Quentin nodded agreement. It was no coincidence that Reinhard took that flank, for he was adept with a blade in his left hand while the Hawk favored his right.
Three more men fell in behind the pair, two riding alongside each other and one in the rear. The last was Ahearn, Quentin thought, who had a rare talent for fighting from the saddle, regardless of which hand he used. The middle pair of warriors carried loaded crossbows, and all wore chain mail and helmets. They carried long shields on their outside arms, and their horses wore caparisons of chain mail. By remaining in a tight cluster, they were armored on all sides.
Quentin doubted it was a coincidence that they rode just as he had directed the Hawk’s men to ride at the siege of Abernye. Had Mhairi convinced the Hawk to trust Quentin after all? Only the unfolding of the strategy would prove the truth.
He glanced into the forest. The snow made it easier to see the MacLarens, even when they perched in the trees or tried to hide in the undergrowth. The boughs were barren and the lighting stark. In a way, they had chosen the timing of their assault badly, for summer’s greenery would have hidden them better.
The gates closed behind the Hawk. The walls of Inverfyre bristled with guards. The walls of the priory were similarly defended. The sun burst from the clouds as the Hawk commenced his ride, the breath of his destrier white in the air, and the sunlight glinted off helms and blades.
Five in the Hawk’s party.
Several dozen in the forest.
Quentin did not like the odds. He hoped with all his heart that the Hawk employed the rest of that strategy from Abernye.
A woman appeared at the summit of Inverfyre’s defending walls and Quentin recognized Lady Aileen. The dark-haired man in armor beside her had to be Nigel. “Hail the Laird of Inverfyre!” she cried and raised her fist to the sky. Quentin was startled to see a white gyrfalcon launch from Lady Aileen’s fist.
The bird’s massive wings beat so slowly that it seemed it should fall out of the sky, but it soared high, almost disappearing into the blue overhead. It was the perfect distraction and that was the moment that Quentin was certain of the Hawk’s intention. All gazes followed the bird’s course as it flew to the priory, then back toward the Hawk’s keep. He lifted his fist and the bird descended to him with speed and power.
Just before it landed upon his outstretched fist, one of the MacLarens hurled a rock at the bird. “Death to the Laird of Inverfyre!” he shouted.
“Hoy!” the Hawk cried, but the raptor had already seen the projectile. With a scream of outrage, it flew out of range. The MacLarens all watched bird and laird, which was their first mistake. One of the Hawk’s archers had already loosed a bolt and it landed in the chest of the man who had cast the stone. He staggered backward from the force of impact, blood streaming from the wound, and a second bolt buried itself in his forehead.
He fell bleeding in the snow and moved no more.
“Leave him,” Faolan whispered when the others would have surged forward. “It is too late to aid him.”
There was a coolness in his tone that told Quentin the gesture had been planned.
As was the sacrifice of this man’s life.
Why would Faolan have put the Hawk on his guard, instead of letting him pass unchallenged?
“You are curious,” that man murmured from beside Quentin, even as the Hawk approached the gates of the priory. “It would have been odd for us to fail to take one chance,” he continued. “Silence would have fed the Hawk’s suspicion more than this.”
Quentin doubted that the Hawk believed his adversaries to be cowed, but he merely nodded, as if Faolan were beyond wise.
The passing party began to gallop, the horses’ hooves making a thunderous noise. Quentin listened with care but could not discern the sound of the trap being set. Was he wrong?
When the Hawk passed beneath the gates of the priory, a cheer erupted from the garrison. He turned and immediately rode back to the keep with his party, his destrier galloping and the party separating slightly. Faolan smiled beside Quentin, nodding that his feint had apparently worked. This time, the MacLarens remained silent and hidden.
The Hawk rode the boundary of his immediate holding then. Quentin heard his party gallop down the road toward Aberfinnan, following the River Fyre to its junction with the mightier Finnan. It was not long before another celebratory hoot from the men at the keep revealed that the Hawk was safely returned.
Then he appeared again on the road to the priory. Quentin clenched the head of his walking stick as the Hawk’s party passed once more without challenge. The sun was high now and the gyrfalcon was circling, its white form bright against the blue sky. His heart was in his throat when the Hawk’s party disappeared into the priory, for he knew what they had collected there.
“And now he fetches the prize,” Faolan whispered.
Quentin nodded, still unable to hear the warriors that he believed were behind him in the forest, surrounding the MacLarens. He prayed he was not mistaken.
The Hawk’s party left the priory, assembled in their formation again. A sixth had joined their party, riding between the two archers and carrying a chest in his lap.
Faolan straightened at the sight and Caillen grinned. The younger brother put his hand on the shoulder of the older.
“Wait,” he mouthed, though Caillen was as anxious to spring forth as a hound that has caught a scent.
The moments stretched long. The horses seemed to move as if in slow motion and Quentin’s heart thundered.
The Hawk rode into the zone that was out of range of the archers at either priory or keep. The party drew alongside the hiding place of the MacLarens, and Reinhard glanced down at the dead rebel beside the road.
“Go,” Faolan murmured and two young boys raced out of the forest. They flung themselves at the Hawk’s party, and struck the horses with the rocks in their hands. The stallions whinnied and shied, the formation breaking apart with precision. It only looked like chaos. Quentin knew it was planned. The archers raising their bows even as the Hawk shouted.
“They are but children!” he roared and the archers hesitated.
Which was what Faolan was relying upon.
The MacLarens burst from the forest like a swarm of rats, taking advantage of that hesitation. They hurled themselves into the horses, beating and scratching upon them, driving their bodies between the riders. Some even flung snow into the faces of the knights and horses. From the forest, a volley of arrows were launched, their fleches quivering as their heads buried themselves in the flesh of both men and horse. None of the injuries were critical in themselves, but the confusion appeared to put the Hawk in peril.
The Hawk drew his sword with a roar and the bloodshed began. Some MacLarens were struck down and others stumbled, only to be stepped upon by the horses. The gyrfalcon circled, screaming.
But the Hawk’s party seemed to be broken by the assault. Reinhard’s steed was the first to bolt. The stallion reared and whinnied, then raced for the priory. Two palfreys followed the stallion’s lead, even though their riders continued to shoot arrows into the mob of MacLarens. Ahearn cursed as his destrier appeared to take the bit in its teeth and race back to the keep alone. The rider with the trunk cried out as his palfrey dove into the forest on the far side of the road. A dozen MacLarens raced after him at Faolan’s gesture, hooting as they pursued horse and prize.
The Hawk was left alone.
The ploy was perfectly executed, just as Quentin had once planned at the board at Abernye.
And the MacLarens believed it.
The MacLarens encircled the Hawk, their ranks two-deep, but stayed out of range of his sword. He circled the horse in place until Caillen stepped out of the forest. Then he turned to face the supposed leader, an armored knight on his destrier, facing down a ruffian dressed in rags.
“What do you want, spawn of the MacLarens?” the Hawk demanded, as if he were in charge of the situation. Indeed, he was, though his foes did not know it as yet. Quentin was aware that both Reinh
ard and Ahearn had not entered the gates of their destinations and guessed that they circled around with the other warriors to close the trap.
“You will make me laird,” Caillen said.
“Will I?” the Hawk asked, his amusement at the notion most clear. “You have miscalculated, Caillen MacLaren,” he said, then touched his heels to his destrier’s side and charged toward Caillen, his sword swinging high.
Faolan moved in that very moment, lifting his bow and drawing back the arrow. He aimed for the Hawk’s face but in the very instant that he would have loosed the bow, Quentin leaped upon him. He ripped the bow from the rebel’s hands and punched him in the face. The arrow shot wide of its mark, soaring over the head of the Hawk and the rebels shouted with frustration.
Faolan struck Quentin in the face, then kicked him, writhing free of Quentin’s grip when the others assaulted him. He was pounded once again, but did not care. He let them beat him and tried to keep track of Faolan. That man fled into the forest, abandoning his kin, and ducking into the shadows.
The Hawk sliced down Caillen with a single blow, which sent alarm through the ranks of the rebels. They turned to flee just as the Hawk’s warriors were revealed in the forest behind them. Those men had crept from both keep and priory as the Hawk made his ceremonial ride, the beat of the horses’ hooves upon the road disguising the sound of their movements. Ahearn and Reinhard shouted from opposite directions, then lunged into the fray on their steeds. The Hawk’s forces fell upon the surprised MacLarens with force, disarming them and capturing them, and leaving no small number of them dead. The fight was short and vicious, its outcome beyond doubt.
Until Faolan whistled from the road. Quentin’s heart stopped when he saw that the more cunning of the brothers had a small company behind him. One carried the trunk for the Titulus. A second held a knife at the throat of the rider who had been entrusted with that burden. The palfrey was also behind the band.
And Faolan himself held the braid of a second captive, his satisfaction clear.
Mhairi, garbed as a boy with fury in her eyes.
The Hawk was impassive, though Quentin could feel that man’s outrage.
“Perhaps you will make me Laird of Inverfyre,” Faolan taunted. “Or perhaps I should ride to the king and ask him to bestow the honor.”
Quentin assessed the distance even as he considered the merit of the bow he had claimed from Faolan. It was not as fine a weapon as he would have liked for a shot of such importance.
He could have made the shot with certainty—if Mhairi did not move, if he had yet possessed both eyes, if the bow had been better crafted. He yearned in that moment for his old faith in his abilities, the faith that had been stolen from him along with everything else.
He could not risk failure, not when Mhairi would pay the price.
The Hawk urged his destrier to take a step closer to Faolan. “What makes you believe I would wager with the likes of you?” he demanded.
“Your daughter’s life!” Faolan cried. He pulled Mhairi in front of himself, evidently trying to keep himself from being a target, and lifted a knife to her throat.
Quentin knew the moment that Mhairi saw him. Her gaze did not linger, lest she reveal him, but he felt it as surely as a touch. He remembered asking if she trusted him. He recalled the words in his dream that they would be allies forever.
She would give him the opportunity.
All he needed was the courage to take it, to believe in his skills, to trust in his instincts.
Just as he had instructed her, all those years before.
Quentin loaded the bow and raised it in one fluid gesture. In that same moment, Mhairi stamped on Faolan’s foot and drove her elbow into his side. His blade nicked her throat, but she ducked quickly, leaving him in view. The Hawk bellowed and touched his heels to his destrier’s flanks, but the shot was not his to take.
Quentin released the arrow, trusting in his aim.
Then he watched as it sliced through the air. It landed, quivering, in Faolan’s throat. The rebel’s blood began to flow from the wound but he roared all the same, then he tried to snatch at Mhairi. She twisted from his desperate grip, pulled Quentin’s own dagger from its hiding place beneath her tabard, and drove it into his poor excuse for a heart.
Faolan fell before the Hawk could reach him, tumbling to his knees in shock, wavering there, then falling into the dirt. It was Mhairi who kicked his corpse to retrieve her knife, wiping the blood on his ragged garments before she spat upon him with disgust. Then she stood tall to greet her father, who swept her into the saddle before himself, clearly both shaken and relieved.
Quentin smiled. His warrior maiden had not only learned her lessons well but had reminded him that he was not so useless as he had feared.
Perhaps he had a future, after all.
Quentin had proven himself!
Mhairi was triumphant. She did not care what her father said to her now. Even the Hawk could not deny that Quentin had saved him from injury and her, as well. Quentin’s skills were as good as ever, his aim was perfect, and his instincts unassailable. They had not lost a single man—because they had possessed an ally in the forest. She could scarce wait for the moment when her father acknowledged Quentin and granted his due.
In the meantime, there were prisoners to be secured and corpses to be gathered. The trunk seized by Faolan proved to hold nothing more valuable than a stone, just as Mhairi had anticipated. The company returned to the priory in a merry mood. The minor injuries they had sustained were treated and the mood was celebratory.
Soon enough, they returned to Inverfyre with the Titulus Croce, Skuld flying overhead. Quentin was offered a palfrey and climbed into the saddle, his gaze sliding past Mhairi.
At his command, she rode beside her father.
“You defied me,” he said when they were on the road and no others could hear them.
“I made no promise,” she said and a smile touched his lips.
“I noticed that at the time and wondered at its import. You could have been killed, Mhairi, and I would have been heartsick.” He frowned. “Your mother would have been devastated.”
“I had to help. I had to see.”
“So you hid in the company that crept from Inverfyre when I was riding to the priory.”
She nodded, not surprised that he had guessed.
“And you followed the trunk for the Titulus.”
“I thought to retrieve it for you. I was sure that I could fight a few boys with success.”
“Yet you did not.”
Mhairi smiled. “I chose to be captured, Papa, for then I knew they would return to taunt you with their apparent success. It was the easiest means of ensuring that the Titulus did not disappear into the forest.”
“A clever strategy.” The Hawk granted her a considering glance, but his tone was benign. “I suppose you intend to remind me that you had a good teacher.”
Mhairi smiled. “I do not think I need to.”
“You did not know that the key to his own strategy was to let the villains capture the prize and believe they had won. You took an unnecessary risk.”
“I do not regret it.”
“And I am not surprised. You are your mother’s daughter, to be sure.” Before Mhairi could reply, the Hawk beckoned to Quentin, who urged his horse to walk alongside the Hawk’s destrier. “You have come to my aid twice on this day, by saving me from harm and also by executing that MacLaren.”
“Faolan MacLaren, my lord,” Quentin supplied. “The younger brother of Caillen.”
“Then we are well rid of them both. You knew of him earlier?”
“Not until I left Inverfyre last night and they attacked me. It quickly became clear that he was the more cunning of the pair.”
“And I would have been satisfied with Caillen’s death alone, without your aid. I thank you for this service, Quentin.”
Quentin bowed. “I am honored to have done it, my lord.”
“Did you learn anything else
of merit from them?”
“They said they had a third brother, one Ramsay, who they believed more likely to ally with you than to challenge you.”
The Hawk smiled a little. “A MacLaren? I think they called that matter wrong. But the fact remains that I am in your debt—yet I would put myself in it further.”
“Sir?”
“Will you deliver a missive for me? I should like to send some tidings to my niece and her husband at Killairig before the Yule. You may take a horse, of course, and some provisions. It will not take you ten days to reach their abode, independent of the weather.”
Mhairi frowned in confusion. What tidings would her father send to Annelise and Garrett? And why would he send Quentin from Inverfyre again, without respite?
“Aye, sir. I will be honored to render this service,” Quentin said, though Mhairi heard a coolness in his tone.
Was it unreasonable that he might hope for more than an errand from her father?
And why was her father sending Quentin away again?
Mhairi knew it was no accident that she had no opportunity to speak with Quentin that night, or that Evangeline was intent upon keeping her in their chamber that night.
She dreamed of the clearing again that night, and danced with Quentin there. In her dream, she felt a joy that abandoned her at first light.
She awakened to the sounds of horses being saddled but found the chamber door locked. She stood at the window and watched as Quentin mounted the palfrey and rode down to the gates of Inverfyre.
He did not look back. The set of his shoulders told her all she needed to know.
Quentin would not return.
Chapter Six
Preparations for Christmas were embraced at Inverfyre with merriment. It seemed a sweeter Yuletide since the MacLarens were routed and the forests were safe. Laird and lady had ridden to hunt in the weeks since the triumph and there was venison aplenty for all. The hall was hung with greens and the Yule log already blazed on the hearth.
Mhairi, though, could not find her customary pleasure in the season. Each Sunday at the Mass, she kissed the Titulus and prayed that Quentin was well.
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