Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“Make ready,” he said as he turned on his heel and returned to the pallet in the empty chamber he and Megan had shared. The ashes were cold where the fire had been, a chill wind blew through the window, and the room was as dark and cold as the bottom of the sea. Gritting his teeth, he flung himself down and drew up the hides and furs, trying to ignore the scent of her, which lingered on the bed. “Damn it to hell,” he growled and attempted to push aside the vivid images of making love to her, how her supple legs surrounded his waist, how she smiled up at him in the moonlight, how her skin, so white, was smooth as marble, how her blood would fire so easily.

I love Holt not, she’d said over and over again, but she’d been eager to leave. Why? Had she lied to him, and did she truly care for the man she’d pledged to love before God and country? Or was it, as she’d insisted, a marriage she couldn’t avoid? Then why return to the scoundrel?

Because she thought you were going to sell her to Holt! Why would she want to stay? What choice had he given her? Tossing off the damned coverlets, he rolled to his feet and decided he had to hunt her down. Before she reached Dwyrain, he had to find her and speak with her and … and what? Offer her the life of an outlaw? A future running from the law? No home? No warm hearth? No servants? No real bed? What of children?

“Bloody Christ,” he growled, stalking out of the room and striding to Jagger’s tent, where the big man was already snoring. He placed the toe of his boot against Jagger’s ribs and the man snorted, cried out, and was on his feet in an instant, a blade ready in his hand.

“For the love of Jesus, Wolf, ye scared the piss right outta me!”

Wolf had no time for explanations. “I ride tonight.”

“But ye just got in.”

“It matters not.”

Muttering under his breath, Jagger found his mantle. “I’m beginnin’ to think that Odell’s right about ye, Wolf,” he said, shaking his head and adjusting his hood as he stepped out of the tent and frowned at the snow beginning to drift from the dark heavens. “Ever since ye kidnapped the lady, ye’ve been actin’ strange, like ye’re not right in the head.”

“I’m not,” Wolf admitted. “Now, will ye ride with me or not?”

“Aye, I’m with ye, but what about the boy? He’ll only slow us down.”

“He comes,” Wolf said, hoping that he wasn’t sending Robin to an early grave.

Cayley couldn’t help herself. ’Twas as if the magician had cast a spell upon her. She stealthily crossed the bailey, sending a goose squawking and nearly bumping into one of the stableboys, who was leading a gray jennet from the farrier’s hut. ’Twas nearly dark, the air cool as it pressed hard against her cloak as she approached the north tower. She carried with her a bucket of Cook’s bean and brawn soup and a dark loaf of bread. The smell of the soup caught the attention of some of the baron’s dogs, who were being walked near the dovecote. They turned their noses upwind, let out hungry whimpers, and were reprimanded by the page whose duty it was to care for them.

Cayley clutched her cloak around her and stepped around the piles of horse dung that littered the streets.

The stairs leading downward were as dark as pitch. She snagged a rush light from its sconce, mounted near the door, and used the flickering light to guide her down the gritty steps. As she hurried by some of the cells, she heard hoots and whistles, but she ignored them and hurried onward.

In the dungeon, the sentries had changed, and one of the men she trusted, Sir Stephen, a gangly young knight with pockmarked skin and hair as straight and unruly as straw, was guarding the prisoners.

“Who goes there?” Stephen called out.

“ ’Tis only me,” Cayley replied, feeling suddenly as if she needed fresh air. How could the men stand to be held in such decay and filth? “I brought fresh food for the prisoner and for you, Sir Stephen.”

“Say what? Did Holt send ye?”

“Nay, ’twas mine own idea,” she said as she approached his stool and small table. “I thought some good food might jolly our prisoner into telling me more about my sister.”

Stephen snorted and shook his head. “Ye’re wastin’ yer time, m’lady. Kind as ye be, the man’

s daft. Completely out of his mind.” Stephen pointed a finger at his head and rotated his hand. “You’ll not get a straight answer from that one.”

“At least let me try. Now, about the soup.” Stephen, ever hungry, tore off a thick hunk of bread, dipped heartily in the broth, and motioned for her to do the same. “Has the prisoner given us his name?”

“Naw, but I ’aven’t asked. Don’t care what ’e’s called.” He ate hungrily, chewing with a great amount of noise, grinding teeth and making contented grunts as she tore off a piece of bread and dunked it in Cook’s stew.

“I’ll give this to him, if you let me into his cell.”

“Say wha—?” He lifted his head and greasy soup dripped into his scraggly beard. “You want inside?” he asked, hitching a thumb toward the barred alcove the sorcerer now called home.

“Yes.”

“Nay, m’lady, I cannot trust ’im.”

“But he’s bound, is he not?”

“Aye, but ’e’s supposed to be some kind of magician, say what. ’e might jest disappear if I lets ye into the cell.”