Immortal Outlaw

by Lisa Hendrix

  “Servants do not ride fancy palfreys. It would attract too much attention,” said Steinarr as he swung up before her. “If it comes to it, I will put her on the rouncey, but for now, she rides behind me. We’re moving fast enough. Go on. Get back to camp with those herbs. We need the lad healthy.”

  “Aye. Travel safely.” Ari watched them ride off, and there was something in the way Marian wrapped her arms around his friend’s waist … Aye, they were swiving all right. And it wasn’t all Steinarr’s idea.

  “Very nice.” He muttered a small thanks to Freya for bringing these two together. Even if Marian wasn’t the one to break the curse, Steinarr needed a woman of his own for a while, to keep him sane, if nothing else.

  Speaking of which …

  He headed for his horse, taking a path through the tavern just for the sake of catching the passing ale wench around the waist and pulling her close for a quick kiss and a pat on the bottom. “Now for that, I will be back.”

  “For that, you will pay more than a story, my lord,” said the woman, and swayed off with a flip of her hips.

  “You wound me, fair one.” He clapped his hand over his heart and sighed, much to the amusement of the watching men. Joining their laugher, he headed off to find the boy who still watched his horse. He was on the road back toward Headon by the time the bells rang Nones.

  CHAPTER 11

  “WHY DO YOU leave each night?” asked Matilda as she stirred the coals of the dying fire two mornings later, looking for a last bit of warmth to chase way the night’s chill.

  Steinarr’s knife stopped in the middle of a slice of bread. “Do you not know? ”

  She kept her eyes on the fire pit, hoping he would blame her rising color on the still-pink morning sky. Two full days now since he had released her from their bargain, and still the effects of his desire kept her body in a constant ache.

  Or at least she preferred to blame it on him. In truth, the nights were as bad as the days. They swam with him. No matter that he left, no matter that she did her best to put thoughts of him aside before she slept, she awoke each dawn with the sense he’d been with her, with the remembered weight of his body on hers. If not for his friend’s presence each night, she would wonder if he was creeping back to somehow share her bed without waking her. And worse, every time she thought of it during the daylight, of him and what they had done, and what she dreamed of doing again, her blood pulsed with heat. It was a fortunate thing he couldn’t sense her mind the same way she sensed his, else she would be lost.

  “And what of Sir Torvald?” she asked, directing his attention, and her own, elsewhere. “Why does he not ride along with us? ”

  “He prefers to travel alone.”

  She held her hands down to the coals. “Has he taken Holy vows? ”

  “Torvald?” The chuckle in his voice said he thought the idea daft. “Why would you think that? ”

  “Because he is so very solitary. He holds himself apart, so that we barely speak of an evening, even when we sit but a few feet from each other. I thought perhaps he was some sort of monk-knight, like a Templar.”

  “No. He merely keeps to himself, wise man that he is,” said Steinarr. “How hungry are you this morning?”

  “Not very. That will suffice.” She took her bread and nibbled at it as he hacked off three more slabs of the heavy brown loaf for himself. “How does Sir Torvald even know how to find us each night?”

  “’Tis a knack he has. Why are you so full of questions this morning?”

  “I have had them all along, my lord, I only waited to see if things would change. They do not look to, so I ask to satisfy my curiosity.” She watched as he wolfed his bread and washed it down with ale. “You are very different men, the two of you, even to the way you eat.”

  “How so? ”

  “He takes his ease. You set upon your food as though you have not seen a good meal in months and fear it will escape.”

  All trace of good humor faded. Steinarr rose and brushed away the crumbs that clung to his robes. “Do what you must to be ready. I want to be in Sudwell by the time the bells ring Sext.”

  Matilda stared after him, bewildered by the sudden change in his mood. Such odd things set him off. Robin, and now Guy, she understood; his anger at Rob had been pure jealousy, arisen from his desire and the mistaken belief they were lovers, and he naturally despised Guy’s betrayal. But why did her observations on his eating habits sting him so? And why had Sir Ari’s teasing courtesy in Retford made him so angry? Shaking her head, she rose and began her preparations.

  They reached Sudwell well before Sext, as it turned out. It was barely Terce when they turned onto the southbound road, and not long after that when Marian exclaimed at the tall, pointed towers of the Minster appearing over the trees.

  “So close, and you made me sleep in the woods? Why did we not merely ride in? We might have found proper beds.”

  “We would have been riding in the dark. And besides, I do not rest well within walls.”

  “I do not rest well on bare ground.”

  “It is safer in the woods.”

  “So safe a knight must protect me from wolves,” she pointed out.

  “Wolves will not carry word back to Gisburne of a fair maiden with hair the color of spun gold and lips like ripe strawberries. Nor will they gossip of a servant who scolds her knight as if she were a noblewoman.”

  “I do not scold.”

  “You are scolding now.”

  “Oh. Well, I would hold my tongue before others.”

  “Nonetheless, we will keep to ourselves as much as we can, for my lady’s safety.”

  “And if your lady should command you otherwise? ”

  “She will not,” he said firmly.

  She leaned out so she could see his profile. He didn’t seem especially angry, but he wasn’t smiling either. “No, I don’t suppose she will. Forgive me, my lord. I should not challenge you.”

  “It is your nature,” he said, and now there was a bit of a curve to his mouth. “You have challenged me since the instant you popped up from the bracken.”

  “I only—” She stopped herself. “Perhaps I have. But I had good reason.”

  “No doubt. Be ware as we pass this group.” He tipped his head toward a grand wagon rolling along just ahead, surrounded by a large contingent of riders. Matilda craned to see the trailing riders past Steinarr’s shoulder. Her heart began to race at the sight of parti-colored red and green.

  “I know that livery, my lord. ’Tis that of—” She suddenly found herself looking into the eyes of the revoltingly fat old man who lounged beneath the canopy of the wagon, facing to the rear. The streak of self-preservation her father had beat into her made her duck behind Steinarr’s back, and the name came in a breath, “Lord Baldwin. Ride, monsire!”

  “What? Why?”

  “He knows me. Go,” she urged, just as she heard Baldwin bellow, “Monsire, attend!”

  Ah, God, too late. An echoing call came from one of the outriders. “Monsire, my lord wishes a word with you and your lady.”

  “Cough,” ordered Steinarr under his breath. Then more loudly, “As you will, my lord, though I must warn, this serving woman my lady sent me to fetch has come down with lung fever.”

  As he spoke, Matilda understood. She coughed obligingly, then let it build to a deep racking, followed by a whooping draw of breath. Not only did her hacking make Baldwin’s knight pull up short, it also provided an excellent excuse to drag her headrail across her face to further hide herself in pretense of covering her mouth. Wheezing and shuddering, she risked a peek past Steinarr’s shoulder.

  “Your lady’s servant? I thought—” began Baldwin. He stopped, eyeing her with distaste. “Bah, never mind. Of course Matilda would not be on the road alone with only a single knight. Keep that poisonous creature well away. I have no wish to become ill.”

  “Wise, my lord. I would leave her by the road to die in peace, but for my lady’s certain ire.” Steinarr swung bac
k toward the verge. “A good journey to you. Do you know if there is a nunnery in yon town that will care for the wench?”

  Baldwin’s response was lost beneath yet another paroxysm of coughing that Matilda dragged out until they cantered ahead and left the train well behind.

  “Enough,” said Steinarr, chuckling.

  “I cannot stop. Some ale, my lord. I hurt my throat.”

  “I’m not surprised.” He leaned over to unhook the ale skin from the packhorse and passed it back as she coughed a few more times. “I thought you would bring up a lung.”

  “So did Baldwin, I hope.” She swallowed a mouthful of ale and cleared her throat again. “He fears fevers, especially lung fever. How did you know? ”

  “Every old man fears lung fever, and fat ones even more than most. So, what is he, a friend of your father? ”

  “Aye.” She took another drink and started to cap the skin. “And the man I am to marry.”

  “That old hrosshvalr?”

  His outrage crackled through her like lightning. Startled, Matilda jerked back, nearly dropping the skin. Ale sloshed over her leg, wetting her from knee to foot.

  “You are to marry that?” he demanded again, noticing neither the ale nor her dismay. “How? Why? What was your father thinking, to give you to that, that …” Words failed him and he went back to, “That hrosshvalr?”

  She shrank away from him and squeezed her eyes shut, which let her pull herself together enough to say, “I do not know that word.”

  “Hrosshvalr, a, uh, a horse-whale. A monstrous seal that sits on the ice of the northern sea.”

  The act of explaining drew him back from the rage and let Matilda regain her balance. Hesitantly, she opened her eyes. “I have heard tales of such creatures. And I have seen seals in the Thames.”

  “A horse-whale is far larger. Think of that, only half-again longer and with great pointed teeth that hang down.” He held up his hands a foot-length apart. “Like so. And a brown hide like old leather, thicker than my thumb. How could your father give you to that? ”

  How, indeed? “He made what he saw as the best match,” she said quietly, still working to separate herself from him. “Guy will confirm it, I think.” She hoped he would, at least, for it would be better than the alternative. “Robin will see me released.”

  “No wonder you want him as lord.”

  There were far more reasons than that for wanting Robin as lord, but Matilda bit her tongue and merely nodded. She risked a look back to where they’d left behind the brilliant red and green of Baldwin’s company. “No doubt Lord Baldwin has heard of my father’s death and goes to claim me. But why to Sudwell? That is not along the way.”

  “Gisburne will have sent a message that you’re to be brought to Nottingham. Little good it will do him.” Steinarr put the spurs to the stallion and they soon reached the outskirts of Sudwell. However, instead of going into town, he swung right to circle it.

  “Do we not go into Sudwell after all?”

  “The road from Nottingham comes in from the south and west. We will go in by that way, to see if we can find any sign of your father’s riddle.”

  “Ah, I thought perhaps we would wait. If we cross paths with Baldwin and he spies your lady’s servant miraculously healed, she may find herself married before nightfall.” She tried to make light of it, but there must have been something in her voice, because Steinarr patted her hands where they linked at his waist.

  “I will keep you safe,” he assured her. His hand remained over hers, and for once it was comfort she found in his touch instead of merely desire.

  A little later, as they reached the southwestern gate, he called to a watchman. “You there, I need someplace to leave two horses for half a day.”

  “John the Flesher has a pen, my lord. Two streets over, under the sign of the bull and knife.” The fellow pointed. “Tell him Tom atte Well sent you.”

  Steinarr nodded his thanks, and the horses were soon safe in the flesher’s pen. “Stay here. I have an idea for our problem with Baldwin.”

  He vanished toward the flesher’s house and returned a few moments later carrying a grease-stained red gown and a black hooded cloak that was nearly as bad. “These should disguise you well enough. Put them on.”

  She eyed the garments doubtfully. “My lord …”

  “They were in a chest, and they stink of wormwood and camphor. Whatever beasts might have been on them are surely dead.”

  Shuddering, she took them between thumb and finger. “I cannot.”

  “Then stay here out of sight, and hope that I can follow your father’s thoughts, for that is the only choice besides these or Baldwin.”

  She looked around the flesher’s yard, well kept but reeking of decaying flesh and curing hides. They’d been here only moments and already the odor was making her ill. She didn’t want to stay while he went off. “I will need your aid, my lord.”

  “Over here.” They stepped behind the work shed, and she laid aside her cloak and scrip. As Steinarr helped her tug the red gown over her head, the sharp fragrance of the moth-herbs overpowered the stench of the flesher’s shop, giving her nose a moment’s respite. Still …

  “’Tis huge!” she complained. The narrow sleeves hung past her hands to her knees, and she flapped them like broken wings as Steinarr looked her over.

  “Huge, but short,” he said. “The brown shows below. Can you pull it up somehow?”

  “I think so.” She drew her arms inside the red, easy enough, considering how loose it hung, and gathered her gown, tucking the hem into her girdle all the way around so that only her plain wool kirtle showed below. Steinarr shook out the black cloak and pinned it around her shoulders. “Tuck your sleeves in as well.”

  Matilda did so, rolling them into the red sleeves so that in the end, only a thin stripe of brown showed at her wrists. When she had all arranged, Steinarr stepped back for another look. His mouth worked as he fought a smile.

  “What?” she demanded as she pulled the strap of her scrip over her head.

  “You look like some fat-hipped butcher’s wife. No, ’tis well you do,” he said when she spluttered. “Baldwin will never look twice. Just keep your hair covered and that hood well forward. Come.” He grabbed her cloak and rolled it, and as they passed the rouncey, he jammed it into the pile of gear.

  The flesher stood by the gate, and Steinarr handed him a halfpenny as they left. “Give them both water and a little hay. You’ll have the other half of that when we return, plus a farthing for use of your clothing.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The fellow’s eyes widened as he took in Matilda in his too-large gown, but he was a wise man and held his tongue.

  They made their way back to the gate and started up the wide street toward the Minster. Sudwell was a town for pilgrims, and amid the usual shops and stalls stood others offering various tokens of Saint Eadburgh, from straw-sized vials of liquid reported to be tears shed by her statue to simple parchments scribed with prayers invoking her aid.

  “How are we to find anything in all this?” asked Matilda. “And if we do find something, how are we to get it without anyone taking note? This is not a village where every man goes to the fields.”

  “Perhaps we will not have to ransack a church this time,” said Steinarr. “Keep your eyes open. Your father is clever with his riddles. Remember: bird, hand, black stone, and perhaps the bishop at his gate.”

  “And perhaps the pilgrim’s token, although that, I think, was just to get us here.”

  They found the bird first, at a stall that sold bits of cloth the merchant claimed had been blessed by the Archbishop of York. Among squares stitched with the Cross and Saint Eadburgh’s name lay a few that matched the one in the pouch. Matilda snatched one from the pile and held it out. “My lord, look.”

  Steinarr fingered the square, then motioned the old man over. “What bird is this? ”

  “ ’Tis meant to be a linnet, my lord. My wife has been stitching such figures for near a sco
re of years now. Would you or your lady like one? The cloth is blessed by the Archbishop himself, each Whitsun Fair during the Gate. It will cure all your ills merely by laying it on the skin and saying a prayer.”

  Steinarr snorted and started to move on, but Matilda lingered. “I have seen such a bird before, I think. Might it be carved or painted somewhere in the Minster?”

  “Not in it. Beside it,” said the man. “The wife took the shape from that statue of the old archbishop that stands in the graveyard. Such birds circle his feet, picking at the ground.”

  “Ah, of course. No wonder it seemed familiar,” said Matilda as if he had confirmed a memory. She turned a servant’s pleading face up to Steinarr. “Please, my lord, may I see it again? I would like to offer a prayer for my cousin’s sister. She does love linnets.”

  Steinarr covered a laugh with a cough. “I think we can manage a few moments for a prayer. Come along.”

  She dropped the square back among the others, nodded a quick thanks to the old man, and hurried after Steinarr, falling in at his heel as a servant would. It was a good place to be: with his size and broad shoulders, he carved a path through the crowds that was easy to follow, just as his big horse had carved an easy way through the briars for the mare. All she had to do was stay close and keep an eye out for other signs of their clues.

  As they reached the open center of the town, he suddenly stopped dead and stood staring across the open sward toward the huge Minster before them, his jaw agape. She understood his awe. Combined, the quire and nave stretched a hundred paces or more, and the two square end towers with their silvery caps soared as tall as any church she’d seen, but for the abbey church in London.

  “Have you not seen it before, my lord? I thought from what you said that you had been here.”

  “I have passed nearby, but have never come into town to see it so closely. ’Tis a grand hall, even for one of your … Even for a church,” he finished.

  “The inside must be magnificent. Shall we see it?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “Baldwin may come to pray. I would not want you caught inside, even looking like that.”