Immortal Outlaw

by Lisa Hendrix

  “Is Osbert one of your men?” asked Will Scathelocke from the place in the rear where Steinarr had made him ride most of the way.

  “I have no men,” growled Steinarr over his shoulder for the hundredth time. “Osbert is a collier. A very round collier, who courts Marian for wife.”

  “Do not mock poor Osbert,” said Matilda. “He only wants a mother for his children.”

  “Aye, and to get a dozen more on her. I pity the woman he marries next. Her life will be all children and charcoal.”

  “I considered him,” she said.

  “You what?”

  Unprepared for his sudden outrage, she flinched. “ ‘Twas only a moment’s thought, when I feared we would never complete the quest.”

  “But why Osbert?”

  “He is not so fat as Baldwin, and he has a far better spirit. I also considered taking the veil.” That made him angry, too, but not so angry as the idea of Osbert.

  “They both seem poor choices for a fair lady,” mused Will. “To work yourself to death as the wife of a fat collier or wither away as a nun.”

  “At least I had the choice. Some women have none. Most women, perhaps.” She traced a line just above Steinarr’s belt with one fingertip and murmured, “And I did have one other idea that proved worthwhile.”

  This time, she kept her defenses down on purpose, the better to savor the desire that lurched off him. They had not spoken of lovemaking since Will had attached himself, much less found time to actually enjoy any—although perhaps it wasn’t fair to blame Will when the race back to Headon had eaten every hour between dawn and dusk. Throughout, Steinarr had struggled to keep his good humor, but his mind had begun to seethe with that wild darkness again, desire overlaid with anger and that other thing she still didn’t understand but had begun to recognize as a part of what made him himself. She wanted him, and she liked that the sharpness of his need matched and heightened her own. She yearned to drown in all that wildness again.

  As if he understood, he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing kisses to each finger before he drew the tip of one into his mouth and sucked. Suddenly she was back in that moment in the elf house, waiting for his mouth to close on her. If Will were not there …

  “Riders! Riders!” A call went up, jerking them both out of the moment. A moment later, Much’s cracking voice called, “ ‘Tis Sir Steinarr and Marian and a stranger.”

  “It seems we are arrived.” Steinarr pressed a last, tender kiss to her fingertips and released her to murmur, “If it is of any account, I am glad you chose the last.”

  “As am I,” she whispered.

  Children came bounding around the end of the charcoal pit like so many hares, followed by the men who began to straggle out of the woods in pairs, calling greetings. Goda reached the horses and took hold of Marian’s ankle, the only thing she could reach. “I knew you would be back today.”

  “She ‘knew’ you would be back every day since you left,” said her brother.

  Ari’s long legs carried him more quickly than the other men’s, and he reached them just after the children. “God’s knees, I am glad you two are back.”

  “You will not be for long,” promised Steinarr. He slid off and reached up for Matilda. “Ari, that is Will. He will tell you why he has been following us since Hokenall, and then I will tell you what I am going to do to you because of it. Where is Robin? He should be up and about by now.”

  “Still abed. There was a bit of a problem. This nun—”

  Matilda didn’t bother to hear the rest, hurrying off toward where her brother lay just outside one of the huts. His paleness shocked her to a standstill. “Oh, Rob …”

  His smile was warm, but wan. “Do I look so bad?”

  “Aye.” She knelt by the cot and put a hand to his forehead. “What happened?”

  “Well, it started with the quinsy.”

  Matilda listened with growing anger as he told of the prioress, of being carried off to Headon, of too many bleedings. She pulled aside the bandages on his arm, saw all the cuts, and rounded on Ari in a fury. “You were supposed to keep him safe!”

  “Sir Ari is not to blame,” said Edith. “The prioress came upon us when he was gone to Retford and carted Robin away before we could say aught.”

  “Robin!” came a voice from the back. “He is Robin? But he—”

  “Shut up, Will,” said Steinarr and Matilda together.

  “No, Marian is right,” said Ari. “It is all on me. I should have brought him back here as soon as I found out. But when I went to see him the first day, he was well and happy.”

  “I was,” Robin confirmed. “I asked him to leave me there, thinking to give Edith and Ivetta some respite. Then she said my throat was worse.”

  “I did not realize she was bleeding him,” said Ari. “She kept me away, saying he was too ill.”

  “But he came anyway and rescued me, and I am safe here now and getting stronger already, thanks to Edith’s herbs and Ivetta’s good food. I will be ready to ride in a day or two. Have you found the …” He glanced at the colliers who had gathered around. “Is that why you are here?”

  “We will speak of that later,” said Steinarr. “Right now, you rest. Ari, a word.” He started to walk off, then came back and grabbed Will by the collar to haul him along. “You, too.”

  ’Twas more than a word, and they were all said loudly and at length at the far side of the clearing. Chuckling, Hamo and his men watched a little, then drifted back to their work. As Steinarr gradually calmed down, Matilda sat on the ground beside Robin, holding his hand and talking with the children and the women, sharing what she could about her journey without giving away too much before the others. Eventually, Osbert called the older boys back to work and Ivetta set the girls and the little ones to various chores; Matilda found herself alone with Robin.

  He glanced around to be sure no one was near enough to hear. “What about the rest of it?”

  She gave him a brief accounting of the riddles. When she got to Tuxford and the egg, he shook his head glumly.

  “I would never have been able to do it.”

  “You would, Rob. You would have needed help—not me, or at least more than me—but you could have done it. You still must do some.” She explained about Hokenall and Newstead and the abbot and the final riddle. “He would not say what it is, but finding the riddle itself was so simple, I fear that solving it may be more difficult than all the rest.”

  “That would be like him,” said Robin, and the sadness beneath his words tore at Matilda’s heart. “Even when I was a child, he would offer a toy or sweet, set me some task to earn it, then snatch it away at the last instant by making the final part of the task more difficult than I could manage.”

  “But this time, he meant for you to succeed. Steinarr says he could have made it much more difficult, and he could, truly, Rob. But he didn’t. You will be able to do this final thing, whatever it is, just as you could have found a way to do the rest. And at least we know where the king is, or where he will be. ’Tis only a matter of getting you and it and him all together at one place.”

  “Do we know yet what it is we seek?”

  “The abbot would not say, but I have had these last days as we rode back to think of nothing else. I think I may know. Do you remember the box where Father kept his rings and cloak pins?”

  “The one of copper, with the figures on it?”

  “Aye. That was what was in Sudwell. Do you remember what else he kept in it?”

  Robin stared at the sky, thinking, but in the end, shook his head. “I was never allowed to play in it the way you were.”

  “Even I did not recall, at first.” She reached into her scrip and pulled out the scrap of parchment from Blidworth. She turned it over to show him the fragment of knotwork on the back. “Does this remind you?”

  “Should it?”

  “Perhaps this.” She pulled out the cylinder from the Lady Well. “We discovered the Seven Sins at Harworth—that is, Ste
inarr discovered them, but—”

  “Steinarr?”

  “Aye, he—”

  “That is the second time you have called him just Steinarr and not Sir Steinarr.”

  Her cheeks heated. “Sir Steinarr, then. We spent so much time on a horse together that we grew less proper.”

  “How much less proper?” asked Robin, frowning. “Did he keep to his vow?”

  “Yes.” The one he’d made to her anyway.

  “Maud …”

  “He kept to his vow,” she repeated more firmly, unwilling to have Robert’s trust in Steinarr fail just when he so needed it. There would be time later for truth and apologies. “As I said, he discovered the Sins, which we needed to find the riddle in Harworth. But it was only later I noticed this.” She flipped the cylinder over and showed Robin the three tiny figures on the bottom. “More of the tarnish rubbed away inside the scrip and revealed it.”

  “The king’s lions. Oh.” Robin picked up the scrap of parchment from Blidworth again. “Now I know this knotwork. ’Tis from the covenant piece. That was the other thing he kept in the box.”

  “Aye. And there was more knotwork like it on the egg at Tuxford. It took so long to come to mind because I have not seen the piece for so long because—I think—that is what Father has hidden.”

  “Surely not. He would not have let it out of his keeping.”

  “Let what out of his keeping?”

  Matilda started at Steinarr’s voice, but Robert was already smiling up at him. “A lion, monsire.”

  Steinarr got the strangest look. “What lion?”

  “My lord father’s sign.”

  “Your sign, Robin, once we find it,” said Matilda. “It may be what my father hid, monsire—a piece given by King Richard Lionheart to an ancestor who saved his life in the Holy Land. Perhaps to that very Robert whose grave we found.”

  “The grave in Sudwell?” Excitement vibrated off Steinarr, unlike any Matilda had felt off him before.

  “Lord David showed me that very grave when we were on the Gate,” said Robin. “He said King Richard gave the lion to that Lord Robert as pledge that the Crown would be as careful of Huntingdon as he had been of the king.”

  Ari leaned forward, his face nearly as intense as his friend’s. “What does this lion look like?”

  “Matilda knows it far better than I,” said Robert.

  “ ‘Tis a planchet of gold, perhaps as big as my palm.” She held up her hand and traced a circle on it to show.

  Steinarr abruptly turned and stalked away, leaving a wake of bitter disappointment that made Matilda reel. He went straight to the ale barrel, filled the first jar he could find and drained it, then refilled it and carried it off, headed into the forest. Tears that weren’t entirely her own pricked at Matilda’s eyes.

  Ari watched after him, shaking his head. “He is, um … I had better go after him.”

  “No.” Matilda pushed to her feet. “I will go.”

  Robin grabbed at her hand. “Marian …”

  “I have ridden with the man better than a fortnight. I have learned to deal with his moods.” She looked to Sir Ari. “Do I have your leave, monsire?”

  He nodded. “He will not have gone far.”

  “I know how to find him,” she said. She filled another jar with ale and set out to find her knight.

  STEINARR HID HIMSELF in the shadow of a great silver birch, far beyond the last trace of the colliers’ axes, but it wasn’t far enough. He’d barely gotten himself settled, back against the trunk, when he heard footsteps.

  “ ‘Twill take more than that to get you drunk, my lord, if that is your intent.”

  Ah, pillocks. It would be her. He’d been hoping for Ari. He could start a fight and see if beating the shite out of him might ease the ache. All this time searching, then to learn the prize was a lion, and then a moment later … Fool that he was, for that one moment, he had dared hope beyond hope. “Go back. I am not fit company.”

  “I know. I brought you this anyway.” Marian stepped beneath the branches and held out a full jar of ale.

  He ignored it, nursing the last of the one he already had. She hesitated, then took a sip herself. “Did I say something wrong, monsire? About the covenant piece?”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “No.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “Believe what you want. I need some time alone, is all, without Will Scathelocke and Ari and—”

  “And me?”

  “Yes.” Steinarr drained the rest of his ale and set aside the jar, then reached for the one she held. His fingers brushed hers. “No.”

  She came with the jar, moving to kneel between his legs as though she belonged there. She leaned forward to kiss him, her tongue sweeping into his mouth, and he groaned as his senses filled with her. Her answering chuckle was low and wise, and the ale jar hit the ground as the need for her took away everything else. He scooped her breasts into his hands and found the crests, already hardened beneath the cloth.

  “Mmm.” She groaned into his mouth. “I thought we would never find time to ourselves again.”

  “It is not right, how much I want you,” he whispered, even as he lifted her to straddle his legs.

  “No more than I want you.” She tossed her headrail aside.

  “But I can offer you nothing in return.” He pulled at her skirts, hauling the cloth out of the way. “I keep thinking, hoping, that I can find some way, but I cannot. You have to know that, Marian. I cannot give you anything, not even my nights.”

  “Then I will take your days.” She pressed him back against the tree and pulled his gown up, tugged at the knot of his braies, freed him. Her fingers curled around him, and she smiled. “You do want me.”

  “I do.” He found bare thighs and slid his hands up to where the soft hair curled at their juncture, then into the slickness that waited for him, and he smiled, too. He tugged her forward and showed her how he wanted her to move.

  “Steel to flint,” she whispered against his mouth, telling him she understood. Eyes closed, she glided over him, using him and pleasing him at the same time, her languid motions suiting them both. Slowly, slowly, the heat built, caught, burned. Fire danced between them, and she arched back, hard, there.

  And then he was in her, not sure how he’d gotten there, but knowing he wanted to be nowhere else as she peaked, that every spasm of her body over his was a gift that he could never repay. The need to join her in pleasure dragged at him, but he fought it for the sake of watching her, the way her throat vibrated with her moan, the flush on her skin, the beads of sweat across her brow. He slipped his hand between them to feel where they fit together, how she fluttered and pulsed around him, how her release came in slow waves, amazing waves, deep and rolling as the open ocean, stronger than he knew was possible, going on and on and on until at last she spent herself and collapsed against his chest.

  Pleased beyond imagining, he gathered her close and held her, sprinkling kisses over her brow between endearments in Norse and French and English because he didn’t know enough words in any one tongue to tell her how sweet and warm and wonderful and necessary she was.

  Slowly she came back into herself, and, without him telling her, understood once more. She began to move on him, tentatively at first, then more surely. She leaned forward to kiss him, drawing his tongue into her mouth in the same way she took him into her body. He matched his rhythm to the pace of her body over his, and the two meshed into one. Unprepared for the intensity, he felt himself begin to go up in flames.

  She stilled, and he skidded back from the edge with a jolt and a groan. Her hands soothed over the bare skin of his belly. “Shh. Shh.”

  She hung there, still, until his heart slowed and his body relaxed, then began to move again, pushing him toward the end. His fingers dug into her hips, preparing.

  She stopped again. His groan rose to a snarl, but he understood now what she was doing, though how she knew what to do, when to do it, he didn’t know.
Every motion, every stillness, was perfection. He held himself, waiting for her to move again.

  She did, finally, dancing around him, over him, luring him higher. She pushed his gown up, her hands cool over the heated flesh she bared. He prepared himself for another stop, anticipating.

  She didn’t stop. Her fingers flicked over his nipples and she bore down and he came, bucking up into her, pulling her down, shattering. She was heat and light, so brilliant she burned away everything else until there was only her. Only her.

  Only her, and he wrapped his arms around her and held her, determined he would never let her go. Somehow, she was going to be his. Whatever he had to do, she was going to be his.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE NEXT MORNING, Steinarr carried a haunch of lion-killed venison into camp and tossed it down next to the fire.

  Ivetta and Edith both paled. “We cannot, my lord.”

  Matilda raised her head from the gown she was mending for Goda. “What are you thinking, monsire? Every person here could be fined and whipped for killing the manor’s deer.”

  “Wolves killed it, and the meat was going to waste. If anyone complains, I will show them the carcass. It is on me.”

  “They may not believe you,” said Matilda.

  “I will take the risk. We must have Robin fit to ride, and he needs the meat to build his strength.” He gave Edith a wink. “Go on. The sooner you cook it, the sooner we eat the evidence of the crime. The wolf’s and mine.”

  Ivetta eyed the haunch doubtfully. “I have never cooked venison. I never had any to cook.”

  “Roast it as you would a cow,” said Steinarr.

  “I have never had a cow to roast either, my lord.” Her lips worked in and out as she considered. “But I have roasted a half a sheep. It cannot be so different.”

  Steinarr grinned at her. “There, see?”

  “We could make broth from the bones, too, after you break them for the marrow,” suggested Matilda.

  “Aye, and that would be good for Robin’s blood as well, both the marrow and the broth.” Decided, Ivetta and Edith turned their full attention to readying the venison for the fire, and Matilda went back to her mending.