Chapter Three

"I hope we are near done hearing cases," said Sir Constantine Murray of Pitcairn, sheriff-deputy of Stirlingshire, as he resumed his seat on a bench in a woodland grove beside the justiciar.

"It has been a long day," agreed Sir Duncan Campbell, laird of Brechlinn and justiciar of the north of Scotland. He was glad his old friend Con Murray had been assigned to the ayre court with him. They sat at a trestle table in a sunny clearing bordered by birches edging a forest lush with spring growth. Beyond an expanse of flowery meadow lay a village and a bustling market fair. Savory cooking and sweet baking smells wafted toward the grove.

"I am hungry, Brechlinn," Constantine said as he rifled through another stack of parchments handed to him by Duncan's clerk.

"Aye, but we have work to do. Just a few left."

"Have you read Menteith's complaint? Robbed of sheep and cattle, he claims."

"I glanced through. I suspect Sir John and his sheep could cause a parcel of trouble. He was complaining loudly about it not long ago."

"Ah, and here he comes, looking determined to defend himself."

Duncan glanced up. Spring sunshine filtered over the crowd of people gathered in the clearing as Sir John Menteith, sheriff of Dunbartonshire, shoved his way through. A burly man in his thirties, near Duncan's age but looking much older, he wore a long yellow surcoat and chainmail with his usual surly scowl.

Menteith was unlikely to wait his turn, Duncan knew. Ayre courts meted out justice for those needing to present complaints beyond the sheriff court—and also provided a diversion as entertaining as games at a market fair. He had presided over many such courts in the past few years, and felt it was work well done. But the cacophony of voices, music, the lowing of cows being sold, the thunk of stones being tossed, and thwack of arrows at the archery butts was a tempting distraction after a long day. And the smells of smoky meats and savory foods made his stomach growl.

He just wanted to grab a meat pie and a fresh ale and watch a race or an archery competition. He wanted to look for a length of woven cloth to send to his sister Isabel, expecting a child in her husband's Hebridean stronghold.

First, he had to hear more cases, and knew Sir John Menteith could be tiresome. Years ago, he and Constantine had shared a dungeon cell with Menteith, who had been a decent sort, though more interested in his welfare over others'. After their release, he had heard the fellow had pandered to King Edward and prospered for it, while Duncan and others lessened their service to Edward in favor of justice for Scots.

Following his father's death, Duncan had to appeal for his inherited position as a Scots justiciar. Even so, he managed to cross Edward's tyranny in secret and worthwhile ways, and continued to take that risk.

"Patrick Fraser." Duncan turned to the young clerk seated with them shuffling parchments. "I need the account of the incident involving Menteith."

"Here, sir." Patrick handed him a rolled parchment.

"Sheep, cattle—and a man gravely injured in a dispute over livestock. Con, shall I review this as justiciar, or will you keep it in the sheriff court?"

"We could manage it in the Stirlingshire court, but since Menteith is sheriff of Dunbartonshire, better it goes to the justiciary. I thought you might like the, ah, privilege."

"Did you now," Duncan drawled.

Constantine chuckled. "Sir John says he expects the decision to go his way."

"He deserves a chance to be heard, but he can wait. Patrick," Duncan said, "ask Sir John to stand aside until we call him." As the clerk got to his feet, Duncan looked through other parchments. "What more do we have?"

"A few cases reviewed by the sheriff court need final decisions. A land dispute. A breach of promise—that girl is angry," he muttered. "A tussle over well rights, another over grazing rights." Constantine gave him a page and its copy. "An annulment."

Duncan set those aside. "The Church decides that, not the justiciary."

"But this is a hotheaded dispute over the girl's tocher," Constantine said. "Her family wants it determined by a higher civil authority than the sheriff."

Duncan scowled. The mention of a breach of promise and dowry dispute unsettled him for a moment. Just old guilt rising again.

"An abbot must recommend it to a bishop to approve or send on to Rome. Patrick, take these pages," he said as the clerk returned. Dipping ink, Duncan scribbled a note and his name. "Inform this party their complaint must go to the nearest abbey. Give the copy to Father Ambrose. He is over there and can take it to his abbot."

As Patrick hastened off again, Duncan sighed. "They will not have an annulment before autumn, if the Church moves even that fast."

"Aye. Dissolving such an agreement can be a sticky matter. Ah, sorry, Duncan."

He had no reply for that. "Next?"

"A new claim. Incident along the road past Druimin." Constantine unfolded another parchment. "A witness told an innkeeper, who conveyed it to the Stirlingshire sheriff a few days ago. It came to me. My men are investigating. They found three bodies to be blessed and buried, left in a field after some encounter. Not good. Here."

Duncan took the page. "Who is the claimant?"

"Menteith is arguing against it."

"I cannot wait," he drawled. "Who was the witness?"

"A young Andrew Murray, the innkeeper said. That name gave me a pause, but several Murrays bear that name. Not just my older brother."

"Your brother was the finest Andrew Murray of the lot. He was a good man when he was captured with us, and a brilliant general beside William Wallace. A tragedy for Scotland when he died after the battle at Stirling Bridge. Any who share that name should be proud. He had a little son called Andrew too. How old now?"

"My nephew would be twelve or thirteen. But he fosters with the Keiths and is safe there. He would hardly be wandering the Druimin Road witnessing attacks. But this witness might be a distant kinsman. He is not expected to be here, though."

"Ah," Duncan said. "Apparently Sir John has waited long enough." He watched as the sheriff pushed through the crowd to cross the sunlit clearing toward the table. Then Duncan's attention was caught by someone in the crowd.

Sunshine glowed on the head of a young woman in the crowd whose uncovered hair shone bright as copper, her face pure and beautiful. Tall and slim, she stood in a green cloak, her bronze-and-copper hair spilling over her shoulder in one fat plait. Her gaze was keen, her eyes like jewels under arched brows. Golden sunlight and the white flowers of a hawthorn tree formed nearly a halo behind her.

He stared. She stood still, a beautiful statue amid the bustling crowd. A blond lad stood beside her, a quiver strap across his chest, bow upright in his hand like a walking stick. He spoke. She nodded.

He noticed that her gaze seemed fixed on Menteith. Even at a distance, Duncan saw a spark of temper and pride in the lifted chin, slim shoulders, high pink blush. Then she glanced around the clearing at the people, the table and the men seated there.

Her eyes went wide as she looked straight at Duncan.

By God, he thought, she looked familiar. He had been holding ayre courts for three years in the region and might have seen her before. Yet something tapped at his memory.

Margaret Keith. That was who she resembled. He sucked in a breath, stunned. Yet Margaret Keith could not be here in this place, in the middle of a local crowd. The strong, fire-haired Celtic beauty he was looking at now was not the fragile, whimsical young girl he remembered, but the resemblance was startling. He had hurt that girl so deeply that she had gone into a convent, so his father had heard.

Guilt had conjured her. This girl was just a beauty who reminded him of the one he had never forgotten. He still wondered what could have been if he not made a terrible error.

Fate had not only stepped in the way, it had taken over and thrown his life into turmoil. Once captured and imprisoned, several years had passed before he returned to Scotland a free man. Even then, he moved around, never establishing a home, never finding time for peace, never taking a wife.

Poor little Margaret Keith. He had loved her in his way, remembering and cherishing her bright, wild spirit. Had she not become a nun, she would have married someone else. She did not need Sir Duncan Campbell, knight, laird, justiciar, prisoner, rebel, working openly and reluctantly for one king and secretly, loyally, for another.

The young woman glared at him, then at Menteith again. Certainly she seemed displeased; perhaps she had a legal complaint to air. The lad beside her, holding the bow, whispered to her. Something was going on there.

"Who is that lass, the redhead?" he asked quietly. "Did she submit a complaint?"

"Not that I know. Bonny thing." Constantine leaned toward him. "I do not trust Menteith. Be wary."

"Aye, but he gets his say." He tapped his fingers on the table as Menteith approached.

Tough and wiry, Menteith was not a tall man but the crowd parted for him as he moved with force and fury. His round, beefy face above a brown beard, his red cheeks and dark eyes, his tense shoulders, all spoke of a man who carried anger in every step.

"Campbell. Murray," he snapped. "I am here for recompense."

"Sir John," Duncan greeted. "Taking your turn ahead of others, I see."

"I am sheriff of Dunbartonshire and lord of Dunbarton Castle. I do not have time to wait. I presume you read the papers."

"I have. State your complaint," Duncan replied.

"Those thieving MacRuaris took eight of my sheep and two of my cows a month ago. I want compensation for the animals."

Duncan studied the parchment. "This occurred on your property at Loch Roskie?" He looked up. "You can prove the theft? Do you have witnesses?"

"I know they did it. My men reported it to me. That is enough proof."

"You lost livestock, but a MacRuari was badly hurt and may die. Which has more value, sir?"

"I would get no money for that fellow at market," Menteith growled.

But some say you got a good price for betraying Wallace , Duncan thought. Beside him, Constantine Murray, who knew that rumor too, said nothing.

"I trust you will take care of this matter, Campbell. Because I am a sheriff, it must be decided by another court, but that deputy"—he looked at Constantine—"has no authority in Stirlingshire except when that sheriff is away."

"I do have authority. I decided you need a justiciar," Murray said.

Menteith ignored him. "Campbell, your father would have seen to this for me."

"Would he?" Duncan asked mildly. "But he is no longer with us."

"And you hold his title of justiciar in the north. You have the look of him too. I am sure I can expect the same courtesy from you that he would have given."

"We shall see."

Menteith curled his lip. "You even have the same damned castle ruin on the edge of my lands, which your father refused to sign over to me as I petitioned. Perhaps you stole my sheep and cows to fill the byre at Brechlinn."

"I am not inclined to ride out in the middle of the night to steal livestock." Duncan glared at him. "You are accusing the MacRuaris, sir, but if the fellow dies, that puts a darker turn on these charges."

"No one is innocent in Scotland these days with so many changes in loyalty and secret alliances. Are you accusing me because I support Edward?" Menteith seemed full of himself.

"Why would I bother? Are you admitting guilt here?"

"Of course not."

"Some do make secret bargains," Constantine agreed. "For their own benefit."

Menteith caught his meaning, his cheeks ruddy. Duncan sat silent. He would not poke the beast of William Wallace's fate here and hoped Murray would refrain too.

"Sir John, we have other cases today," Constantine went on. "Perhaps your livestock went over the stile in the night, as some do."

"They are too stupid to do that. Someone led them."

"Then explain the attack on a MacRuari on your land," Duncan said bluntly.

"I came here to report the theft and swear that neither I nor my men harmed him. All I know is he and his brothers stole my sheep and cows, and I am owed for the beasts. That is my only declaration. I expect you will be neighborly in your decision, Sir Duncan."

"I am sworn to be neutral, not neighborly."

"Your inherited responsibility should include courtesy," Menteith said.

"I inherited this position to provide impartial and educated opinions of matters with regard to Scots law and Brehon law, where the latter applies in the Highlands." Duncan said the words almost by rote, having explained himself in several woodland courts for the past four years.

"Brehon law?" Menteith's eyebrows shot up. "I want cro if Gaelic law applies."

"It does apply in this region, but under that law, the injured man has the right to demand payment. You would not get the fee."

Menteith waved a hand. "Then make your decision. I do not have time for this." He turned away.

"You are not excused," Duncan snapped as Constantine handed him a new page.

"Look at this," his friend murmured.

"As sheriff of Dunbartonshire, I am excusing myself," Menteith said.

"One more question." Duncan regarded the page in his hands.

"What is that?" Menteith fisted his hands. "I have duties to tend to."

"As do we all," Duncan murmured. "But it seems there was a recent incident along the Druimin Road east of Loch Lomond. Sir Constantine?"

"Aye. A few days ago, an escort party was attacked there. Three men were found dead in a nearby field. There were signs of a skirmish, with hoofprints, discarded weaponry, and other signs. A torn badge showed the Menteith insigne."

"I know nothing about that."

Constantine leaned forward. "Sir. According to the account of an innkeeper along that road, men wearing your badge and insignia were overheard at the inn saying they had taken a lady in a skirmish with others. A young lady."

"What my men say in their cups is not my concern."

"A witness reported similar details."

"Sir John, you are attached to this issue because your badge was seen," Duncan said. "Your men were overheard mentioning your name and an altercation that occurred on that road. And there are signs of an incident."

"Since it happened on the east side of the loch, it is a Stirlingshire concern," Constantine said. "Do you know of a skirmish, sir, or of a lady taken in that area?"

"Think carefully," Duncan warned.

"Oh, that one!" Menteith waved a hand. "Not a lady. A child. You confused me."

"What do you know of it?" Constantine asked.

"My men witnessed a theft along the road. Brigands. They interfered to rescue a young girl and her escort. They took the ruffians down and escorted the girl and the others to her kinsmen. It is done. It has naught to do with me."

"Who are her kin?"

"MacDougalls. She was fortunate my men intercepted those brigands."

Duncan masked his reaction. His father had died at the hands of MacDougalls years ago. The name would always rankle, but just now, it puzzled him.

"A minor incident," Menteith said with a shrug.

"Not if men were killed," Duncan snapped.

"Brigands died. I am not responsible for those deaths."

"Nor responsible in any matter today, it seems. Who was the girl?" Duncan asked.

Menteith shrugged. "Daughter of a Highland laird. She needed assistance. A good deed done is no matter for a justiciary. We are finished here."

"I will decide that. Sir Constantine will need to take accounts from your men. You may be questioned too."

"But I am leaving today," Menteith said.

"Going where?" Constantine asked. "If you will be at Loch Roskie instead of Dunbarton, we will find you there."

"I have properties in the north. Other responsibilities. You understand."

"Of course." Duncan studied the page in his hand. "Well. The other party in the dispute of missing livestock and an injury has not shown up today."

"Nor will they, coward MacRuaris," Menteith said.

Duncan ignored that. "Then you are done for now. But stay nearby and remain on your lands until Sir Constantine can determine more about the matter along the Druimin road."

"I told you I cannot stay."

Constantine tapped another parchment. "Sir John, I have a statement from one of the men who removed the dead from that place. He says the deceased were knights, not brigands. Two wore laurels on their badges. The Keith insignia."

Duncan froze, his hands stilled. Keith! He had not seen the page Murray held. His thoughts went to the Keiths of Kincraig, but there were other Keiths, fine men all, though none resided in this region. Why would they travel through Stirlingshire to escort a young girl to meet MacDougalls? Now Menteith's claim made little sense.

"Likely the thugs stole gear belonging to others," Menteith insisted.

"Best pray so," Constantine said. "Trouble will surely stir if Keith men were killed on a Stirlingshire road and a girl taken."

Reminded of the girl who resembled Margaret Keith, Duncan glanced toward the crowd. She was gone.

"That girl was delivered to her kin, I tell you." Menteith was turning redder.

"The highest-ranking Keith is Marischal of Scotland," Duncan said. "He will want to know if Keiths were involved—and slain."

"All a misunderstanding. I am expected in the market square now to judge pigs and pies. And you, neighbor?" Menteith turned to Duncan. "You should join the archery contest. Years back, you were a fine shot. There is a handsome prize."

"I will consider it," Duncan said, frowning at the man's sudden casualness.

"Indeed. Best watch your back at Brechlinn, sir. Watch your sheep."

"I would, if I had any."

"Did he just imply a threat?" Constantine murmured.

"Could be. But he had best stay away from Brechlinn."

"Your property is remote enough to protect what you are doing for Bruce there," his friend said low. "But you may need more guards on the walls. Send word if so."

"I should increase the watch at Brechlinn, but Scots soldiers are thin on the ground these days. Bring a few men if you can spare them."

"I may do that soon. Bruce relies on you. I am pleased to quietly help."

"Very quietly. Here is Patrick. What else must we do here? I am starving."

"Meg, you heard what Menteith told them," Andrew said. "He rides north today, and he seems in a hurry. If he moves Lilias, we may never find her."

"I thought the same. And if they send a ransom request to her father, it may be too late." Margaret paced the forest floor beyond the village. In the shelter of beeches and oaks, sunlight tinting the new leaves green, she and Andrew had found a pocket in the forest close to the village and the woodland court, yet dense enough to hide them. "If only we could delay Menteith from leaving."

"Impossible. We have been here for near a week, and now that we have finally found him, he is leaving today." He shoved a hand through his hair.

"I have an idea. But before we return to the village fair, I need to change."

"Change? Why?"

She ducked behind the wide trunk of the beech with its low branches and grabbed the bundled cloak with the things Andrew had acquired at the inn. Pulling off her green gown and hiding it under a tree, she stepped into woolen trews, drew them up and crammed her linen shift inside, trying to thicken her curving waistline as she pulled the waist cord. Next she tugged on a tunic of drab brown, then black stockings, shoving her feet into her boots, glad she had worn those to travel from Kincraig.

Emerging from the tree cover, she spread her arms. "What do you think?"

"You look like a lad with ribbons and long braids."

"Oh!" She wrapped her braids, plaited with cream ribbons, around her head and stuffed her hair under a generous black woolen cap that came with the gifted clothing. "We will go to the village as two lads."

"You need to sheathe a dagger in your belt to look more manly. But I do not think you can manage it even then," he added.

Sending him a wry look, Margaret took up her belt of plain leather, detached the embroidered purse buttoned there, and slung the belt low over her hips. Next she took up her green cloak and flipped it; the lining had a plaid pattern of green with blue and black. She fastened it around her throat as best she could with the pewter cloak pin the innkeeper's wife had included.

"Give me the bow and the quiver, if you please, and keep the dagger for yourself."

"What is your plan?" He handed her the bow and adjusted the quiver strap over her back. Then he took up the dagger, wrapped it in cloth, and stuck it in his belt. "What shall we do in the village? Listen and spy?"

"We can find Menteith judging contests."

"But we have neither pigs nor pies."

"If there is an archery contest, I could enter. Then I could try to have a word with him."

"And ask nicely if he stole Lilias?" He scoffed.

"Well, maybe not nicely." She patted the bow.

"You are a madwoman. Do not act rashly! I am just a lad and would not dare confront him without a sheriff there."

"We shall see." She led the way out of the forest.

"I thought you might accuse him at the court."

"It was not the right time. He has some trouble, though. They are watching him. That could go well for us."

"We should look for the justiciar or the sheriff. One was a Murray. If I tell him my name, he might listen."

"Who was the other? I did not hear his name."

"A Campbell."

"Oh?" She busied herself adjusting the bow on her shoulder.

"One of the sons of Cailean Mòr of Lochawe who was killed years back. I heard the knights at Kincraig talk about it once."

Her heart quickened. "I did hear that." She recalled that the justiciar was handsome enough to stand out among other men—and he had seemed oddly familiar. When Andrew said the name, she felt stunned.

But he could not be Duncan Dhu Campbell. Yet he had black hair that shone in the sunlight, keen blue eyes, a rare smile, crooked and sincere, and a way of tilting his head to listen, really listen, to others. Oh. Her heart surged.

But Duncan Campbell was dead. Her father had told her so, years ago. He had been captured in battle and taken into England with a hundred other captive Scottish lords. He had perished in captivity.

If that justiciar was a Campbell of Lochawe, he could be one of Duncan's brothers. That would explain the resemblance. Whoever he was, if he could bring justice for Lilias and go after Menteith, she would have to approach him. Lilias and the captured men were her highest concern just now.

"There are sporting contests at the village fair today," Andrew was saying. "Foot races, horse races, tossing stones, and such. A contest at the archery butts too."

"Good. You are swift of foot. And I am good with the bow."

"Skilled with a bow, but a fire-haired female. And a mad one at that."

She shoved him hard, which she thought a lad might do. He stumbled, laughing.