“You have no right sticking your nose into the baron’s business.”
With a lift of his shoulder, Wolf chewed the tough meat and glowered at the fire.
“What care you?” Frederick demanded.
“Old scores to settle.”
“With Lord Hagan?”
Wolf grinned and reached for the jug of mead. Hagan was a formidable foe, one he would have gladly challenged, but it wasn’t Erbyn with which he had a feud.
No one knew of his plans. Odell thought him a common criminal, running from justice for killing a man or raping his wife. Jagger thought him a thief of the lowest order. Cormick believed that he was the son of a nobleman who was at odds with the king. The rest believed what they would.
Wolf didn’t care.
But he was interested in Sorcha, for the woman had power, more than she probably guessed. Wolf could use some of that power—as well as a lot of luck. However, the woman was Tadd’s sister and therefore a mortal enemy. He wondered if he would be able to hurt his old foe by stealing away his sister.
“You will be free to leave in a few days,” he said to Frederick. Before he gave the soldier his freedom, Wolf wanted to learn more of Sorcha and the ties that bound her to her brother. He bit off another chunk of meat and stared at his prisoner. “If you prefer not to return to Erbyn you could throw in your lot with us.”
“Nay!” Odell cried. “He is a prisoner—”
One corner of Frederick’s lip lifted a little, as if the thought disgusted him. “Mayhap I will,” he said, but Wolf knew the man to be a traitor. Frederick’s eyes were dull, as if he was deliberately hiding his thoughts. No, he couldn’t be trusted.
Well, fine. ’Twas just as well. Wolf leaned back upon the ground, propping himself up with an elbow. When it was time to set the Judas free, Frederick would be in for a surprise the like of which he had not witnessed in all his life.
Sorcha had no choice but to wait. Her patience was wearing thin as each day the messenger didn’t return. The revels were full of merriment and laughter, but she only endured them, counting off the days until she could return to Prydd.
Each day guests arrived at Erbyn. They were always tired and weary from their journey, but dressed in finery and always anxious for celebration. Several young women, in the company of their fathers and mothers, seemed interested in gaining the attention of Lord Hagan, and he spoke and laughed with them, danced with them and smiled down at them as he held them in his strong arms. They seemed to melt at his touch, nearly swooning if he favored them with a word.
Sorcha told herself she didn’t care. Though her blood seemed to boil when she saw them together, she half convinced herself he could marry the whole lot of silly girls and she wouldn’t be bothered.
She, too, danced and laughed, and surprised herself by sometimes forgetting that she was only waiting, biding her time, until she could return to Prydd. Though none of the men were as handsome as the lord, they were amusing, and more than one man had encouraged a smile from her lips.
Erbyn was festive. Fresh rushes scented with chamomile and lavender had been strewn across the floor, and the whitewashed walls had been strung with mistletoe, ivy, and holly. A fire crackled over a huge yule log, and on the trestle table a large candle, with tallow dripping down the sides, the yule candle, was always lit, giving off a warm, soft glow.
During the day, the gates of the castle were thrown open to peasants and noblemen alike, and there were people everywhere, laughing, talking, working.
Each evening Hagan walked easily among his guests, sometimes with Sorcha, and he introduced her to neighboring noblemen and ladies. Often he stopped to laugh at a peasant’s bawdy joke or inquire about a newborn babe. He knew all the peasants and servants by name and seemed adored by most, though there were a few soldiers who, when he passed, cast him looks of pure hatred. Sorcha was sure of it. Though not a harsh word was spoken, there were silent currents in the air, secret glances and tight lips that bespoke of hostility.
She told herself she was imagining the dark looks, that she was reading more into passing glances than was meant. Surely Hagan didn’t seem to notice.
Food and ale were plentiful, and if the baron had worries, he usually hid them well. Only once in a while did Sorcha see his eyes shadow and his forehead wrinkle.
As for her, the servants treated her with respect, though there was a new fear in their eyes. Many had witnessed the storm that had appeared as she revived Bjorn, and the gossip about her was running fast and wild through the castle, to servants, peasants, and guests.
More than once she’d caught people openly staring at her, and one of the serving girls had crossed her bosom in fear as Sorcha had passed her in a corridor.
’Twas silly, really. Yes she knew that what had happened with Leah and Bjorn appeared unnatural, and she couldn’t explain the sudden rush of wind and rain that had appeared when she’d tended to them, but ’twas no miracle, only a chance of fate. She was convinced that Leah had responded to her voice, knowing deep in her near-death sleep that Sorcha had come to save her. As for Bjorn, his wounds were not as serious as they first appeared, and he was young and strong. He would have survived without her.
But she couldn’t explain the warmth of the serpent ring, which nearly glowed on her finger, nor did she understand the rising wind and storm.
Not that it mattered. All that concerned her was that she received a new r
espect from those who lived in the castle. A few, including two serving girls, thought she was a daughter of the devil, but the rest seemed to think she was blessed.
So let them. At least she no longer feared for her life, and the hatred she’d felt in more than one glance when she’d first arrived at Erbyn seemed to have vanished … or was well hidden.
Even Lady Anne, at first distant and cold, had become friendly, oftentimes drawing Sorcha into conversation.