Immortal Outlaw

by Lisa Hendrix

  They reached the stone church and dismounted to go inside, but they’d barely taken a dozen steps when Steinarr stopped and pointed at the arch over the gate. “Your cuckoo.”

  She started forward, then stopped. “Oh, no.”

  The gate was decorated not with one cuckoo, not with two, but with three and ten—the one at the top Steinarr had spotted, plus six smaller ones carved down each side, sitting in neatly carved bushes. And beyond, in the churchyard, stood a headstone with a bush-and-cuckoo carved on it.

  “I fear the people of Gotham have embraced the tale of the wise men too well,” said Matilda. “I wonder if there are more.”

  By the time the bells rang Nones, they knew there were. They’d found cuckoos on the font and on two misericords inside the church; as a sign over a rough tavern in the village proper; and on the gateposts at the manor, looking much like the one at the church, and by its appearance, carved by the same hand.

  Dejected, Matilda stood staring at the last. “I should have known when it seemed so easy. How do we tell which one holds the next puzzle?”

  Steinarr glanced around to see who was watching, then went over and ran his hand over several of the cuckoos under the pretense of leaning against the gatepost to remove a stone from his boot. “They are solid. There must be something in the puzzle we did not see.”

  “Aye.” She started to open her scrip.

  “Not here. We will find a good place to camp and turn our minds to it there.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she said, bobbing like an obedient servant as a group of men came out of the manor yard carrying their scythes. Steinarr strode off toward the horses, ignoring her as a knight would a servant, and she followed as a servant would a knight—mocking him behind his back. The men snorted back laughs and hurried on, heads down, when Steinarr turned to scowl at them.

  “What were you doing?” he asked as they prepared to remount.

  “You play cross most excellently, monsire.”

  “I have had much experience since I met you.” He started to bend to hand her up, but paused. “I could arrange for you to rest in the hall tonight. You would have to sleep with the lady’s serving women but …”

  She tilted her head to look at him, confused by his offer. “We could not speak freely in the hall, monsire.”

  “I know, but you would have at least a pallet to sleep on for one night, and other women to talk to.”

  “A pallet and other women would not solve the puzzle,” she said gently, touched by this kindness. “Besides, I grow used to the ground.”

  His forehead furrowed, making it appear that, for some reason, he wasn’t pleased by her choice. “We will make camp, then. I think I know where to find a good place.”

  They backtracked north and west, to the river they’d forded earlier that morning, then followed it a little way south until they found some higher ground that lay back far enough to avoid the midges. It took some hunting, but Steinarr finally picked out a spot he liked.

  Matilda had to smile at his choice, a place where a fallen tree had taken out part of the slope with its roots and left a small bank. “Even here, where the land is so flat, you manage to find me a cave.”

  “Hardly a cave, but it will give you something at your back to cut the night breeze and be easier for Torvald to defend.” He started undoing the ropes that held the gear on the packsaddle. “You should look at the puzzle again while the light is with us. I will set camp and see to the wood and the horses.”

  Matilda carried her scrip over to sit on the trunk of the fallen tree. She fished out the parchment and flattened it across her knees. “ ‘Next visit the village where wise men fooled a king and take from it the bird they held in the bush.’ We must be able to carry the cuckoo away.”

  “It would seem so,” said Steinarr.

  She examined the parchment as thoroughly as she had the one from the Lady Well. There was a tiny fragment of knotwork across one corner of the scrap that showed it had been reused, but otherwise it seemed to hold no secrets. She took out the hilt that had held the parchment and started going over it piece by piece, searching for the tini est marking.

  All the while, Steinarr worked, unloading, arranging things for the night, gathering wood, laying a fire. And then he knelt to take out his flint and firesteel, and her mind went straight back to Harworth, as it had every time he’d lighted a fire since. Take you like this, he’d said as he’d knelt behind her. She imagined how it might feel to have him enter her that way. She’d seen people do it more than once, and though the priests warned against it, both the man and the woman had always seemed to enjoy it. Steinarr’s hands would be free to touch her in the most interesting ways …

  “We should solve the puzzle first,” he said.

  “What?” She came out of her reverie to find him watching her with narrow, hungry eyes. He looked the way she felt, and she wondered if it was so clear on her.

  “Before we spare the time for what you’re thinking of, we must solve the puzzle.”

  She felt herself blush. “How do you know what I am thinking of?”

  “Because I think of it, too, every time I put steel to flint, thanks to my foolishness at Harworth. But if I acted on every thought of you, we would never find Robin’s treasure for the swiving.”

  “It is the same for me.”

  He froze. His lips pressed together in a thin line and he shut his eyes and took a deep breath that came out on a sigh. “I did not need to hear that just now.”

  “You said once that it was not a bad thing to be an honest man.”

  “A little less honesty on your part, woman, would help me keep my mind out of your quaint. We must behave ourselves, unless there is truly time free that cannot be spent on our task.”

  She chewed her lip. “Of course. But—”

  “But now is a time for the puzzle,” he said firmly. “What have you found?”

  “Rien. Nothing.”

  “Would it help to tell me the whole tale?”

  “You have heard most of it. Father likes … liked stories, but he was never one to spin one out beyond its barest bones. He only told the story of Gotham because, much as he liked the king, he found Edward’s visits burdensome and admired Gotham’s cleverness in avoiding them.”

  Steinarr made a noise of disgust. “Little pig hole.”

  “My father?” she said, bristling despite the fact that she’d sometimes called him worse in her own head. She didn’t want others doing it, though.

  “No, Guy. He told me your father was enamored of the gestes and let you fill your head with them. He said your love of the gestes was why the bastard le Chape was able to lure you from home on this quest. It was part of what made me believe you and Robin …”

  “Guy lies about many things. If I were a man …” Trying to distract herself, she fiddled with the pommel piece, lifting it to her eye to peer through the red carbuncle. “If I were a man, everything would be as upside down as it is through this stone. You stand on the sky, monsire.”

  She dropped the pommel among the other things on her lap. The stone hit the piece of leather and sent it flying off, and as she bent to pick up the scrap, she glimpsed a few faint lines on the inner surface of the curl. Her heart racing, she carefully flattened the piece. “Look. On the inside of the leather. I think it is a map.”

  Steinarr came over and together they traced out the lines, most of which were so faint they barely showed against the raw inner surface of the leather. “It is. Well done, Marian.”

  “ ‘Twas only chance that let me see it. The light was just so. Is it Gotham?”

  “It is. See how the lanes fork, as they do in the village? And that cross is in the right place to mark the church.”

  “Then that must be our cuckoo.” She pointed to a roughly drawn outline of a bird near one arm of the fork. “Is that one we found?”

  He touched the map, silently marking the ones they’d seen. “No. We will have to find it tomorrow. The sun will set soon.”
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  “Then we can do no more now?”

  “No. Not today.”

  “Good.” She carefully scraped together the bits and pieces of the hilt and put them in her scrip. Setting it aside, she turned and laced her fingers around his neck. “Then we have time to light a flame. Teach me how my flint may be well struck with your steel, my lord.”

  “A lesson you have already seen demonstrated, no doubt.” He kissed her forehead, then carefully pulled her arms away and pressed kisses into her palms before he rose and stepped over to the fire. “Unfortunately, there is no time.”

  “There is the whole night ahead.” She went after him and threaded her arms around his waist. “We had an easy day, and tomorrow we must rest in Gotham at least long enough to find the cuckoo and figure out where it leads us. We can pass the entire night in swiving if we wish.” She lifted onto her toes. “And I wish.”

  She kissed him, but it was like kissing a statue. Determined, she poured her effort into seducing him, sweeping into his mouth with her tongue, nipping at his lip, insisting on a response, until finally he groaned. His tongue plunged into her mouth with that desperate passion she had felt so often, and she moaned encouragement and found his belt buckle and began to work it loose.

  His hands went to her wrists as if to pull her away, but he hesitated, and his battle with himself would have been clear to even the most casual watcher. She moved against him, letting him know how very much she wanted him, but something stronger than desire made him pull her hands away.

  “No, Marian. Too much of the day is gone. I must go.”

  “No. Please stay. Even if we don’t … Please stay.”

  “I cannot.”

  “But why? Two nights now, since we lay together at the elf house, and this the third, and I do not understand why.”

  “I told you—”

  “You told me first that I was too annoying, next that you wanted me too much, next that we would be too tired from swiving to ride. Now we have time and an easy day both before us and behind us, and still you will not stay. Was I such poor sport a-bed that you must work so hard to avoid me?”

  “You are delicious sport, a-bed or not,” he said and she felt the lurch of desire that confirmed the truth of that, at least. “And I do want you again. But not by night.”

  “Why? The truth.”

  “I do not rest well at night. I would disturb you.”

  “Your leaving disturbs me.”

  “Not as much as if I stayed.” His face twisted in agony and he blurted it out. “I am dangerous at night, Marian.”

  She laid her hand on his chest to soothe him. “How can a sleeping man be dangerous?”

  “I am … possessed by …” His jaw clenched, and he shook his head as though holding back some word too vile to say. “I have terrible dreams. I grow violent. I have even harmed others.”

  “I would wake you,” she argued.

  “I do not wake from these dreams. Not until dawn.”

  “Then Torvald could stop you from doing harm. He protects me from wolves. He could surely protect me from you.”

  “No.” He jerked away and turned toward the horses so she couldn’t see his eyes, but the bitterness boiling off him said enough. “He cannot. And do you truly want to tup while Torvald stands watch nearby?”

  She thought of the silent warrior and his vigilance and blushed. “No. But I would like to sleep in your arms, at your side, even so.”

  “And I would like to have you there, very much, but I cannot stay.”

  “You could at least pass the evening with us. With me.”

  His shoulders sagged. “It cannot be. I must have light to find a place away from you.”

  His bitterness echoed within her, drawing her frustration to the fore. “So you wish to tup me when it is convenient and the sun shines, but not share a blanket with me. This is foul, monsire. Truly foul.”

  “It is, and I am sorry for it. But I would rather have you angry with me than wake to find that I had harmed you in the night.” He untied the stallion and swung up. “I cannot discuss this more. I must go.”

  “And I am to just stay here, and pass another evening staring into the fire with your tight-lipped friend?”

  “Aye. For by the fire with Torvald you are safe, and that is what I want above all.” He guided the horse over near her. “You have the best of me by day, Marian. Be satisfied with that.”

  “It seems, my lord, that I have little choice.” She turned her back on him, and when she turned around again, he was long gone.

  CHAPTER 14

  MARIAN WAS STILL angry the next morning, so angry she already had the rouncey loaded and was standing, thin-lipped and arms folded, ready to leave as Steinarr rode into camp. She prickled like a hedgehog when he smiled at her, and his back went up in return. He was just trying to protect her. Why couldn’t she see that?

  However, though she was in a wroth, she was still willing to feed him: several slices of bread and cheese lay waiting by the fire. Grateful, Steinarr gobbled them down without a word, saddled the stallion, then checked the rouncey to make sure the load was balanced and secure.

  It was perfect. He looked at Marian. “You had Torvald do it, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I had Torvald do it,” she snapped. “I am no stable boy. Are you ready, monsire?”

  He bit back a sharp reply—the entire mess was his fault, after all—and helped her mount.

  The folk of Gotham were just heading to Mass as they reached the demesne fields. Steinarr lingered in the shadows of the woodland, waiting for the church doors to close behind the last stragglers, then put the spurs to the horse. “If we are fast, we can have your prize and be gone before anyone is the wiser.”

  They rode straight to where the map was marked. Marian immediately pointed to the well. “There. I never saw it yesterday.”

  “Neither did I. Stay here.” Steinarr stepped off the horse straight onto the edge of the well and reached for the bronze cuckoo that perched atop the well cover. It took all his strength to break it loose, and when it came free, it was with a loud ring of metal on metal. He glanced around to be sure no one had noticed, then dropped it inside his gown. It chimed again, more muted, as it fell. “I think there is something inside.”

  “Is the bird all?” she asked.

  “I see nothing else.” He stretched to throw a leg back over the saddle. “Let us be gone before we are accused of theft. We can come back if need be.”

  He kept an ear cocked as they galloped away, but heard no hue and cry. When they were well out into the woods, he stopped and helped her down, and together, they looked over the cuckoo. It had been cast in two parts. Steinarr borrowed Marian’s knife for its finer blade and tried to pry them apart, but the seam was far too precise. As he worked, the bird jangled enticingly.

  “There must be some way to get in,” fretted Marian.

  “There is.” Steinarr cast about for a hand-sized cobble, then carried it and the bird over to a large, flat rock nearby. While less brittle than iron, the bronze was still brittle enough. Several sharp blows took the head off cleanly. An egg, also bronze, tumbled out and rolled away. “I should have broken the tail instead.”

  She ignored his poor jest to snatch up the egg and shake it. “This rattles as well. Look, ’tis in two parts.” She twisted, and this time the halves came apart. She spilled the contents out: a peg of wood; a flat, round stone; a scrap of canvas, wrapped around what turned out to be a dozen barleycorns; and a tightly folded bit of parchment.

  Marian unfolded it and read it. “Tucker’s Ford.”

  “Tuxford,” said Steinarr.

  “Tuxford. But we passed by there days ago!” she complained. “Why can he not send us directly from place to place?”

  “Because there would be no trial in that. He is being gentle with Robin. If I were out to have a man prove himself, I would have sent him from Headon to here, then to Harworth, then Sudwell and so on. Or set him riding from one end of England to t
he other and back again.”

  “Then thank the saints you are not charting our path. The riddles are difficult enough.”

  “Still, the shorter rides prove your father wanted Robin to have at least a chance at success. That should set you at ease.”

  “And yet, strangely, it does not.”

  He would kiss away the dismay that made her frown, if she weren’t so soured on him just now. Instead, he rose. “Come. At least we know which way to go.”

  She refolded the parchment and returned it and the various bits to the egg, put it back together, and dropped it into her scrip. “The bird is too large for my scrip, but I fear leaving anything behind.”

  “Probably wise, seeing how cleverly your father disguises things.” He gathered the pieces of the cuckoo and stowed them in one of the saddle pouches on the rouncey. “We may discover we must have it sawn apart to find some map or riddle scribed inside.”

  “I hope not,” she said as she rose. “I want to have it repaired and sent back.”

  “Why? Your father clearly had it made and put here just for this purpose.”

  “I doubt the people of Gotham know that. They likely think it was a gift to the village, and they will miss their cuckoo.” She let him help her up and waited while he mounted. “I find I tire of breaking things. The church at Harworth, the gravestone at Sudwell, now this. We even broke the tree and chipped away part of the stone at Blidworth. And there will be more. Father has us laying waste to the entire shire with this foolishness. I want to put some of it right when we are done.”

  “Then we will.”

  “We?”

  “I am your man for as long as you need me. That was my vow. If you need me in that, too, I will be there.”

  “You were not there last night.” Her voice carried accusation and desire and anger and promise, all at once. “I needed you then.”