Above the pinewoods, high up along a wild and rocky ridge with a wide, dark corrie set into its ribs, horses’ hooves clopped along the narrow ridgeline above the Great Forest. Sharp pairs of eyes searched the moonlit treetops for signs of who they sought deep amidst the thick pine trees and in the hazel and birch woods that edged the lower elevations of the forest. They spoke only when they must and communicated with merely a look. Their mission was personal.

There was a broad meadow below and beyond, and in the distance, a manor house with small croft cluster and sheep scattered across dark and rolling hillsides. A snaking river skirted a sprawl of oak trees in the distant glen toward a mill, where silver arcs of wheelwater caught the moonlight. Below, flicks of torchlight circled the wide glade as men scoured the grasses and riders disappeared into the forest.

At the same time, opposite the high rock ridge, across the forest and meadow and glen, a single rider came over the top of a northeastern hillside and reined in, wrapping his cloak more tightly around him. When he saw the torches and action below he moved deeper into a copse of birch trees, hidden and watching intently, knowing instinctively that what he saw was trouble.

And from the southeast, some distance away from all the fray, where a wide glen rolled for leagues and leagues and the River Beauly made its way from the inlet at Inverness, a troop of heavily armed men wearing Ramsey badges left Inverness and followed another trail, one that led to where the cloaked rider was now hiding.

* * *

The shepherd’s hut deep in the wooded hills smelled of old, wet wool and mud, but it gave Glenna cover from the hard wind as she added more sticks to a small fire and talked softly to Fergus, lying on his side next to her with his terrible wound. Around the arrow, the blood was thick. It had stopped seeping out bright red. Every so often he would whimper and his legs would quiver in pain. But if she dared to touch the arrow, he would yelp and snap at her.

She placed some more tree moss around the wound and had used a small pot to make some willow bark tea, like Brother Leviticus had done for her. She didn’t know if it would help, but willows and hazels were scattered through the woods, a godsend. “If only I had some of that red bloodbane, sweeting, or even some ale for you,” she said to Fergus as she stroked his neck and one floppy ear. She leaned closer and plucked a few more red chicken feathers from the corner of his mouth, tossing them into the fire where the culprit chicken itself slowly cooked on a spit she had made of slim branches.

Whenever she turned the bird, the juices spilt and spat in the fire and Fergus had lifted he head and wiggled his nose. A good sign, she believed, that in spite of his horrible wound he was still hungry. Perhaps the meat would help him. She felt helpless, as if her hands were bound by her doubts and a lack of a way to fix this. She did not know what to do for him.

At some point, she must remove the arrow. But she was afraid she was not strong enough to hold him down securely and use her knife to pry loose the arrow.

“You foolish, foolish dog, you. Chickens have always been trouble for you. ” Her voice cracked and she covered her mouth with her hand, unable to look away and scared he was going to take his last breath there before her eyes. His body moved slowly as he took shallow breaths and his big wide eyes looked at her beseechingly. Just watching him broke her heart.

She had few choices. Beauly was only an option if she could reach Ruari without being seen. How would Fergus make the ride there? With an arrow deeply imbedded in him and riding with the pounding of Skye’s hooves would jar his body and perhaps kill him.

Above the shabby roof, the wind howled like hungry wolves and the air growing cold. She shivered, glanced around her, warmed her hands over the fire, and when a branch broke in the wind and fell to the roof above her, she wrapped her arms around herself. There was also another problem: she had no idea what had transpired once she left the priory…or how Montrose had left things.

His image came into her mind and she felt something deep and sorrowful. She closed her eyes and willed his image away, while in her heart she wanted him there at her side, knowing with a surety that he would save Fergus…that he would save her. For the first time in her life, she understood the value of a man’s protection.

Had she grown so used to looking out for herself that she was blind to what other choices she might be given? To have the refuge and safe shelter of someone whose duty was only watch and guard her was a gift she had never known she desired, and something she had run from.

Now, as she sat alone in the shed, she regretted some part of running away from him. From her earliest memory she had been her own keeper, since her brothers doted on her, and she usually managed to get them to do what she wanted…even steal. Her brothers were just that, not a father really, but her brothers, and their adventures together were larks and exciting and somehow more like children’s play than the reality of the laws they had been breaking, the risks they took, and the consequences they could face.

Hidey ho! They were a pack of thieves…even Fergus she thought miserably.

She glanced down at him. Poachers were hung for stealing less than a chicken, for snaring a scrawny wild hare in the distant woods. Would the guards let it be, or even in the wind and darkness would they search them out? She had no answers and watched the rise and fall of her hound’s chest.

For him could she sneak back into the priory and trust the monks? How could she help him here, inside this shed? For how long would they be safe here?

She would ask herself these questions again and again, chew on her guilt and more while she fed Fergus small bits of roasted chicken, which he ate slowly with large sad eyes. He lapped up some of the willow bark tea and soon he was breathing quietly and looked to be asleep.

After eating some of the chicken, she sat alone by the small fire, knees hugged to her chest as the huge trees outside creaked ominously in the wild winds, while she felt even more alone and frightened and miserable. Glenna cried so hard her eyes burned like fire and finally, when her chest stopped hiccupping, when her eyes could hardly produce anymore tears, she pulled her cloak more tightly around her and tied her hat down so it covered her cold ears, and she lay down, her hand on Fergus’ neck to feel his reassuring heartbeat.

Soon she closed her burning eyes and tried to forget for a moment how terrified she was, and exhausted, she fell fast asleep.

* * *

The dream was back--the rook flying in the blue skies. Feathers black as night shone and caught the sunlight, glistening, beautiful and free above moors that were the bruised and purple color of a sunrise at dawn, and she flew higher and higher, aloft in the warm summer air, wheeling to the sweet sound of a minstrel’s song, singing the tale of a great and magical love, of a brave and valiant king and his beautiful Norse queen.

With a suddenness of the blink of an eye, the sky turned gray and the winds blew in winter, clouds rimed in ice and with almost black edges, wind that cut like ice made flying through the air more strained and difficult. Snow fell like downy feathers and the black rook could feel the flakes begin to coat and weigh down her wings.

She flew lower and lower, gliding down into the thick forest trees, past the tall larches and firs to where flames in a clearing suddenly shot high and sent her soaring up and up, far and away from the smoke and the flames, back into the icy storm, back to where her wings again caught the snowflakes even though the sun still shone.

Summer was blue and golden and just ahead of her…if only she could fly faster. If only the ice would melt. If only she could keep flying away.

She soared above the high nests of other birds, above where grass as green as spring covered the ground and could silence the footsteps of anything smaller than a great war horse.

From above her came the call, “Kee-oo, kee-oo!” A hawk bore down upon her, determined, brown and black and white, feathers wide and striped like enemy banners, flying faster than her smaller wings would allow, and she dove and wove and spun in and around the sky, yet the hawk flew back, kept coming, almost at her tail, and he lunged at her.

She spun downwards, flying straight down…down… towards the silvery lake below, surrounded by thick, green bushes lined with deep red roses and where a beautiful white swan wearing a golden collar cut languorously across the peaceful waters.

The rook called out and the hawk shrieked his deadly call, diving closer, and the swan looked into the deep blue skies above her, and seeing the poor and frantic rook, she drew her long neck up and opened her wings wide and grandly, almost standing on the water, and the rook swooped down under the swan’s wing, taking shelter as the swan lowered her grand wings, one cradling the black rook next to her downy body and safe from the claws of the deadly hawk.

Heart beating hard and frighteningly, Glenna’s eyes shot open, unseeing, her breath still caught in her chest, her blood racing, sweat beading on her brow. The dream had come back, the same dream….

She moaned slightly and blinked.

Before her eyes, in the dim light of the coals, a large pair of dark boots stood planted firmly apart and were cast in red from the glow of the fire. A shining, deadly sword tip lowered into her line of vision, stopping barely a palm’s breadth away from her nose.