Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“How long?” Holt asked from astride his muddy destrier.

“Less than a week since they left. The fire is cold, but it looks only a few days old.” Connor glanced up at the sky, where the clouds were beginning to part, and a few weak rays of sun shone on the glen tucked in the woods. “My guess is that they stayed here for some time—see how some of the grass is yellow there where it was covered for days, maybe weeks, with a tent? This camp was left only because we approached.”

“Then we are close?”

Connor rubbed his jaw, scratching the short whiskers that covered his chin. “I think not, but I’ll send men to inquire. They can ride from house to house and see if anyone saw a group of men and horses and one woman traveling.”

Kelvin of Hawarth climbed down from his steed and stretched his muscles. His complaints, as the days and nights had stretched into nearly a week, had become louder and more annoying. “ ’Tis a wild goose chase,” he said now, walking stiffly to the stream and splashing water over his face. “This may not have been Wolf’s camp.” Giving a short, humorless laugh, he added, “ ’Twould not surprise me if the cur had this place and others like it made to look like the men were here.”

What a fool, Holt thought. Kelvin, so anxious to do battle with Wolf when he’d been brought to the castle, now was more than ready to return to the warm fires and fine food of Hawarth. “Wolf is clever but has neither the means nor the men to carry out such a plan.”

“Has he not? What about his spies at Dwyrain? Do ye know who they be or how great their number?”

Holt’s fingers clenched over the reins of his mount. “I will find them all, flush them out, and punish them. Doubt me not—before I get through with them, they will tell me everything they know of Wolf.”

“If the castle is still under the baron’s rule.” Kelvin threw out his hands. “Mayhap the kidnapping of the lady was but a ruse to lure you and your best soldiers away from Dwyrain so that either Wolf or someone he conspires with can overtake the keep.”

“Nay, I think not—” Holt said, then bit his tongue when he saw Connor’s reaction. The man’s blank eyes darkened just enough to worry Holt.

“What he says has merit.” Connor walked slowly along the bank, his eyes searching the shallows. “Why not?”

“What would an outlaw want with a castle?”

“What would he want with a man’s wife?”

Holt knew a moment of fear. ’Twas true. Wolf could have enticed him away from Dwyrain only to capture the castle for his own use when Holt and his best soldiers were searching through the woods. Though Wolf had but a small band of men, there were spies within the castle walls, spies who could turn against the guards in the keep. Even those sentries could not be trusted, not fully, for their first allegiance was to Ewan, and as long as the old man lingered, there was the chance that his mind could be turned against his new son-in-law.

“Aha,” Connor said and waded into the stream. He reached into the water as if he planned on catching a fish with his bare hands, but instead plucked a piece of gold from the streambed. With a cold smile, he turned and plowed his way out of the water. “Methinks, Sir Holt,” he said, grinning evilly as he extended his fist, slowly opened his fingers, and showed the tiny gold band in his wet palm, “your wife is not honoring her wedding vows.”

They traveled three nights, stopping in the forest during the day only to rest, always moving to the north. Megan was beginning to wonder if they would ever stop for more than a few hours so that she would have enough time to sneak away from Wolf and his band of loudmouthed, bad-mannered, yet good-hearted men. They were a sorry lot, though happily so, and Wolf, the black-heart, was a hard, dangerous man she wished she’d never met. She was always nervous and wary around him, but fascinated as well. His smile was captivating, his wits were sharp, and his gaze, ever restless, never moved too far from her, as if he expected her to bolt at any minute.

Though it had been nearly a week since she’d been abducted, he refused to trust her, insisting on sleeping near her, never letting her out of his sight except for the nightly meetings around the campfire when the men gathered together, whispering among themselves. Megan couldn’t hear what they were saying, but knew that it involved her and her fate, for often one of the men would frown, cast a glance in her direction, and argue under his breath.

’Twas unfair to be treated so; she could do nothing but plan her escape.

The best time would be during the day, when the men were resting and Wolf, as was his custom, took one man, usually Bjorn, and rode ahead, searching the countryside, looking for a new hiding spot. Often Robin and Jagger went hunting and Odell was busy tending the fire and spit, but he always found jobs to keep her busy. She hauled water, washed the few pots they had, cleaned fowl and fish, or helped sharpen the cooking knives. She considered stealing one of the sharp blades, but Odell knew his few weapons and pieces of cutlery. Before she could find a way to sneak away from the camp, Wolf always returned and trained his suspicious eyes upon her once again.

On the fourth night, they veered from the road and continued on what appeared to be an old deer trail, slogging through muck, easing the wagon through the trees with torches as their only light. The horses shied, and Megan shivered in the wind as she rode upon a gray jennet and held on to the saddle pommel. Her hands were free, but the reins of her horse were firmly in Wolf’s hands as he drove to the remains of an old chapel tucked near the bend of a river. The water moved swiftly, a dark, wide ribbon that tumbled over steep cliffs, creating a waterfall not 20 yards from the back door of the ancient church.

“ ’Ere?” Odell grumbled. “Ye expect us to make camp ’ere?”

Wolf’s smile was a slash of white in the darkness. “And what’s wrong with it?”

“It’s falling down around us. We’ll be lucky if the roof don’t give way and crush us!”

“Here we have a choice. At the last camp, we did not. Those who want to

sleep inside may; those who favor tents or the bare ground can do as they wish.”

Odell, upon the destrier he’d stolen from Kelvin of Hawarth, edged his mount forward and raised his torch high so that a pool of flickering light fell upon mossy stone walls. Ivy climbed up what had once been a great fireplace but now was a pile of rubble, and beams, charred from a great fire, held up only a portion of the roof.

“Looks like the Devil himself was ’ere,” Odell said and crossed himself swiftly, one of the first signs Megan had ever seen that some of the men concerned themselves with God.

“We make camp here,” Wolf said, and though a few of his men grumbled under their breaths, most climbed off their tired mounts, stretched, and hurriedly went about constructing the tents and a fire.

“We’ll be inside,” Wolf said as he slid from his saddle, and Megan hopped to the ground. Her muscles ached from hours in the saddle and she saw no point in arguing. “Odell’s right—part of the old chapel is unsafe, but there are rooms where the roof is intact and the walls strong, and ’tis warmer than outside.”

“You know this place well?” she asked, eyeing the blackened rafters that creaked in the wind.