“Aye, but he might be an outlaw.”
Tadd sat up a little straighter.
“There’s talk of a band that lurks in the forests between Hawarth and Erbyn. The man who leads the band is called Wolf, though no one knows his true name. He talks as if he was once a nobleman, and he knows how to read.”
“There are many outlaws.”
“But this man rides tall, with shoulders as wide as an axe handle. It is also said that one of his eyebrows has been split, as if from a previous battle.”
Tadd remembered the messenger—the way he carried himself, the smirk in his harsh blue eyes, and the curl of disapproval in his thin, cruel lips. There was an arrogance about him, a pride that had made Tadd uncomfortable. Without a qualm, the messenger had disobeyed Tadd and whirled his swift horse through the castle gates.
“You think the letter from Hagan was a fraud?”
“I know not; but something’s amiss.”
Clapping loudly, Tadd ordered a cup of wine from a page who stood at attention near the table. “Find the outlaw,” he said to Prescott as the boy brought him a cup, “and bring him to me.” He took a long swallow and felt the wine burn a warm, welcome trail to his stomach.
“What about Isolde?”
Tadd considered. The woman had lied to him and made him look a bloody fool.
“Kill her.”
“Your father—”
“Is away. Kill her, and be done with it.”
Prescott swallowed so hard, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “And what of Lady Sorcha? When she finds out—”
“She won’t.”
“But she has ways. She’s the—”
“Don’t even think it, Prescott,” Tadd warned, sick to death of his sister’s birthright. “I’ll handle Sorcha. Now, be off.”
“Some say Isolde is a witch,” Prescott persisted. A drip of sweat slid down the side of his face.
The coward! Tadd was on his feet in an instant. “You are a Christian man, are you not?”
“Aye.”
“Then kill Isolde and worry not. God knows ’tis good to get rid of someone who worships false gods.” He took a long swallow from his wine and eyed the nervous knight over the rim of his mazer.
“As you wish,” Prescott said. With a quick little bow, he turned and quickly took his leave.
Sorcha be damned, Tadd thought as he rested the heel of his boot upon a bench. ’Twas the revels and he’d been celebrating for days. Hence the pain in his head. The musicians had entertained him, the jugglers and minstrels had been amusing, and afterwards, long into the night, he’d lain with several women, the most interesting having been the shy little kitchen wench with the sharp tongue. He tingled at the thought of her and knew she couldn’t refuse to warm his bed yet again.
She hated him, he was sure of it, but she was frightened as well, and mounting her like a stallion had been a pleasure that he intended to share with his guests …but not just yet. For the time being, while she was still frightened and trembling, he would have his way with her, teach her how to pleasure him further, then, once he was tired of her, he’d cast her off to his soldiers for sport.
Just the thought of her caused an aching hardness to swell between his legs, and he could barely think beyond the night’s pleasures. As for his sisters, he wished they’d stay where they were. Leah was too pious for his tastes, always frowning down her short little nose at him, then quoting Scripture as if in hopes to redeem him. Then there was Sorcha. She had the gall to outride and outshoot him, and took great pleasure in making him appear a fool to his friends.
Another gulp of wine.
Why not leave them both at Erbyn? This thought warmed his heart as the wine warmed his belly, but he knew he’d eventually have to go and retrieve his sisters and bring them back to Prydd. ’Twas a matter of pride.
Unless they were not at Erbyn.
What if the message was part of a trick to lure him from Prydd, to make the castle defenseless? What if that cur of an outlaw already had his sisters and was waiting to capture Tadd? Worse yet, what if Hagan and the outlaw were working together, plotting the downfall of Prydd?