Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

From his pallet, the wounded boy moaned, and Megan hurried to his side. “Robin? Can you hear me, lad?”

Groaning, he blinked his eyes and a smile lighted his face. “Is this heaven?” he asked in a rough whisper.

“Nay, just an old chapel.” Tenderly, she brushed his hair from his forehead.

“Be ye not an angel?”

Megan felt tears gather in her throat. “I think not, lad.”

“Ahh, but ye’re prettier than any in heaven,” he said before his eyes closed again, and his breathing was once more slow and steady. Adjusting the furs over his body, she glanced over her shoulder at Wolf, but instead of appearing relieved that the boy was coming around, he only glowered through the window at the snow falling to the frozen ground.

“He’s right,” Wolf finally said, turning to face her again. “You are an angel of mercy to most of these men.” He didn’t bother smiling. “And I, methinks, am the Devil.”

Before she could answer, there was a commotion on the other side of the rubble that was one of the standing walls. Wolf, pulling on his tunic and mantle, walked through the door with Megan at his heels.

Dominic and Heath had returned. They were leading Robin’s gray rounsey, across whose swayed back was the carcass of the boar. Large curved tusks jutted out of its mouth and blood was crusted over its nostrils. Its eyes were glazed and dead.

“Ye gods, what was the boy thinkin’?” Odell muttered as the crowd around the riders grew. Dominic dismounted swiftly, and with the help of Peter and Jagger, pulled the dead boar to the ground. “We’ll be havin’ ’s a fine new pouch, now, won’t we?”

Wolf stared hard at the dead beast. “Robin will. ’Tis his kill.”

Swinging a bloody sword, Heath laughed as he hopped to the ground. “Then why was it your blade we retrieved from the animal?” He tossed the weapon to Wolf, who caught it deftly.

“I would not have slain it, were it not that Robin was in trouble.”

“Good thing you were nearby,” Odell muttered, sizing up the dead boar. “Or the boy would be dead now, instead of the beast.”

Megan’s blood chilled at the thought. ’Twas true enough that Wolf, demon though he professed to be, had risked his life to save the boy. Not only were his gouges proof enough, but the fact that the great beast was felled with a sword at close hand rather than an arrow from a distance, only proved to her that Wolf was far more virtuous than he would let anyone, even his most trusted men, believe.

Holt drew back his arrow until his bowstring was tight, then let go. The slim missile sizzled through the air, hitting the target with a snap. The arrow pierced through the tarp, which was painted in the shape of a stag and covered a haystack.

“Good shot,” Sir Oswald said. “Right in the bugger’s heart!”

Holt snorted at the praise, for Oswald, the ugliest of all the knights, was known to lick the lord’s boots for favors.

“Has the sorcerer spoken?” Holt asked, withdrawing another arrow from his quiver and wishing that the painted target was really Wolf, his tormentor. His eyes narrowed as he focused on the target.

“Nay, well … aye, he’s spoken, but to the walls, and through the bars to no one. The man is daft, I say.”

“Or pretends to be.”

“If he were a true magician, why does he not save his skin and disappear from the dungeon, eh? Or why does he limp?”

“Mayhap ’tis all for show,” Holt suggested, though the same thoughts had run through his own mind.

Oswald rubbed his flat chin thoughtfully. “Nay, methinks the man’s a fraud.”

“He has but one more day and then, if he doesn’t speak of his own accord, I’ll force his tongue.”

The toad’s eyes gleamed. “Flog ’im, will ye?”

“At the very least.” Holt shot again, and his arrow was true once more, piercing deep into the heart of the painted beast. “Or I’ll turn loose the peasants who believe he is the reason they lost loved ones to illness or injury.” That thought brought a smile to his face. Many would thank him for the chance to seek a bit of personal vengeance for the curse. “Now, Oswald, deliver my message and remind him that I’m not known for my kindness.”

The ugly knight, eager to become Holt’s pet, lumbered off past the fish pond and toward the dungeons. Holt only hoped he could convey the proper fear to the man whom most believed to be the sorcerer who had cursed the keep.

For two days the prophet had held his tongue, though he’d been given no fresh water or food and had been chained to the wall, where he’d sat in the dirty straw of his cell, his only companions being rats and fleas. But no prodding would make him speak of Megan again. Holt had reasoned with the man, threatened him, and even tried to bribe him, but received no satisfaction. ’Twas as if his newest prisoner had no idea that he was being held against his will, that he was being starved, that he was being punished.

’Twas enough to drive a sane man mad.