Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“Who? The wizard?”

“Aye. He gave up his life for us.” Her gaze, filled with blame, cut him to his bones.

“ ’Twas what he wanted,” Bjorn muttered, but couldn’t stop the blade of guilt that twisted in his heart. What the lady was saying had already crossed his mind. “Shh. Be still. As you said, Holt’s men could have dogs with them and find us.” He clucked to his horse, urging the stallion through the undergrowth, but his thoughts were at Dwyrain with the sorcerer.

God be with you.

As if he’d heard a scream from the dead, Holt awakened with a start. But the blood-chilling wail didn’t stop with his nightmare; no, it echoed through the castle, tumbling off the stone walls.

’Twas Ewan?

??s ghost returned to haunt him!

Guards shouted, footsteps thundered through the hallways, someone began pounding on his door.

“Sir Holt!” Red shouted. “The prisoners have escaped!”

“What?” Anger tore through him. “But how?” He threw on his breeches and tunic, then opened the door to find the rotund knight breathing hard and sweating despite the cool temperature of the castle at night.

“ ’Tis true. We were tricked, we were. By the magician!”

Another keening wail raced through the corridors of the castle. Holt’s heart nearly stopped, for it sounded to him as if the very beast from hell had been unleashed in the bailey.

“What in the name of Jesus is that noise?”

“The sorcerer, Sir Holt. He’s … he’s possessed! Call the priest.”

“The man’s a fraud. As you said, he’s used his magic to confuse you,” Holt sneered, hiding his own fear. Was he the only man in the castle with any brains? Strapping on his belt, sword, and dagger, he strode out of the room. Whatever trick the cripple had played, ’twould be his last!

Guards and servants were scrambling through the hallways, muttering oaths, whispering prayers, causing the rush lights to flicker as they passed. Outside, the noise was louder, a piercing, haunting scream that turned Holt’s insides to water. The sorcerer sat on his horse, his arms thrown wide, a huge ruffle-feathered owl sitting on his shoulder.

“Stop!” he commanded, but the man continued his screaming as if he heard nothing other than the demons in his head. “Do you hear me, man? Stop this infernal—”

“Hey! Halt! Stop!” Out of the shadows, two horsemen spurred their mounts through the untended gates. “Oh, for the love of Jesus. ’Tis the prisoner! He’s escaped!”

“What?” Holt’s eyes narrowed on the fleeing horsemen. Not one, but two of them. “The prisoner—?” His mind spun backward to the flogging. No man he’d beaten so hard would be able to ride, and who was the other one—the smaller rider? Certainly not the dead man, returned to life like Lazarus. Nay, that criminal had been buried in the woods outside the castle—the maggots were feasting on his flesh already. A cloud crossed the moon, casting a shadow on the land, and Holt felt as if the cold hand of death had grabbed his heart and squeezed so hard he couldn’t catch his breath.

“Stop them,” he yelled, but his men stood transfixed, staring as the sorcerer howled at the damned moon like a wolf from the depths of hell. Like a wolf—sweet Jesus, the man is mocking me. “Red, Oswald! Get some men together and stop those two!”

“Oh … aye.”Red snapped out of the spell that had disabled him.

“After them!” Holt ordered. “After them!”

Red’s gaze swept the gatehouse. “Damn it.” Drawing his sword, he sprinted toward the stables, hitting men on the shoulders and hurling orders. Several men managed to break the spell and took off after him, their boots thudding on the frozen mud of the bailey.

Father Timothy, rumpled and cross, strode out of the chapel. Befuddled by the wailing and the crowd, he demanded, “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Prisoners have escaped!” someone in the crowd yelled.

“The sorcerer is possessed!” Nell proclaimed.

Timothy’s steps faltered. “I think not.”

“Listen to him, Father,” the candlemaker insisted. “ ’Tis what he said, that the Devil had control of his tongue!”

“Nay, this I do not believe.” But the priest was more ashen-faced than before and trepidation contorted his fleshy features. His fingers anxiously rubbed the beads of the rosary hanging from his pocket.

Holt drew his sword and made his way through the crowd that had gathered, forming a crescent of onlookers near the center of the spectacle.