Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“Please, m’lady, if you would pray with me,” he said, his voice cold and distant, “for your husband has pointed out to me that you may have sinned in the days since your capture and you may need to confess.” He lifted his eyes to the sentry still standing at the open door. “This is private,” he said, “between a woman and her God.”

“Aye.” Crossing himself, the sentry scooted quickly out of Megan’s chamber. The bolt slid into place.

“I have nothing to confess.”

“On your knees,” Father Timothy commanded in a rough voice. “Fold your hands and pretend to pray, so that if the guard opens the door, ’twill look as if everything is right. Now, listen, I care not about your confession, nor about your sins.”

Falling to her knees, she wanted to believe him, but this man had lied before, his piety second only to his own needs.

“Cayley did not leave the castle as Holt would have you believe. Nor did your father die quietly in his sleep.” Solemnly, in the cadence of a chant of prayer, the priest unburdened himself, telling of his part in Cayley’s escape, Holt’s murder of Cormick, his torture of Wolf, and finally, the sorcerer’s claim that her father was sent to his grave early by the man who was her husband. “He is a fiend, the very spawn of the Devil,” Father Timothy admitted, “and I placed my trust in him. I was a fool and God is punishing me. As part of my atonement I helped Lady Cayley flee, and I will do my best to see that your marriage is annulled.”

She should have been relieved but she was stricken by the depths of Holt’s treachery.

“Alas, I cannot save you from your husband unless you, like Cayley, leave and give me time to speak to the abbot and the bishop on your behalf.”

“I cannot leave,” she said firmly. As long as Wolf and Robin were alive, she would stay and try to help them. “But if you need atone, then help me find a way out of my chamber so I can visit the prisoners.”

He shook his head. “ ’Tis impossible. The guards have instructions.”

“You are a man of God. Surely you can convince a dull soldier that ’tis the will of the Lord that I visit the poor wretches in the dungeon, as part of my duties as the baron’s wife.”

Sighing, he glanced to the window and shook his head, as if seeing, in a distance visible only to him, his own ruin. “I’ll try,” he said, rising from the floor and crossing himself. At the door, he spoke with the guard, who argued with him for a few minutes, then left, only to return and argue again. Megan heard only parts of the conversation, but it had to do with the soldier’s doomed soul and the will of God. Father Timothy was adamant that God wanted the lady of the manor to visit the prisoners, to speak with the men who had kidnapped her and to, in good Christian manner, forgive them before their black souls left this earth.

Eventually, after many words and much debate from the dullard who stood by her door, Timothy was allowed to take her to the dungeon as long as the guard himself joined them.

Megan steeled herself for the worst. Though she’d never been to the prisons of Dwyrain

before, she knew they were cruel cells that were built to hold only the most dangerous criminals and traitors to the baron. Her father used the dungeon rarely and she trembled inside as she followed the priest down the staircase and outside the great hall. A rush of wind tore at her cloak and brushed her cheeks with its icy breath. Shivering with dread, still she smiled at the people who greeted her, the steward and tailor and a farmer who had sold sheep to her father.

Inside the north tower was worse than she’d feared. Aside from reeking of a foul stench, the stairs were dark and uneven. The prisoners were held on the lowest level, the same dark hell where they’d been tortured, according to the priest, a place she’d visited only once as a child on a dare from her brother Bevan.

Clutching her cloak, she followed the priest to a guard station and the surrounding cells, small rooms with walls of rusted bars.

Wolf lay within one cell, his back to the door, and her heart, traitor that it was, soared at the sight of him before she saw the new welts upon his shoulders, the bruises showing beneath his dark skin, and the fresh scars of burns where he’d been tortured. The contents of her stomach, meager though they were, threatened her throat, and she swallowed hard as she made her way to the cell door.

“Let me inside.”

“Nay.” The guard on duty shook his head. “Father Timothy, these men are not to have any visitors.”

“ ’Tis the lady of the manor. She is here only to see that the prisoners are treated fairly.”

“But—”

“Hush, man!” Megan ordered, taking Timothy’s cue. “Elsewise I’ll report to my husband that I was mistreated.”

Wolf’s head rolled her way. His eyes, once bright, were glassy and vacant. Oh, God, no! Let him not be in pain. Help him, please!

“ ’Tis Holt’s wife,” he sneered, his voice gravelly and foreign.

“Wolf!” she cried.

“What is it you want?” he snarled with no trace of kindness—no hint of the gentle man hidden deep beneath his hard exterior. His eyes were feral and slitted; he appeared a beast she didn’t recognize.

“I—I—wanted to know that you were treated well.”

His laugh was a ruthless bark. “Your husband’s hospitality, m’lady, leaves much to be desired.”

“Why are ye speaking to her so?” Robin, in the next cell, demanded. “Lady Megan, we were worried about you. We tried to find ye for fear—”