Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“Don’t bother with excuses, man,” Holt said, his skin crawling. He hated dark places, and being on the right side of the cell door didn’t keep him from feeling as if he couldn’t breathe. Biting back the urge to flee, he stared at his three most recent captives. “Have you anything to say of my wife? Where is Lady Megan being held?” He waited, then, his fingers curving over the handle of his whip. The men in chains stared at him but held their tongues.

“You have but twelve hours to change your minds,” Holt said. “Tomorrow, before noon, I’ll haul your sorry hides to the bailey, where you’ll be tied and your shirts removed. I’ll flog you within an inch of your miserable lives and then you’ll tell me what you know!” He waited, half expecting one of the men to break down, beg his forgiveness, and cleanse his soul by spilling the truth, but he heard nothing but the steady drip from the cistern and the rustle of the grimy rushes on the floor. “So be it,” he finally said, rage firing his blood as he cracked the whip, and the sound reverberated against the stone walls. “But think not I’ll have pity on anyone who helped the outlaw bastard steal my wife!”

Megan’s teeth chattered and her fingers and feet were numb with the cold. She’d been riding over a week and had fought the urge to pull on the reins and turn around. Unable to feed herself or the animals, she sold the smaller horse and had enough money in her pocket for several nights’ lodging and warm meals, but she didn’t dare stop, not until she reached her destination, not until … dizziness swept over her, the same sensation

she’d had for two days. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a cup of hot cider or some of Cook’s venison broth . . .

Swaying in the saddle, she clung to the reins and tried to keep her wits about her. Snow fell from the sky, collecting and freezing on her mount’s mane. Though she wore gloves, her hands were clenched over the reins and couldn’t feel. She could barely move her fingers. Undaunted, she kept on, certain she was nearly to Erbyn. If only she could talk to Lady Sorcha, find out the truth about Holt, and return to Wolf . . .

Wolf! Her heart cried for him and she bit her lip. Where was he now? Did he think she had betrayed him? Would she ever see him again? She had to! She was a woman with a mission, a woman who was determined to choose her own fate, a woman who—

The blackness threatened to overtake her again. Moving from the outward corners of her vision, slowly encroaching, it advanced. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to clear her head and clung to the saddle pommel, but no matter what she did, the dizzy sensation continued to overtake her and she could no longer tell which was up and which down. The earth tilted.

“God help me.” Reining in her horse, she attempted to dismount. The blackness threatened again. She was halfway off the horse, her foot searching for ground that wasn’t there. With a cry, she fell, toppling to the ground in a heap. The last thing she saw was the clouds swirling wildly as her head banged against the hard, icy road.

Then there was nothing.

Eleven

rack!

The whip buckled, then hissed forward. Like a snake, the tip bit into his flesh, stinging. Bjorn’s body jerked. Pain exploded in his muscles.

“What know you of Megan?” Holt demanded, standing behind him and ready to flail again. “Speak, outlaw!”

Bjorn bit hard on his tongue and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the next blow. His body was on fire, his legs weak, his wrists raw and bleeding where they were bound by leather cuffs and ropes. The outer bailey of Dwyrain swam before his eyes. Dark clouds, swollen with rain, rolled across the sky, and the wind was chill and harsh, cutting through his soul as easily as the whip sliced through his flesh.

“So be it, criminal. Just remember, you chose your own fate!” Snap! The thin rope of leather slapped hard again. Bjorn convulsed, pulling at the straps that held his hands. Numbing blackness threatened to swallow him and he prayed it would be so. Around him, peasants, servants, and soldiers stared at him, some with faint smiles, others holding hands over their mouths as if they were about to be sick, still others with lifeless eyes, as if they cared not. Work had stopped in the castle and he and Cormick had become the main attraction.

“Speak, damn you!” Holt thundered, and Bjorn felt a small measure of satisfaction at the vexation in his tormentor’s voice. “For the love of Christ, tell me!” Another flick of Holt’s cruel wrist. The whip cracked, then sizzled as it flayed another strip of skin off Bjorn’s shoulders. With all his strength, he held his tongue and didn’t look to his side, where Cormick was already sagging against his restraints, blood oozing from his mouth, eyes closed, his skin split open from more than a dozen brutal bites of the whip.

“Stop!” a woman’s voice—the blond girl Cayley—yelled from a window high in the keep. Bjorn could barely see her. “For the love of God, Holt, stop this!”

“Bloody Christ,” Holt muttered, then turned to face the keep. “If what I do offends you, m’lady, do not watch. I only make an example of those who are disloyal to Dwyrain!”

“By beating them until they die? This man was only a messenger, who wanted to help you find Megan—”

“I barter not with the demon outlaw!” Holt said, his temper snapping. In a softer voice, one she would not be able to hear, he growled to one of his men, “Go up to her chamber and keep her away from the window until I’m finished.”

The fat-necked soldier was quick to run to the keep, but not before Cayley yelled again.

“Stop this torture now! The baron would not approve. This is still his castle, his soldiers, his prisoners, and—”

“I spoke with your father this morning, m’lady. ’Twas his idea to flog the truth from these men in an effort to find Megan. ’Twas he who insisted the traitors not go unpunished.”

“Nay, my father would not … Who are you? Stay away! Nay! Leave me be! Unhand me, you brute!” she cried, and then there was silence in the bailey once again.

Holt, grumbling about hardheaded women, advanced to the brace where Bjorn was bound. With the handle of his whip, Holt bashed the side of Bjorn’s face, rattling his teeth. Pain, in a blinding flash, ripped through Bjorn’s jaw. “I’ll find out the truth, you know. One way or t’other. You’d better talk while you can, you dirty, lying dog.”

Bjorn spit blood and hit Holt square in the face.

“You stupid bastard.” Again, the whip handle crashed against his face. With a sickening pop, his nose broke. Blood spurted. Pain screamed through Bjorn’s brain, but he managed to look Holt square in the eye.

Through rattling teeth, he muttered, “Go to hell, you son of the Devil!”

Several peasants laughed and Holt’s face turned red in rage. White lines edged the corner of his mouth. “You first,” he growled and struck another blow. A flash of blinding agony flared behind Bjorn’s eyes and the blackness that he welcomed came at last to claim him.

Cayley shoved her trencher aside. Ever since Holt had banished her to her chamber, she’d seethed. Treated like a wayward child! Not trusted even to take meals in the great hall! Restrained by a big, burly, stinking knight while the outlaws were being flogged! She glanced at Megan’s bed and felt a deep pang of sorrow for the sister she’d tormented and teased.