Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“Capture fair maidens.” His eyes found hers and she caught a tiny glimpse of his inner fire, a passion that he deliberately hid. “When I’ve caught all I need, I lead these men and also work with them. Whatever needs be done, whether it’s gather supplies, bind a wound, fix a ripped tent”—his gaze slid away to the spot where he’d found her standing, ax ready to slice through the walls—“or tend to the horses.”

“You have something you want me to do.”

“Aye. Do you cook?” he asked. “Some of the men have complained about Odell’s fare.”

She nearly laughed. “Is that so?”

“Aye, but Odell, he’s touchy about it. I thought I’d ask him to let you help out.”

“I know not if I could do much better.”

Wolf snorted and a smile danced through his eyes. “Surely you could do no worse.”

The next four days were much the same, though Odell grumbled about having a woman help him with the meals. At first she was allowed only to gut the rabbits and squirrels or pluck feathers from the birds that were killed, but once Odell discovered that she worked well and hard, she was allowed to help cook. They had only a few spices to work with and there were few herbs that grew in the woods in winter, but with a pinch of salt and pepper, purloined from a peddler who was riding near Erbyn, Megan was able to add some flavor to the meals.

The men, except for Robin, who ate anything offered him, appreciated her efforts, and some of the wary and suspicious glances she’d caught before became kind looks of appreciation.

She was allowed to go on a hunt and surprised the men, including Wolf, with her aim. Jagger, usually tough and mean-tempered, grudgingly nodded his approval when she felled a small boar.

“I knew not ladies could shoot,” he said, sliding her a confused glance.

She smiled and handed him his bow, for she was not allowed to carry her own quiver or arrows. “I knew not outlaws had a sense of humor.”

Even crusty Odell accepted her, though he was worried about Holt’s soldiers finding their camp. But Wolf was not so foolish. He had spies throughout the forests and nearby towns who tracked Holt’s whereabouts.

“He’s with his men near St. Peter’s,” Jagger announced one day. “And an unhappy lad he is.” Smiling as he tore apart a moist piece of dove, he sighed contentedly and sat on his heels. “There are two soldiers who ride with him who are as intent on hunting you down as is Holt,” Jagger went on. “One I know not, a thin knight with lifeless eyes and brown hair that kinks. Goes by the name of Conroy—nay—”

“Connor,” Megan said, a rock settling in her stomach. Connor was a lone man who watched everything and kept quiet. His eyes were empty, but he stared at her often, as if not seeing her.

“Aye, that’s it, and the other is Kelvin McBrayne. ’Tis said he took offense to being tied nearly naked to a tree, then having his horse stolen.”

“And a fine destrier he is,” Odell said with a cackle. “ ’ell’s bells. Kelvin, ’e shoulda been ’appy we left ’im with ’is pitiful life.”

“How so you know so much about who’s with Holt?” Megan asked, wiping the grease from her fingers.

“I get close. Hide with the horses or in a nearby tree, just out of the campfire’s light.”

“He’s foolish,” Wolf said. “Takes chances.”

“Ye get the information ye want,” Jagger pointed out and helped himself to another thick breast of dove. “Odell, ’tis a fine meal ye’re servin’ tonight.”

“Be thankin’ the lady,” Odell said, but smiled just the same.

There were no prayers offered up, no hint of Mass, no mention of God, though some of the men carried charms for good luck and spoke under their breaths of omens. Brave souls when faced with an enemy, they feared that which they could not see.

“I heard from Odell that some old lame witch put a curse on ye,” Robin said one day. “Odell, he listens to all of the gossip in every town we pass through.” Robin was at the creek, frowning, as his net had unwoven and a particularly large pike had swum away. The past few days, he’d been moody and had avoided Megan, sending her dark looks when he thought she could see him not. Now, at her arrival on the shores of the creek, he scowled. With agile fingers, he attempted to repair the damaged net.

“No witch—a prophet, mayhap, or a sorcerer. He healed my mare’s leg.”

“And cursed ye and yer castle, too. That’s what ’tis said.”

“So it would appear,” Megan said, motioning with her fingers for him to hand her the net. “Dwyrain suffered in the past two years, and aye, everyone blamed me.” She worked with the string, but it was frayed badly and would not hold together. “Have you more?” she asked, fingering one of the dirty, ragged lengths.

“Aye.”

“Run and get it and I’ll fix this.”

He did as he was bid and was soon back, sullenly watching her weave the string into a simple net.