and uniquely his own. It was forged from his own hand, the product of years of toil and sweat. Alas, he'd spent precious little time there since its completion three months ago.

  If the bend of his mind was a trifle bitter, it was little wonder. Providence had not seen fit to cast a blessed eye upon him. He knew not who his father had been. If his mother had known, she had kept it to herself. Thorne remembered little of that heartless woman who had left him alone in the midst of a frigid winter night, when he was but a lad.

  His mind resurrected all too keenly the taunts and curses heaped upon him in his youth. Bastard... little bastard whoreson...

  So it was that as a child, Thorne had naught but the rags on his back. Living in filth and squalor as he had, there was scarce a night he'd slept with a roof over his head. As a man, he'd spent most of his life in the saddle with only the ground for a bed. He was a soldier by choice, a knight and lord by the grace of the king. He would never forsake his king, but he yearned for the day he could return to Weston and live his life in leisure.

  And these days no one dared to call him a bastard.

  Thorne's laugh held no mirth. "Did I fare well? From the sound of it, no better than you." A scowl darkened his expression as he glanced at Geoffrey. "I take it you learned nothing about the Dragon."

  "Oh, I heard a theory or two. One man said he's a farmer from the north who forfeited his land to taxes. Another said he's the grandson of an old Welsh chieftain. Still another claims he's King Arthur the Pendragon, cast off his cloak of death and come to rescue his people from the scourge of the English." Geoffrey sounded disgusted.

  "Then you did better than I, my friend. Why, they all stared at me as if I were the devil himself—and my men the legion of doom. They vowed they knew nothing about these raiders— that they'd never even heard of their leader, let alone a man called the Dragon. And all the while they swore from here to the heavens above, you knew they wanted nothing more than to spit in your eye and stomp your soul into the furthest reaches of hell."

  He brooded for a moment. "These Welsh," he muttered aloud. "I've never seen a more silent lot of people in my life! 'Twould seem he has many friends, this man who calls himself the Dragon."

  They both fell silent, then at last Geoffrey clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I have a remedy for what ails us, Thorne." Geoffrey's warm brown eyes had taken on an unmistakable gleam.

  A reluctant smile lined the hard edge of Thorne's mouth. He sighed. "Geoffrey, you are remarkably predictable."

  "And you are ever as willing as I. As I always say, a man has but three necessities in life—bread, ale, and the warm embrace of a woman for the night." He grinned wickedly. "What do you say we share a spot of ale, and then set our sights on a wench. Aye, maybe even two!"

  Thorne shook his head. "My necessities are a little different than yours, my friend. A hot bath and food for my belly come first, I'm afraid. And the only embrace I wish right now is the embrace of a soft mattress clinging to my weary bones."

  "Oh, come now! Why, I've been told numerous times, and by numerous sources, I might add, that you've the stamina of an ox. I'll refrain from making another comparison," he went on brashly. "Although I could, and that on good authority, too!"

  Thorne laughed, his exhaustion of the moment forgotten. "Geoffrey," he began, "were I the type to boast, I could tell you tales that would make even a man of your ilk blush hotter than an untried lad." Nearby there was a shout. Thorne broke off, the grin wiped clean from his lips.

  Geoffrey turned as well. Across the bailey, the body of a man was being dragged through a doorway. Thorne was already halfway across the bailey. Dust swirled around his heels as he strode to where the body had been dumped upon the ground. He crouched low and pressed two fingers beneath the man's jaw.

  "Won't do ye no good, milord," piped a voice behind him. "We tried to save him, but he was already gone."

  Thorne swore silently, staring down at the man's blood-spattered chest. He whirled arou
nd to face the straggly line who had gathered behind him. "Who is this man?" he demanded. "How did he die?"

  One of the men stepped forward. "He's one of Lord Newbury's troops, milord. They had a skirmish with a band of raiders the eve before last, as did some of Sir Quentin's men. Lord Newbury thought we might be able to save him, but alas, the good Lord willed otherwise."

  Thorne clenched his jaw in anger and frustration, yet even as he stood there, an eerie foreboding prickled his skin. First blood had once again been drawn between England and Wales. He had the uneasy sensation the land would run crimson before peace reigned anew.

  "Milady," Gryffen pleaded, " 'twould serve no purpose if you were to go to Castle Langley. I know 'tis vengeance you seek, but shouldn't such matters as this rest in the hands of your betrothed?"

  Shana's mind sped straight to Barris of Frydd, whose lands butted her father's to the west—her beloved, her betrothed. If only he were here, she thought, a yearning ache spreading throughout her breast, even as his image filled her mind. He was tall, with hair as black as ebony and eyes of gold, the handsomest man she'd ever laid eyes on. She knew an overwhelming urge to see him again, to seek comfort in the haven of his embrace against the pain of her loss. But perhaps it was a blessing after all that he was in Gwynedd, for what if Merwen's attackers had gone on to lay waste to Frydd as well?

  But even as she directed a fervent prayer heavenward that his people had been spared, a brittle determination sealed her heart.

  "Barris is in Gwynedd," she told the old knight. "He is not expected back until several days hence, mayhap more. And 'twas not his father who was slain, Gryffen. 'Twas mine." Shana's calm was deceiving. Her eyes sparked with fire and fury. "The responsibility is mine... nay, the duty is mine!"

  "But milady, you cannot take on the whole of King Edward's army!" Gryffen thrust his hand through his iron-gray hair. In the space of just minutes, he seemed to have aged years.

  Her delicate chin tilted. "That is hardly my intent, Gryffen. But I will find the man who dared to attack Merwen."

  Gryffen rubbed a hand against his leathery cheek, clearly in a quandary. "Milady, I fear for you if they should discover you are Llywelyn's niece!"

  In truth, her uncle Llywelyn, named for his grandsire, was the reason her father had taken up residence here at Merwen those many years past. Though he seldom said so, Shana knew her father considered his elder brother domineering and stubborn. Kendal had wanted no part in the squabbles between his brothers. He harbored no hunger for land or power. Indeed, most of his people had known him only as Lord Kendal.

  But although Kendal had chosen to distance himself from his brothers, shunning his princely lineage and retreating to this mountain vale to live his life as he would, he loved his country and the Welsh people deeply. The blood of the Cymry flowed strong and swift in his veins.

  And he had passed on to Shana that same pride in their heritage. Like her father, Shana had little tolerance for her uncles' pettiness.

  But mayhap it was time she joined the battle for her people.

  "We have kept to ourselves here at Merwen, Gryffen. Though my father saw me well-skilled in the English tongue, in all the years we've lived here, not once have we shared our table with an Englishman." Nor, she resolved darkly, would they ever.

  "Nay," she went on. "My identity is safe. Not a soul at Castle Langley knows me, and I'll not give myself away." With that, the matter was settled. Neither Gryffen or the other knights could sway her, though they tried in earnest. Nor did they dare to stop her, for even as a child, their princess was ever staunch, ever decisive. She had grown to womanhood no less determined. They had also sworn to protect her ... and so they would.

  She left for Langley the next morning, with half a dozen of her father's men-at-arms as escort.

  Although the journey was not an easy one, neither was it grueling. The mountains gradually gave way to fold upon fold of lush rolling hillside. They passed through several villages, where they heard tales of English soldiers further north who razed hill and vale, plundering and burning without mercy.

  It was a solemn party indeed that forged a path toward Castle Langley. Late in the day, they crested a small rise. Below them, the land was smothered in thick green forest.

  Shana could not appreciate the beauty set out before her. Her gaze was bound by the massive gray structure that dominated the horizon. She scarce noticed the tiny village huddled in its shadow.

  Sir Gryffen came up alongside her mount. "Castle Langley," he said quietly. It was truly a sight to behold, with towers and turrets that swept high into the sky and crowned the treetops.

  To Shana, it was naught but a jutting pile of cold gray stone, a loathsome symbol of the English stranglehold upon Wales.

  No one spoke a word as they forged onward.

  They had nearly breached the edge of the forest when Shana called a halt in the midst of a small clearing. She turned to the group and bid them listen.

  "Mark this spot well, for 'tis here I will return come nightfall."

  A low murmur went up. "Milady, you cannot think to enter Langley alone!"

  "I must," was all she said.

  "Milady, 'tis too dangerous! At least take one of us!"

  Shana was adamant. "With two there is twice the risk. We've lost enough lives as it is. I'll not chance any more. Should trouble befall me—"

  " 'Tis exactly what we fear!" Sir Gryffen's countenance was like a thundercloud. He dismounted and stood at her side, glowering up at her beneath shaggy gray brows, much as he had when she'd misbehaved as a child.

  She sighed. "You, of all people, should know I'm hardly a meek and helpless maiden. You forget, Gryffen, that you yourself taught me to hunt and ride and shoot. And 'twas you who boasted to Father's knights that my aim with an arrow was as straight and true as any of theirs."

  Gryffen muttered under his breath. Only now did he wish he'd kept such lofty pride to himself. Never had he thought his young charge would toss his boast back at him so. For all that Shana played the role of great lady with dignity and aplomb, as a child she'd been a hell-raiser. Lord Kendal had not been pleased that Gryffen had so indulged his only daughter in such an unseemly sport. It wasn't that Shana had been so damnably insistent, though in truth she had . Nay, it was more that he'd never been able to resist a tearful plea from those huge silver eyes. Were he her father he'd have said her nay and that would be the end of this foolishness. But alas, he was only her servant and proud to be so honored.

  Still, Gryffen could not keep his silence. "I wonder," he said slowly, "how well milady has thought this through." He paused. "You may well gain entrance to Langley and find the man you seek. But what then, milady, what then?"

  A faint smile graced her lips. "I have a plan, Gryffen, a simple one, I admit, but one that should be most effective."

  "I'd be more heartened if I knew what this plan was."

  "Very well then, I will tell you. The English seek the man called the Dragon—the villagers we spoke with today confirmed this. And so," she said lightly, "I shall give them what they want."

  "What!" A cry went up among the men. "But you don't know who he is, nor do you know where he is!"

  "Nay," —a laugh spilled out, as sweet and pure as the tinkling of a chime— "but they don't know that, do they?"

  A moment later, she bid them farewell. "Let us meet here again at nightfall. If I am to be delayed, I will try to send word."

  "What if you've not returned by nightfall on the morrow?" someone asked worriedly.

  Shana hesitated. "Then you must return to Merwen." Her voice rang out low but clear. "Under no circumstances are you to storm Langley, either now or later. I'll have no more bloodshed."

  With that she touched her heels to her mount. Not a sound was heard as she disappeared from sight. Fear for their mistress thrust a weighty burden on their shoulders. It was madness to think that she, a princess of Wales, would seek entrance to Castle Langley without fear of discovery!

  T
hat was exactly what she did.

  Chapter 2

  Shana found there was little need to attempt to conceal herself. Carts of hay weaved across the drawbridge. Tugging the drape of her hood forward ever so slightly, Shana guided her mount around them. Chin high, eyes cast forward, she trotted her horse briskly through the gates as though she'd done so every day of her life. Her heart was pounding so that she could scarcely think, but she'd done it! She was inside Castle Langley!

  In the bailey, she slid from her saddle. Soldiers and horses milled about. Across the way, servants hurried to and from the kitchens, great platters of food on their shoulders in preparation for the evening meal.

  A young groom darted over. "I'll stable your horse, milady."

  Shana pressed the reins into his hands with a murmur of thanks, then set about her business. Ignoring the curious glances thrown her way, her gaze restlessly scanned her surroundings. High above the main watchtower, the Langley flag fluttered in the breeze—white with ornate lettering emblazoned in the center. Her eyes flitted to a building across from the well, soldiers' quarters judging from the look of it. It was there she spied a triangular pennon, bright purple with a crouching lion, and behind it another.

  Saints be praised, there it was, the one her father had described, blood red with a fiercesome, two- headed creature of the deep!

  In her eagerness she took an involuntary step forward. A slight weight stumbled against her. Shana glanced down just in time to see she'd tripped a small boy. He sprawled flat on his belly even as she watched.

  "Oh, pray forgive me!" she gasped. "I did not mean to trip you." Without a second thought she reached down and grasped the boy's elbow, pulling him to his feet.

  He didn't bother to dust himself off. Warm brown eyes flashed up at her. "No harm done," the boy said with a shrug. "I wasn't watchin' where I was goin'."