by Lois Greiman
“I think not,” he said and turning, pulled her knife from the tree behind him. Holding her gaze, he sent it shivering past her toe and through her boot’s exposed sole.
She didn’t flinch. Indeed, her gaze never left his. Even when she bent to pull the blade free, she continued to watch him.
“Aye,” she said, and straightened slowly, “you’ve had some tutelage, MacGowan. Mayhap the border reivers will not find you such easy fodder after all. It seems I shall find out, whether I want to or not.
“You skin the hare. I’ll kindle a fire. We can bed down here until nightfall.”
They made a meal of rabbit and dark rye bread. Their mounts grazed where they would. Both steeds had seen enough of life to avoid the toxic bracken that flourished there, and although Hunter’s dark stallion fed contentedly on the tough grasses that grew sporadically amidst the ferns and mosses, Lachlan noticed that he did not venture far from the maid’s side. Instead, he lifted his head often to make certain she was still in sight. He was a fine animal, long of limb, but not as broad as his own Mathan. Three white socks marked his legs, and knotted into his long forelock was a pierced agate. ‘Twas strange, he thought, and glanced at Hunter where she rested some rods away. She herself wore no ornament, and yet her mount was adorned. But something flashed into his mind then-the image of her bare bosom. He was wrong, he realized suddenly, for between her bonny breasts there had been a pendant of some sort. Lucky pendant, he thought, and with that image firmly in mind, he rolled himself in his plaid and went to sleep.
Lachlan was never sure what awakened him, but when he became fully alert and glanced at the spot where Hunter had bedded down, he knew the truth immediately; she was gone. He cursed in silence as he straightened his aching back, then turned to find his steed and…
He swore aloud this time, for the grove of rowan trees was empty.
Aye, she’d taken both horses and left him afoot.
Chapter 3
Knight Star arched his great, high-crested neck and snorted.
Evil comes to Evermyst.
Aye, Hunter remembered the old woman’s words, and though she’d tried to ignore them, she had failed. Thus, her mission, and her journey south, against all her better judgment.
Knight snorted again.
She spoke softly and urged him on. Dark as a winter night, he was a large steed, over seventeen hands at the withers. The Munros had bred him for battle, and 10 a state of pique or boredom or both, she had stolen him from them. Aye, through the years there had been times she’d been thought of as a hero, but history demanded that there be just as many times she acted the villain, just as many times she sought revenge. And though she bore the scars for her misdemeanors, the acquisition of Knight had been worth the injury. He was strong and bold and loyal, and he was not tired, for she’d not pressed him. MacGowan was afoot; there was no need to hurry.
Knight didn’t drop his head or glance at the stallion beside him. Nay, he remained absolutely alert, his ears pitched forward, his eyes bright, watching for trouble, as any true hero would.
Hunter stroked him again, then glanced at Lachlan ’s steed. He was blood bay in color and built like a bear-not unlike his master, she thought and let her mind wander momentarily.
Aye, she’d taken MacGowan’s steed. Maybe she’d done so to keep him safe. Or maybe it was to prevent him from interfering with her plans, or maybe, if she were to be completely honest, it was for no reason other than spite.
Oh aye, Hunter could be spiteful. As could the warrior, as could Maid Rhona, as could Master Giles. Yes, she was all of those, all of those and more. And she would be home soon at Nettlepath, where she’d spent most of her youthful years, where she’d learned many things, not least of all how to survive. But before then there would be trouble.
She could smell it, or perhaps it was another sense that allowed her to feel the nearness of her enemy, something more bestial. But whatever the case, she knew someone was watching her, would have known even without Knight’s warning. She stroked him absently. Who it was that awaited her arrival, she wasn’t certain, thus she rode on, looking neither right nor left, but drawing in perceptions with barely conscious ease.
He was in front of her, but not on the path, and…
It was at that very instant that MacGowan’s horse nickered a welcome, and it was at that instant that she realized her mistake. Lachlan had found her. She almost smiled at the realization. So there was some truth to the rumors about him. Not that she too couldn’t have run down a pair of horses herself. After all, ‘twas easier for a man to navigate the underbrush than it was for a charger, and maybe, just maybe, she had intentionally slowed her pace.
Both horses’ ears were pricked forward now, watching the woods ahead and to the left. Aye, MacGowan would exit the trees just about there and…
But in that instant something rustled behind her.
Without turning, she realized the truth. She’d let her mind wander, and she was surrounded.
“Ho there.” The man who appeared on the trail before her was mounted bareback. His steed was spavined, his hose dark, and his quilted jak of plaite well worn. These reivers could not afford full armor, but the metal links sewn into his jerkin would make him hard to kill. “Yer travelin’ late, me lord.”
She straightened slightly. She could sense them all around her now. There were five… nay, six of them. At least two more were mounted. That much she knew, for Knight’s ears flickered side to side. But what of the others? If they were afoot her chances were better.
“Aye,” she agreed, and tightening her legs against her mount’s stout barrel, kept him walking toward the speaker. ‘There was no point in letting them get settled in. “I was hoping to reach the village of Jedburgh yet this night.”
“Jedburgh? ‘Tis a good five leagues yet. Too much for a man alone, especially should he be afoot.”
The threat was implicit, but Hunter ignored it, pretending ignorance. So he was after the horses, and probably more.
“Five leagues,” she repeated. Her every muscle was tense. Aye, she was ready for battle. Mayhap she would even welcome it, but she would not give up Knight. Nay, she would keep him, but not for something so foolish as loyalty. Nay, loyalty was for saps and coddled noblemen. She would keep him because without him she was dead For she knew something about this sort of brigand. Aye, they were tough and they were adroit, but with the boundaries ever shifting between Scotland and England, the border reivers had long ago learned to be ruthless. They would not leave her alive, and only a few meager yards separated her from the nearest one.
“Well,” she said, and shrugged, loosening her muscles with an effort. “I suspect there’s naught I can do but press-” she began, and dropping the bay’s lead, spurred Knight into action as she whipped her sword from its scabbard.
The man shrieked and drew his weapon, but Hunter was already upon him. Knight crashed into his mount, knocking him off balance, then leapt forward, toward safety, but suddenly another horse appeared to their right.
Hunter kneed her steed toward this new challenge and swung her sword in a hissing arc. The man screamed and tottered sideways, but she didn’t leap in for the kill. She did not crave revenge, but only survival. One quick cue and Knight pivoted left, swinging his huge forefeet high and leaping forward, but in that second she felt a weight on her leg.
A brigand, afoot! He had grabbed her knee. Too close for a sword. She clubbed him with the hilt of her blade. He faltered, but suddenly the first horseman was there. He yanked the reins from Hunter’s hands. She spurred Knight forward. He reared and bolted, wrenching his reins away. She was almost free, but in that moment, a footman appeared in their path. Knight pivoted sideways, trying to avoid him, but his great hooves became tangled in the undergrowth, and he stumbled. Hunter grappled for control, but hands were already reaching for her, pulling her from the saddle, dragging her toward the earth. She hit the ground hard. Her sword spun from her hand. She rolled and leapt to her feet. One
glance told her Knight was well out of harm’s way.
“As I said…” The mounted man was afoot now and grimaced as he drew the back of his wrist across his lips. Blood smeared along his arm, and when he lowered it, she saw he was missing a tooth. “It’d tek a good deal of time to reach the village without a mount, but I’ll tell ye what…” He stepped forward. “It’ll tek a sight longer when ye’re dead.”
“Dead!” She made her voice warble a bit.
Toothless grinned, and the truth was abundantly clear.
These were not just brigands, come to steal from her and better their lives. Nay, they were here to enjoy her pain, and fear would only improve the sport.
“I wish you no harm,” she said, and backed up a scant step as she glanced to the side as if weighing her odds. But she already knew her odds, and they were not good. Four men formed a semicircle around her. Toothless was in front. Another sat his steed some rods to the right.
“He wishes us no ‘arm,” repeated the first fellow and chuckled. There was no humor in the sound. “‘Tis good to know, ain’t it, lads?”
“Please!” Her voice trembled. “Let me be and I’ll give you me steeds.”
“Or we could kill ye and take the steeds and whatever else ye ‘ ave on yer person,” said Toothless and took a step toward her.
“Nay!” she pleaded, and held out an unsteady hand.
“You’ll not catch Knight without me.”
Toothless stopped for an instant, then he snorted and stepped closer.
“God’s truth!” she rambled. “He was bred and trained by the Munros.”
“The Munros?”
There was silence for a moment, so she rambled on, and perhaps the panic in her tone wasn’t altogether fictionalized. “So you’ve heard of them! They are my kindred and they’ll not take it kindly if I do not return.”
“You’re a Munro.”
“Aye. I- ”
“‘Us me lucky day then, for I’ve not yet killed one of the warrior clan.”
“Is that what you want?” she asked, and turned desperately to scan the faces that surrounded her. “What will do you more good, me own death or a fine mount to ride or barter?”
“Methinks we can ‘ ave both,” said one dark fellow.
He was unshaven and squat and limped as he stepped nearer.
“Not true,” she said, and turned jerkily back toward toothless. “Here. See this. Come,” she called, raising her voice. It trembled again. “Knight Star, come hither.”
Nothing happened, but then there came a rustle in the woods. The black stepped into view. His reins were dragging, and for a moment he paused as he stepped on one, but then he bobbed his head and came forward like a well-trained hound.
“Halt,” she said, and her voice sounded stronger as Knight stopped and she turned her attention back to Toothless. “Let me go and he is yours.”
The brigand grinned. It was not a pretty sight. “Call him over,” he ordered.
“Nay,” she said, and Toothless lifted his dirk. “Call him or-”
“Not until you vow to set me free.”
“Vow?” Someone chuckled behind her. The sound shivered up her spine. “Aye, give the fancy lord your vow, Kirk.”
Toothless grinned as he tightened his grip on his knife and stepped forward. “Aye, that’s what I’ll do lads, I’ll-”
But in that moment Hunter shrieked. The sound echoed like a falcon’s cry in the woods. Knight lunged forward. Toothless spun toward the beast, but too late. The stallion struck him with one pistoning hoof. The brigand went down screaming. Men scattered as the stallion slid to a halt before her. She made a dive for the saddle, but in that instant an arm encircled her throat, dragging her backward. She felt a blade against her neck and heard a whispered threat, but she wasted not a moment. Instead, she swung her feet up against Knight’s ribs and shoved with all her might.
Her captor stumbled backward, then tripped and went down. For a moment his grip loosened on her windpipe. Snatching her dirk from the scabbard at her waist, she twisted wildly about. He died in an instant.
She scrambled to her feet, searching desperately for
Knight, but he’d already been mounted by another. She shifted her gaze to the others who stood before her. There was death in their eyes.
She lifted her bloody blade. “Come on then!” she hissed.
There was a moment of quiet, then screams burst from them and they came, swords drawn.
She kicked the first one aside and ducked the second, but the third was there immediately. She parried and twisted away. Pain sliced across her back, knocking her to her knees.
Death thundered up. She heard the boom of its hooves and raised her face to snarl at it. The rider bent toward her. His sword hissed through the air and then… like a fallen leaf, it dropped to the ground in front of her.
She tried to reach for it but her arm would not react.
Someone shrieked. She twisted about, ready to fight as best she could, but chaos had erupted about her, and as sudden as death, the men lay sprawled on the trampled bracken.
“Hunter.”
Someone spoke. She turned in bewilderment, and there, not an arm’s length from her, was Lachlan MacGowan.
“You are injured.”
She struggled to rise. “Where is he?”
He pressed her back down. “Stay put until I see to your wound.”
“Where is he?”
“Calm yourself. He is dead.”
“Nay,” she muttered, and found her feet despite his efforts to keep her down.
“Steady, lass. They are all dead.”
“‘Tis not true. Knight would not-”
“Night?” he said, but in that moment she felt a warm draft on her neck.
Hunter turned and he was there, larger than life, his dark eyes gleaming. She raised a hand to straighten his forelock, and Knight pushed his head forward. Resting his jaw on her shoulder he breathed, loud as a bellows into her ear. She stroked his wide brow and felt her knees begin to buckle.
“Damn!” MacGowan swore and, reaching up, dragged the horse’s head from her shoulder. “Mount up.”
“What- ”
“Get up there,” he said and pushing her toward the saddle, tugged Knight’s head forward. “Unless you’re planning to carry him.”
The ride to Jedburgh was not as far as the brigand had suggested. Neither was it a comfortable one. Nevertheless, Hunter survived the journey and managed to dismount in the gathering darkness without assistance.
“We are in need of lodging.” MacGowan’s voice was clear enough as he spoke to the innkeeper, so apparently she was still lucid. “For me companion and meself.”
The proprietor had seen ninety years if he’d seen a day, and each one seemed to weigh as heavily as sand upon his stooped shoulders. “What is it that troubles you?” he asked, and glared askance into Hunter’s face.
”There is naught amiss,” she said, and straightened with an effort.
“You’re as pale as oyster broth. Are you ill?”
“Nay. Merely weary,” Hunter said and, moving carefully, pulled her cape more firmly over her shoulder.
“We want no trouble here,” warned the innkeeper.
“I’ve enough problems what with naught but a simpleton and a doxy to lighten me load.”
“I am well, old gaffer,” she said, employing her gruffest tone. “Will you house us or nay?”
He squinted at her for a moment, then nodded stiffly.
“Aye. Don’t get your comb up, young cock, I’ve a room for you.”
“We’ll need two,” she said, but he glared up at her with new ferocity. “What’s that?”
“We’ll need two rooms,” she said, her voice hard. “Well, I’ve got but one to spare. You’ll take it or you’ll not. Which will it be?”
“I- ” she began, but Lachlan interrupted her.
“We’ll take it,” he said and reaching out, tugged Knight’s reins from her hand. “I’ll see to t
he steeds.”
“Nay,” she argued, and yanked the reins back. “I’ll care for me own mount.”
“You need rest,” Lachlan gritted.
“You rest, MacGowan, I’ve no need for your-” she began, but he nudged her slightly. She glared down at his elbow, then looked in the direction he was staring.
The old man stared back. “What’s wrong with the two of ye?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Hunter said, drawing herself up again. The ancient innkeeper snorted. “You act like a pair of dolts.”
“Listen, old man-”
“Me apologies,” Lachlan interrupted again, and taking Hunter’s arm, steered her toward the stables. “We are but weary. We’ll see to our steeds and find our rooms short-”
“Room!” the old man corrected, then turned to shuffled toward the wattle and daub inn that listed wearily over the partially cobbled street. ”And I’ll have me monies in advance or you’ll be sleeping with the beasties.”
“What the devil is wrong with you?” hissed MacGowan.
“Me?” She yanked her elbow from his grasp and though she regretted the movement, she kept her pain to herself. “There is naught amiss with the likes of me.”
“You’ve been wounded, if you disremember.”
“I am well.”
“You’ve been wounded,” he repeated, “and you need a leech to see to your troubles.”
“Nay, I do not,” she said and leading Knight into a wide, loose stall, she turned him about and loosened his girth. Removing his saddle was trickier. She grimaced and Lachlan was beside her in an instant, pushing her away as he lifted the gear from her stallion’s back.
“The old man is right,” he said and tossed the bridle atop her saddle blanket. It was scarlet in color and made of fine wool. Long ago she’d abandoned the blankets woven of straw, for they chaffed Knight’s stout back, and an injured horse was a weakened horse. “You are a dolt.”
Bending painfully, she lifted a handful of bedding from the floor. Twisting it into a knot, she rubbed circles into the stallion’s neck. Knight sighed and cocked a hip, but MacGowan was less content.