Page 24 of The Forest Bride
“What the devil,” Duncan Campbell growled, and ran toward the sheriff.
Margaret stood frozen, stunned. The justiciar dropped to a knee beside Sir John, who cradled his leg, shrieking, and pointed at her.
“He shot me! Arrest that boy!”
Grabbing quiver and bow, Margaret whirled and ran toward the forest even as she heard shouts and the trample of boots behind her.
“Arrowshot! I amdone for—the blood—I cannot walk—” Menteith groaned.
“Quiet! You will live,” Duncan barked. “Someone fetch Father Ambrose,” he called, having seen the priest earlier, aware he worked in the abbey’s small infirmary. Duncan waited beside Menteith, who moaned and clutched his foot.
When Ambrose rushed toward them, Duncan stood, grateful. The priest would have the patience to deal with Sir John. Duncan did not.
“Let me see.” Ambrose eased the man’s boot off. “Oh dear, back o’ the ankle. Not a good place to be arrowshot.”
“There is no good place to be arrowshot!” Menteith snapped. “Campbell, why are you standing there? Get that boy! My men are chasing him while you dawdle!”
“Sir,” Duncan said, turning. He saw immediately that Marcus Murray—Margaret Keith, he corrected—had vanished already. The lad who had fetched arrows earlier ran toward him, holding feathered shafts.
“Sir, these are yours and the lad’s.”
With quick thanks, he shoved them into his quiver, took up the bow—he might need it—and strode across the meadow toward the forest. Several knights in chainmail, swords drawn, ran toward the woodland as well, entering at various points to cover as much ground as they could.
He had to find Margaret before they did.
Hearing his name, he stopped as Murray and Lennox rushed toward him.
“Menteith is squealing like a pig, though just nicked in the leg,” Lennox said.
“Let the priest tend him,” Duncan said. “We must find that—lad before Menteith’s men do, or there will be the devil to pay.”
“He entered the forest there.” Lennox pointed. “We can track him.”
As they ran, Duncan saw the blond lad with the sling, and realized he had to be Margaret Keith’s friend—and might know where she had fled.
“We need to follow that boy,” Duncan said, leading his friends at an angle into the forest, hurrying before the lad could vanish in a maze of leaf and shadow.
Duncan gestured. “One of you go east, the other west. I will head straight on. Circle after half a mile, and we will soon cross paths. Look for the boy or—both lads.”
“Aye!” Constantine angled eastward and Lennox headed west, where afternoon sun sent golden beams through the leaves. Duncan plunged ahead.
Soon he saw traces of someone passing by recently—crushed leaves, a footprint on pine needles, a snag of wool on a bush. Seeing reddish-gold threads of hair sparkling along a branch, he hurried on.
From various directions came shouts and the noise of men in armor crashing through the woodland. Determined, he pushed through a thicket of scrub and headed up a hill where saplings grew thick and straight.
Something dark fluttered on a bush—a black cap with lappets. He snatched it, stuffed it in his belt, then went higher. Bushes rustled as if something went through. Duncan took the slope in long strides, stepping over fallen logs, wondering if Margaret Keith would go to earth like a rabbit or climb like a squirrel.
On the ridge above, he glimpsed armor and cloaks as two knights moved between the trees. On the hillside, yellow gorse and dark juniper swayed. Duncan saw a boot and a brown tunic vanish. He took the hill in stealthy steps now, focused on finding her before she was spotted by Menteith’s men.
Then he saw a pale hand, the curve of a bow, a wild mass of reddish curls whipping through tall bushes. Duncan cut to one side, slid into thick ferns and nudged between birch saplings.
Seeing a boot, he lunged, grabbing her ankle and dragging her toward him while she wriggled and twisted. “Come here,” he growled.
Pulling her under one arm, he tossed her face down as she tried to wrench free, and hauled her deeper into a wild growth of bushes and ferns, dragging fragrant remnants of juniper along. Sinking low, he yanked her hard against him, her slim body all elbows and knees and shoving hands. He rolled until he lay across her, trapping her while she twisted beneath him like a wild thing.
“Let me go!”
“Be still, you wee rascal,” he hissed, and clamped a hand over her mouth. She tried to bite him. He held her tighter, but when he saw fright in her eyes, he eased up.
