Page 19 of The Forest Bride
“People are afraid to talk to you, man,” said Constantine Murray, falling into step with him. “The grim justiciar who looks so stern. Here comes a Campbell, son of a clan chief so great, he is practically a Highland myth. His son upholds the law, so best watch out, for he never smiles.”
“If I had something to smile about, I would,” Duncan said. “My father was bigger than life, brave and brash and fair. Me, I am a quiet man, hey. And Scotland is a grim place these days. Years back, we were both happier, I vow, as new knights ready for adventure.”
“Those were good days. And then we were brave and brash enough to leap to the Scottish side and thumb our noses at the English. But we were captured.”
“A hard lesson. But I do smile sometimes.” His mother often said he was too serious, but it suited him. Reserve and secrecy were comfortable, and necessary in a judge.
“That glower you favor is the look of the reckoner who sees a person’s guilt. Adults avoid you. Children run from you—see,” Constantine added as two small boys, chasing a leather ball, stopped, stared, and raced off.
Duncan huffed. “I am hardly evil.”
“Stern but fair, I give you that.”
“When a regional justiciar must decide life or death in a woodland court, it sits heavy on a man sometimes. Thankfully I did not have to do that here.”
“Listen, lad, you are like a brother to me, so I will give you some advice. Someday you will need to marry and settle down. Lighten your mood and be more approachable.”
“What, join in the merriment here? Enter a contest and be a champion? That will not attract the love of my life.” Huh, he thought. The love of his life—realized too late, his own fault—had chosen to be a nun.
“How about a foot race?”
“That last pie I ate would slow me down. Very well. I will try my hand at archery.”
“Then the others may as well go home.”
“Winning a prize might make me smile,” Duncan said. Constantine laughed.
He halted, noticing archery butts set up on a long field just beyond the village. Onlookers gathered there, applauding as a few archers lined up to take turns. Duncan saw Sir John Menteith standing with others, apparently acting as a contest judge.
“Now there is the very spirit of honor,” Constantine muttered.
“Nock!” called a man Duncan recognized as the miller. “Mark! Draw!”
Arrows were loosed and hit the painted targets tacked into hay bales.
“Good shots,” Duncan said.
“Go on, be as approachable as you can be. Join the contest. You will likely win the prize, so you can chat with Sir John and find out what more he knows about that attack. I am curious. What happened along the road, and why were his men there?”
“I agree. Ah, he is displaying the prize now. A pretty bauble.” Duncan saw Menteith hold up a shiny silver thing to show the crowd.
“Win it and find someone who would like that prettybijou.”
“Ha. Well, I must find me a bow first.”
“Put your name on the list. I will fetch you a bow and meet you back here.”
Minutes later, having added his name to the list held by a lad serving as clerk for the contest, Duncan went to stand with other contestants. Constantine Murray returned, bow and quiver in hand. A tall, brawny, black-haired man walked with him.
“Good Lord,” Duncan said in surprise. “Malcolm! What are you doing here? You look good!” He took the man’s hand. “I have not seen you since we were last in Ireland.”
“And before that, escapees in France. But I did not want to serve in Edward’s army any longer.” Malcolm, fugitive Earl of Lennox, spat on the ground.
“Nor did Constantine or I. Malcolm, draw up your hood. Menteith is here.”
“So I see. God’s bones, it is a pleasure to find you both together. I have a message.” Malcolm Lennox pulled his hood down over his dark curly hair. “But here I am skulking about, having been ousted by Menteith, courtesy of Edward of England.”
“Someday that will be corrected. You have business here?” Duncan asked.
