by Jill Barnett
She heard the men shouting orders into the wind in what had been a silent, quiet night. Her eyes stayed with her dog. She dared not step into the open to be seen so easily and he was headed too far west. Quickly she mounted, then turned Skye westward, leaned low over the saddle, ready to run, and she gave a single, sharp, piercing whistle.
Fergus changed directions in a heartbeat, scampering towards her. She waited until he was close and she kicked Skye forward and out of the thick trees, where she was free to run hard, Fergus at their heels, and she rode like the wind along the dark line of the forest.
An arrow shot past her shoulder to hit the trunk of a nearby tree with a singing sound. Another whizzed by her ear. And another.
She spotted a clearing between some of the forest trees and headed straight for it, disappearing into the dark trees, slowing to a canter as she heard another arrow hit nearby and another to the east of her. She all but lay on the horse’s neck, snapping her fingers to keep Fergus at her side and still riding hard as the trees grew thicker and more protected and the skies overhead were black from the hidden moon.
Fergus yelped.
She turned in the saddle, looking back.
He was still with her, but his lope was slowing, chicken dead and hanging limply from his mouth and a trail of moulting feathers drifting to the ground behind him, and a deadly looking arrow was sticking out of his bloody side.
17
Above the pinewoods, high up along a wild and rocky ridge with a wide, dark corrie set into its ribs, horses’ hooves clopped along the narrow ridgeline above the Great Forest. Sharp pairs of eyes searched the moonlit treetops for signs of who they sought deep amidst the thick pine trees and in the hazel and birch woods that edged the lower elevations of the forest. They spoke only when they must and communicated with merely a look. Their mission was personal.
There was a broad meadow below and beyond, and in the distance, a manor house with small croft cluster and sheep scattered across dark and rolling hillsides. A snaking river skirted a sprawl of oak trees in the distant glen toward a mill, where silver arcs of wheelwater caught the moonlight. Below, flicks of torchlight circled the wide glade as men scoured the grasses and riders disappeared into the forest.
At the same time, opposite the high rock ridge, across the forest and meadow and glen, a single rider came over the top of a northeastern hillside and reined in, wrapping his cloak more tightly around him. When he saw the torches and action below he moved deeper into a copse of birch trees, hidden and watching intently, knowing instinctively that what he saw was trouble.
And from the southeast, some distance away from all the fray, where a wide glen rolled for leagues and leagues and the River Beauly made its way from the inlet at Inverness, a troop of heavily armed men wearing Ramsey badges left Inverness and followed another trail, one that led to where the cloaked rider was now hiding.
* * *
The shepherd’s hut deep in the wooded hills smelled of old, wet wool and mud, but it gave Glenna cover from the hard wind as she added more sticks to a small fire and talked softly to Fergus, lying on his side next to her with his terrible wound. Around the arrow, the blood was thick. It had stopped seeping out bright red. Every so often he would whimper and his legs would quiver in pain. But if she dared to touch the arrow, he would yelp and snap at her.
She placed some more tree moss around the wound and had used a small pot to make some willow bark tea, like Brother Leviticus had done for her. She didn’t know if it would help, but willows and hazels were scattered through the woods, a godsend. “If only I had some of that red bloodbane, sweeting, or even some ale for you,” she said to Fergus as she stroked his neck and one floppy ear. She leaned closer and plucked a few more red chicken feathers from the corner of his mouth, tossing them into the fire where the culprit chicken itself slowly cooked on a spit she had made of slim branches.
Whenever she turned the bird, the juices spilt and spat in the fire and Fergus had lifted he head and wiggled his nose. A good sign, she believed, that in spite of his horrible wound he was still hungry. Perhaps the meat would help him. She felt helpless, as if her hands were bound by her doubts and a lack of a way to fix this. She did not know what to do for him.
At some point, she must remove the arrow. But she was afraid she was not strong enough to hold him down securely and use her knife to pry loose the arrow.
“You foolish, foolish dog, you. Chickens have always been trouble for you. ” Her voice cracked and she covered her mouth with her hand, unable to look away and scared he was going to take his last breath there before her eyes. His body moved slowly as he took shallow breaths and his big wide eyes looked at her beseechingly. Just watching him broke her heart.
She had few choices. Beauly was only an option if she could reach Ruari without being seen. How would Fergus make the ride there? With an arrow deeply imbedded in him and riding with the pounding of Skye’s hooves would jar his body and perhaps kill him.
Above the shabby roof, the wind howled like hungry wolves and the air growing cold. She shivered, glanced around her, warmed her hands over the fire, and when a branch broke in the wind and fell to the roof above her, she wrapped her arms around herself. There was also another problem: she had no idea what had transpired once she left the priory…or how Montrose had left things.
His image came into her mind and she felt something deep and sorrowful. She closed her eyes and willed his image away, while in her heart she wanted him there at her side, knowing with a surety that he would save Fergus…that he would save her. For the first time in her life, she understood the value of a man’s protection.
Had she grown so used to looking out for herself that she was blind to what other choices she might be given? To have the refuge and safe shelter of someone whose duty was only watch and guard her was a gift she had never known she desired, and something she had run from.
Now, as she sat alone in the shed, she regretted some part of running away from him. From her earliest memory she had been her own keeper, since her brothers doted on her, and she usually managed to get them to do what she wanted…even steal. Her brothers were just that, not a father really, but her brothers, and their adventures together were larks and exciting and somehow more like children’s play than the reality of the laws they had been breaking, the risks they took, and the consequences they could face.
Hidey ho! They were a pack of thieves…even Fergus she thought miserably.
She glanced down at him. Poachers were hung for stealing less than a chicken, for snaring a scrawny wild hare in the distant woods. Would the guards let it be, or even in the wind and darkness would they search them out? She had no answers and watched the rise and fall of her hound’s chest.
For him could she sneak back into the priory and trust the monks? How could she help him here, inside this shed? For how long would they be safe here?
She would ask herself these questions again and again, chew on her guilt and more while she fed Fergus small bits of roasted chicken, which he ate slowly with large sad eyes. He lapped up some of the willow bark tea and soon he was breathing quietly and looked to be asleep.
After eating some of the chicken, she sat alone by the small fire, knees hugged to her chest as the huge trees outside creaked ominously in the wild winds, while she felt even more alone and frightened and miserable. Glenna cried so hard her eyes burned like fire and finally, when her chest stopped hiccupping, when her eyes could hardly produce anymore tears, she pulled her cloak more tightly around her and tied her hat down so it covered her cold ears, and she lay down, her hand on Fergus’ neck to feel his reassuring heartbeat.
Soon she closed her burning eyes and tried to forget for a moment how terrified she was, and exhausted, she fell fast asleep.
* * *
The dream was back--the rook flying in the blue skies. Feathers black as night shone and caught the sunlight, glistening, beautiful and free above moors that were the bruised and purple color of a sunrise at dawn
, and she flew higher and higher, aloft in the warm summer air, wheeling to the sweet sound of a minstrel’s song, singing the tale of a great and magical love, of a brave and valiant king and his beautiful Norse queen.
With a suddenness of the blink of an eye, the sky turned gray and the winds blew in winter, clouds rimed in ice and with almost black edges, wind that cut like ice made flying through the air more strained and difficult. Snow fell like downy feathers and the black rook could feel the flakes begin to coat and weigh down her wings.
She flew lower and lower, gliding down into the thick forest trees, past the tall larches and firs to where flames in a clearing suddenly shot high and sent her soaring up and up, far and away from the smoke and the flames, back into the icy storm, back to where her wings again caught the snowflakes even though the sun still shone.
Summer was blue and golden and just ahead of her…if only she could fly faster. If only the ice would melt. If only she could keep flying away.
She soared above the high nests of other birds, above where grass as green as spring covered the ground and could silence the footsteps of anything smaller than a great war horse.
From above her came the call, “Kee-oo, kee-oo!” A hawk bore down upon her, determined, brown and black and white, feathers wide and striped like enemy banners, flying faster than her smaller wings would allow, and she dove and wove and spun in and around the sky, yet the hawk flew back, kept coming, almost at her tail, and he lunged at her.
She spun downwards, flying straight down…down… towards the silvery lake below, surrounded by thick, green bushes lined with deep red roses and where a beautiful white swan wearing a golden collar cut languorously across the peaceful waters.
The rook called out and the hawk shrieked his deadly call, diving closer, and the swan looked into the deep blue skies above her, and seeing the poor and frantic rook, she drew her long neck up and opened her wings wide and grandly, almost standing on the water, and the rook swooped down under the swan’s wing, taking shelter as the swan lowered her grand wings, one cradling the black rook next to her downy body and safe from the claws of the deadly hawk.
Heart beating hard and frighteningly, Glenna’s eyes shot open, unseeing, her breath still caught in her chest, her blood racing, sweat beading on her brow. The dream had come back, the same dream….
She moaned slightly and blinked.
Before her eyes, in the dim light of the coals, a large pair of dark boots stood planted firmly apart and were cast in red from the glow of the fire. A shining, deadly sword tip lowered into her line of vision, stopping barely a palm’s breadth away from her nose.
18
Fergus gave a low growl, tried to rise on his weak legs, but yelped pitiably and sagged back on the ground, still emitting a long, feral growl. She was too frightened to move and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Overhead the wind began to howl and the trees creaked and rocked. Red coals from the dying fire cast the sword tip before her eyes as deep a red as the fires of hell, and Glenna looked up slowly along the length of the sword’s blood gutter.
Above her, his teeth shone white in the dark and the sudden flare of a torch limned him from behind. He moved the sword tip to her neck and pressed hard enough that she dared not move and barely breathed.
“I could kill you here and now,” he said, and she felt the tip cut slightly.
She stifled a cry.
Someone waved another torch and a pair of bats shrieked and flew down from the roof, drifted menacingly over the heads of the men then out the wide open door. Torchlight hit his face. Above her stood the devil himself, the one man she never wanted to see again. Looking down at her was the deadly, cruel face of Munro the Horrible.
“You are a fool, poaching from the manor of the sheriff?” he said.
She was frozen in terror, but desperately tried not to show it.
He was a squat, thick man with long and powerful arms, large hands, an expression of evil…and the coldest eyes she had ever encountered. He pressed the sword even deeper.
Unable to stop herself, she sucked in a breath at the pressure of the sword tip.
“Nothing to say? Someone must have cut out your tongue. Hmmm…” He rubbed his bearded chin.
“I can speak.”
“Ah, so you can, lad,” he said pensively, staring at the chicken bones next to the fire and what was left of the few vegetables she had roasted. “Perhaps I will cut out your tongue before I cut off your hand or I could choose to hang you. I have options. However, I have found there is nothing better to dissuade others and save our game from greedy hands than a body hanging off the gates.”
Fergus growled ominously.
Munro pulled back his sword and quickly turned to his men. “Take this thieving fool who sleeps so easily after feasting on my birds. The lad is under arrest.” He sheathed his weapon and turned away to walk from the shed.
Two men jerked her up by her arms, Fergus acted up again, and while one tied her hands behind her back and the other called out to Munro. “What should we do with the hound?”
Glenna didn’t breathe. Do not kill him…please do not.
The sheriff turned and gave Fergus a cursory glance.
Her poor dog lay on his side, the arrow sticking out of him, his black lips curled and his long canine teeth bared at Munro.
“Leave him. He will be fortunate to last another day.”
Glenna exhaled the breath she’d been holding at the same time the truth of his words struck deeply into her heart. She looked at Fergus as the sheriff's henchmen each grabbed an arm and dragged her from the shed. Fergus tried to rise again, viciously growling.
“No, Fergus!” she shouted. “Stay! Stay…”
Outside, the fire from the torches lit the small clearing, where their horses were gathered. They had not found her horse. Skye was tied deeper into the south side of the woods, where there was grass and she would not be seen. They stopped next to a large bay and one of the men tossed her up in front of the saddle and mounted behind her, warning, “Do not think ye to escape, lad. ‘Tis a far way down to the ground and Thor’s hooves will crush your bones.”
Glancing towards the shed, she could barely make out the silhouette of her hound lying by the dying fire, then the men all closed in around and with Munro leading, they rode down into the darkness of the trees.
No one spoke as they rode and time passed tree by tree, the only sound that of their horses hooves on the leaves and twigs covering the floor of the forest. The sudden wind had calmed down to a occasional gust high in the treetops. Whenever there was a break in the forest, she could see a few stars hanging high in the sky. The moon was gone, and the path ahead and behind them dark. She was numb with fear, contemplating her fate.
For a fleeting moment she wondered where Montrose was. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine his face, and absorbed deeply all of her regrets.
She didn't know how long it took to reach their destination--back to the manor on the hillside. She was panicked and lost in thought, but it was still dark outside when she caught a glimpse through the open shutters of the setting moon. There was no wind, no rain, just quiet. She stood before the sheriff in a chamber inside the stone and timber manor hung with tapestries. Logs crackled from a blazing fire burning in the huge stone hearth and the flames reflected on the stone floors. Iron lanterns with thick, sweet-smelling candles spread warm amber light down from iron hooks in the walls, and a bowl filled with fruit next to a plank with dark bread and cheese sat waiting on a table next to Munro’s huge carved chair.
He studied her silently over the rim of a large silver wine goblet trimmed with jewels she would have loved to show off to her brothers. She stood quietly still, taking long deep breaths to quell her fears and mask her weaknesses, like her sudden urge to cry at the sweet images of her brothers. Would they hear what happened to her? Would she hang? Or would they wonder about her and think of her living in the king’s castle as his lost daughter, not a thief hung or maimed. Sh
e thought of what he had done to poor Ruari.
Munro rose from his chair and slowly walked toward her, sword in his hand and he lifted her tunic with the blade, touched the ties on her trouse with the sword tip. “I wonder how repentant you can be?”
She dared not breathe.
“How much do you wish to live lad?” He touched her face and she wanted to wretch. “No sign yet of a beard,” he laughed.
His pleasure was for young lads. Her mind raced toward a single idea—a great risk but her only chance. She stepped away and shook her head violently, until her hat fell forward and her long braid cascaded down.
She could see his reaction in those icy eyes.
He grabbed the neck of her tunic and ripped it to reveal her breast bindings.
“I am no lad,” she said defiantly.
“I can see that," he paused. "I know you. You're the horsethief."
"I am not."
He waited a heartbeat or two and spun around. “Jock!” he called out to one of his men, who came rushing inside. It was the stocky, red-haired guardsman who had lifted her into the saddle and had been dragging her all about.
“Look what we have here. What do you think?” Munro asked him. “Would you care for this wench?”
The man eyed her as if she were covered in honey.
Oh lud! She fumbled to lace her tunic closed.
Munro was watching her reaction and he began to laugh. “Give us your name, lass.”
“Rot in hell!” she spat.
He only laughed more but his eyes…his eyes bespoke murder before he turned and walked away. “I believe you will serve as a grand incentive for my men.”