Outlaw

by Lisa Jackson

  “She was not here,” Holt admitted.

  “Where was she?” Megan’s heart blood turned to ice. Something evil was happening here at Dwyrain, something she didn’t understand, something that involved her sister.

  “Lady Cayley left.”

  “Left?” She turned to the priest so quickly that a gust of wind caught her hood and tore it from her head.

  Father Timothy stared at her for a heartbeat, cleared his throat, and nodded. “Aye.”

  Holt scratched his upper lip. “I did not want to worry you—”

  “So you told me she was ill?” Megan spat. Vile, treacherous man!

  “She was kidnapped by a prisoner who escaped. A big yellow-haired brute who used her as a shield as he made his way out through the gates—”

  “Bjorn?” Megan said, her mind spinning in restless worrisome circles as she recalled him at the outlaw camp. Shaking her head, she said, “Nay, he would not …”

  “He was desperate,” Holt inserted, shooting a look at the priest as if to stop any disagreement from the man of God. “He and the other man—”

  “Cormick,” Megan said under her breath, unable to hear over the painful hammering of her heart.

  “—aye, they tried to escape. The one you call Cormick was killed in his attempt to flee the castle, but the other used Cayley as his hostage and was able to elude my men.”

  “Liar!” she said, feeling revulsion as the earth shifted beneath her feet. Not only was her father dead, but Cormick, gentle, gruff Cormick, as well. Because of Holt. “Bjorn would never use another’s life to save his.”

  “So you know him well?” Holt was not pleased. Several deep clefts appeared in the skin between his eyebrows.

  “Aye, and he’s a good man, a—”

  “Criminal. Wanted by the law. A robber, thief, pickpocket, murderer, or rapist, most likely. Your precious criminal is no better than the scum of the earth.”

  “No, Holt, methinks you alone retain that honor,” she argued, thankful that her sister was free from the rein of terror that was sure to ruin Dwyrain and everything Cayley held dear. Run, Cayley, she silently thought, run fast and never return!

  Holt’s jaw clenched and the fingers around her arm dug deep into her flesh. “So my wife has come home only to defy me.”

  “And annul the marriage.”

  Holt laughed. “Christ Jesus, you be a saucy tart! ’Twill never happen.” He leaned closer to her, his voice low and rough to her ear. “I’ve waited long for you, wife, but tonight the waiting ends and I will get you with child. Then, not even God Himself would dare break our union.”

  A wave of sickness climbed up her throat. She could never give herself to this cur who wore her father’s robes, stole his keep, and lied through his teeth. “What do you want of me? You have the keep!”

  Holt eyed her reflectively. Hesitating a second, he touched her hair and sighed. “ ’Twas true, as well you know. I wanted the castle and the wealth that was Dwyrain, and I worked close with your father so that he would choose me as his successor, but that wasn’t enough, Megan. I wanted you as well.” She could hardly believe her ears. His voice was firm, his chin set in determination. “I hoped that you would care for me, that you would agree to become my bride.”

  She tried to step away, but his grip was harsh, and as he drew her closer, the tip of his tongue swept over his thin lips. “Since you defied me and rejected my courtship and proposal, I wanted you more than ever.”

  “Why?”

  His grin stretched into a seductive leer. “Because, dear wife, the taming of you will be that much sweeter.”

  Without thinking, she slapped him. The sound of flesh striking flesh echoed through the bailey. A woman gasped. The priest crossed himself and all work ceased. The farrier stopped pounding, the carpenters stayed their hammers, even the windmill quieted.

  Holt’s expression changed from leering seduction to rage. “That,” he said through lips that barely moved, “was a mistake.”

  Two soldiers stepped forward as if to take her off his hands. Every eye in the keep turned in their direction. Holt’s patience was stretched to the breaking point. “Careful, wife, or our joining will be rougher than you might wish.”

  “You sick, lying bastard! You told me that Cayley was ill, that you were taking me to see her!”

  “A small deception, I’m afraid. I did not want to worry you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What would you have done once I was in her empty chamber?”

  “Detain you.”

  “As you would a common prisoner?”

  “You leave me no choice,” he said with measured calm, “for you said yourself you do not think of me as your husband. Until I can convince you otherwise, you will be locked in your room and—”

  “Nay, m’lord,” Father Timothy interjected. “You cannot jail her as you would a traitor.”

  “She’ll have her own room, food and water, a guard at her door, and be allowed visitors of my choosing—treated much better than those held captive in the north tower.” Yanking on her arm, he half dragged her toward the keep.

  Megan felt like a fool. She dug in her heels, trying to stop him, knowing that dozens of curious eyes were cast in her direction. The men and women who watched her being pulled into the keep against her will, would they help her or damn her for not living up to the forced promises of her wedding day? “Nay,” she cried, “unhand me!”

  Holt’s face changed from a mask of determined impatience to one of leashed, ugly fury. “Tell her,” he ordered the priest, anger creasing his words. “Tell her she is my wife.”

  Father Timothy fingered the cross at his neck. His eyes, once so superior and condemning, now held only pity. “ ’Tis true, m’lady. Your marriage vows are sacred.”

  Despair threatened her and she turned her gaze upon the man with whom she was doomed to spend the rest of her life. “Would you want a wife who loves you not?”

  Holt stopped dead in his tracks and whirled on her. “Love?” he repeated. “What in the name of Christ has love got to do with marriage?”

  “Everything!” she cried.

  “Megan, Megan,” he said, clucking his tongue. “What happened to you in the forest to make you think that love is so important? I never took you for such a fool—” His words stopped suddenly and his eyes narrowed as if a great understanding had come to him. “Wolf,” he said, his teeth grinding together. “You did not come here to flee him,” he said, his nostrils flaring in silent rage, “but to find him.”

  “I—”

  “Everything that was said, about you leaving with him willingly, about your giving yourself to him like a common whore, ’twas true,” he said venomously, as if wounded to his very soul. Then, as if finding an inner strength, he spat and said, “It matters not.”

  She tried to jerk her arm from his deadly grasp, but he only tightened his grip and pinned her hand behind her back, forcing her to face away from him and stare at the carpenter’s hut, where a platform and scaffolding was half finished. “Merciful God,” she cried, realizing that the structure was a gallows, nearly finished. “What is this?”

  “For your friends,” he said. “Wolf, the sorcerer, a boy and man who rode with him, and the traitors in the castle.”

  “No,” she said and thought she might be sick. The skeleton of the gallows swam before her eyes and her knees buckled, but Holt’s firm grip kept her upright. “You cannot,” she cried and panic raced through her blood, thundering in her brain. “Nay, nay, nay!”

  “ ’Tis true enough,” Holt said. “They all will hang. I was only waiting until one of them told me where to find you, but now that my willful wife has returned, there is no need to delay the event any longer.”

  “Holt, please,” she begged. “Please, do not send them to their deaths.”

  “ ’Tis too late to bargain, m’lady,” he said, smiling at last. “They’ll be hanged tomorrow at sunset, every one of them, including the leader of the outlaws—your precious Wolf.�
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  Awaken.

  The voice sounded odd, as if it were spoken from a great distance.

  Ware of Abergwynn, awaken and I will heal you.

  Wolf opened an eye and sucked in his breath. Gritting his teeth, his body clenched from the pain, he held his tongue. For the first time in his life, he welcomed death.

  She is here. Lady Megan has come searching for you.

  What? With every ounce of strength he could summon, Wolf struggled to a sitting position and found himself in a hideous, smelly cell deep in the dungeons of Dwyrain. His head ached wildly, the pain behind his eyes was intense and blinding, and his back stung as if it were on fire.

  “ ’Tis over,” he said, though no sound came from his voice.

  You cannot give up on her.

  Megan. His heart ached at the thought of her, her warm, golden eyes, easy laugh, and wild curls. The few hours of bliss he’d had on this earth were when she’d been with him, giving of her body and her spirit. His throat ached, but not for water. Nay, though he was thirsty, ’twas not for drink. If only he could see her before his spirit left this earth.

  You will only die if you so wish it, the voice reprimanded again, and finally his head was clear enough to understand that Cadell, the sorcerer, was speaking to him through his mind—or was it that he was addled himself?

  For the love of Christ, look at me!

  Wolf raised his eyes and his gaze connected with the intense, outwardly serene stare of the magician. Now, friend, pay attention, for I will heal you and you will be strong again, but for our plan to work, you must pretend to be weak and feign that you are near death. Not even Megan can suspect that you be whole; elsewise, all is lost.

  “ ’Tis lost already.”

  “Say what?” the guard asked, looking up from his post.

  ’ve never thought you were a coward, Ware. Prove me not wrong! Lady Megan’s life depends upon you.

  Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes, Wolf inched himself across the cell. Through fetid rushes, scraps of bone from previous meals, rat dung, and spiders, he forced his battered muscles and broken bones to move. Each bit of space he crossed felt as if it lasted forever, but he set his jaw and decided that if he was going to leave this earth, he’d do it while trying to save the woman he loved.

  The thought jolted him, for he’d vowed never to love another woman, not after giving his heart to Mary and watching her be destroyed. Now, years later, he’d fallen for another woman, a beautiful, headstrong baron’s daughter who had married his worst enemy, and his actions had started a chain of events that might cost Megan her happiness as well as her life.

  Nay, he could not die with her death on his hands. If there was a way to save her, he’d find it, no matter what the cost.

  That’s better, Cadell intoned without words. He stretched a hand through the bars and clasped Wolf’s frail fingers with his own strong hand. Heal, friend. Cadell closed his eyes and a warmth the likes of which Wolf had never felt before swept from the magician’s body to his. Be strong and you will see your beloved Megan again.

  “I demand an audience with my husband!” Megan yelled, the word tasting foul on her tongue as she pounded on the door. “Do you hear me, guard? Fetch Lord Holt, for I needs speak with him!” She’d been deceived and locked in her chamber for nearly a day. In that time she’d slept fitfully, prayed constantly, and eaten only a bite or two of the food sent her way. She was allowed to speak to no one but the guard. Not even Rue was permitted to visit her.

  She’d waited, standing for most of the day upon a stool to look through the window and watch as the gallows was constructed. Every thud of the carpenter’s hammer drove a nail of fear deeper into her heart. She’d heard snippets of gossip from the laundress and milkmaid as they’d passed under her window. Not only were Wolf, Jagger, and the sorcerer to be hanged, but young Robin and a boy named Tom—the son of the man building the hated structure—as well. But the builder did not slack in his work, and the horrid wooden structure was taking form.

  “Did you not hear me? I demand to speak to Lord Holt!” she cried again, pounding on the thick oak of the door until her knuckles began to bleed.

  “I heard ye, m’lady, but the baron’s out for a while.”

  “Then am I not in charge of the castle?”

  There was a soft laugh on the other side of the heavy oak beams and Megan leaned uselessly against those imprisoning timbers. “Lord ’Olt, ’e said ye’d try somethin’ like this. Nay, Sir Connor is in charge while the baron’s out ’unting.”

  “Hunting?” she repeated, feeling the horrid talons of defeat swipe at her courage. Holt is out hunting while Wolf and Robin are doomed to breathe their last breaths?

  “Aye—oh, ye do ’ave a visitor.”

  With a clank of locks and the scrape of the heavy bar being lifted, the door opened and Father Timothy, a look of vast superiority pinned neatly on his face again, swept into the room on a cloud of pious pomposity.

  “Please, m’lady, if you would pray with me,” he said, his voice cold and distant, “for your husband has pointed out to me that you may have sinned in the days since your capture and you may need to confess.” He lifted his eyes to the sentry still standing at the open door. “This is private,” he said, “between a woman and her God.”

  “Aye.” Crossing himself, the sentry scooted quickly out of Megan’s chamber. The bolt slid into place.

  “I have nothing to confess.”

  “On your knees,” Father Timothy commanded in a rough voice. “Fold your hands and pretend to pray, so that if the guard opens the door, ’twill look as if everything is right. Now, listen, I care not about your confession, nor about your sins.”

  Falling to her knees, she wanted to believe him, but this man had lied before, his piety second only to his own needs.

  “Cayley did not leave the castle as Holt would have you believe. Nor did your father die quietly in his sleep.” Solemnly, in the cadence of a chant of prayer, the priest unburdened himself, telling of his part in Cayley’s escape, Holt’s murder of Cormick, his torture of Wolf, and finally, the sorcerer’s claim that her father was sent to his grave early by the man who was her husband. “He is a fiend, the very spawn of the Devil,” Father Timothy admitted, “and I placed my trust in him. I was a fool and God is punishing me. As part of my atonement I helped Lady Cayley flee, and I will do my best to see that your marriage is annulled.”

  She should have been relieved but she was stricken by the depths of Holt’s treachery.

  “Alas, I cannot save you from your husband unless you, like Cayley, leave and give me time to speak to the abbot and the bishop on your behalf.”

  “I cannot leave,” she said firmly. As long as Wolf and Robin were alive, she would stay and try to help them. “But if you need atone, then help me find a way out of my chamber so I can visit the prisoners.”

  He shook his head. “ ’Tis impossible. The guards have instructions.”

  “You are a man of God. Surely you can convince a dull soldier that ’tis the will of the Lord that I visit the poor wretches in the dungeon, as part of my duties as the baron’s wife.”

  Sighing, he glanced to the window and shook his head, as if seeing, in a distance visible only to him, his own ruin. “I’ll try,” he said, rising from the floor and crossing himself. At the door, he spoke with the guard, who argued with him for a few minutes, then left, only to return and argue again. Megan heard only parts of the conversation, but it had to do with the soldier’s doomed soul and the will of God. Father Timothy was adamant that God wanted the lady of the manor to visit the prisoners, to speak with the men who had kidnapped her and to, in good Christian manner, forgive them before their black souls left this earth.

  Eventually, after many words and much debate from the dullard who stood by her door, Timothy was allowed to take her to the dungeon as long as the guard himself joined them.

  Megan steeled herself for the worst. Though she’d never been to the prisons of Dwyrain
before, she knew they were cruel cells that were built to hold only the most dangerous criminals and traitors to the baron. Her father used the dungeon rarely and she trembled inside as she followed the priest down the staircase and outside the great hall. A rush of wind tore at her cloak and brushed her cheeks with its icy breath. Shivering with dread, still she smiled at the people who greeted her, the steward and tailor and a farmer who had sold sheep to her father.

  Inside the north tower was worse than she’d feared. Aside from reeking of a foul stench, the stairs were dark and uneven. The prisoners were held on the lowest level, the same dark hell where they’d been tortured, according to the priest, a place she’d visited only once as a child on a dare from her brother Bevan.

  Clutching her cloak, she followed the priest to a guard station and the surrounding cells, small rooms with walls of rusted bars.

  Wolf lay within one cell, his back to the door, and her heart, traitor that it was, soared at the sight of him before she saw the new welts upon his shoulders, the bruises showing beneath his dark skin, and the fresh scars of burns where he’d been tortured. The contents of her stomach, meager though they were, threatened her throat, and she swallowed hard as she made her way to the cell door.

  “Let me inside.”

  “Nay.” The guard on duty shook his head. “Father Timothy, these men are not to have any visitors.”

  “ ’Tis the lady of the manor. She is here only to see that the prisoners are treated fairly.”

  “But—”

  “Hush, man!” Megan ordered, taking Timothy’s cue. “Elsewise I’ll report to my husband that I was mistreated.”

  Wolf’s head rolled her way. His eyes, once bright, were glassy and vacant. Oh, God, no! Let him not be in pain. Help him, please!

  “ ’Tis Holt’s wife,” he sneered, his voice gravelly and foreign.

  “Wolf!” she cried.

  “What is it you want?” he snarled with no trace of kindness—no hint of the gentle man hidden deep beneath his hard exterior. His eyes were feral and slitted; he appeared a beast she didn’t recognize.