Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

To her surprise, Sorcha felt relief, almost as if she were home again, as she watched the banners of Erbyn snapping in the wind. But her feelings were silly. Prydd was her home. Erbyn was the enemy castle, yet she rode through the gates eagerly, glad to be away from the outlaw band and anxious to forestall the war that Hagan thought would so surely be upon them.

Hagan drew up his destrier at the stables, and men surrounded him. He tossed the reins of his steed to a page. “Make sure he’s walked and cleaned before he’s fed,” he ordered sharply.

“I’ll see to it myself.”

“And to Lady Sorcha’s horse as well.”

“I’ll take care of McBannon.” From the doorway of the stables, Bjorn appeared. His gaze was even when he took the reins from her hands.

“Thank you.”

“ ’Tis an honor,” he replied as Sorcha turned and saw a deep flush crawl up the back of Hagan’s neck.

“Where have you been?” Lady Anne hurried down the stone steps of the great hall. “We still have guests,” she admonished her brother, and sent a searching look in Sorcha’s direction. “And you go racing off to God only knows where.”

“I’ve no time for this,” he growled.

“Lord Rowley plans to leave tomorrow morning and—”

“No one enters the castle or leaves without my permission.” To Anne he added, “There are outlaws about. Sorcha and I came across their band, and I have reason to believe that they may have killed Frederick.”

Anne gasped and one hand flew to her throat. The color drained from her face. “I thought Frederick was sent to Prydd.” She slid another meaningful glance in Sorcha’s direction.

“He was. But I doubt he made the trip. Come inside …” He spied his most trusted knight. “Royce, post double guards on the battlements during the day and at night as well. Tomorrow, at dawn, I want a party of men to ride through the forest and search the roads.”

“You expect trouble, m’lord?”

Hagan’s nostrils flared slightly. “I’m sure of it.” He started up the stairs, but the guard’s voice caught his attention.

“Lord Hagan…your messenger returns!”

Sorcha whirled, hoping that all the worries were for naught and Frederick would appear riding his gray courser with news that Tadd was not mounting an army and wanted only the safe return of his two sisters, but as she saw the messenger, her heart sank.

The man looked near death. Wearing only an old feed sack tied about the waist with a piece of twine, he stumbled into the bailey on bare feet. His teeth were chattering, his skin a worrisome shade of blue, and mud covered him head to toe.

“Lord Hagan,” the man said, gasping.

Hagan ordered Anne to fetch Frederick hot soup and wine as he threw one of the messenger’s cold arms over his shoulders and helped him into the keep. “What happened to you?” he asked once Frederick was seated near the fire, a fur blanket tossed over his shoulders and a cup of wine resting between his palms.

“I was set upon by outlaws, m’lord,” Frederick said in a voice that was a hoarse whisper. “Ten or twenty of them.” His gaze shifted away from Hagan’s, and Sorcha, who had followed the men inside, felt as if Frederick was stretching the truth a little. “They captured me before I got to Prydd and stole my horse.”

“Did you see Lord Tadd?”

Frederick shook his head and his shoulders slumped. “The leader …a man called Wolf, he took the letter, read it himself, and decided to take it to Prydd. He returned the next day, all puffed up like a rooster, and claimed to have bested Sir Tadd. When he came back to the camp he didn’t have the letter with him, but in truth, I do not trust him and I cannot be certain that the letter was delivered.”

Hagan swore softly under his breath and ran a hand through his hair.

“Where are your clothes and your horse?”

“Stolen.”

“By the outlaws?”

“I tried to escape,” Frederick said, his face turning a deep shade of scarlet, “but failed, and the leader told me that I could leave, but without a possession. The men, they found great sport in taking my things.” His face hardened in the firelight and hatred gleamed in his eyes.

Boots rang unevenly on the stone floor, and Sorcha looked up to see Darton stride into the room. He walked with a slight limp but still hung on to his dignity. His gaze touched hers for a fleeting second, and she shivered when she saw a spark of smugness in his eyes, as if he knew a great secret.

“What happened?” he asked, his frown deep as he spied Frederick.