Page 75 of The Falcon Laird
“I do not care for winter fishing in icy streams. But I swear to you, lad, Fergus told me the Scottish Church just declared pigeons good food for Lenten Friday. And Kilglassie is crammed with pigeons and wild doves. We do not even have to leave our castle walls to hunt our supper. Thick as berries on a bush, they are, roosting in the ruined towers and walking wherever they please in the courtyard.”
“I am heartily tired of pigeons. We’ve had them stewed and boiled and roasted for weeks now,” Gavin said, shifting the longbow that he had been carrying since they had left Kilglassie an hour earlier.
“Ah, but Dominy has a fine hand with a dove pie,” John said, grinning.
Gavin chuckled. “I think you’re interested in more than her fine hand of late,” he said. John reddened beneath his silvery beard, and Gavin chuckled again. “But as for me, if there’s any game in this forest, I am using this bow. Thank God Henry left longbows in storage, and not those short bows you Scots favor. Good English yew, this is.”
John laughed. “Short bows are muckle powerful for hunting.”
“If we see any game. I hoped to spot a red deer, but so far, I’ve seen only sparrows and finches. And a wolf that slipped away quick enough when we came near.”
“Hungry they’ll be, in winter,” John said.
“I have no care to mix with wolves today.” Gavin pushed between branches that sprayed him with cold drops. Pulling up the hood of his cloak, he stopped.
“It is later than I had thought. Fergus’s croft is no more than a mile or so from this part of the forest,” he said to John. “Christian and the others will be ready to return to Kilglassie soon.”
“And I’ll be eager to try that heather ale that Lady Christian has gone to fetch.”
“Perhaps we should go there and offer escort,” Gavin said.
“Ach, you cannot keep away from your wee dove, eh? You seem to have settled matters.”
“We have, but it is not why I want to escort her home again,” Gavin said, stepping over wet bracken. “Before we left Kilglassie, a rider came in from Loch Doon, sent by Hastings.”
“I was in the hall with the masons then, and heard there was a messenger. I thought Hastings wanted a report of our progress. He’s too eager to install a garrison.”
“He sent word to the king at Lanercost and had a letter back already regarding Christian. King Edward still considers her an outlaw and a prisoner of England. Either I keep her in proper custody or Hastings has permission to arrest her.”
“God’s wounds! And you said no word o’ this?”
“She already left, else I could not have let her go beyond the castle. We can bring her home again.”
“Ah, so that is why we’re out hunting. Not the Bruce, or the doves, but the English.”
“If I must fight English to protect my wife and my home, then I will do that.” Conviction, strong and solid, flowed throughhim as he uttered the words. He and John walked on in silence, scanning the forest, seeing only high, straight trunks and heavy pine branches, and flitting birds.
“We might catch sight of the Bruce while we’re out here. Hastings and the king would be muckle pleased to hear it,” John said. His tone was mild, but Gavin sensed the sarcasm there.
“It is part of my mission to assist in Bruce’s capture, according to King Edward,” Gavin said. “And they say that Bruce is hiding in these hills lately.”
“And what would you do if we met him here?”
Gavin shrugged. “Without being introduced, I doubt I’d recognize the man,” he said easily. “I saw him once or twice in the English court, years ago. I’ll wager he’s changed some.”
“Aye, likely. We would not ken the man now if we fell smack over him.”
Their boots crushed pine needles underfoot, a soft rust-colored expanse that spread beneath the trees. The taller pines in this part of the forest had slender, spare trunks that admitted more of the gray daylight, and wide swinging boughs that soared toward the gray sky.
“Hold,” Gavin said. Just ahead, the tall pines thinned out, and the forest floor seemed to suddenly fall away at their feet. Gavin walked to the edge and saw that the ground sloped acutely downward into a rocky hill. He looked up to stare out at a vast, rugged, wild scene.
Thin mist drifted over the hills, and the damp, cold air promised further rain. Beyond the pine-sheltered hilltop where Gavin stood, steep forested hills and craggy slopes rose through fog in a layered rhythm, winter-bare and forbidding.
“Bruce could hide here anywhere,” Gavin mused. “Those hills could shelter any number of men, and I will wager there are caves in those rugged slopes. These pine forests are so thick that a camp with dozens of men could not be found easily.”
“The workmen at Kilglassie say the Bruce favors moving his camp each day. He’s clever and bold. Scotland can do well with such a king.” He turned to Gavin. “I will ask you, then. Would you truly join Hastings to interfere with that effort?”
Gavin frowned. “I think not,” he finally said.
