Page 18 of The Forest Bride
“We should look for the justiciar or the sheriff. One was a Murray. If I tell him my name, he might listen.”
“Who was the other? I did not hear his name.”
“A Campbell.”
“Oh?” She busied herself adjusting the bow on her shoulder.
“One of the sons of Cailean Mòr of Lochawe who was killed years back. I heard the knights at Kincraig talk about it once.”
Her heart quickened. “I did hear that.” She recalled that the justiciar was handsome enough to stand out among other men—and he had seemed oddly familiar. When Andrew said the name, she felt stunned.
But he could not be Duncan Dhu Campbell. Yet he had black hair that shone in the sunlight, keen blue eyes, a rare smile, crooked and sincere, and a way of tilting his head to listen, really listen, to others. Oh. Her heart surged.
But Duncan Campbell was dead. Her father had told her so, years ago. He had been captured in battle and taken into England with a hundred other captive Scottish lords. He had perished in captivity.
If that justiciar was a Campbell of Lochawe, he could be one of Duncan’s brothers. That would explain the resemblance. Whoever he was, if he could bring justice for Lilias and goafter Menteith, she would have to approach him. Lilias and the captured men were her highest concern just now.
“There are sporting contests at the village fair today,” Andrew was saying. “Foot races, horse races, tossing stones, and such. A contest at the archery butts too.”
“Good. You are swift of foot. And I am good with the bow.”
“Skilled with a bow, but a fire-haired female. And a mad one at that.”
She shoved him hard, which she thought a lad might do. He stumbled, laughing.
Chapter Four
Duncan took anotherbite of a meat pie, wild fowl mixed with currants in a spicy sauce and thick crust, as he walked through the market square. Hearing raucous cheering, he saw people gathered at the edge of a meadow watching a foot race. Curious, licking his fingers, he stopped to watch seven runners pounding along an earthen track, feet flying, hair sweeping back. Two lads had a good lead, and one wore a sling on one arm—the blond lad with the bow and arrow he had seen earlier beside the girl who resembled Margaret Keith with her bright hair and faery grace.
The lass he could not forget, his one-time betrothed, with whom he shared a gyrfalcon. The girl he should have married. He had never lost his remorse over it.
For a moment, he wished he could see her again, if only to apologize and tell her what only a few trusted friends knew—that he still protected their gyrfalcon at remote Brechlinn. Even if she never forgave him, she would be pleased to know that.
Standing there, he searched for the red-haired lass to no avail. When the golden-haired lad lost narrowly, Duncan applauded the winner and the other for persistence. When the lad left, Duncan followed, hoping he would find the redheaded girl.
He felt distracted by the need to find her, as if seeing her would refresh the memory of a girl he cherished. Craved. Wished he could see again.
He lingered as the boy bought an oatcake, then saw him wave a greeting to another lad, a slender, leggy fellow in a brown tunic, plaid cloak, and black cap. This one had a youthful, beardless face partly obscured by the draped cloak hood.
Perhaps this was just his brother. Duncan shrugged and headed in another direction. Now he scanned the busy crowd for a glimpse of Menteith, who was judging some of the contests. The man’s explanation of stolen sheep and cows, and then of a girl attacked by brigands, did not sit right. He wanted to know more.
Duncan knew from experience that Sir John was not the most trustworthy of men. He had learned that after Dunbar, when Menteith, Constantine, Andrew Murray, Duncan, and over a hundred other young Scottish lords had been taken prisoner. Staying with Menteith and others in England for a while, Duncan had been sent to Flanders with one group, Menteith remained captive in England. Later, to obtain release, Menteith had pledged to Edward again, and had given up the names of others to gain favor.
Duncan was aware of the pressure Edward inflicted on Scottish nobles. He had been a recipient of that too. But though he understood the circumstances, he had little respect for the man’s actions.
Looking around, he could not find the woman who looked like Margaret Keith. Well, he told himself, it was just guilt and regret tugging at him again. He felt it too often.
Ahead, he saw an archery contest. That was one of his favorite pastimes, a skill he had honed growing up with brothers, shooting at hay bales, apples, shields, painted images on wood, even coins when they dared each other’s eye and skill. He often bested the others; he had an unfailing eye for a target. But archery was not considered a skill for knights, but was left to archers trained to the bow and crossbow. Knights relied onswords, lances, combat from horseback. But he preferred the bow for hunting and sport.
And he hated war. He had no taste for it, good as he was with sword, shield, lance, and arrow, good as he was with wrestling a man to the ground. He had size and strength, agility, a keen eye and mind. But he disliked conflict and admired the law far more for resolving differences.
A few years ago, meeting with Robert Bruce in Ireland, he had earned that earl’s trust—now the king’s trust—for his grasp of the law and his discretion. As laird of remote Brechlinn Castle, he was able to help Bruce by channeling fugitive Scottish rebels through his castle, sending them on from there to Ireland or other safe locations. Recently he had taken in some of the priests the English called “false preachers,” loyal Scottish clergymen arrested for advocating war and stirring rebellion. Duncan had been involved in releasing them on bail, and he took it further, secretly, by sheltering them.
Released and protected, then freed, the priests had stubbornly resumed their activities, so the English were often looking for them. Edward’s lieutenants sent word out that the priests, including a bishop, were behaving worse than ever by praising Bruce and the Scottish cause to stir Scots against English domination.
As justiciar, Duncan was expected to help corner and punish these priests. But he was more inclined to discreetly help them. When he next returned to Brechlinn, which lay at the northern end of Loch Lomond, he would fulfill requests from Bruce over any orders from Edward’s commanders in Stirling.
But now, he only wanted a hot bannock and a cup of ale. The spring air felt clear and cool, the mood around him merry. As he strolled through, he nodded here and there in greeting, though most gave a curt nod or looked away.
