Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

watching the birds fly in and out, nor did she ever take long walks through fields strewn in wildflowers. This year, she found no joy in her favorite season—the Christmas revels, with their merriment, dancing, feasting, and general feeling of goodwill.

A soft knock sounded on the door, and the sentry opened it to allow Rue, the old nursemaid, into her room. With a cry of delight, Cayley ran across the chamber and flung herself into the old lady’s arms.

With a cluck of her tongue, Rue asked, “Now what did ye do, Cayley girl, to get yourself locked away?”

“I asked that Holt hurt not the new prisoners—the messengers from Wolf.”

“And he disagreed?” Rue lifted a graying eyebrow. “Ah, child, will ye never learn? As stubborn as yer sister, ye are. Well, we’ll just have to find a way to get Holt to set ye free, now, won’t we?”

“Aye, but first we must take care of Father.” Cayley swallowed hard, hoping she could trust the nurse and knowing she had no choice. Many people, servants, knights, and freemen, had, because of the sickness and curse, been unhappy with Ewan’s rule and were embracing Holt as their new leader. They apparently thought Holt could assure them of more prosperous and healthier times. Some of the baron’s most trusted men had turned away from him and become followers of Holt. She only hoped Rue, who had lost her own daughter to the sickness, had not turned her allegiance away from Ewan. “You must help me, Rue,” Cayley said, desperately clinging to the older woman’s sleeve. “You must help me thwart Holt’s plan to murder Father!”

“Worry not,” the strange one in the next cell said as the rush lights burned low in the dungeons of Dwyrain.

Bjorn turned toward the sound and thought he heard the rustle of wings, as if a bat or bird was with the cripple who dared speak to him. Bjorn was not a man easily frightened. Ofttimes he was told he was much too bold and reckless, that he cared not for his own life.

’Twas true, he thought, for though he loved the freedom of living the life of an outlaw and spat upon the rules and laws of the land, there was a part of him that wanted always to defy death, to test his courage, to kill that sorrow that was buried deep within him. He longed for a chance to find out the truth of his birth. Was he, as Tadd of Prydd had insisted, just the bastard son of a whore or was he, as his mother had assured him, a prince among men, the son of German royalty? He wondered now, as he stood in a wet cell that was cold as a corpse, who his father was and he thought again of Leah, poor, tormented Leah of Prydd, a woman who had touched his heart, a woman who, beaten, raped, and nearly killed by Darton of Erbyn, had entered a nunnery where she would be safe from the evils of all men and would devote herself to God.

Bjorn believed not in the Father. Especially not in this wretched cell that smelled of urine, dung, and human fear.

“Who are you?” he asked the calm voice.

“A friend.”

Bjorn snorted. “I have no friends at Dwyrain.”

“Nor I,” Cormick agreed from the next cell.

A cat slunk through the shadows, its eyes reflected in the fading light from the torches mounted on the wall. Silently, the rail-thin cat stalked rats and mice that crawled noisily through the straw and damp rushes strewn in a bare layer upon the floor.

“Wolf comes to free you,” the smooth voice said in a tone that only Bjorn could hear. “You must be ready.”

“How know you this?”

A pause. “I see it as clearly as I do you.”

Cormick coughed. “Well, I see nothing in this damned place! ’Tis darker than pitch at midnight.”

“ ’Tis not with my eyes that I see,” the strange one protested.

“Then ye’re addled,” Cormick decided with a grunt, but Bjorn had experienced many unexplained things in his life. Had not Sorcha of Prydd brought him back to life from the very brink of death? Had she not done the same for her sister, Leah? Aye, he trusted her witchcraft more than he trusted any faith in God.

“Believe me,” the odd one insisted. “He comes.”

“I’ll be ready,” Bjorn promised, eager to have a chance to kill Holt with his bare hands. It mattered not whether he lived or died, only that he fought bravely. He only hoped the half-brained sorcerer was not a fraud, for this time, he was certain, he would fight to the death.

Holt fingered his whip lovingly. The leather pommel fit his grip perfectly, and the resounding crack when he flipped his wrist could cause a faithless man to suddenly fall on his knees and pray for God’s forgiveness. Aye, the whip was a weapon of power and fear, one that took long to kill a man, but gave the owner time to savor the killing.

Connor and Kelvin were with him as he entered the dungeon, and their footsteps no doubt caused dread in the hearts of the wretches chained within the prison. A thrill of power, not unlike the excitement he felt each time Dilys, the milkmaid, was hauled into his room, scorched through his blood. She was a tiny thing, with only the smallest of breasts budding, and Holt had not bedded her; in truth he thought her not ready, but he bared those tiny breasts of hers and made her play with them, her eyes downcast, as he fondled Nell in her presence. She was too young to be a decent whore, but in time she would learn to pleasure him and his men, for soldiers, if not given a bit of feminine pleasure, were a surly lot. Holt had picked out the girls he planned to use to service them—Dilys was the youngest—but in time, two years or less, he planned to deflower her and show her what it was to pleasure a man. She was already learning from Nell, whose ripe, full breasts and fat, round rump were a willing source of pleasure.

Though she was not Megan. His guts tightened again, for ’twas Megan with whom he wanted to lie and with whom he wanted to beget children. More than anything, he wanted her submission, he wanted to thrust his body into hers and see the surrender in her eyes. He could not think of her now without his damned cock bulging in his breeches.

Holt planned to be a strong ruler. His men, allowed to wager on dice, cockfights, and the baiting of bears, would also enjoy the women he provided and the wages he paid. In return, he would demand and receive their undying loyalty.

At the final bend in the stairwell, he held his rush light higher and made his way through the stench to the farthest cells, where the jailer sat on a stool, his mouth open as he snored, drool gleaming in his gray-flecked beard.

“Wake up, you dolt!” Holt kicked at the man, who started and blinked.

“Eh—wha—oh, Sir Holt, er, m’lord, ’tis sorry I am ye caught me nappin’. I was jest restin’ me eyes and—”