Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

Asides, before he could ever go back, he had a few more duties to perform as Wolf, the leader of his band of outlaws.

He took off his gloves and tucked them into his belt as he cut through the forest to another road that was overgrown and seldom used. Though it was cold and damp, he was warm from his journey. He would have liked to ride to the next village and buy a cup of mead and find himself a woman, but he dared not. He had to return to his men, decide what to do about the messenger they held prisoner, and plot how the war between Prydd and Erbyn would benefit him.

So caught up in his plans was he that he didn’t notice the old woman propped against the trunk of an oak until she shouted at him.

“Wolf of Erbyn Forest, I know you!”

His heart grew cold and he wheeled his horse to look at a crone with wrinkled skin and sunken eyes. Like a witch, she seemed, until he stared more closely and saw the spark of life in her faded eyes.

“Who are you?”

“Isolde of Prydd.” She stood slowly as if her joints ached.

“I knew you would come today, I saw it in my vision, so I left the castle early, before you arrived. If I go back, Tadd will kill me.”

He didn’t doubt it. “But how did you know my name or that I’d come this way?”

“Sometimes I’m given the gift of sight. You’ve seen it before, have you not? Before you changed your name to that of the forest creature that you hold dear?”

His mouth was suddenly dry as hot sand. She was a witch.

“Do not fear me, for I need your help,” she said, her voice steady and sure as she picked up a bundle that lay at her feet. “ ’Tis your destiny, Wolf—outlaw and murderer, son of a man most noble—to take me to the savior of Prydd.”

Nine

orcha watched from her window. The men, armed with bows and arrows, were talking and laughing, their breaths fogging as they stood near their mounts in the bailey. The sun was barely up, and a slow mist crawled over the ground. The hunting party was anxious to be off.

Sending up a prayer that Hagan would lead the party, Sorcha held her breath. It was time to set her plan into motion, and it would be safer for everyone if Hagan was out of the castle.

Fidgeting, she drummed her fingers on the window ledge until she spied him, and her heart did a strange little flip. Dressed in an emerald-colored mantle and brown leggings, he waited as Bjorn led a sleek black destrier into the bailey.

Hagan mounted, and the other men, some his soldiers, others his guests, climbed upon their horses. With a trumpeting of horns and the baying of dogs, the hunt was underway. Hagan tugged upon the reins, whirling his horse as he led the party out of the bailey. Hooves clattered and men shouted, the smell of the hunt heady in the air.

Sorcha waited until Hagan disappeared through the gates, then reappeared far away, on a distant hill that was visible over the castle walls. His horse ran effortlessly up the grassy slope toward the edge of the woods.

Oh, if only she could ride with him and feel the wind stream through her hair, feel the strength of a horse running through the woods, watch sunlight and shadow play upon Hagan’s face as he rode…Her heart stopped at the thought and she reminded herself that he was still her sworn enemy.

She bit her lip as he, along with the men following behind, entered the gloom of the forest.

She waited a few minutes, her heart pounding loudly in her chest. If Hagan ever got wind of her plans, he’d make her suffer, and yet she had no choice. Patience, though a virtue, wasn’t a part of her.

Her plan was not foolproof, but it was the best she had. Because the tunic she’d worn to mass needed further alterations, she’d had to strip it off, hand it to Ona and Nin, and find something else for the rest of the morning.

Now, hurrying to the wardrobe, she chose one of Anne’s castoffs, a tunic the color of ripe plums.

She knew that she’d found in Bjorn the man who would become her accomplice. She could tell that he felt a vast hatred for all that was Erbyn and was only waiting until the right moment to flee. Hadn’t he nearly said so much himself? However, his anger, from what Sorcha had observed on her walks in the bailey, was not directed so much at Hagan, but at the stable master, Roy, a huge, pockmarked man who loved to belittle his charge.

Yanking the tunic over her head, Sorcha smoothed the soft fabric over her hips. Hagan had never returned her daggers, and she felt naked without a weapon strapped to her belt. Curse the beast, why couldn’t he trust her?

For the very reason that you’re planning to defy him and escape, using one of his trusted men to help you.

Scowling, she tightened the belt. Just this morning she had learned from gossiping Nin that Bjorn considered himself some kind of prince, a direct descendant of a Viking king from the far North.

“ ’E’s a bloody fool, ’e is,” Nin had told her as she’d braided Sorcha’s hair before mass this morning. “Believin’ ’is mother’s stories. She was a fool, that one was, all those silly dreams in her ’ead.” Nin stopped working and thought a moment. “Even claimed she was a princess, kidnapped by a German soldier, then raped and left for dead. Baron Hagan’s father, Lord Richard—God rest ’is soul—’e found her and brought her to Erbyn. Turned out she was the best seamstress ever. ’Tis her work ’angin’ in the great ’all above the lord’s bed. I’m tellin’ you, no princess would know how to work a needle the way that woman did. She was messed up in her ’ead, if you’re askin’ me. Got herself with child and came up with some story about a German soldier to make ’erself feel good. Probably her man just up and left ’er. No shame in that, I’m thinkin’, but Bjorn, he believes everything she said. Thinks ’e’s got noble blood runnin’ through ’is veins.” Nin tugged on an unruly handful of hair, smoothing out the curls.

“Does Bjorn’s mother live here still?”

“Naw.” Nin tied off the braid. “She died. When Bjorn was but a lad. Lord Richard kept him on out of the goodness of ’is heart, and the boy turned out to ’ave a way with the ’orses. Poor luck, that. Got ’im ’is job with old Roy.”