Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

Aye, she told herself, clucking to her mare, but surely Ware of Abergwynn is.

“Something’s wrong,” Jack said, eyeing the crenels of Dwyrain’s north watchtower. “See there—one of the shutters is closed; the others are open.” He, Jagger, Robin, and Wolf, astride their sweating mounts, were hidden in the forest and watching the castle through the wintry foliage that remained. The wind was biting, the clouds dark, sleet starting to fall. “The baron’s standard is not flying …”

Wolf felt a stab of fear deep in his soul. His gaze moved to the flagpole. ’Twas true. The new colors waving vividly against the dawn sky were a deep blue field with a red chevron … the symbol Wolf had seen upon Holt’s shield. A sickening dread stole over him. “Baron Ewan is dead. Sir Holt has proclaimed himself the new ruler of Dwyrain.”

“So it appears.” Jack spit on the ground. “ ’Tis cursed we are.”

“Unless we defeat him,” Wolf said, his eyes narrowing on his enemy’s lair. His fingers clenched over the hilt of his sword. What pleasure he’d find in running the bastard through. Was Megan somewhere in the stone keep? A prisoner, mayhap, or Holt’s willing wife? Had she returned to Dwyrain to her father, only to find that he’d died and she was forever married to the new baron? Had she shared a bed with the bastard? Given herself willingly to him? Been forced into submission? Had she suffered a beating at Holt’s hands, and was she now his prisoner?

Guilt clawed at him. Had he not sealed her fate by stealing her from her husband? If Holt’s wrath was aimed at Megan for her betrayal, was not Wolf responsible? Had he not incited Holt, humiliated and taunted the man in an effort to belittle him? Pray that he would not hurt her!

Rage stormed through his blood. Horrid, painful images of Megan being used by Holt brought a snarl to Wolf’s lip. ’Twould be so easy to kill Holt and taste sweet, long-awaited vengeance. “Let’s go!” he growled, eager to find Megan, to kidnap her if ’twas what it took to keep her safe.

“Be ye mad?” Jagger asked. “We can’t ride through the gates, now can we?”

“Why not?” Robin, impatient for battle, demanded.

“I’ll go ahead,” Jack offered, “and I’ll take with me the kills that I’ve got—” He motioned to the stag and boar he’d slain this morning and now were lashed to a sled built of poles. “I’ll tell Cook that I’m taking a hunting party out this evening, and when we return, late, there may be three more men with me. No one will notice.”

“And the men who leave the castle with you? Will they not wonder?”

“I’ll choose my party well. ’Twill be made of those who detest Holt as much as we do,” Jack said with a wicked smile. “There are men within the gates of Dwyrain who would follow you blindly on only my word.”

“Good. While you’re inside, learn what you can about Megan—if she’s within the keep.”

“I will,” he promised. He rode through the underbrush to the road to join a small procession of carts and horsemen moving to and from the castle through a curtain of icy rain that washed away any lingering traces of snow and added to the chill that had already settled deep in Wolf’s bones. ’Twas all he could do to remain where he was and not steal into the thick walls of Dwyrain to see for himself if Megan had returned.

’Twas simple enough to sneak into the castle with the hunting party. Once inside the walls, several of the men carried the kills of badger, pheasant, boar, and stag to the butcher and the tanner, while Jack and Tom, the carpenter’s son who so often was in the north watchtower, led Wolf, Jagger, and Robin down a dark, winding staircase past the brewery, where the alewives stirred oaken vats of ale, and into a small chamber used for the hoarding of grain. With a few candles for light, the men rested on sacks of grain and watched shadows play on the rock walls.

Tom, about the age of Robin, peered over his shoulder as he spoke. “ ’Tis as if the beasts of hell have been let loose,” he said, his green eyes wide in the shadowy room. “The baron drew his last breath last night and Holt proclaimed himself the new ruler of the keep.” Tom’s tongue rimmed his mouth nervously. “He sent men to chase after Bjorn, who escaped with Lady Cayley.”

“What of Cormick?” Wolf asked, grateful that one of his men was free.

“Dead. Killed when he was flogged.”

“Mother Mary,” Jack said under his breath as he crossed himself hurriedly.

Wolf flinched and again guilt was his companion. Because of his own need of vengeance, he’d sent a trusting, faithful man to his death. Back teeth grinding together, he silently cursed the demons who drove him. If only he’d let things be, Cormick would be alive, Bjorn would not have been flogged, and Megan … oh, sweet spitfire of a woman … would be serving her time as Holt’s wife. Nay, he could never accept that.

“Lady Megan has not returned?” he asked.

“Nay, neither Holt nor his men have found her.”

Where was she? A dozen horrid thoughts crawled through his mind, but he pushed them aside. At least she was not suffering as Holt’s wife.

“But when Bjorn and Cayley escaped, Holt was in a rage, and he plans to hang the sorcerer who was with them.”

“Sorcerer?” Wolf said.

“Aye, the same man who is said to have cursed Dwyrain years ago, the cripple that Lady Megan met in the woods when her mare came up lame two years ago.”

Wolf had heard the tale, of course. It had spread throughout the countryside like wildfire.

“ ’Twas as if he wanted to be captured again,” Tom insisted as he anxiously picked at his teeth with the nail of his thumb. “He raced not to the gatehouse but stayed his horse, threw his hands wide as if to heaven, and screamed as loudly as if he were trying to wake the souls of the dead. An owl bigger than I’ve ever seen landed on his arm.”

“He is being held prisoner here?”

“Aye, in the north tower dungeon.”