Chapter 3

They rode in single file because of the tree-covered terrain, and with a sense of urgency because the wail of a horn on their heels. Nhaimeth Comlyn could tell they faced east by the way the meagre sunlight threw long grey shadows ahead of them each time it pierced a break in the dark clouds—four Scots fleeing with their mounts’ noses pointed towards the coast instead of north to Cragenlaw as yin might have expected.

“They’re hunting us like animals. I can hear the hounds getting closer.”

“Don’t lose faith, Nhaimeth. There’s a place we can hide, and I’m determined to find it afore they draw any closer. Have I e’er let ye down?” Rob’s blue eyes peered out of his helm, fixed him with a look that spoke of all they had gone through together o’er the years.

Who was Nhaimeth to remind him of the day he’d been taken prisoner? Without question, that had been the worst day of Nhaimeth’s life. Afore, he had always believed his sister Astrid’s death the vilest day. With her gone, he had believed he had naught until Rob and his mother Morag had shown him otherwise, given him a new family.

Like the two clansmen riding behind him, Nhaimeth followed Rob without question, the way they would follow the McArthur chieftain, Rob’s father. Nae longer the wee laddie he’d first met who had trudged through Scotland with his mother, Rob was a man now, a chieftain in the making. His days as a Farquhar were in the past, taken over by his life as the McArthur heir.

With his friend nae more than a horse’s rump ahead of him, Nhaimeth entered a tunnel of intertwined branches raining jewel coloured leaves over them—splashes of red and gold that landed on the black linen trapper covering Rob’s mount. Its silver wolf’s head embroidery proclaimed that Rob had taken his Farquhar grandfather’s sigil for his own. The notion for the trapper covering his destrier’s distinctive black and white hide had come frae Rob’s mother, and the McArthur had concurred even though he had given his son the handsome new destrier. To their way of thinking, it was one thing for a king surrounded by protective warriors to stand out frae the rabble as a way of encouraging his army. A lad with a mount many would envy would do better not to attract attention.

Gun-eagal—fearless—a name that acknowledged a colt’s bravery had come frae Rob’s wee sister Maggie when it had killed a lynx intent on making a meal of her. A trained warhorse now, it had replaced Diabhal—lost in the last battle at Alnwick when Rob had had to be ransomed—yet for the life of him, Nhaimeth couldn’t see it ever supplanting Diabhal in Rob’s heart.

Nhaimeth found it difficult to hide his pride in being Rob McArthur’s closest friend. There would always be folk who looked askance at such unusual comradeship, more so now than when they first met. The few inches that it took a dwarf to grow into manhood had been far outpaced by the height and breadth of Euan McArthur’s son. Dark and handsome, the young wolf, as Morag called him, Rob had a lot to live up to—not only the McArthur, but also his grandfather who once ruled the barony of Wolfsdale with an iron fist. The old baron had been Rob’s first mentor, but his death a few months afore Rob arrived at Cragenlaw had changed everything.

Watching Rob push aside a low growing branch with his shield, Nhaimeth experienced a twinge of guilt; he had never admitted it afore today, to himself or Rob—more brother than friend—that their arrival at Cragenlaw had changed his life forever.

Aye, he had nae complaints.

The thought broke off afore he had a chance to let it get o’er sentimental as lightning flashed, brilliant enough to illuminate all four riders. The hairs at the back of Nhaimeth’s neck rose as another horn sounded, only to be swallowed by a rumble of thunder and the rending noise of a tree splitting apart.

Nhaimeth pulled hard on his palfrey’s reins to prevent riding into Gun-eagal as Rob brought the destrier to a sudden halt. They all turned in their saddles as the trunk of the tree that had been shattered by nature’s fury split in half, blocking the way back but, thankfully, preventing anyone pursuing them from taking the same path. “The gods are with us,” the rider following Nhaimeth murmured, meaning the auld Celtic gods; then he crossed himself for good measure, just in case.

Rob let loose a sharp shout of laughter that rang with the same sort of relief they all must feel even, though he wouldn’t admit it. “We’re in Northumbria now, do ye think the auld gods have crossed the border?”

“One of them at least,” Nhaimeth said, showing his teeth in a wide grin, taking Rob’s lead in an effort to reassure the two men behind him. “This is the perfect place for the Green Lady to hide,” he stressed, speaking with the conviction of someone who had seen the Lady looking down frae a tree at Cragenlaw one day, along with Rob and his mother. He’d never forgotten that day when they buried the afterbirth of the McArthur’s third dead son under a tree in the Bailey.

Rob answered him as the hated sound wove its way through the trees, “Let’s hope yer right, but just in case let’s go someplace where we can’t hear that bluidy horn.”

The going was steep and the ground underfoot wet and slick as the rain pelted down on them. They rode into a stand of conifers. If the Normans didnae manage to get them, the horrendous weather might be the death of them instead. The animals jibed, protesting as their rumps scraped against the drooping, rain-sodden pine branches, and when one sprang back frae Rob’s shield and slapped at Nhaimeth, he commiserated with the poor horses for it had been a long, miserable day for man and beast alike.

A heartfelt sigh passed Nhaimeth’s lips as the slope gradually dwindled into a gentle wee brae and the conifers nae longer crowded them. He could see a burn flowing through the wee glen. His mount had come level with Rob’s Gun-eagal when he realised the lad’s wish had been granted, for the horn had ceased clamouring on their heels.

A flash of white on the opposite side of the burn startled Nhaimeth and the others behind him. He heard a jingle of metal accompanied by a curse and a surprised, “Will ye look at that,” from behind him as a full grown stag with six points dashed out of the trees.

‘I saw it!” the rest of them gasped, as amazed as Nhaimeth himself.

The real jolt of surprise was its colour—white as the driven snow—just like the auld tales related—tales retold time and time again, toes warming at the hearth around the blazing fires of winter and the auld men’s voices lulling and scaring betimes as legends were passed down.

Nhaimeth could have done with a fire; icy fingers tapped up the length of his spine when the stag halted and stared at them across the stony-bottomed burn. Its hide might indeed be white and the shaggy ruff around its throat glisten as if draped in icicles, but it huge eyes were red, dark as old blood. Nhaimeth only realised he had stopped breathing as he dragged air into his deprived lungs, watching it leap away.

Not far enough to Nhaimeth’s way of thinking—aye not far enough when it stopped again and turned its head to look back at them, its antlers dripping with rain yet piercingly white against the dark trees beyond. He heard the low rumble of Rob’s voice as they watched the stag trot away, a rumble that segued into a yell as he turned and encompassed them all in his gaze. “This way my bonnie lads, I believe the beast wants us to follow.”