Immortal Outlaw

by Lisa Hendrix

  “What does it mean?” asked Steinarr.

  “I do not know.” She dropped the parchment back in the box, tossed the purse from Harworth on top, and slammed the lid shut with an angry snap. “I cannot think. I do not care to think.”

  “You are tired. Come, let me show you your elf house.”

  She looked around the flower-dotted lea with surprise. “I thought this was it. You said the light elves live in the bright glades.”

  “Move through them, I said. Their houses are hidden away, as places of magic should be.”

  “The only magic I wish for tonight is a soft bed.”

  “Then follow me. Perhaps I can make up for some of how I treated you.” He led her over to an odd-looking oak, where he pulled aside a low-hanging bough. “My lady Matilda, otherwise known as my lady’s maid, Marian, welcome to Elfwood. Go on.”

  She ducked under the branch and suddenly found herself looking inside the tree. Except it was not one tree, but many—a score or more, she thought—their trunks grown together to form a shadowed chamber a good three yards wide. She slipped through the gap between trunks and the world fell away, its sounds muffled by the enfolding trees and the tapestry of moss that covered the walls in rippling folds of green. Birds chirruped overhead, and enchanted, she stepped to the center of the space to watch them flitter through the soaring space, lit by the beams of afternoon sun that sifted through the high branches. It was like a chapel vault filled with tiny gilded cherubs, and she spun slowly, taking it all in. Beneath her feet, more moss lay thick on the ground, soft as the richest rug. It was less elf house than lover’s bower.

  He’d brought her to a lover’s bower.

  “Good. It is much as I remembered.”

  She turned to find Steinarr standing in the gap, filling the single entrance to the chamber with his broad shoulders. In the green dimness, he was little more than a huge shadow, a shade. The only life came from the glow of his golden hair and the dark glitter of his eyes as he watched her.

  “You have …” Her voice came out ragged, and she stopped to clear her throat. “You have clearly been here before.”

  “Long ago.” He stepped in and circled around her, tracing the walls of the chamber with his hand. “So long that the trees have grown hoary.”

  “You are not that old, my lord.”

  “I am older than you think.”

  She couldn’t take her eyes off his hand, the way he caressed the moss, barely ruffling its surface. If he were that gentle with her the next time …

  No. She was no longer obligated to lie with him. She didn’t have to think of that anymore. And yet she did, all the time. She wanted that strong, gentle hand against her skin. She wanted …

  “Is your bed soft enough?” he asked, waving a hand to indicate the moss beneath her feet.

  She bounced on her toes to test it and was surprised by the give. “It may be softer than my bed at Huntingdon. How is it so flat?”

  “The ancient oak that grew here was sawn down, and its sproutlings grew up all around the stump to make the walls. The wood beneath has grown soft as the moss has grown thick.”

  “No wonder the elves like it so well.”

  “So you do believe in them.”

  “Why would I not, when one of their outlaw woodwards is standing before me? Did you live here?”

  “For a time. When the weather was foul, I would hang deer hides for a roof. There.” He pointed at a branch, and then a second. “And there. But it will be fair tonight. Your only roof will be the stars, and your only light the moon. Once you are in here, you will not even see Torvald’s fire.”

  “Torvald.” Disappointment shaded her voice. “You leave me again tonight, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Why? It was on the tip of her tongue when she stopped herself. Had it only been this morning that they’d had this same discussion? It seemed it had happened days ago and in a different world. It was this place, so set apart from everything beyond, so peaceful. Wanting to keep that peace, she let the question drift away like a dust mote on the air. His hand still rested on the moss-covered wall, and she touched her fingers to the ribbon at his wrist. “Only remember that you are bound to me, Sir Knight, and come back at dawn.”

  “At your will, my lady.” He tipped his head and stepped aside to let her reenter the world. “This time, I will gather the firewood.”

  “Then I will water the horses.”

  She collected the leather pail and the horses and followed the music of water to a stream a bowshot away. The water ran clear and sweet, as it surely should in an elf stream, and as the horses drank their fill, its freshness called to her, reminding her how badly she stank: of the ale she’d spilled and the fumes of sour wine and the flesher’s yard and the grime of too many days on the road. Making a quick decision, she tied the horses to a fallen log by the brook, stripped off her headrail, and began working her laces free.

  Unaccustomed as she was to undressing herself, it took a while, but eventually she was able to peel away her gown and the wool kirtle beneath, leaving only her linen chainse. She shook the dust out of her outer garments, then washed them, careful to only wet the muddy hem and those parts that had caught the ale because she didn’t want everything sopping wet. When she was done, she wrung them as best she could—she might be able to mimic the laundress’s voice, but she didn’t have her hands—and spread the dripping garments out across bushes in the sun.

  That done, she sat on the bank to take off her shoes and hose. Her right leg and foot had caught the worst of the ale, and she scrubbed that stocking especially hard, making up for the lack of soap with vigor. With her hose well rinsed and wrung and laid out on the log, she waded into the stream knee deep, letting her chainse trail in the water to wash out the last of the ale, hoping there was still enough sun and enough warmth in the day that it would dry before bed.

  She washed as best she could without undressing entirely—she was, after all, outdoors, and shouldn’t be bathing at all. She would likely catch a chill. There were no towels, no hearth, no warmed bed to be tucked into after—not even any dry clothes to put on. But it felt so wonderful …

  In truth, her bath amounted to little more than splashing water over the most important bits, but she still felt cleaner than she had in days. She continued scooping water up beneath the chainse, enjoying the coolness, wanting the cleanness … for him. The thought flashed through her mind and then through her whole body, bringing it singing to awareness.

  She wanted to be clean for him, so that if he came to her in that magic place, she would be ready for whatever he wanted to do. As the fever built, she pulled another handful of water up, touching herself intimately as she rinsed the heat away, imagining it was his hand, that gentle hand, that caressed her. Excitement thrummed through her, wild as … as him.

  She whirled to find him standing there, not a dozen feet away, his eyes full of such heat she wondered the water didn’t boil away around her. The stream grabbed at her chainse, wrapping it around her legs like a hobble, and she teetered, nearly falling. In the time it took her to gasp and catch her balance, Steinarr was at the water’s edge, his hand out to save her.

  “Come out of there.”

  “I am fine,” she said defensively. “Go away.”

  His voice took on a note of irritation. “Come out before you drown, woman.”

  “No. You go away, and then I’ll come out. ’Tis not proper.”

  “Neither was what you were doing.” His mouth curled into the same wicked leer he’d worn when he was supposedly trying to drive her off. Now that wickedness called to her in the same way the water had. She wanted to immerse herself in it, in him. She wanted him to come into the water and help her wash, to touch her with cool, slick, gentle, knowing hands and show her how he could pleasure her.

  No, no, no. That was not her. That was him. If it weren’t, she would not be standing in the middle of a stream, half-naked, touching herself as though she were in the privacy of
her own bed. It was all him. It had to be. “Be gone.”

  “I am not leaving until you are safe on dry ground,” he said. “You could drown in that ridiculous gown. Come out.”

  “I am fine,” she repeated. To make her point, she untangled the hem of her chainse and pulled up one edge to scrub at her face. “I am merely bathing.”

  He put his hands on his hips and eyed her closely. “Even the horse knows that’s a lie.”

  She glanced toward the horses. The rouncey cropped at grass, but the stallion watched her with nearly the same intensity as Steinarr did. As she blushed, flustered, the animal reached down and picked up one of her hose, shook it soundly, and flung it aside.

  It landed among the reeds, and Steinarr went to retrieve it. He picked it up and examined it. “This is finely made. If I had seen your hose at the start, I would have known you were no peasant.”

  “Then ’tis fortunate I do not show my hose to strange men.” She could feel every stroke of his fingers on her skin. “Put that down.”

  “Come out, Marian. I told you, I will not touch you.”

  No, what he’d said was that he wouldn’t touch her without her leave. She could give him leave. She so wanted to give him leave …

  No, she didn’t. She dropped the hem of her chainse and slogged her way toward the bank. She struggled to bring a leg up to step onto the bank, but the linen was a sodden weight that seemed determined keep her in the stream.

  “Take my hand.”

  “No.” She plucked at the cloth, trying to pull it away from her legs, but there were yards and yards of linen, and it had wicked the water up so it clung clear up her thighs. Finally, she gave in. “Yes. If you please.”

  He put out his hand once more. She checked her defenses first, but as his fingers locked with hers, desire shivered through her anyway. She kept her eyes away from his in an effort to avoid that even stronger connection that happened with him sometimes and pulled free as soon as she was firmly on the bank. “My thanks.”

  Water streamed around her feet and she bent to wring out her chainse so she didn’t have to lift it and expose her legs. Steinarr stepped back to give her room.

  “What foolishness possessed you to wash this late in the day? You are all wet. Everything you own is wet.”

  “ ’Tis warm enough. My things will dry, and if they do not, they are good wool and will be warm no matter what.”

  “Not that warm. Look, you shiver already.” He unfastened his buckle and dropped his belt and sword to the grass so he could strip his gown over his head. “Put this on.”

  “I do not need it.”

  He didn’t listen, popping the gown over her head and tugging it down like he was dressing a wayward child. There was little she could do but accept his gift and shove her arms into the sleeves. She certainly couldn’t tell him her shaking was not from cold but from desire, desire that only increased now that she was surrounded with his scent.

  “There. You’ll be warm now.”

  “But you will be cold,” she said as she rolled up his too-long sleeves. “You cannot go off into the forest for the night in just your chainse.”

  “I have my cloak, and as you said, it is warm. At least I am dry.” He untied the horses and led them off. “Get your things. I must be away soon.”

  Back in the glade, Steinarr helped her hang her clothes from branches where they would catch the earliest sun in the morning, and then he collected the bundle he always carried away with him and headed toward the stallion.

  “I was wondering, my lord. Do you think Sir Torvald could help with the clue in the box?”

  He frowned at the horse, and sour jealousy bubbled off him. “I suppose you can ask him.”

  He was jealous of his friend, and yet he let him watch over her every night. She might never understand this man. “I will. God’s rest, monsire.”

  “Sleep well, Marian.” He mounted and started to ride away, but pulled up short. “Just, um, keep my gown on until your things dry. Torvald does not need to see you in naught but your damp chainse.” He leaned over, thumped the stallion on the neck. “Does he, Horse?”

  And then he put his heels to the animal and was gone.

  Matilda stood there, waiting as his mind faded with distance, until even reaching out, she couldn’t sense him. Then she ducked beneath the branch and went into the elf house. Its peace enveloped her like a mother’s arms, and with a sense of calm she hadn’t felt since she’d watched Steinarr put an arrow into that outlaw, she looked within herself.

  His face floated up, taut with longing and desire, and her body went all soft and moist, just thinking of him.

  With a sigh of resignation, she sank down onto the moss bed to which he’d brought her. It wasn’t just him after all. It was her.

  And now, knowing that, she had a decision to make.

  THE SIGHT OF gowns and hose garlanding the branches and the faint sound of humming from within the elf house greeted Steinarr as he rode into camp the next morning. He sat there on the horse for a long time, just listening, not because Marian had a sweet voice—she couldn’t seem to stick to the tune, if indeed there was a tune—but simply because a woman’s peaceful humming was such a rare thing in his life. Tune or not, it spoke of home and hearth and family, of things he’d long ago set aside as impossible. It wove through his soul, seducing him even as it made his chest tighten with longing.

  Marian’s song trailed away, leaving only the morning twittering of birds and then a rustling in the branches to announce she was coming out. “Good morrow, my lord.”

  “Gmm.” His tongue went thick at the sight of her wearing only her linen chainse. She’d taken out her braids so her hair hung loose in rippling waves of gold, and her bare toes peeked from beneath her hem, as though she were ready for bed. For a lover or a husband. For him. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Good morrow.”

  She held a comb, and as he sat there dumb as wood, she pulled a thick strand of hair over her shoulder and began combing. The end curled past her breast, drawing his eyes to the shadowed pucker of nipple beneath the cloth, and he choked.

  “Are you all right, monsire?”

  “I, um. Yes.” No. He swung down off the horse and looped the reins around the nearest bush, using the time to pull his brain out of his crotch and think of something to say, something that would put a safe distance between her and his desires. “My mother used to do that. Hum as she combed her hair, I mean.”

  “You could hear me? How sad for your ears. I have no voice.”

  “It was fine.” More than fine. Wondrous. Keeping his eyes off her, he went to the fire and began poking at the coals, just to be doing something. “You are not ready. I thought I would find you with your riddle solved, anxious to ride.”

  “Bloodworth,” she said.

  “Blood-what? What are you talking about?”

  “’Tis the answer to the riddle. ‘The worth of your blood.’ Bloodworth, or rather, Blidworth. Sir Torvald and I hit on it last evening.”

  “Blidworth …” It took him a moment to remember. “The stone. Of course.”

  “It has a hole big enough for a man to pass through, by what Sir Torvald said.”

  “ ‘Be reborn,’ ”said Steinarr, comprehending. “I should have thought of that myself, with it so close. It even looks a bit like a—” He stopped himself.

  “Like a woman’s quaint? Sir Torvald said that as well.”

  “He what?”

  “He said there is a great chamber on one side of the stone like a womb, but that the hole on the other side is tighter, like a woman’s quaint. He also said that when you turned red and started growling like that, I should remind you that you use the word often enough.” Laughing, she came to join him by the fire, still combing at that one lock of hair. Steinarr couldn’t keep his eyes from it; it already gleamed like silk, and he tried not to think how it would feel running through his fingers. “Do not be angry with him. He was only trying to help me decipher my father’s thoughts.
”

  “He should not be speaking to you so.” Especially not after yesterday.

  “I was pleased to have him speaking to me at all, when he so seldom does,” she said, cheerfully unaware that the man who’d spoken of women’s quaints by the fire was also the stallion who had watched her by the stream. It was all Steinarr could do not to pitch a stick at him, horse or no.

  “He said ’tis only half a league to Blidworth,” she went on.

  “A little more than that, but from here, the stone is closer than the village. We can be there in moments. Why are you not more anxious to be gone?”

  “Father said this rebirth must take place beneath the midday sun, remember? There is time and plenty to spare.”

  “True enough.” The sun was still barely above the horizon. “I suppose the horses can stand to graze for the morning.”

  “I thought as much. Our marshal advises one day of rest and good grass for each three days of hard riding.”

  “You have a good marshal,” said Steinarr. “We have not ridden so hard yet that the horses would suffer, but we may have to, and since we have the time now …”

  “We may as well use it.” A smile just lifted the corners of her mouth, giving her an air of mischief that made his blood quicken. “What would you like to do with our time, monsire?”

  Thread his fingers through that hair and pull her down on the grass. Make her cry out with pleasure. “Break my fast. But you should get dressed first.”

  “My gown and kirtle are still damp.”

  “Then put my gown back on. Where is it?”

  “In there.” She tipped her head toward the elf house, but made no move toward it herself.

  “I will fetch it.” He ducked under the branches and stepped into the dimness of the tree, where he picked his way past his furs and her blankets, still lying mingled on the moss floor. She’d balled up his gown as a pillow, it seemed, since it still bore the mark of her head. Without intending it, he pictured her sleeping there, one hand flung up over her head as she tended to do. Now where had that come from? He had no way of knowing how she slept. He shook his head to clear it, and as he stooped to scoop up the gown, he heard the branches rustle outside.