Chapter Twenty-One

T hey rode out in fair silence to follow the shallow, winding river through the glen. Cutting eastward over hills and moors, the Brechlinn group slowed as a member of their patrol, having waited for them, approached on a dappled gray charger. The garrons, Duncan and the others all knew, were unsuited if the need for a chase arose.

"Alan!" Duncan rode to meet him, the others following. "What have you seen?"

"Sir, there were several riding this way, at least toward the falls. But they are gone. They turned and rode back, and just before you arrived, left the east glen."

"Then it seems as if they are returning to Roskie. Good work, Alan. We will ride along the top of the ridge to be sure they are gone. Henry, if you will come with me, then Bran and Lennox can look elsewhere. Alan, you and the others can go back."

"Aye, sir." Bran rode off with Lennox, while Alan and two others who had ridden out with Duncan and the rest rode down a slope and out of sight on their way back along the river toward Brechlinn and the great loch.

Duncan turned his horse across the shoulder of the nearest hill and Henry followed. They reached the top of the ridge overlooking the east glen. Along the length of that valley, he saw no men, no horses. Only a few sheep.

"Not very much happening here now," Henry said.

"We will watch for a little while before heading back. For now, tell me what you know of De Soulis. I only met him recently when we were out with Lady Margaret flying hawks. Falcons," he amended. "I know something of the De Soulis family and their strong loyalty to King Edward. And I know your sister has a tie to him in the past."

"And may it stay in the past," Henry said.

"She told me something of the betrothals that followed…ours. We had some discussion about what happened with her—over these last years."

"So you know some of it. You were the first to reject her, but not the only one."

"Let me say, sir, that I have regretted that day ever since. I know I made an error. No apology can make it up to the lady or her kin."

"I heard you thought it was the honorable thing to do."

"I did. I was young—honor was a simple concept then. A great deal happened quickly after that. It was a while before I had time to reflect on it."

"We heard you were captured, that you had likely perished in captivity."

"My family heard the same, unfortunately. I had no idea." He explained as quickly as he could the years in England, then Flanders and France, with the escape to Ireland.

"Iain told us some of it," Henry said. "Remarkable. I am amazed so many of you survived."

"Aye, but we did what we had to do. When I was finally able to send word to my family, it had to be done secretly. I could not risk incurring Edward's wrath."

"Edward is a hard warden. While you were gone, Margaret was in a convent. When she came home, my father felt it was well past time to find her a husband."

"She told me about that. I understand your mother died there. I am sorry."

"Those were difficult days, to be sure. After my father died, I inherited Kincraig and the guardianship of my unmarried sisters. Our great-grandfather… You know? Aye, then. When I was young, Thomas impressed upon me the need to watch over my sisters. I took it to heart. Still do."

"I missed years with my siblings. You are fortunate in your sisters."

"I am." Henry drew a breath. "It is good to know we were wrong about you, sir."

"A chain of misunderstandings. I am glad to be able to unravel some of it now. I suppose you will want to take Margaret back to Kincraig when this is over."

"Margaret is strong-willed and will do what she wants. She intended to go to Ireland with Bruce's daughter and stay there for a while, but now I wonder what she will want to do once we have Lilias back again." Henry glanced sidelong at Duncan.

"As you say, she will do as she wants." They sat in silence watching the glen until Henry pointed toward the valley floor.

"Nothing much going on down there. Sheep and goats."

"Aye. Whoever rode through earlier has gone."

"May they stay away. Liam says you do good work for Bruce," Henry said then.

Duncan took a breath. He wanted to be honest with Margaret's brother, not only to make up for the years, but because he felt that he could trust him. He gave a half nod.

"I do. The bishop—you met him at Brechlinn? We are keeping him safe until he can be moved to the Isles and the English are not intently looking for him."

"I see. If Bruce trusts you, that says all to me. It is good to know more about you. Very good." Henry nodded half to himself. "I had my reservations, but I was wrong about you. There is much to admire." He smiled quickly, as if he felt embarrassed. "I have news for my sister that I was not sure she would want to hear. But I think you should know it too. I have not had a chance to tell her yet. However, it concerns both of you."

Curious, Duncan lifted a brow. "Aye?"

"I have been going through my father's documents and belongings whenever I have time at Kincraig, which is not often, so it has taken some time. But recently, I discovered that he made an attempt to contact you just before his death."

"Contact me?"

"He had heard a rumor that you had survived and returned to your family."

"Perhaps it had to do with the dowry. Though I believe my father repaid it while I was away those years."

"On the contrary, Duncan, it has never been paid in full."

"God's bones," he growled. "I will make immediate recompense."

"No need, sir. My father decided not to ask for it. What he intended to ask you was to renew the betrothal arrangement."

Duncan stared at him. "Renew it?"

From the window of her bedchamber, Margaret watched Duncan's party ride out until she could see them no longer, past the castle and heading along the narrow river stream. Seeing her brother and Duncan riding in tandem, she wondered what they might talk about. She was not certain, not quite. Though Henry was easy-going for the most part, he could have an iron stubbornness. Yet the conversation earlier gave her hope that he no longer harbored resentment toward Duncan.

Every day, every hour, she too felt old walls dissolving as she understood more about why Duncan left, what he had endured, how much honor truly meant to him.

Turning away from the gray half-light, she lit a candlestick from the glowing peat bricks in the brazier and set it on the table. Paging through a small illuminated prayer book that she had found on a shelf, her thoughts were not there, but wandering outside, flying over moor and glen with Duncan and Henry and the patrol.

A pottery bowl on the table held the little river stones that she and Duncan had found. Picking up one of them, she held it toward the window, then candle flame, but nothing remarkable appeared. She thought of the silver brooch again, with its luminous blue stone and a central hole outlined in tiny crystals.

The only way to reclaim it from De Soulis was to go to him herself. He would never relinquish it to Duncan. She was sure of that.

As for wee Lilias, she did not know—no one did—the best way to reclaim her.

Lifting the stone to her eye again, she looked toward the window, once again seeing only a small slice of hills and gray sky. Her father had once said there were ways to see distant objects closely in glass globes that made things appear larger, or small glass lenses that some could afford to aid failing eyesight. But nothing sharpened distant views.

Something moved within the small range of the stone's hole. Narrowing her eyes, she watched the landscape and saw movement again. She waited. The slope disappeared into a field of fog and a figure moved through it—then vanished. The hill and sky returned. When she had tried the stone the other day, she had seen an extraordinary sight—a battle of some kind. A true vision. But she did not know how to invite such things. They seemed random, accidental. But something appeared now and then.

Closing her eyes, she tried to recall what Thomas had told her in the year before his death, eight years ago now. Her sisters had gifts. He had said she did too. Yet what was there came and went capriciously.

Well, she thought, setting the little stone back in the bowl, if that was all she could do, it would have to be enough. The little river stones were not quite like the stone that Thomas had given her. Perhaps, when she regained that, she could try again.

Sighing, she picked up the little prayer book once more to turn its pretty pages. The rain tapped against the glass in the window arch, that repetition coaxing a yawn as she flipped the pages. Distracted, she felt anxious about Duncan and what he might encounter, and felt her stomach spin with fear as she thought about Lilias and how frightened the girl must be by now. She needed to know both were safe.

Yet she was a bit tired, and the wait might be long. Turning pages of prayers, she whispered a little prayer asking protection for Lilias, Duncan, the missing men, the gyrfalcons too—and added a little prayer for herself, wishing she might always stay here with Duncan Campbell. Drowsy with hopes and prayers, she laid her head on her arms and dozed.

Margaret. Margaret lass.

She looked around. A man stood in the shadows by the door. Thomas the Rhymer of Learmont, her great-grandfather. She sat up, reached out, but he held up a hand. "Grandda!"

Merry Margaret, dear lass , he said. Our wee forest bride.

"Oh, Grandda!" Tears rose in her eyes, and she felt an overflowing sense of love and kindness from him. He was younger than she remembered, fit and handsome, no longer crooked and old, with silver-white hair. His pale blue eyes held a gentle light.

Lass, the blue stone, my truth stone.

"I lost it, Grandda." She wanted to cry.

Thee must get it back. And thee must keep the elf-bolt too.

"That one is safe, see." She pulled out the silver chain and pendant to show him. "But I do not know how to use the stones you gave me, Grandda."

Just look and wait without thought or fear. The stone will show thee what it wants thee to know.

"What is it I need to know?"

Truth, dear one. The truth in thy heart. Then thee will know what thee needs.

"You said the pendant would help me. But I do not know how it can do that."

Where thee will it, the arrow will fly. Think, and do. Wee forest bride, be patient and watch. Thee will see.

"I am trying to understand. Grandda, why do you call me a forest bride?"

It has always been thy destiny. He held up a hand, stepped back, and was gone.

Rain pattered against the glass, the candle flame flickered.

Margaret opened her eyes, blinking. Her head was still on her folded arms. Just a dream—that was all. She sat up, feeling dazed. What had he told her?

Look and see. Picking up the plain little stone again, she peered through it. This time, she saw a high rocky slope, not the view framed by the window. She saw a cave opening in the slope. A girl sat there, dark-haired, wrapped in a cloak. Above, a white falcon glided. In the distance, she saw the frothy tail of a waterfall.

She blinked wide, nearly dropping the stone. Looking again, she breathed deep, and waited, as Thomas had told her in the dream.

Another image formed. Men, bloody and exhausted, some on the ground, some kneeling. One standing. Duncan leaned on his upright sword, its point in the ground. Then he collapsed, lying still—

Margaret cried out and held the stone away from her, breathing quickly. Trembling, she dared to look again. A blur of green became a forest. Two people stood there, but she could not see their faces. Chainmail on the man; a woman in a blue gown. Mist again.

Forest bride , Thomas had said. She remembered dreaming years ago of Duncan as a grown knight, herself as a lady. Just the old hopes returning.

Yet the rest was new, clear and swift images. Something had changed. The visions seemed to be more often, even using the little faery stones from the waterfall's pool.

Looking through the stone again, she saw a rainy sky, a dreary hill. Just that. An inconstant gift—but a gift. She caught her breath, grateful, hopeful, a little alarmed.

She set her hand to the pendant at her throat, always there and sometimes forgotten, its small pinkish crystal cool to her fingers, quickly warming. She remembered Thomas's words. Where thou will it, the arrow will fly.

Did he mean the pendant would help her direct an arrow? That seemed absurd. She simply had a good eye and a knack for hitting targets. Yet Duncan had once pointed out her habit of touching the pendant before she shot the bow. She had thought she did it for luck.

Then she took in a breath, struck by a thought. The day she shot Menteith accidentally, she had desperately wished something would delay the man from leaving the area if he had Lilias. Soon after, she had taken her shot, touching her pendant first for luck. But the arrow had not gone straight and true as she expected.

It had curved to hit Menteith, almost as if it had will of its own. Where thou will it, the arrow will fly.

A knock sounded at the door. She jumped.