Odell cackled, and the hooded man snorted at his own foolishness.
At the mention of Castle Prydd, Wolf’s head snapped up. He had his own private war with Tadd of Prydd, though no one, not even his most trusted man, knew the truth.
The messenger was prattling on like an old woman. “When I stop and get off my horse to offer some assistance, he sticks a knife in my ribs and—”
“Oh, y’re a fool, that’s what ye are,” Odell crowed, grinning wickedly, enjoying his moment of triumph.
“Let him speak,” Wolf commanded, his eyes slitting on the frightened soldier.
“Your man binds me wrists and plops a hood over me head and brings me here.”
“Why were you on your way to Prydd?” Wolf asked, annoyed at Odell’s jeering.
“I have a message from Baron Hagan to Lord Tadd.”
“Hagan’s returned?” Wolf asked, his muscles tightening at the thought of an old acquaintance. Hagan once thought he might turn outlaw himself, but he changed his mind, all for the love of a silly woman. “The message, from Hagan; what is it?”
“I know not—”
“It’s in his pouch,” Odell said, pointing to the leather bag on the courser’s flank.
“Don’t!” the man yelled from behind his mask. “ ’Tis sacred—”
Wolf reached into the bag and without a qualm broke the seal on the scroll with the blade of his knife. Of his band of outlaws, only he could read. The information contained in the letter was his alone. He could tell his men that the words contained anything he wanted, and they would believe him. Bending on one knee, he held the letter close to the firelight, letting the red-gold shadows play through the parchment.
Trouble was brewing between the houses of Prydd and Erbyn, and since his personal feud with Sir Tadd was not over, he was interested in how the armies would ally. A cunning plot stole through his mind, and he couldn’t help but smile inwardly as he rolled the parchment back into a scroll and pointed at the prisoner. “Sit him down,” he told Odell. “Remove his hood and offer him food and drink.”
“But then he’ll know—”
“We have naught to fear from him,” Wolf replied.
Odell slid the hood off the man’s head and kicked him toward some logs surrounding the fire.
The soldier stiffened. “ ’Tis important that I take this news to Lord Tadd.”
“Worry not about that,” Wolf said as the man’s hands were cut free and he was given a shank of rabbit and a cup of mead. “There has been word of trouble at Erbyn.”
The messenger regarded his captors mulishly and silently but finally took a long swallow from the offered cup.
“Bloodshed and trickery are rumored,” Wolf said.
There was no answer.
Wolf sat next to his prisoner and stared long at the young face. Though the temperature was near freezing, the man was sweating; long drips drizzled down the side of his face. “I can make your stay with us comfortable. Even pleasant. Or I can make it more painful than the fires of hell. ’Tis your choice.” He leaned back on an elbow and waited. “Either way, you will not leave with your message tonight—”
“But I must—”
“Worry not.” Wolf’s mouth stretched into a silent leer that caused the messenger’s blood to congeal. “I will see that the letter is delivered.”
“By who?” Odell asked.
“I’ll visit Tadd of Prydd myself,” Wolf said with an inward grin of satisfaction for finding a way to best his sworn enemy. “I’ll go when the time is right. Now, tell me of Sorcha of Prydd—Lord Tadd’s sister.”
The captive swallowed.
“She’s the bloody savior!” Odell said. “I’ve heard that—”
“Savior?” Wolf had not heard this piece of gossip, and he silently cursed himself for not listening to the rumors that were brought back to the camp by the men when they ventured into the villages in search of women or drink.