Chapter Four

D uncan took another bite of a meat pie, wild fowl mixed with currants in a spicy sauce and thick crust, as he walked through the market square. Hearing raucous cheering, he saw people gathered at the edge of a meadow watching a foot race. Curious, licking his fingers, he stopped to watch seven runners pounding along an earthen track, feet flying, hair sweeping back. Two lads had a good lead, and one wore a sling on one arm—the blond lad with the bow and arrow he had seen earlier beside the girl who resembled Margaret Keith with her bright hair and faery grace.

The lass he could not forget, his one-time betrothed, with whom he shared a gyrfalcon. The girl he should have married. He had never lost his remorse over it.

For a moment, he wished he could see her again, if only to apologize and tell her what only a few trusted friends knew—that he still protected their gyrfalcon at remote Brechlinn. Even if she never forgave him, she would be pleased to know that.

Standing there, he searched for the red-haired lass to no avail. When the golden-haired lad lost narrowly, Duncan applauded the winner and the other for persistence. When the lad left, Duncan followed, hoping he would find the redheaded girl.

He felt distracted by the need to find her, as if seeing her would refresh the memory of a girl he cherished. Craved. Wished he could see again.

He lingered as the boy bought an oatcake, then saw him wave a greeting to another lad, a slender, leggy fellow in a brown tunic, plaid cloak, and black cap. This one had a youthful, beardless face partly obscured by the draped cloak hood.

Perhaps this was just his brother. Duncan shrugged and headed in another direction. Now he scanned the busy crowd for a glimpse of Menteith, who was judging some of the contests. The man's explanation of stolen sheep and cows, and then of a girl attacked by brigands, did not sit right. He wanted to know more.

Duncan knew from experience that Sir John was not the most trustworthy of men. He had learned that after Dunbar, when Menteith, Constantine, Andrew Murray, Duncan, and over a hundred other young Scottish lords had been taken prisoner. Staying with Menteith and others in England for a while, Duncan had been sent to Flanders with one group, Menteith remained captive in England. Later, to obtain release, Menteith had pledged to Edward again, and had given up the names of others to gain favor.

Duncan was aware of the pressure Edward inflicted on Scottish nobles. He had been a recipient of that too. But though he understood the circumstances, he had little respect for the man's actions.

Looking around, he could not find the woman who looked like Margaret Keith. Well, he told himself, it was just guilt and regret tugging at him again. He felt it too often.

Ahead, he saw an archery contest. That was one of his favorite pastimes, a skill he had honed growing up with brothers, shooting at hay bales, apples, shields, painted images on wood, even coins when they dared each other's eye and skill. He often bested the others; he had an unfailing eye for a target. But archery was not considered a skill for knights, but was left to archers trained to the bow and crossbow. Knights relied on swords, lances, combat from horseback. But he preferred the bow for hunting and sport.

And he hated war. He had no taste for it, good as he was with sword, shield, lance, and arrow, good as he was with wrestling a man to the ground. He had size and strength, agility, a keen eye and mind. But he disliked conflict and admired the law far more for resolving differences.

A few years ago, meeting with Robert Bruce in Ireland, he had earned that earl's trust—now the king's trust—for his grasp of the law and his discretion. As laird of remote Brechlinn Castle, he was able to help Bruce by channeling fugitive Scottish rebels through his castle, sending them on from there to Ireland or other safe locations. Recently he had taken in some of the priests the English called "false preachers," loyal Scottish clergymen arrested for advocating war and stirring rebellion. Duncan had been involved in releasing them on bail, and he took it further, secretly, by sheltering them.

Released and protected, then freed, the priests had stubbornly resumed their activities, so the English were often looking for them. Edward's lieutenants sent word out that the priests, including a bishop, were behaving worse than ever by praising Bruce and the Scottish cause to stir Scots against English domination.

As justiciar, Duncan was expected to help corner and punish these priests. But he was more inclined to discreetly help them. When he next returned to Brechlinn, which lay at the northern end of Loch Lomond, he would fulfill requests from Bruce over any orders from Edward's commanders in Stirling.

But now, he only wanted a hot bannock and a cup of ale. The spring air felt clear and cool, the mood around him merry. As he strolled through, he nodded here and there in greeting, though most gave a curt nod or looked away.

"People are afraid to talk to you, man," said Constantine Murray, falling into step with him. "The grim justiciar who looks so stern. Here comes a Campbell, son of a clan chief so great, he is practically a Highland myth. His son upholds the law, so best watch out, for he never smiles."

"If I had something to smile about, I would," Duncan said. "My father was bigger than life, brave and brash and fair. Me, I am a quiet man, hey. And Scotland is a grim place these days. Years back, we were both happier, I vow, as new knights ready for adventure."

"Those were good days. And then we were brave and brash enough to leap to the Scottish side and thumb our noses at the English. But we were captured."

"A hard lesson. But I do smile sometimes." His mother often said he was too serious, but it suited him. Reserve and secrecy were comfortable, and necessary in a judge.

"That glower you favor is the look of the reckoner who sees a person's guilt. Adults avoid you. Children run from you—see," Constantine added as two small boys, chasing a leather ball, stopped, stared, and raced off.

Duncan huffed. "I am hardly evil."

"Stern but fair, I give you that."

"When a regional justiciar must decide life or death in a woodland court, it sits heavy on a man sometimes. Thankfully I did not have to do that here."

"Listen, lad, you are like a brother to me, so I will give you some advice. Someday you will need to marry and settle down. Lighten your mood and be more approachable."

"What, join in the merriment here? Enter a contest and be a champion? That will not attract the love of my life." Huh, he thought. The love of his life—realized too late, his own fault—had chosen to be a nun.

"How about a foot race?"

"That last pie I ate would slow me down. Very well. I will try my hand at archery."

"Then the others may as well go home."

"Winning a prize might make me smile," Duncan said. Constantine laughed.

He halted, noticing archery butts set up on a long field just beyond the village. Onlookers gathered there, applauding as a few archers lined up to take turns. Duncan saw Sir John Menteith standing with others, apparently acting as a contest judge.

"Now there is the very spirit of honor," Constantine muttered.

"Nock!" called a man Duncan recognized as the miller. "Mark! Draw!"

Arrows were loosed and hit the painted targets tacked into hay bales.

"Good shots," Duncan said.

"Go on, be as approachable as you can be. Join the contest. You will likely win the prize, so you can chat with Sir John and find out what more he knows about that attack. I am curious. What happened along the road, and why were his men there?"

"I agree. Ah, he is displaying the prize now. A pretty bauble." Duncan saw Menteith hold up a shiny silver thing to show the crowd.

"Win it and find someone who would like that pretty bijou ."

"Ha. Well, I must find me a bow first."

"Put your name on the list. I will fetch you a bow and meet you back here."

Minutes later, having added his name to the list held by a lad serving as clerk for the contest, Duncan went to stand with other contestants. Constantine Murray returned, bow and quiver in hand. A tall, brawny, black-haired man walked with him.

"Good Lord," Duncan said in surprise. "Malcolm! What are you doing here? You look good!" He took the man's hand. "I have not seen you since we were last in Ireland."

"And before that, escapees in France. But I did not want to serve in Edward's army any longer." Malcolm, fugitive Earl of Lennox, spat on the ground.

"Nor did Constantine or I. Malcolm, draw up your hood. Menteith is here."

"So I see. God's bones, it is a pleasure to find you both together. I have a message." Malcolm Lennox pulled his hood down over his dark curly hair. "But here I am skulking about, having been ousted by Menteith, courtesy of Edward of England."

"Someday that will be corrected. You have business here?" Duncan asked.

"A word with both of you, aye, from—Robert."

"Aye then." Duncan glanced at Constantine, both knowing who Malcolm meant. Lennox was a big man, beyond thirty years, with deep brown eyes and nearly black hair, his black beard long and full and streaked with silver, his brown cloak and tunic tattered and plain. Not much of a disguise, Duncan thought; Lord Lennox was a striking fellow in any crowd, and his voice, deep and rich and distinctive, carried far. But the man kept his voice muted as he spoke with them.

"Can we talk here?" he murmured.

"If you whisper and keep that great head down and covered," Constantine said. "Is that gray I see in your beard?"

"Life is hard, lad. I should be judging contests and eating pies," he said. "But I am not willing to serve King Edward, so there go my lands." He shrugged.

"The king you admire will get your lands back someday," Duncan said. "Did he send you here?"

"He sent me to find you both. He awaits the arrival of a very important lady who came this way, and he needs to know her status. She has disappeared," he added.

"A fugitive from king's justice?" Duncan asked in a low tone. "Was she on her way to Brechlinn? I have three guests there, priests who will be moved soon. My men will do that before I return, but we have room for more."

"I have news about that as well. Another cleric will be sent to you to be conveyed to the Isles. But not this lady."

"And what of her?'

"Bruce arranged for her to be taken safely to the Isles. But she never arrived at the Firth to meet the ship. I am here to find out why, and to alert you both as justiciar and sheriff's deputy. He needs to know she is safe. I am to bring back any news."

"Who is she?"

"A very significant and very young lady."

Exchanging a glance with Constantine, Duncan frowned. "We heard of a young girl traveling this way with an escort party," he said. "They were ambushed by brigands. She was rescued by another party, and taken to meet her kinfolk."

"But that girl was a child," Constantine added.

"Who were the kinfolk?" Lennox asked.

"MacDougalls, we were told," Duncan said.

"Not the same lady then. I cannot say more here." Malcolm glanced around.

"Menteith's men saved the girl, so he claims," Duncan went on.

"The one we must find was accompanied by Keiths and some of Bruce's men."

A cold chill ran through him. "Keiths?"

"Henry Keith and his sisters hosted the young lady at Kincraig for a while, until Robert requested that she be sent to Ireland. It was arranged that one of the Keith sisters would help escort her out of Scotland."

"Keith's sisters are still at Kincraig?" Duncan asked.

"One is at Dalrinnie, I hear, having married a Seton. There are two others."

"The Seton who runs with the outlaws in the Ettrick Forest?" Constantine asked. "I know of him. A good and loyal fellow."

"Aye. Bruce trusts him," Duncan added. His heart was pounding unaccountably. "And the other sisters? Are there three?"

"I do not know how many sisters Henry has, but I have heard they are beauties, desirable to any man, and even more desirable for their kinsmen and their fortune. I only know Bruce wanted this young lady taken from Kincraig to Ireland. But if the child you mention went to MacDougalls, she is not the one I seek."

Mention of the Keith sisters had shaken him, but Duncan nodded. "I will find out what I can. Give me a day or so."

"Very well. I will find you again. Bruce has gone south, have you heard? Men are gathering behind him in great numbers in the southwest."

"We heard." Constantine nodded. "Word is spreading that his forces are growing. Duncan, they are calling for the next set of archers. Here." He handed the bow and quiver to Duncan. "We will cheer you on, hey."

Shouldering the weapon, Duncan went to join the several archers standing near the butts. Waiting his turn, he took a few moments to check the bow, a good ashen one with a powerful pull. The arrows were good too, neatly fletched with goose feathers. Their plain steel bodkin points would fly straight and true to pierce a target. Satisfied, he stood patiently by as names were called. He would be last.

Two shots were allowed each contestant, the targets easy enough—a pair of flower garlands varying in color and size. Each archer showed decent skill, Duncan thought, as he watched two farm lads and a grizzled crofter hit near the edges of the garlands, fluttering petals to the ground. The next archer hit the center of one garland and wildly missed the next shot.

"Marcus Murray," the clerk called.

Murray? Duncan narrowed his eyes. The lad appeared to be the one he had seen with the blond fellow in the foot race. Bundled in cloak and cap, the slender lad in the black cap brought his bow up, nocked the arrow, stretched the string, eyed the targets.

Duncan sensed an uncanny calm in one so young. The lad acted as if he heard nothing around him, seeing only the target. His first arrow struck near the garland's center. His second shot was a finger's-width to the side, measured by a lad who ran forward to pluck arrows from the targets, while the dog with him fetched arrows from the ground, bringing them back to those overseeing the competition.

"Sir Duncan Campbell of Brechlinn," the clerk called out, standing near Menteith.

Duncan stepped forward as the young archer in the black cap stepped away. The boy looked pale, even shaken, despite his previous calm. He glanced at Duncan, a flash of green eyes—young and anxious. Perhaps he did not like justiciars.

"Well done," Duncan said, to offer encouragement. The lad turned away.

He took his position next, nocked, sighted, taking a moment to get the feel of a bow he had never used. The bow was good, the arrow shaft straight, the target an easy twenty or so yards off. Then he pulled. The bodkin point sailed to pierce the hole made by the lad in the black cap. His second arrow hit very near the center of the garland.

The crowd applauded as Duncan stepped aside. The miller's lad fetched the arrows while the miller and another tacked up another garland. Each competitor shot and stepped aside. Duncan waited, hands wrapped around the upright bow.

Young Marcus Murray stepped up again, shooting with impressive calm and accuracy. Several shots later, Duncan was not surprised when the competition winnowed down to Marcus and himself.

"Which of you will win the prize?" Menteith crowed, holding up the brooch. It flashed blue and silver in the sunlight.

Beside him, Marcus Murray made a sound, a sort of gasp that became a cough.

Duncan reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. "Fine? You can win that brooch. Just go easy."

"Huh," the lad grumbled. "I want that brooch."

Odd, Duncan thought, that low, husky voice, that intense glance at Menteith. But it was just a cloak pin. He had a half dozen in a wooden box. He did not need another.

The final target was set up—three wooden hoops of graduated size, the smallest less than a palm wide, a true challenge. One shot would be allowed for each ring.

Duncan struck near the center, and so did the boy, their arrows tight together inside the first two hoops. He held back a bit with his shot. He did not want to best such a talented young archer. Marcus was so shy, he barely looked up, even when the crowd cheered him. Yet the lad gave Duncan a genuine challenge. Though thin and barely muscled, his aim was true.

Their third set of shots hit directly into the smallest hoop, the arrows so tightly together inside the circle that the miller turned to Sir John.

"Should both win?"

"Give them one more," Menteith said. "I want to see that strapling boy beat the justiciar. Bring another target. That painted sign."

Two boys carried out a banner and tacked it to the hay bales, the cloth blowing a bit in the spring breeze. As the boys stepped back and Duncan saw the banner, he clenched his bow in startled response. The image was a white falcon in mid-flight, wings spread. White feathers had been glued to the painted wings, giving it an eerie realism.

Beside him, Marcus Murray gasped and tugged at his cap. Duncan saw a reddish curl slip free, tucked back again. He frowned.

He studied the boy more closely, noticing what he had not before: the finely shaped profile and pale skin; slim, graceful fingers adjusting the cap; long, smooth, shapely legs; and despite the bulky clothing, a distinct curve at hip and breast.

No need to look for the red-haired lass. She stood just beside him. What the devil? He could not sort it out quickly.

"A falcon," Menteith announced. "A gyrfalcon—the bird only kings can fly! Have you ever seen one, Sir Duncan? The boy never has, surely, but perhaps you have."

"I have. Magnificent birds." Duncan glanced at the young archer. Under the ill-fitting cap, the girl's cheeks were stained pink.

"I have heard they fly wild in Scotland. One of my men saw a white falcon not long ago. We should trap it together, you and I, since our lands converge."

"Likely impossible to trap such a thing," Duncan said carefully.

"Well, shoot the eye of that falcon and you win the prize!" Menteith raised the silver brooch. It caught the sunlight. "One shot each will determine the winner."

Marcus—the girl—was breathing audibly fast, gripping the upright bow. Duncan watched her, his brow creased. It was her turn, but she looked shaken.

"Nock!" the miller called. "Mark!"

"Steady," Duncan murmured, as the girl fumbled with her bow. "The falcon looks real, but do not let it throw you."

"You shoot first," she answered in a husky voice, and moved back.

Duncan stepped forward. Taking a moment, he raised the bow, nocked, sighted the bird, focused on the eye. All the while he masked the fiery thread of anger that grew within. Was Menteith's unsettling choice deliberate? Had he seen the falcon recently?

The thought hit hard, cutting into his focus. Few knew about the rare gyrfalcon he kept at Brechlinn. Had someone sighted her over the glen when he or his men exercised the birds? He was always cautious and reminded others to be careful as well.

Heart pounding, he wondered why the girl seemed startled by the painted white bird too. Then it struck him. He knew of only one lass who might react like that to the sight of a white gyrfalcon. But it could not be. That girl was likely praying in a convent.

He flexed his fingers on the bow, propped the arrow shaft along his hand, tilted, tightened the string, sighted. Too distracted, he lowered the bow, lifted, refocused.

"Steady, sir," the girl murmured. "It is just a target." Her voice was husky, earnest, yet enticingly feminine. He glanced at her. A strand of red-gold hair slipped free of the dull black cap again. Her gaze met his. Gorgeous green irises full of recognition. She looked away.

Margaret. Safe and well, just here beside him, when he thought her locked away praying somewhere. Here, where he could touch her, talk to her. More than surprise, he felt sheer relief.

Taking a breath, he loosed the arrow into the eye of the bird.