“Aye. Born during a tempest, with hair as black as a raven’s wing and the kiss of the moon upon his skin, the savior of all that is Prydd will arise—”
“His skin?” Wolf asked. “But she is a woman, is she not?”
“Aye,” Cormick, one of the older men in his band, whispered. “But ’tis said she can conjure up the winds, and talk to the spirits—”
“A woman?” Wolf said, scoffing, though he felt a premonition of dread, as if a phantom had walked with cold footsteps upon his spine. Memories, long dead and buried, swam to the surface of his mind. “Does she talk to the wind?” he asked, his heart beginning to beat a little faster. Was it his mind playing tricks on him or did the icy breeze stir the branches overhead in a sudden rush?
“Yea, she speaks to everything: The wind. The gods. The animals. She is Mother Earth, born of woman but sired by one of the true rulers of Gwynedd,” Odell said, his voice filled with respect.
“Llywelyn?” Wolf asked as he studied the faces of his men. Some were cast in awe; others, doubt.
“Some say she is th
e bastard of his bastard,” Cormick said, obviously a believer. “Maybe even his grandbastard.”
“ ’Tis rubbish!” Jagger, the silent one, said. He was a huge man with a black beard and the scars of many battles on his face and body. He carried a rosary with him always and prayed often. Wolf knew not whether he’d once been a priest and had somehow been banished from the church, or if he’d simply stolen the string of beads from a man of the cloth. As they spoke, Jagger rubbed the worn beads between his fingers.
“Tell me more about Sorcha of Prydd,” Wolf encouraged, and when the man did not comply, Wolf unsheathed his sword and heated it on the rocks that glowed red around the fire.
“He’ll cut out your tongue if ye don’t talk,” Odell said.
“And I’ll cut off your balls if you don’t hush!” Wolf warned.
Odell sulked, and Wolf waited as he watched drips of perspiration slide down the captive’s face. Swallowing hard, the prisoner watched as his tormentor took up his sword and laid the hot blade against his tunic. Steam rose in the foggy air.
“What’s your name?”
“Frederick. Frederick of—”
“We use only one name here, Frederick. I’m Wolf; these others will introduce themselves if it becomes necessary.”
Frederick’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
“Now, either you give us the information we need or … I’ll let the men decide what to do with you.”
Frederick glanced at the eager, mud-smeared faces surrounding the fire, and his shoulders slumped. All of his courage seemed to disappear on the wind. “All right,” he said, finally realizing he had no choice. “I’ll tell you of Sorcha of Prydd. But you’ll not believe me.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“ ’Tis said she can raise a man from the grave.”
Jagger snorted. “No one but the Lord can—”
“Hush! Let him speak.” Wolf sheathed his sword deliberately, then settled back on his rock. Overhead he thought he heard the eerie whisper of the wind. “Speak, soldier,” he commanded in a voice that no one in the forest dared dispute. “Speak to me of Prydd, the savior, and Lord Tadd.”
“I come from Erbyn. I know not Prydd.”
“Yes, but there must be plenty of gossip. Come. Drink some wine and tell me all you know.”
Isolde carried a trencher of mutton into Sorcha’s room. “’Ere ya go, m’lady,” she said, making sure the guard did not get a peek into the chamber. As he was instructed, the sentry bolted the door, for Tadd was certain Sorcha would escape and cause him great misery.
Inside the room, Isolde worked fast, keeping up a steady stream of conversation with herself, mimicking Sorcha’s voice as best she could, for the guard would only hear muted sounds from the door. She kindled the fire, ate the mutton herself, drank from the pail, and relieved herself in the other bucket. Oh, if only Sorcha would return quickly, for soon Tadd would become suspicious. If not for his interest in drink and women, he probably would have discovered Sorcha’s deceit before this.
She made sure the window was open, so that the breeze could enter the room and toss whatever was about to make noise, then she said a quick prayer and picked up the remains of her last meal so that the guard would think that Sorcha had been nibbling at Cook’s food.
“Good day, m’lady,” she said, knocking on the door for the guard and slipping through as soon as the bar was lifted.
“Still not feeling well?” the dullard of a sentry asked.