IN PERIL
Brodgar, rolled up in a cave behind the ferns, tried to sleep. He was shivering and drew his cloak about him, shutting out the icy air.
I need to get back home.
He had been hiding in the forest for several days. His horse he had released, and was sure it must have reached the MacDonnell stronghold by now. He had tried to follow the road, but he was too conspicuous and the guards were everywhere. There was no way to disguise himself or change his clothes, and so he’d had to hide.
I can't do this much longer. One good rainstorm and I'm dead. The forest was cold in a way that sapped the strength, leaving a person weak and shivering. A good soaking and, unable to light a fire lest he alert soldiers, Brodgar would catch a fever and likely die. He had to get back home.
But how can I get out of here?
He had followed the forest paths, narrowly avoiding detection by sentries or verderers, armed and waiting. The MacDonnell fortress must have been almost unmanned, he thought. Every able-bodied guardsman was on the road somewhere, in a tight net to trap him. Or Alf, or both.
What can we do?
At least the presence of so many soldiers meant Alf was still at large. If they had caught him, they likely wouldn't bother with the vigilance. He himself was only important to the MacDonnell as a bargaining tool: if he had discovered his daughter, he would likely call back the men.
“Alf, brother mine,” he whispered under his breath. “You've got us into a right mess, you have.”
Even as he thought it, he realized it wasn't true. If not for Alf and his heroic attempt to steal away his beloved from her father's iron rule, he would still be betrothed and have no hope of wedding Ettie. Alf's daring had given him that possibility.
Ettie. He focused his mind on her, made himself imagine her smile, her eyes. Heard her voice, telling him she loved him, saying he was her dear.
He must have slept, for he awoke to a cold dawn. He opened his eyes to gray light and the scent of rain and sat up, wincing as his head ached and throbbed.
Through the blinding headache, gritting his teeth against the cold and pain in his limbs, he stood. Stamped his feet. Went to the opening and looked out. He could see the trackway. It was open.
Has something happened? Maybe someone recalled troops? Maybe I can go.
He shook his head, wishing he could clear it. Food. Something to eat, to help him think straight, since he’d had nothing except what he could forage and water since he’d gone into hiding. Then he should take his cloak and start walking. Keep to the bushes. See if the road was clear. Even if it was, it would take two days walking to reach the castle.
I need to keep my strength.
He knelt, foraging in the leaf-mold for the things he had collected the day before. Nuts. Mushrooms. Leaves. He ate slowly, wincing at the powdery taste of raw mushrooms. Even that meager fare brought warmth to his body. He realized with a shock how hungry he was. He could feel his head clearing, the headache pushed back momentarily. He knew it would return soon and stood, stamping his feet to get the blood flowing. Gathering his cloak about him, he headed onto the path.
Which was empty.
Something has changed.
The possibilities were few. Alf must have been found. Why else had the men been moved on?
He looked at the wet earth, seeing tracks there. Hoofprints. Whoever had been here as a sentry had been recalled recently – the tracks were still fresh, unmarred by the falling rain.
I should go to Bronley. Give myself up. Parley for exchange.
Thoughts of what might be happening to Alf warred with the resolute need to return home. He wished he could think straight! The cold and weariness and hunger were playing tricks on his mind. Making his thoughts fuzzy. It was all he could do to walk straight, keeping to the path. Everything wavered and he was cold. So cold.
“Keep going,” he told himself. “Keep on the track. One footstep. Another. Up and on.”
He walked stiff-legged along the track, glad for the recent rain that had churned it to a muddy mess, a clean stripe across the leaves. He could see it at least. Follow it.
“Come on. One step at a time. Keep going. You can do it.”
He walked on through the forest, hearing the sound of a waterfall as the day progressed. At noon – he judged it to be noon by the shifting patterns of light – he found a stream. Drank. The water was cold and it took him half an hour, rocking and shivering, to get the strength to move on.
“Damn it,” he swore under his breath. At this rate, walking to Dunkeld was a mission. He might not even make it in two days. He breathed in, smelling smoke.
A charcoal-burner or a woodsman. Maybe he has something he could share.
He winced, wondering if he looked even remotely like a renegade lordling. He sighed. With his hair plastered flat, his clothes grimy, layers of dirt under nails, he looked less like a thane's son, more like an outlaw. He stripped the brooch from his shoulder, the one decorated with the insignia of Dunkeld.
I could exchange this for food, he thought, stuffing it into the pouch at his belt. Silver was worthless to a starving man.
The smoke was coming from a small fire beside a lean-to. Without it, he might have missed the place, so well-concealed it was. He breathed in, nervous to approach whoever was there. Waited.
A man in a cloth bonnet and shapeless tunic came out. A verderer, Brodgar decided. He tensed, waiting. The man was alone, it seemed, and only lightly armed. Brodgar had his sword still strapped to his back.
He crawled out of the brush, wiped the worst of the dirt off and knocked at the door once the man had gone inside. “Alms?” he asked hopefully. He was met with a fearful look.
“On your way,” the man said nervously. “I've got naught to share.”
“I could offer you something,” Brodgar said hopefully. He indicated his brass belt buckle. “This, mayhap.”
“There's stew in the pot,” the man said in a desultory voice. “You're welcome to a measure. I'll not ask questions and not answer neither.”
“Thank you.”
The stew worked miracles. Composed of grain, stock and barley, warm and the best meal he'd had in two days, the fog in his head miraculously cleared and, with it, his eyesight. His sense of direction and logic started to return, albeit slowly. With it, he got back the feeling in his fingers and toes. He gasped as his whole inside seemed to light up, his heart starting to thud more powerfully.
I hope I'm never so disoriented again.
He listened to the man talk as they shared the meal. Mostly commentary about the forest – the rain and how it had eroded the tracks, the traces of deer. Someone setting fish-traps and how it was against the law. Along with that, he threw in other talk.
“There's sightings of the lass, I heard.”
“Lass?” Brodgar stared at him.
“The MacDonnell's daughter.”
Brodgar dropped his spoon, stared at the verderer in horror. “There are? Where?”
“In the woods. Lass seems to be taunting the guards. Staying out of reach. Leading them on.”
“What?” Brodgar stared at him, forgetting all sense in that moment. Had Ambeal gone crazy? Why would she do that?
“'Tis what I heard only,” the man sighed.
“Well, it's none of my business, I suppose,” Brodgar said, suddenly remembering that he was a simple beggar, and so shouldn't have much interest in this talk. “When did it happen?”
“When did the lass go missing? Four, five days,” he said, indicating with a turn of the head that he meant in the past.
“No – I mean, when did the men see her return?”
“Last night,” the verderer conveyed, pausing to sip the broth. “Mm. This is good. Bit thin. Could have done with thickening.”
“It's good,” Brodgar said fervently.
The woodsman chuckled. “By, you're an odd one. Half starved, you are. Been out long?”
“Um...a while,” Brodgar said, wondering if the man would start putting information together.
“Where you come from's no concern o' mine,” the man added loftily. “Couldnae care if you're an outlaw...if I don't know, helping you's no crime, see. So don't tell me anything,” he added with a whimsical smile.
Brodgar grinned and nodded. “Not a word.”
After the soup, Brodgar thanked the man and stood, reaching for something to carve off the buckle.
“I'll take no payment,” the man said, waving a hand at the proffered buckle. “A good old chin-wag's good enough for me.”
“I insist,” Brodgar said, wincing as he heard the phrase. He wasn't in his father's hall dispensing largesse – he was in a woodsman's cottage, pretending to be an outlaw.
The man grinned. “I won't say no,” he added, taking the buckle. Brodgar sighed and tied his belt together as best he could, not wanting to lose his trews into the bargain. “And whoever you are, my lips are sealed.”
“Thank you.”
Brodgar took leave of the man, and, reveling in his clear eyesight, headed back to the trackway.
Things had changed. Where the sentries had been, he found muddied hoof-tracks. Everyone had been recalled, it seemed. Sightings of Ambeal must have done that.
Why is she doing this?
Brodgar tried to fathom a reason, but nothing crossed his mind and in the end, as his vision started to cloud over, the sun sinking lower as the day headed to evening, he gave up. It was all he could do to remember where he was, who he was, what he did. Thinking about complicated problems like why the estranged daughter of the thane would taunt his guardsmen was too much.
One foot in front of the other. One foot...
He carried on walking. By the time the woods were slate blue and black-barred with shadow, the day settling into a damp, icy evening, he had covered, by his own judgement, perhaps ten miles. He looked around, trying to find a suitable cave or stand of trees.
At that moment, he heard them. Horsemen. Riding hard and fast, a hunting-horn bellowing a clarion, urgent call.
Hunters. In the woods. Hunting someone.
Feeling his heart pound, his body tense with urgency and the need to conceal himself, Brodgar ran back into the trees. That was when the horses appeared.