Chapter Two

C oming out of a gray fog, she looked around. The ambush had happened so fast, she hardly understood what had occurred. The enemy knights had taken some of them away. She rode across her captor's lap, reluctantly leaning on him to avoid falling. Looking ahead, she saw Lilias, still on her horse, her hands tied, the horse's reins in the keeping of one of the attackers. The girl was struggling, kicking, trying to get free. The knight reached over and took hold of her cloak in case she managed to squirm away.

Margaret squeezed her eyes shut, struggling for alertness. She recalled the flash of swords, a flurry of arrows, the thunk of long poles that jousted men from their horses. Remembered her horse neighing in alarm, remembered shooting—where was her bow? Gone.

Lilias had been taken first, dragged screaming as she was tossed over a thug's lap and carried away. Then Andrew, flung to the ground, was quickly subdued and tethered with a rope to stumble with the good knights of their escort who had been captured and were still on their feet. Other good men lay on the ground.

Glancing behind her now, she saw Andrew, Hugh Stewart, Quentin Douglas and a few other men walking, hands bound, bleeding from wounds, some limping.

To her left was a vast loch through a screen of trees. Guessing that was Loch Lomond, she knew they were traveling north. Yet soon they veered to the right through forestland, heading northeast. A few moments later, they stopped briefly, the knights conferring, pointing. She and Lilias and the men were kept under close guard. When her captor remounted, he pushed her behind him, so that she had to cling to him or fall.

He should have kept her in front of him. Her head was clearer now. If she had a chance to grab his dagger—or even to just slip away—she would have to take it.

The knights rode single file along a rough forest path. One side was a steep slope carpeted with ferns and studded with saplings. It made Margaret think of games she had played with her brother and others in the forest around Kincraig. She had loved climbing trees, leaping branch to branch, rolling down hills to jump up and run. She could do that now.

Taking the risk before she could think further and let fear hold her back, she let go of the man's belt and slid down and away. He grabbed for her cloak as she fell, snatching hold, tearing the wool. Her cloak pin popped open and the cloak spread as she tumbled to the ground. She grabbed the cloth but missed the pin.

Rolling down the ferny incline, feeling sticks poking into her sides, she slid to the bottom and scrambled to her feet, launching into a run. Men shouted, and one or two slid down the hill in pursuit. But she slipped away into the forest, cutting behind trees, farther and farther away each time she paused to look, to breathe.

"Eh, let her go!" someone shouted. "We will come back. We have what we want for now. Come on!" Horses began to advance along the path at the top of the slope.

She turned and fled.

Running until her breath went ragged, she fell to her knees, then rose and ran on. Branches smacked, leaves slapped her face and hands, roots tripped her, bracken snagged at her skirts. She plunged onward through the greenwood, heart slamming.

Finally she stopped where the forest was thick with tall pines. Her breath heaving, she ducked under the drooping boughs of an ancient pine and leaned against the trunk, hidden. Piney fragrance filled her nostrils, the scent and the quiet forest calming. After a while she peered out. No one seemed to have followed her.

She listened, hearing wind and rustling leaves, chirping birds, the burble of a nearby stream. Beams of sunlight threaded green and soft through leaves and boughs, undisturbed by human movement. Her wild path had taken her well off the beaten path. Safe for now, she sat back with a sob, burying her face in her hands.

Lilias was gone. Andrew was gone. The knights of the escort were taken, a few left killed or wounded. And she was lost in an unknown forest.

Touching her forehead, she felt a tender bump there, then flexed her right knee, which felt twisted and bruised. She pushed the pine branches aside to look out again at a forest redolent with green and earthy scents and spring growth. She had plunged so deep into the woods that she heard only the sounds of nature. There was no trace of men, no voices, chinking armor, horse hooves.

Sliding to sit, she tucked her arms around her legs and lowered her head and waited for the urge to cry to lessen. She would not cry. She never cried. Not any longer.

Leaning her head back, her coppery hair loose of its braiding, forehead and knee throbbing, she felt on the edge of panic. She made herself breathe, calm, reminding herself that she was safe and free. And somehow she must help the others.

First she had to understand what had happened. She thought back.

Her bow was gone, as well as their baggage and her horse.

She counted. Three good knights, two from Kincraig and one sent by King Robert, laid sprawled on the earth. Six others, including Andrew, taken prisoner, wounded and tied with rope. Three others, also left on the ground, had been enemy men. Sir Hugh Stewart and the captured men had been bloodied and limping. Thinking back, she guessed a dozen attackers had descended upon them, armed and ready.

A chilling thought occurred. Had they been waiting for the escort, aware that Bruce's daughter was with them? But how had they known?

The area they rode through, along the eastern shore of Loch Lomond, with the loch to her left, was in the region called the Lennox. She knew it belonged rightfully to the Earl of Lennox, a Bruce ally. But Lennox had been outlawed by the English, and his lands had been confiscated. King Edward had awarded them to Sir John Menteith, a Scottish lord who catered to Edward and would therefore benefit. She had heard Henry and other men discussing it at Kincraig. Was Menteith involved, since they rode through the Lennox, or was the attack just a coincidence arranged by brigands and thugs?

Perhaps she was in the Lennox, but she did not know more than that. She was far from home, certainly; Kincraig Castle was two days south at least. No one would know that something had happened until their escort failed to arrive as expected.

What she knew for certain was that she had not protected Lilias and Andrew. She had tried to defend them, but the odds had been against her. Her bow and arrows, a gift from Thomas the Rhymer, were gone now—along with the beautiful cloak pin Thomas had given her.

She felt struck to the heart. Not only Lilias and Andrew, but the precious things Thomas had entrusted to her. Tears rose in her eyes. She dashed them away.

Searching for the silver chain and pendant she wore around her neck, tucked inside her bodice, she was relieved to find it still there. Grandda had given her the little charm stone that he said a queen had given him. It reminded Margaret of him—and the trust he had placed in her.

But the lost cloak pin held the large blue stone he had called his truth stone. She pulled her green cloak close to find the rip in the wool where the silver-framed pin had been torn away. The pin and the pendant had been gifts to Thomas from the Queen of Faery, so he had said, and thus both pieces were enchanted. Someday she would know how to use them, he had told her. But he had died before she could ask more.

In his will, he had entrusted to her the pretty pendant and his clach na firinn , his truth stone. The greater power lay in the brooch, and it was lost now.

She wrapped her fingers around the pendant, finding it a comfort after the shock of the day. The silver filigree frame held a translucent crystal pink as dawn, carved in the shape of an arrowhead. Grandda had said it was an ancient elf-bolt enchanted with magic. It makes arrows fly true , he had told her.

Her arrows had not flown true that day, she thought; but she did not know much about the charm stone. Thomas had given her the yew bow too, which her father and brother had taught her to use. She wore the necklace in remembrance of her great-grandfather, deciding that its true magic was as a reminder of Thomas, inspiring her to be the best archer she could be, and to reach for courage and boldness.

Pulling in a shaky breath, she looked out through the branches. No one was about in the forest. She would be safe here for a while. But she must find a way to help the others somehow. Returning to Kincraig for help would take days, even if she could find a way to do that. Perhaps a nearby sheriff might provide help more quickly. There would be a village nearby where she could inquire.

Another thought struck her. Had the attackers intended to take her too? She was fairly sure they had snatched Lilias deliberately. Though Margaret Keith was an earl's daughter and a Marischal's niece, she had no value otherwise. She did not even have a husband to pay her ransom, having refused four betrothals.

But she possessed something that might be valuable to some—an elf-bolt that had belonged to Thomas the Rhymer, given to him by the Queen of Faery, said to be imbued with magic. And one of the attackers had the Rhymer's brooch. If she could get the brooch back, could she barter those precious items in exchange for a king's daughter and a hero's son? Yet she did not know who had Lilias and Andrew, though the attackers were likely enemies of Robert Bruce.

But she had no answers to such questions yet. She needed to retrace her steps, leave the forest, find the attack site, try to find out who the attackers were and where they might have taken the hostages. But how?

For a moment, she felt utterly defeated.

Years ago, one of her suitors had refused a betrothal, insisting that Lady Margaret Keith was bad luck; he said the girl could bring bad luck to a man faster than thunder brought lightning. She had brought ill fortune to others, he claimed, who had agreed to take her for a bride.

The proof, apparently, was that Sir Duncan Campbell had been unfortunate enough to be yoked to her. Even though the betrothal was broken, he had been captured by the English and had died in captivity. Bad luck indeed, said this fellow.

Other suitors had died too, one of age and infirmity during the betrothal negotiations. Another—Sir Brian Lauder, a knight in his prime, intelligent and considerate in their one meeting, a man she almost considered—had died in a skirmish before any agreement could be made. After that, her father had negotiated with a fourth suitor—but that man had harshly rejected her on the excuse that she would bring him poor luck, even death.

Ridiculous. She knew that. What her suitors did not know was that Margaret Keith had refused those betrothals against her father's wishes. She was not bad luck for anyone. She was brokenhearted and did not want to marry. As for her first suitor, she had transformed Duncan Campbell into an ideal, the perfect knight, the lover tragically lost, the one man she would have loved forever had fate allowed.

Now, in this dilemma, she had no husband, no father, and no brother nearby to help her. No matter. She would make her own luck. The wellbeing of others—Lilias, Andrew, the captured men—depended on what she did now. She alone could help.

Drawing a fortifying breath, she pulled back a pine bough and listened again for pursuers. The forest was so quiet that she ventured out and began to walk back along the path the way she had come, her steps cautious.

Soon she heard a voice somewhere in the forest sounds. She froze.

" Margaret! " The whisper cut through the trees. " Meg! "

It was a familiar voice. And only kin and friends knew her shortened name.

"Andrew? Andrew! Here! " She ran forward a few steps.

Nearby, bushes rustled and swayed, and a lanky blond boy with blood trickling down one side of his face emerged. Andrew Murray. She ran to him.

"Oh, Andrew! I thought you were—oh, your head! You are hurt!" His thick golden hair was blood stained, the side of his face scraped. He cradled his left arm.

"I am fine," he said as she hugged him. Then she turned to usher him back to the shelter of the huge pine. "Are you hurt, Meg? They took Lady Lilias and the men."

"I know. Sit down. Let me see your wounds." She pushed him to sit.

"I must go after her," he insisted. "I will ride after those rogues!"

"Then you would not return in one piece. Tilt your head, let me see," she instructed. His forehead was bruised and his cheek scraped, and he was holding his forearm. She crawled away briefly to grab some of the nettle leaves and wild garlic that she had seen growing nearby. Dipping them in the stream that ran beneath the slope, she returned to wipe damp leaves over his wounds. Then she pulled at the hem of the linen shift under her woolen gown and tore the fabric to create a few strips. She tucked nettle and garlic in the bandage and wrapped his head. He winced.

"There," she said. "Let me see your arm."

"I twisted my wrist when I fell—oww," he muttered.

She wrapped linen around his wrist and made a simple sling with the longest piece. "Try not to use it for now. It does not seem broken, but I am no healer. If my sister Rowena were here, she would know what was wrong."

"And she would be gentle. Ow," he said as she positioned his wrist.

"Luckily she is away, or she might have been abducted too. How did you get away?"

"The rope knots were loose enough that I slipped free. I saw you roll down a bank and run, so I watched for a chance and did the same. Then I went in the same direction hoping to find you. But what should we do now?"

She sighed. "We can do little before morning. It will be dark soon. Best we rest here. There is a clear stream nearby, and I can find berries and such for us to eat. And we will think of a way to help Lilias."

"How?" He shook his head. "I am sorry that I could not stop them."

"You did your best. And I am sorry I did not pull my bow fast enough to take them down."

"You hit one. He complained about it. And your bow fell, I saw it. I wish I had a weapon. My father would have killed those men," he added, scowling. Margaret knew Andrew idolized his heroic father, although he barely remembered him.

"Your father was a great man, and he would be proud of you for being strong and clever with a righteous heart. We both tried. Remember that. And we have each other. We can solve this. I just wish I knew where we are now."

"This part of the forest runs east away from Loch Lomond," Andrew said. "Sir Hugh told me they were taking us northeast. We went about four miles north, then east, he figured."

"Sir Hugh—was he hurt?"

"He took a blow to the head, otherwise they would never have taken him. Four others were with us. And Sir Quentin Douglas, a young knight sent by Bruce."

"I remember him. Did Sir Hugh say if this forest is in the Lennox?"

"Aye, he said we were not far from Dunbarton Castle when we were attacked just south of the loch. Sir John Menteith holds Dunbarton. He is sheriff of Dunbartonshire. I think he is not well liked, though."

"Could we go to him for help? We need a sheriff."

"Not him! He may be part of this. I saw the badges some of the attackers wore. The design was a yellow shield with a band of black and white checks. That is Menteith's crest."

"Are you sure?"

"Sir Hugh saw it too and mentioned it to me and Quentin. One of the attackers struck him for saying so. He fell, and Quentin helped him up."

Margaret frowned. "If Menteith has Lilias and the men, we should try to find a Scottish sheriff, not an English one, to confront him."

"Sir John Menteith is Scots, but he supports Edward. I have heard that. But why would he send men after us?"

"Lilias," she said. "I think that would be the reason. Was she hurt?"

"Not hurt, but angry. She fought like a wildcat, did you see?"

"I saw some of it. I took a knock to the head and was foggy for a bit." She touched her temple. "It feels somewhat better now."

"Good. Best be careful, though. Lilias put up a fuss for sure. She called them names until someone gagged her and bound her wrists and feet so she would stop punching and yelling. Sir Quentin demanded they let her go, but they struck him with a pole and gave him a broken nose and black eye. Oh, Meg, this is awful! Perhaps we should go to Kincraig right away for help."

"We would need horses or a cart. It would take too long. When our escort does not arrive to meet the boat, men will come looking for us, but we cannot wait for that. We must do something quickly." Margaret shook her head, thinking. "Whoever took Lilias and the others will act swiftly to hide them. Perhaps even ransom them."

"We passed an inn along the way just before we were attacked. I will go there to see if I can hear any news. We might be able to hire a messenger to ride to Kincraig."

"Possibly. We will go in the morning." She glanced through the pine boughs, seeing the gathering darkness. She hoped they had not been followed.

"If we can find the place where we were attacked, we might find your bow and some other things there."

"And we should find a priest to bless the dead. But we do need a sheriff," she said. "There is one in Stirlingshire. I wonder where we could find him."

"I will ask at the inn."

She began to feel a tiny ray of hope. As darkness fell, she and Andrew made beds of pine needles and oak leaves. The stream provided cold, clear water that they drank from cupped hands, and Margaret found wild strawberries along the banks, as well as dandelion greens. They ate in silence and slept exhausted under the eaves of the pine.

*

"That bright hair will give you away," Andrew said next morning as they neared the inn. "The thugs will be searching for a red-haired girl. Stay under those trees while I go to the inn to ask around."

She paced—the long walk had tried her sore knee—and worried for a while until he returned. He carried a bulky cloth bag on one shoulder and her quiver and bow on the other. His grin was wide.

"My things!" she cried. "Where did you find them?"

"I ran past the inn a bit and found the place where we were taken down. I found this too." He opened the cloth sack and brought out an unsheathed dagger. "It was lost by one of the men. There are three dead there."

"A priest must bless them and arrange burial. And a sheriff can help find whoever attacked and stole the king's daughter. What else do you have there?"

He rummaged to produce a cloth-wrapped packet. "Meat pie! Mutton and barley. The woman at the inn gave it to me, with ale." He drew out a small pottery jug, and another packet wrapped in parchment. "And cheese. She only asked a half- penny, but the coins you gave me were not clipped, so I gave her a whole penny. She gave me clothing too, seeing blood on my shirt."

"What did you tell her?"

"That I witnessed an ambush along the road and escaped without being seen. She promised to send word to the Stirlingshire sheriff and said he might come this way in a few days for a woodland court and a village fair. She gave me extra food too," he added. "I did not say there were two of us in case someone overheard."

"How kind of her." Margaret drew out the folded things—a tunic shirt, woolen trews, a knitted hat, patched hose. Though old and worn, they were clean.

"She said her son wore them, but he was killed in a battle. There will be a court for public complaints and hearings near the village soon. It is not far from here. We could stay in the forest until then. The sheriff might be there. I learned something else too."

"What is that? Are you hungry?" She opened the wrapped pie and broke it, steam rising, in half, then handed Andrew a wedge.

"This is good," he mumbled, then swallowed. "The dame in the inn said men were in there last night, saying that Sir John Menteith's men saved a young lady whose escort was attacked by brigands, that they brought her to safety."

"Saved her!" She blinked. "His men were the brigands. Where did they take her?"

"To the protection of her family, so the dame heard."

"Impossible!"

"The woodland court will be an ayre court, the innkeeper's wife said."

"An ayre? I know of those. They are outdoor courts overseen by regional justiciars instead of just sheriffs. A judge in an ayre court can hear grievances and decide cases. If only we had proof, we could bring a complaint against Menteith."

"I saw the badges. I can witness that they were Menteith's men. A justiciar of northern Scotland will be there to hear complaints, the good dame said. She said he comes here once or twice a year."

"Menteith is also a sheriff, so that could be trouble," she said. "We cannot accuse a sheriff of wrongdoing without evidence."

"There are dead men lying in a field, Margaret. Someone should know of it."

"Aye. We must report the ambush. If Menteith is there, I want to talk to him."

"Why? To ask if he stole Lady Lilias away? It is too risky! Let the sheriff or the judge do that. The dame at the inn also said a market will be held in the village. We might learn something there that would help."

"With luck, we will get assistance from the judge."

"Meg," Andrew said, "will they believe us? It sounds like a wild tale."

"It does." She sighed. "And we should be careful about mentioning Lady Lilias Bruce in a public court. There are so many English about."

"What if I followed Menteith to see if he has Lady Lilias at Dunbarton Castle? You could wait in the forest and I would come back with Bruce's daughter and all our men."

He was so young, so earnest. Margaret smiled, shook her head. "You dear lad! Now who would take a risk?"

"What then, Meg?" He sounded desperate. Her heart went out to him.

The cloak and its contents—the dagger, the bow, the clothing—tugged at her thoughts. How could they make use of those? She felt responsible for Andrew and Lilias and there was little time. This sat on her shoulders.

"There might be something else we can do. Listen…"