Page 52 of Desire's Ransom
Cambeal approached with a frown.“Ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant.They make a wasteland and call it peace.”
All four nodded sagely, staring into the flames that Fergus had stirred to life, sharing the sad brotherhood of warfare.
Temair watched them, half amazed and half irritated. The same way he’d tamed her hounds, Ryland was befriending the seasoned warriors of the woodkerns. There was something about him that drew both men and beasts to him.
That might be a problem.
“What about ye?” Ryland asked Cambeal. “Ye’re from a noble family, aye?”
“Aye.”
“Then why are ye…” He glanced around the clearing.
Cambeal smiled. “Livin’ in the woods with a band of outlaws?”
Ryland shrugged. “Aye.”
“I was cursed with a whole host o’ brothers,” Cambeal explained, “and I’m the youngest.”
Ronan quipped, “His father has an heir and four spares.”
“The eldest got our father’s land,” Cambeal said. “One fought for the High King and was rewarded with a holdin’. The other two made political marriages. All that was left for me was the church.”
From behind the great black cauldron he was filling with leeks and barley, Brian said, “Ye’d have made a good monk.”
“I’m afraid not,” Cambeal replied. “I’d rather wear a cuirass than a cassock. Besides, the church hasn’t been so good to ye, Friar.”
“The church, perhaps not,” Brian agreed, “but the Lord has been good to me.”
Ryland turned to the friar. “How did a man of the church come to live among thieves?”
Friar Brian scolded the knight with the point of his knife. “We prefer ‘outlaws’ or ‘woodkerns.’ We’re not strictly thieves.”
“I see,” Ryland said, obviously not seeing at all.
Temair explained. “We don’t keep what we take.”
Ronan raised the wineskin. “Well, except for this. This we’re keepin’.”
Ryland furrowed his brows. “If ye don’t keep it, what do ye do with it?”
“We distribute it to those in need,” she said.
“Aye. See that?” Brian said, gesturing with his knife to the goods piled on the cloth. “Sorcha will divide it up and decide who needs it most. Then on the Sabbath, I’ll make my rounds, handin’ it out to the crofters.”
Ryland chuckled at that. “You must have the wealthiest crofters in all Ireland.”
Nobody laughed with him.
Brian said, “Half o’ them are starvin’.”
“Starving? But they’re crofters. They can grow their own food.”
“So ye would think, wouldn’t ye?” Temair said, biting back the rage that always burned in her when she thought about it. “But the chieftain doesn’t see it that way. He takes most o’ their crops. The bastard would rather feast with fine English lords than—”
“Gray!” Sorcha chided, “’Tis the man’s father-to-be ye’re speakin’ of.”
Temair froze. She’d forgotten. She’d also forgotten that Sir Ryland was probably one of the fine English lords her father had fed.
Ryland was scowling now. She’d hoped to make him understand that the woodkerns did what they did for good reason. Instead, it appeared she’d only made him angry.
