Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

“Curse and rot her,” he muttered. Coming upon one of his men, he grabbed the fellow by the throat. “Bring me the old hag, Isolde, at once,” he growled.

“Aye, m’lord!”

He dropped the man and swept up the stairs in a blind fury. How could he have trusted the old woman? How? His boots rang on the stones, and at the door to Sorcha’s room he found the listless guard, leaning against the wall, his head nodding forward.

“Open the door!” Tadd demanded.

“Aye, m’lord!”

The key jangled loudly and the bar was lifted. The door flew open to bang against the wall of the hallway, but the room was empty, though a half-eaten trencher of brawn sat upon a stool and there was refuse in the pail. But no one was within the chamber.

“Bloody Christ, why didn’t you tell me she was missing?” Tadd yelled as he stepped into the room only to whirl on the lazy guard.

“I knew not—”

“You were guarding an empty room, you fool!” Tadd slapped the man so hard, his head spun. “Where is the old woman?”

The man touched his cheek. “I know not.”

“Did she not bring up the morning meal?”

“Nay …” Again he was slapped, so hard the sound echoed from the rafters.

“Fool! Why wasn’t I told?” Then, not waiting for an answer, Tadd drew his sword. “I want every soldier in this castle to search for Isolde. She alone knows of Sorcha. She’s lied to me, tricked me, and betrayed me, and she’ll pay. As for that messenger from Erbyn, lock him in the dungeon with Robert the traitor!” Spinning on his heel, he ran down the hallway, intent on finding the hag and cutting out her tongue if she dared lie to him again.

Wolf saw the commotion and knew there was serious trouble afoot. From the way men were scrambling, reaching for their weapons, shouting, and laying blame on one another, Wolf was certain Tadd was in a rage. No doubt Hagan of Erbyn’s letter had proved distressing.

“Isolde! Find Isolde!” one man said as he came up to the porter. “We’re to bring the old woman to the lord and throw this one in the dungeon with Robert.”

“I am but a messenger,” Wolf argued, pleased that Hagan’s missive had destroyed Tadd’s peace.

“Aye, but the messenger of evil.” The porter lunged at him, but Wolf reached up his sleeve and grabbed the knife he had hidden there. Sidestepping the porter’s blade, he jabbed his would-be attacker quickly, sending the man howling and clutching his side as he fell to the ground. Blood pooled on the wet blades of grass.

Spinning, Wolf leaped upon the courser, yanked the reins from a surprised page’s hands, and whirled the stallion toward the gate. With a quick kick to the ribs, the horse broke into a gallop.

“Stop him!” the porter yelled. “Close the gate!”

“What? Oh!” The boy at the

portcullis worked the ropes to the gears, but Wolf spurred the fleet horse through the opening just before the heavy grate fell into place. Several men in the outer bailey stood in his way, but as he tucked low against the courser’s neck and showed no fear in running them over, they dodged out of the way and scrabbled for their useless weapons.

Arrows whizzed past his head.

“Run, you miserable beast,” Wolf cried as the horse raced through the outer gate and across the bridge, his hooves thundering as people screamed and scattered, dropping onions and silver and sacks of grain. Wolf felt the thrill of deceit course through his blood; he enjoyed besting Tadd, his old enemy. He’d waited long for this moment, and seeing Tadd again brought back all the old hatred.

Tadd of Prydd had slit his eyebrow years ago, and now ’twas time to pay the bastard back.

His heart pounding with revenge, Wolf guided the courser ever forward, along the road that curved through the woods. He followed the muddy path for nearly a mile before suddenly yanking on the reins and turning in to the dense woods, where he could hide in the shadows.

From the road came the sound of his doom. Horses’ hooves thundered. Wolf peered through the bracken as men, wearing the crest of Prydd, rode by, shouting and cursing as they passed in a flurry of flashing hooves and mud-splattered hides.

His smile curved into a wicked grin. He knew he was out of danger. Breathing hard, he rode deeper into the thicket of oak and pine and stopped only when he was well out of the way of Tadd’s wrath.

So the rumors had proved true. Erbyn and Prydd would soon be at war. All because of some woman who claimed to be the savior of Prydd. Good. The time was right. Wolf did not doubt Sorcha’s powers; he’d seen too much in his life to convince him otherwise.

Long ago he’d been the son of a nobleman, groomed to someday have his own barony if not for his older brother. He’d seen much in the way of magic and sorcery then and didn’t doubt that Sorcha of Prydd might have been blessed with the “sight,” as he’d heard it called so many years ago.

He gritted his teeth and refused to think of his home. He’d spent too many years away and he felt comfortable with his life the way it was now—on the other side of the law. He’d been accused of harboring a rebel spirit, and it had served him well.