Immortal Outlaw

by Lisa Hendrix

  “And the cloth of the sails. I think you may have something.”

  They’d talked it through further, but hadn’t come up with more than her initial vague notion, much less concluded where the actual riddle might be hidden. However, at least they had a place to start. There was only one problem.

  “Pillocks. I know why the road is so busy.” Steinarr pulled up short a few hundred yards from the first cottage. “ ‘Tis market day. We will have to come back tomorrow.”

  “No. We cannot afford to wait.”

  “Yes, we can. I have an idea—we are only two or three leagues from Headon,” he said in an effort to distract her from her stubbornness. “I can take you to see Robin and bring you back first thing in the morning when there are fewer people.”

  “No. Much as I want to see him, I would rather see my father’s next riddle. Our time is already half gone. We must go on.”

  “But the crowds …”

  “The crowds will make it easier. All the townsfolk will be at market. Even the miller and his wife, I wager.”

  “And anyone who does see us will wonder why we are not at the market as well,” said Steinarr.

  “We are only travelers passing through, and we wish a closer look at the windmill, for we have no such thing in our village.”

  “A passable excuse,” he admitted, unwilling to show her he was once more impressed with the quickness of her lie, for fear it would encourage her. She, however, took his comment as assent and dug her toes into the horse without waiting for him to do it. As they cantered along, he twisted around to eye her over his shoulder. “Do you want the reins as well? I can always ride behind.”

  She flushed. “Forgive me, my lord. I am too bold.”

  She was, indeed. When had he come to like a bold woman so well?

  They headed straight for the white sails on the far side of town, bypassing the market square notwithstanding Marian’s confidence. Despite the brisk wind that raked the rise where Tuxford sat, the blades were still, and as they reached the mill, it appeared they were tied down. Steinarr pushed the door open and called out, “Hallo!”

  When there was no answer, Marian hurried over to check the adjoining cottage, which also proved empty. “See, they are at the market.”

  “So it seems.” Steinarr started around the mill. “I will check out here, but it may be inside.”

  “It is not, my lord.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because it is here.”

  Steinarr retraced his steps. “Where?”

  She started to point, then pulled her hand back and glanced around. “There, my lord. The egg.”

  He came on around to see. A huge alabaster egg, the size of a grown man, sat on a low pedestal between the cottage and the mill. “God’s toes, I do hope Robin appreciates your cleverness.”

  They examined the stone carefully. The surface was polished as smooth as pond ice, except for a small pattern carved as a band around the middle. Steinarr traced the scrollwork and scratched at it with a fingernail. “It does not seem to be in pieces. Does this pattern have some meaning?”

  “Not that I know,” she said after studying it a moment. She crouched to examine the base. “The same pattern is here. I think if we …” She poked around out of sight, then looked up at him. “Can you move it? I think the pedestal may be hollow beneath.”

  He squatted, wrapped his arms around the stone, and heaved. It barely wiggled. He set himself better and threw his back into it. The egg slowly tilted sideways.

  “Higher.” She started to reach beneath.

  “No!”

  She jerked away just as his grip slipped. The stone fell back with a low thud. “I saw it. I could have had it.”

  “You could have lost a hand.” The sweat of fear mixed with that of effort, and he swiped at his forehead before he stripped off his cloak and tossed it aside. “We need something to wedge it.”

  They scouted around the yard and found some sturdy wooden blocks stacked by the side of the cottage. Steinarr picked out a pair, one thicker than the other, and handed them to Marian.

  “When I lift, wedge the smaller one in. When I lift again, wedge the larger block in on the other side. Make them secure. They need to hold the whole weight of the stone if I cannot. And keep your fingers out of the way.”

  Only when she’d done as he said and the second wedge was in place did he tell her, “Now.”

  He strained to hold the stone steady as she scrabbled underneath. Through the pounding of his blood, he heard clanking.

  “It will not come,” said Marian. “Another inch.”

  He found an untapped measure of strength and leaned back with a grunt. The stone slowly rose; Marian leaned in. A moment later, he heard the scrape of metal on stone, then, “I have it.”

  Steinarr let the stone settle back on the wedges. As the full weight came down, one wedge squirted out. The stone tipped precariously. Steinarr strained to hold it. “Pull the other one. Quickly.”

  She yanked and fell backward just as the egg slipped from his grip. It landed on the pedestal with a loud thunk and the sound of cracking stone. Steinarr collapsed on the ground, his arms and back burning with exhaustion.

  Marian scrambled over to him. “Are you all right?”

  “I will be,” he groaned. “What is it?”

  “A box.” She started to hold it out. “It looks like—”

  “You, there! What are you two about?” A red-faced, red-haired man wearing a dusty miller’s smock came storming through the gate, hands fisted.

  Steinarr shot to his feet, putting himself between the man and Marian. “Hold, Miller. We want no trouble. And you do not want to strike a noble knight.”

  The man skidded to a stop. “A knight?”

  Steinarr touched the hilt of his sword. “A knight.”

  “Your pardon, my lord. I thought you were—never mind that. Is there aught I can do for you, my lord?”

  “We were only looking at your windmill. There are none where we come from and my, um, cousin has never seen one. She was curious.”

  “I was,” said Marian, stepping up beside Steinarr. “ ‘Tis big as a ship.”

  “Aye, it is that,” the miller said proudly. “God’s truth, I thought you were meddling with the egg.”

  “A stone egg is a strange sign for a mill,” said Marian. “How did you chose it?”

  “It chose me, my lady, or rather was chosen for me. ’Twas set here at behest of the king. I get a pound each year for keeping it, though I do not know why. That is why I worried you were doing something to it.”

  “I must admit to it. We were.” She batted her eyes at the man in a sweetly apologetic way that made Steinarr’s heart race. “I challenged my cousin to test his strength by moving it. ’Twas foolish, I know, but fortunately his strength matches his boastfulness. We can go now, cousin. My curiosity on both counts is satisfied.”

  The miller’s face cleared even though Marian’s explanation was nearly as odd as the truth. “If you wish, my lady, I can show you the inside of the mill.”

  “No need,” said Steinarr. “I am sure it works much as our water mill. Come, Marian.”

  “Marian.” The man looked from Marian to Steinarr, took in the deerskin cap and the ugly wimple, and grinned broadly. “That Marian?”

  “Um. What Marian would that be?” she asked.

  “I understand. ’Twould not do to have it known. Would you care for a sack of flour, my lord? I have more than enough to spare a bit.”

  The fellow had clearly breathed too much rye dust. Steinarr shook his head carefully. “I think not. We travel quickly and must keep our load light. Perhaps another time.”

  “ ‘Twill be here for you when you need it, my lord.” Beaming with a sudden outbreak of goodwill, the miller stood aside. “A safe journey to you both.”

  As they headed for the horse, Marian seemed to be walking oddly. Steinarr slowed to help her. “What is wrong with you? Where is it?”


  “Between my knees,” she said under her breath. “Slow down.”

  “Pillocks. Don’t let it fall.” They reached the stallion. “Now what?”

  “Is he watching?” she asked.

  He tipped his head to look past her. “Aye. Like a hawk.”

  “Bah. Er, bend as though to help me up.” She checked the lane then, lifting her gown as if to step up, hoisted the hem ’til he could just see a fat little copper box pressed tightly between her legs just above her knees. “Take it, then hand it to me and help me up.”

  He grabbed the box, and in one fluid movement, she took it and stepped up into his relinked hands. She was seated, with the box tucked out of sight in her skirts, before even the closest observer could have caught more than a glimpse. The miller’s smiling face gave no sign he’d seen anything at all.

  Moments later they were riding out of town, and Steinarr’s laughter broke free. “Between your legs?”

  “I had nowhere else. My gown is too tightly laced—your fault, my lord—and the box is too fat for my sleeve or my scrip. I could only think to slip it beneath my gown as I rose. ’Twas good you were between us.”

  “Still … How did you know you could walk with it?”

  “I did not. I only hoped.”

  “He might have let us simply take it. From what he said, Edward put the egg on his land just for this purpose.”

  “I do hope so. The pedestal cracked in three when you dropped the egg. His stone will soon fall over and he will lose his pound from the king.”

  “I wager he would lose it anyway when the quest is complete. And I did not drop the egg. Your wedge failed because you did not seat it well. You are fortunate you did not lose an arm. It weighed a ton. I could barely tilt it.”

  “Robin could never have done.”

  “He would have needed help, for certs. Perhaps that was the test—to see if he could gather men to him. Do you want to stop and open the box?”

  “Not until we land someplace safe. And not until I am rid of this foul wimple.”

  “It does make you look yellow.”

  “It makes me feel yellow. Hurry, monsire, before it actually gives me the jaundice.”

  They retrieved the horse and gear, returned the wimple, and rode off a little way into the woods where no one would see as Marian opened the box.

  “Empty.”

  “The miller,” growled Steinarr. “He moved the egg and stole what was in the box. I will go back tomorrow and learn what he did with it. I will carve it out of him if need be.”

  “Perhaps that will not be necessary,” she said, chewing her lip. “Father was many things, but he was no fool. He would have known the temptation might be too great. Perhaps …”

  She felt around the inside of the box, then took out her knife and cut away the leather lining. Slipping the blade along the edge of the underlying metal, she gently pried away a false bottom to show a compartment beneath, from which she pulled a folded sheet of parchment. “You see? He is a fox.”

  “And you have a bit of the vixen in you, I think. But how do we know that is all? The miller still may have taken something. Some key piece.”

  “The leather bears no mark of anything laying on it.” She unfolded the parchment. “ ‘Tis in English again.” Her lips worked in and out as she struggled through the script. “It says, ‘In the Vale of the Leen, regard the lady of Torcard at work. The way to travel will be clear.’ Did we not cross the River Leen on the way to Gotham?”

  “We did. I do not know the name Torcard.”

  “Nor I. We will have to ask when we come to the vale. But you see, my lord. We must go south again. We are nearly a full day ahead because we did not go to Headon.”

  He pulled her into his arms. “And you will likely not let me forget it.”

  “Never,” she said, nestling up against him, her forgiveness complete. “If Father keeps to the same pattern, we will be back this way in another sennight or so, and Robin will be healed enough to ride with us.”

  “With luck.” With real luck, they would have the treasure by then, and he could leave her safely with Ari and the colliers and take only Robin on the final race to the king. That was when Guy would be truly dangerous. If he were Guy, he would have men on the roads, ready to do murder if need be, especially as Robin got closer to Edward. He did not want to take Marian into that.

  He wrapped his arms more tightly around her and kissed her forehead. “Come. We can make another few miles today. Perhaps even to Edwinstowe. ’Tis a pleasant little village, and I think I know where you can have a bed for the night.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “WE COULD USE one of your caves, monsire.” Two days later, the weather had changed for the worse, and Matilda found herself huddling against Steinarr’s back for protection from the rain-laden wind. “Surely there is one in these hills.”

  “The ones I know are no nearer than where we are going. Can you press on?”

  “Of course.”

  The rains had begun as they rode south from Mansfield, torrents of rain that had drenched Matilda and Steinarr to the skin and quickly turned the road into an impassable bog that left the horses slipping and sliding and weighed down with mud. They’d had no choice but to take to the woodland paths, where the footing was easier but the tracks so overgrown that Steinarr had resorted to hacking the branches back with his scramasax. It made for exhausting, slow, unpleasant travel, especially as they crossed over the hills, and it left Matilda wishing her father were alive just so she could kill him herself—yet another sin to add to the list of things she must confess one day.

  “How much farther?”

  “The steward said Hokenall lies a league south of Newstead Abbey.” Steinarr had stopped at a small hall on the outskirts of Mansfield to ask the way to Torcard. He’d been told the name belonged not to a place but to a family, the noble lords of a village called Hokenall, and there they were bound.

  “But where is Newstead?”

  “Over that way.” He gestured vaguely east, then slashed at another bush to make the path wide enough for the rouncey’s pack. “I could take you there. The monks could offer you a roof and a warm fire so you can dry out.”

  “You, too.”

  “I will stay warm enough wherever I land, but I worry for you tonight.” He broke a smaller branch by hand and urged the stallion forward. “I wish I knew this part of the woods better. There could be a woodward’s hut a stone’s throw away, and we could not see it for these trees.”

  “I am fine until Hokenall,” she repeated. “I am not so frail as you seem to think.”

  “You have shown me your strength time and again. To Hokenall, then.”

  They pushed on, resting when they could find a dry spot under a broad tree, but stopping made Matilda feel the chill and she insisted on moving on. The afternoon stretched out and the dim light began to grow dimmer. She prepared herself for a cold, wet night.

  And then the forest ended and they were at the edge of a broad pasture, with fields beyond and a village beyond that. Even the horses seemed to feel the excitement, and they hurried toward the village and the possibility of a warm night after all.

  Steinarr rode straight to the manor, a sturdy stone building surrounded by a deep ditch and paling wall. A quick inquiry at the gate revealed that they had, indeed, reached Hokenall and that the hall belonged to Peter Torcard, its lord. Steinarr asked to speak with the steward.

  “Inside, monsire. They sup. Go on, you will be wanting to get your woman out of the wet.”

  “My lady cousin,” corrected Steinarr, giving the man a sharp look.

  “Forgive me, my lord. My lady.” The man stepped back to pass them through the gate with an apologetic bow.

  As they neared the door, Steinarr leaned over to Matilda. “Keep behind me until we see what sort of man Peter Torcard is, and make certain he has no guests who would be a danger.”

  They waited just inside, behind the tapestries hung to keep the wind from those at table, w
hile a servant fetched the steward.

  “Welcome, my lord,” said the man, brushing crumbs from his beard as he came. “You wished to see me?”

  “I did. I seek a pallet for my cousin for the night. We were caught by the weather and the roads.”

  “We always have room for travelers, though few enough stop here when we are so close to Nottingham Town.”

  “I would imagine there are others tonight.”

  “Only one, my lord, a young jongleur who has stayed with us two days.”

  As Steinarr negotiated their stay, Matilda stepped over to peer at the crowded, cheerful hall through the gap between tapestries. A pleasant fire blazed in the hearth, and brilliant white cloths covered the tables, which held ample food and drink though it was only supper. On the dais, a young man clad all in green and brown—not a jongleur she knew, thank the blessed saints—sat by the high table holding forth to the lord and lady. The woman had her back to the door, but her gestures seemed somehow familiar, and Matilda watched her with interest.

  “She will rest with your lady’s women, though?” she heard Steinarr say.

  “Of course, my lord,” assured the steward. “Lady Nichola sees to the chastity of all of our women and our guests, even to the poorest.”

  “Nichola?” The name and gestures came together. “Nichola de Markham?”

  The woman turned to squint across the hall. “Do I hear my name? Who is there? Steward, bring our visitors to me.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The steward pulled aside the curtain and started forward.

  As they followed, Steinarr raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “We fostered together,” said Matilda. “She is short-sighted, but has the ears of a deer.”

  “So I do,” said Lady Nichola, smiling broadly. “And now that I hear that voice clearly, I know it. Maud!”

  She rose and met Matilda at the foot of the dais to embrace her. “I cannot believe it! I thought never to see you again, and especially not here. Husband, this is Ma—”

  Matilda started coughing violently, hacking and wheezing as she had when they met Baldwin.