Page 76 of The Falcon Laird
“A bit o’ the rebel still in you, eh?”
“Mayhap,” Gavin said. “An ambassador learns to remain neutral—but I am gaining more and more respect for the Scottish cause.” He gazed over the narrow valley that lay at the base of a string of hills, where a silver burn cut through. He recognized the burn they had crossed weeks ago as they traveled near Kilglassie.
Now, through the vague mist, he saw three figures on horses picking their way along the rock-studded ground beside the water. One rider, he saw, wore skirts. “There they are,” he said, pointing, “just heading home for Kilglassie.”
John nodded. “Dominy and Will, and Michaelmas too. But—”
“But where is Lady Christian?”
They knew theywere being watched, had known it for a mile or more.
The surrounding silence seemed as dense and mysterious as the ancient pines. Christian and Fergus and a few of the others rode on shaggy garron ponies between the wide, wet, outspread branches, while the rest of the rebels walked, carrying weapons. A thick, fragrant carpet of pine needles muffled footfalls. No one spoke.
In the past hour, they had traveled over rough forest tracks and rocky slopes to reach this dark forest. She had seen, once, a wolf, lean and watchful, standing on a boulder in the distance; and she had heard the faint, haunting cry of a wildcat.
But after they had entered the pine forest, she had seen only endless depths of dark, thick evergreen branches and spare trunks, had heard only muffled hoofbeats and the constant sound of water as it rushed through burns, or burst from bare rock to form small waterfalls.
Now the sense of expectancy hung heavily in the piney air.
Christian pulled the hood of her cloak more closely about her face and shivered. The air was faintly misty and the chill had grown worse deeper into the day, a damp, wintry cold that cut through her cloak and clothing to ice her very bones. The wind was growing stronger, too. She longed to be home in front of a glowing hearth.
Frowning, she tucked one gloved hand inside her fur-lined cloak and wondered how Robert Bruce and his men had managed to survive these bitter winter weeks. Galloway had little snow in the winter compared to other parts of Scotland, but the damp could be bitter and uncomfortable. And the wintry gales were ferocious when they came, heavy with rain and icy winds.
Fergus nodded to her and angled his tonsured head, telling her to look to the side. She did.
Three men stepped out from behind two enormous fir trees. They looked wild and threatening, wearing leather hauberks beneath wrapped and belted plaids, their heavily muscled legs bare. Long, unkempt hair and beards added to their savage appearance. They held lance-tipped staves crossways in front of them and stood firm, blocking the path just ahead of the party.
“Highlanders,” she murmured.
Fergus nodded. “The Bruce has several Highlandmen with him. Come ahead, lass.” Christian rode forward with him, and they halted their horses several feet away.
“What do you want here?” one asked in Gaelic, his voice deep and forbidding.
“I am Fergus Macnab, rector of Saint Bride’s near Kilglassie. My sons Iain and Donal Macnab are with us.”
“I am Lady Christian MacGillan of Kilglassie, cousin to Robert Bruce,” she said in Gaelic, her voice firm and clear. “Who are you?”
The Highlander glanced at his companions, then looked back at her. “MacGillan! We knew your father and brothers, lady. And we are friends of your kinsman the king.”
“Then you will be glad to know we bring news for my cousin, and men with horses and armor who wish to join his cause.” Fergus waited.
The man grunted, and the three murmured, then stepped back. “Come this way, just the two of you,” the spokesman said.
Christian and Fergus dismounted and followed the Highlander between sweeping branches. They entered a small clearing, walled on all sides by tall pines, the interior as dim as a cave. When Christian turned around, the Highland rebel had gone.
Within moments the branches parted, and a man stepped into the clearing. Christian peered through the shadows. He was of medium height, his shoulders broad, his body thickly muscled beneath a leather hauberk and a ragged surcoat and cloak. His auburn hair gleamed, longer than he usually preferred.
“Robert!” she breathed. Her cousin came forward, bringing her near to kiss her cheek, his beard rough against her skin. He smelled of smoke and pines and horses. She gripped his arms and smiled.
“Christian! You are safe, thank God.” He hugged her. “What news have you? Dear God, we starve for news here, for we can obtain only so much on our own. Messages are better than food and wine, some days. Father!” He greeted Fergus with a grin and a clasp of hands. “Your sons are fine men,” Robert Bruce went on. “I have four of them with me now.”
“I have two more who wish to join you, my lord,” Fergus said. “Iain and Donal are with us. And I have two wee laddies at home who would join you tomorrow if they could.” Robert laughed and motioned for them to sit on some rocks inside the circle of pines.
“I have a friend with me whom you may know,” he said to Christian. “Robert Boyd.”
She nodded. “He was with us at Kildrummy—but he was captured by the English when we were.”
“Aye. But weeks later, he escaped, and traveled across Scotland to find me. So I know of the capture. I know King Edward has Elizabeth and Margaret, and my sisters and Isabel of Buchan as well. But we have not heard what has happened since then.” He looked at her, his handsome face somber, his gray eyes clear. “Christian, tell me. How did you gain your freedom? What of the others? Are they alive? I must ask—none of our reports are current, I fear.”
