Lyall quickly stepped back into the shadows when he heard the clamor of men and horses, then eased deeper into the depths of the alley where he knew he was out of sight and moved over to the opposite wall for a better view. Across the way, a tall, copper-haired nobleman came out of a tavern to join a troop of men-at-arms waiting in the narrow dirt street. Lyall recognized the badges and the Douglas device.

“The alewife says she paid for boarding her horse and hound,” the man told Finngal Douglas, tall and mounted at the head of his guards on a fine piece of Barb-blooded horseflesh that shifted spiritedly, hooves dancing in the dirt.

“What hound?” Douglas asked, frowning. “Cait has no hound.”

“Based upon her history for trouble, Finn, she could have most easily found herself a hound…no doubt one that once guarded the River Styx.”

“Aye. Do not remind me of her propensity for trouble. She is my curse for every wrong I've ever committed.“

"Was like trying to cull coin from that alewife’s purse to get her to tell me what little she did spill. Seems she took a fancy to the poor laddie.”

“The poor laddie, my bride,” Douglas said, shaking his head.

“The puir wee laddie who stole my purse.”

“She will pay you back, I will see that she will regret this day.”

“She is a wonder, the way she can twist people around her finger. The old alewife gave me the evil eye for daring to ask about her or imply the lad was in truth a woman.”

“Cait does not have me fooled. The moment my back is turned she is gone, out traipsing the countryside on a lark, dressed as a lad or servant, unprotected….again. How many times is this?”

“Five,” the knight said, ”If you count the time she dressed as a nun.

Douglas drew a gloved hand through his dark hair and scowled. “God’s Legs….if anything happens to her, Sutherland and my father will have my head on a pike.”

“Aye, Finn,” his friend said sarcastically. “Keep telling yourself ‘tis all about the earls’ tempers,” he paused. “And that you care naught a fig for her.”

“I care,” Douglas said briskly. “I care to make the little shrew regret disobeying my orders.”

The knight shook his head. “I would wager a year’s income—should your wife not steal it from me—that she is no longer in Inverness. She was most likely out the gates before we had gathered the men in their saddles. We have searched the town twice over.”

A look of pure determination washed over the face of Finn Douglas. “Then mount up and we will ride hard to Killencraig. I feel the sudden itch to beat my wife.”

“And come out the worse for it, I’ll wager. You are dealing with the Lady Caitrin. What do you suppose she will throw at you this time? You had good a lump from that apple. I would have never believed fruit could be an effective weapon. Mayhap we should store a barrel of them along the curtain walls.”

“I didn’t see it coming," Finn groused. "And stop grinning like a fool. I know all too well this old trick of hers-- heaving of missiles. I'm familiar with her diversions.”

“Perhaps to protect your head, my friend, you might send a man ahead to clear out the sharp objects—and fruit--from the castle solar.” The man was laughing as he mounted and moved his horse to Douglas’ side.

“I intend to get my hands on her first…but I’ll remember to wear my helm.”

“And to duck.” Laughter followed the men’s comments as they rode off toward the town’s western gates.

Lyall stared at the dust swirling in the empty road, lost in thought. Finngal Douglas was heir to the earl of Dunkirk, a strong ally and sword-arm to Glenna’s father the king, and a man who was close friend to the most powerful noble outside the crown--the earl of Sutherland--whose tight ties to the English crown, to Ireland and the Norse made him untouchable by anyone, even the king’s strongest enemies. Sutherland also happened to be the king’s most loyal friend, his eyes, and his ears, and a man Lyall’s father had known well.

Before his father had been condemned as a traitor, both Sutherland and Dunkirk had come to Dunkeldon on the king’s business. Though he was merely a young lad at the time, Lyall still remembered their colorful arrival through the gates of Dunkeldon.

He had been more than curious about the king’s great earls, and so he had hidden in the galleries above the hall, hanging on every word as he watched the king's earls dining and drinking with his father, talking politics. When talk grew more intensely heated, they moved their conversations to someplace more private than the Great Hall.

Too young then, he had not yet honed his skill of listening at doors, back when the name he carried was not one of shame. A few years later, his ear pressed to doors was the way he could keep his single-minded goal before him. In time he learned all about manipulation and whether honor mattered in the Great Schemes of man, and he learned about desperation, the dark shadow of which was now always with him.

Sutherland and Dunkirk were assuredly at the helm of whatever plan there was for the king’s return. But he knew little of Douglas, the son, except by reputation, acknowledged wealth, and word he was a man whose name garnered respect and reaction. He then remembered Mairi and his mother gossiping the last time he was at Rossie, some maelstrom regarding the recent wedding of Lord Finngal Douglas, the king's champion, to Sutherland’s ward.

Interesting…that Douglas was searching for his errant bride—a thought that gave Lyall a moment’s pensive pause where every muscle in his body stiffened as he suddenly pieced all of it together for the first time. Glenna and her hound, not Lady Caitrin.

Lyall stepped out of the alley and moved swiftly toward the tavern door. Inside, the crowded alehouse was darker than the evening sky and smelled of beer and burning mutton tallow from the candle pricks on the smoke-burnished walls. Barrels of mead and bigger hogsheads of ale were stacked up in back behind a thick, solid slab of oak that served as the board, where stood the alewife, as stout as her beer, with face flushed from a nearby coal brasier and the kitchen fire in the rear, looking as weathered as a dried apple. She moved with speed that belied her apronned girth, down the line of tankards filling each from a frothy ewer as she gave orders to her lackey.

Lyall crossed over toward an empty seat in dark corner, used his boot to pull out a chair from a squat table, the opposite side of which was set with a trencher of stewed meat and a half empty beer mug. Straddling the chair, he sat and stabbed his jeweled dagger into the tabletop.

The lackey came running over and set an ale tankard in front of him.

With a swift nod of his head toward the meat trencher, Lyall said, “I’ll have the same.” As the lackey moved away, Lyall drank from the pint, not realizing how thirsty and hungry he was until food and drink were both less than a cubit away and the scents were unavoidable.

Studying the room as he drank, Lyall searched for parties to question, besides the alewife. Since Douglas’ man had just questioned her, and apparently had trouble, Lyall understood he would need to choose most carefully. He did not want to raise too many questions. But still he needed to know how much time had passed since Glenna had been seen.

A freeman dressed in hood and gorget came scurrying in from the back, probably from the latrine, since he was busy adjusting his braies. He did not notice Lyall until he was already by his abandoned seat and he looked up and stared across the table as if hit. His eyes grew wide and his manner servile. Bowing slightly, he started to pick up his food with both hands. “I’ll leave, m’lord.”

“Stay where you are, man. Sit.” Lyall sheathed his dagger and pulled out his eating knife. “I welcome the company and will gladly share your table.”

The man sat and was saved from having to speak by the lackey who placed a steaming trencher of lamb stew in front of Lyall and refilled his ale before taking the ale pitcher around the other empty pints in the tavern. They both ate in silence as thick as their trenchers, but every so often Lyall caught the man staring at him over his food with wide, white eyes.

Lyall tore off some more bread and sopped up the stew, chewing, then he set down the knife. “I have only just come to town,” he said, easing into the conversation.

“Aye, m’lord. I, too, drove in with a wagon load from Drumashie just this morn. Left home the day before.”

“And I come down from the North coast,” Lyall said vaguely, since the isle was to the north and had plenty of coastline.

“I am Heckie, the corn farmer,” the man said, and with a sudden burst of words he began to talk about his farm and wife and the wain’s load, the mill and a bad tooth. Lyall stared at the chattering little man whose face was slightly swollen on one side and listened with half an ear until Heckie the corn farmer said, “The laddie and his dog.”

Lyall did not move for a long moment, but then his hand was inside his purse. “A laddie and his dog?”

“Aye. Gordon of Suddy the lad was.”

Gordon? Lyall almost laughed out loud at the irony: she sends him on a false trail three times in the woods and then uses her foster family’s name. He laughed to himself instead. Luck was his, this day, perched upon his shoulder like a falcon.

“And that hound…What was its name?” the corn farmer said absently. “Drunk as a wounded mercenary, the hairy beast was.” The man frowned slightly. “Fergus! That was it. A sweet laddie, that Gordon and his droopy-eyed hound named Fergus.”

Sweet laddie, my arse.

When the man took an odd, whistling breath, Lyall leaned forward slowly, forearms on the table, setting some coins between them where they caught the candlelight and gleamed bright silver.

“This could be a day of fine luck for both of us, Heckie of Drumashie,” he said easily pushing the coin closer to the man. “I am on the trail of some important information….”

* * *

Ramsey paced in his private chamber, hands locked behind him and dictating a message to his scribe, when three small children came running across the stone floor shrieking, “Greatpapa! Greatpapa!” and they were suddenly shimmying up him like the odd, agile monkeys he once saw in London. As those small hands and feet frantically covered him, his mood lightened and his precise and careful choice of words written to the earl of Sutherland were quickly forgotten.

“We will finish later,” he told his scribe, who quickly gathered his precious writing tools close to his chest. All knew Mairi’s young and curious children had free reign at Rossi to destroy whatever they could, at their whim, and the scribe rushed the room as if his hair were on fire.

Ramsey pulled Duncan and Gregor into his broad arms and Robbie, the eldest, was already hanging from his back.

“Be the bear, Greatpapa!”

So he growled and carried on, juggling his grandchildren, step grandchildren if one wanted to be accurate, as he prowled the inner chamber like a dancing bear and nothing near to an infamous warrior or a baron. He was at that moment merely ‘Greatpapa,’ a name Robbie had come up with mixing up great and grand, and despite all Mairi’s scolding, nothing could change Robbie’s name for him. Secretly Ramsey cared not what the lads called him and thought his grandson’s stubbornness was a good trait, and at one point, he taught Duncan to call him the Greatpapa, which, when Mairi caught him in the act, earned him a weak scolding from his laughing stepdaughter.

For Ramsey, the sound of children’s voices echoing off the stone walls of his castle gave him great joy, and was something he had longed for. All his wealth and power could not give him sons and daughters. No babes had grown from the wombs of either of his wives. He had his two stepchildren--though he could not wait to get his hands on one of them—and he had Mairi’s sons.

By the time he and the lads were all tumbling upon the thick carpet he had brought back from his youthful journey to the Holy Land, Beitris and Mairi came inside arm in arm and stood watching and shaking their heads, ready as usual to put a halt to their antics.

“Come along you,” Mairi said as she began pulling children off of him. “Leave Greatpapa be.”

Robbie puffed himself up, “I am the great knight Sir Robert of Glamis!” He held up a mock sword. “I shall save all from the mad bear!” He kissed the imaginary sword and acted out jabbing it into Ramsey, who rolled and groaned and moaned, flopped and twitched like he was dying, then flung his arms outwards and lay perfectly still on the carpet, while Robbie rested his small foot on his chest and bowed victorious to all.

“Enough foolishness,” Mairi said, but her voice held no censure. “Come. Cook has warm honeycakes waiting for you.”

The children froze and looked down at him as if to judge which was more desirable, Greatpapa or sweets. “Go on with you,” he said, winking. “But save me the heftiest honeycake.”

The women gathered up the bouncing children, who were now arguing over which would choose first, and sent them off with two capable nursemaids, so Ramsey leapt up easily and ran a hand through his tousled dark hair which was just beginning to show the steely edges of some gray, and he grinned sheepishly at his wife, then turned to his stepdaughter. “Come and give an old man a proper greeting.”

“What old man? I do not see an old man,” Mairi said and nestled into the crook of his arm, hugging him.

“Two score and five this coming year,” he declared. Spoken aloud, the number sounded old to his ears. He slipped his arm tighter around her and he thought perhaps she had finally began to put some meat back on her willow-thin bones.

“You are so good for them,” she said quietly, her cheek to his chest and her voice thick with emotion.

Widowed just over a year ago, Mairi still looked wan and lost without Robert Gray. Her husband died in a shipwreck off the coast of Ireland while there as an emissary for his maternal uncle, the earl of Pembroke. Ramsey knew she would need another husband to protect Grey lands for his grandsons, and while many believed he should marry her off to another quickly, Ramsey wanted Mairi to be content. She, like Beitris, had had enough pain. For now, he held guardianship over her and the lads and provided their protection, because he knew his strong-willed stepdaughter could not yet face another marriage.

Beitris handed him a large goblet of wine and turned slightly away…taking another small piece of his heart as she did so. “Sit,” he released Mairi and took a drink of dark wine that suddenly held little flavor. He sat down heavily in a chair, his long legs out in front of him.

“Tell me what was so urgent to send guards to escort us here immediately,” Mairi said.

Mairi and Lyall were close as a brother and sister could be.

Beitris stood next to him, her good side to him, her unscarred hand resting gently on his shoulder. She understood how difficult this was for him. If only she understood what she meant to him.

He took another drink and set down his goblet, talked to Mairi about the importance and secrecy of what he was about to tell her…and he told her what Lyall had done.

Mairi swore like a man and her mother flinched and made the sign of the cross.

“My exact reaction,” Ramsey said grimly.

“Lyall stayed with you for most of the spring and half the summer,” Beitris said. “Did you see or hear anything?”

“Aye,” she said, still clearly angry. “Months back, in the late spring, he received a message and rode out with a de Hay knight.”

All was becoming clearer and more treacherous, Ramsey thought.

“God, no… Are you certain it was de Hay?” Beitris asked, her voice high and her hand tightened on his shoulder.

“Aye. I saw the man’s badge. When Lyall returned his mood was changed. He was not himself. I asked what had happened and he claimed it was something to do with Isobel.”

“ ‘Tis unlikely since Isobel’s been dead for three years,” Ramsey said wryly.

“And once she died, Lyall wanted naught to do with the family. In particular her father,” Beitris said, not bothering to hide her anger.

“Only because Dunkeldon was lost to him,” Mairi said aloud what Ramsey was thinking.

"Dunkeldon will be the end of him,” Beitris said clearly unable to comprehend her son’s intense and bleak ties to his father’s lands.

Ramsey did understand Lyall’s torment. A man’s lands gave him worth in a world that judged him on his possession and sword-arm. But Lyall’s drive and his pursuit at any means and in the face of the unattainable was like watching a caged boar beat its head against the iron bars.

“He is a fool,” Mairi said, but the words carried a great and heavy sadness that spread through the chamber.

“He will be hanged for this,” Beitris’ voice cracked and she buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

“Mother…” Mairi ran over to her.

Ramsey stood and started to reach for his wife but someone called to him from behind the chamber curtain. He crossed the room and swept aside the curtain to come face to face with one of his house knights.

“We found their trail, my lord, near Inverness. I rode like the very devil to get here.”

“Good.” Ramsey clapped him on the shoulder and looked out the tower arch. “We have enough time before the sun sets. We will leave immediately. Go find a fresh mount.”

“The grooms are saddling one now, along with your horse, my lord.”

“Go then and have some bread and ale, man—see the cook--while I speak to my wife. I will meet you in the stable.” Ramsey went back inside their chamber. Beitris was sitting in the chair, Mairi kneeling at her feet and holding her hands. She had stopped crying and looked up at him, forgetting in her sorrow to hide half her face.

“My men found their trail.”

“Donnald…” she stood and Mairi stood with her. “Please find him. Save my foolish son from himself.”

“I swear to you I will find them.” He reached out and gently touched her scarred face and she suddenly remembered and her hand quickly covered his and he could read the shame in her large eyes. He shook his head, pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard before he turned and left.

* * *

Glenna dug her knife into the dirt and pried loose a skinny bunch of carrots, stuffing them into a sack with a few turnips and an onion, and she placed a silver coin worth a hundred bunches of carrots next to the hole, before she crawled down the dirt row to another, where she inhaled the strong scent of leeks. A moment later a handful of leeks hit the bottom of the sack and she left another coin before she glanced up to keep an eye on the moon still hiding behind thick, approaching storm clouds.

Candlelight flickered dimly from a nearby manor house, and the wind carried the soft, distant voices of the guards whose shadows paced watch near the walls. She was somewhere north of the Ness and east of Beauly, smack in the middle of some of the Gordons’ prized pickings.

She sat up, resting back on her heels, eyeing the outlined shadows if the garden bed. Taking only a few vegetables was all she would allow herself—despite the coins she left-- because she was still not completely comfortable stealing from crofters, even those on a wealthy estate. Circumstances were such she could not be selectively generous about who she stole from.

The lands surrounding the manor were rich garden furrows of root vegetables and lush, fruit orchards. In the distance, sheep huddled together in a large cluster of white and the soft, satisfied lowing of cattle came from the byres attached to the crofts. A mill with its distinctive waterwheel stood near the river. All was only a short walk down the grassy hillside. There was not much distance between her and the guards.

Still, leaving the money made her feel less guilty.

What she could see of the manor house up the slight hill was impressive, with a Norman glass lancet on the top floor set inside thick window buttresses and stone walls. A thin thread of pale smoke came from the thumb-like shadow of the closest chimney above the pattern of roof tiles.

Some wealthy noble’s hunting lodge? Its position sat near the Great Forest which was filled with wild boar, pheasant, hare, and hart.

A few guards walked out the gates and stood on the hillside for interminably long moments. Had they seen her? She dared not move. Perhaps she should have waited longer.

Certainly she’d had plenty of close calls, the last one when she’d barely managed to cross the peaty slough to the north of Inverness and escape into the shadows of the trees before himself, Sir Naked-in-the-Road and his troop thundered past, heading like fire for the northeast. A few heartbeats less or had she merely made one stop to rest and she would have been crossing the meadow and out in the open as they came around a hill, stirring up red dust like a wind spout.

She tucked the money pouch into her tunic and then froze. One of the manor’s guards shouted to a dog.

Oh lud! Would they send a dog or pack of hunting dogs to search outside? A nobleman’s trained hound could easily catch her scent, bark and give her away, or worse yet, follow her.

The racing shadow of a large hound scurried around the guards in playful circles and then disappeared inside the gates chasing the stick, while the guards laughed and followed it inside, stopping to stand just inside the wall.

Rain began to splatter down in huge, hard drops and glimpses of silvery moonlight snaked downward through holes in the thick, roiling night clouds. A gust of wind swirled and curled by. Still talking, the guards moved back inside, so she crouched up and scurried to the closest fruit tree, grabbed some low-hanging plums and quickly slipped back down the damp hillside, disappearing into the great wide forests that ran between the lowland glens and high granite crags.

She followed the deep path she had taken earlier into the fecund depths of trees, where fallen leaves and mulched ground swallowed the sound of her footsteps, and the air carried the thick taste of dark, dank moss and fallen needles. Overhead, light shot down as the moon came out from the clouds as big and bright as a silver coin, but she could still hear the patter of the rain hitting the ground behind her and, as she moved deeper, a slim scattering of raindrops hitting the sky-high crowns of the forest trees.

The small clearing was dark, but Skye stood contentedly tied to a tree and turned her big eyes on Glenna as she came through the bushes and flung the bag on her saddle. She turned, frowning. “Fergus?”

He was not by the tree where she’d left him.

Squinting slightly, she scoured the area, hoping with a suddenly wan heart that he was only a few feet away. “Fergus!” she whispered harshly.

Oh, no! Glenna untied Skye and pulled her along as she half ran back towards the edges of the forest. Before she ever reached the rim, her worst fears were realized when chaos sounded from the manor. Chickens loudly squawking and sounding worse than a cockfight. Men shouting.

The moon was bright now and the clouds and rain had moved passed, carried away on the high whipping wind. Grasses swayed slightly and took on a new color as their dew and dampness glowed slivery in the moonlight. There were few shadows for hiding, just the light illuminating the land and gardens and trees, even the faces of the guards at the manor.

Just then, Fergus came racing out of the manor, squawking chicken in his mouth as he sped down the slope low and as if his tail were on fire. Her heart sank when a man came out on the heels of her dog, carrying a torch in one hand and a raised sword in the other, followed by another guard, and a bowman, too, as dark arrows began to shoot down from just outside the manor’s wall.

She heard the men shouting orders into the wind in what had been a silent, quiet night. Her eyes stayed with her dog. She dared not step into the open to be seen so easily and he was headed too far west. Quickly she mounted, then turned Skye westward, leaned low over the saddle, ready to run, and she gave a single, sharp, piercing whistle.

Fergus changed directions in a heartbeat, scampering towards her. She waited until he was close and she kicked Skye forward and out of the thick trees, where she was free to run hard, Fergus at their heels, and she rode like the wind along the dark line of the forest.

An arrow shot past her shoulder to hit the trunk of a nearby tree with a singing sound. Another whizzed by her ear. And another.

She spotted a clearing between some of the forest trees and headed straight for it, disappearing into the dark trees, slowing to a canter as she heard another arrow hit nearby and another to the east of her. She all but lay on the horse’s neck, snapping her fingers to keep Fergus at her side and still riding hard as the trees grew thicker and more protected and the skies overhead were black from the hidden moon.

Fergus yelped.

She turned in the saddle, looking back.

He was still with her, but his lope was slowing, chicken dead and hanging limply from his mouth and a trail of moulting feathers drifting to the ground behind him, and a deadly looking arrow was sticking out of his bloody side.