Page 8 of The Forest Bride
Feeling a surge of affection, Margaret glanced at the girl. Lilias was lovely, with dark, wavy hair, a fine-boned face with her father’s high-set cheeks, and blue eyes so dark, they turned twilight purple at times. One day she would be a beauty. Today, she was perhaps the most valuable lass in Scotland, and did not even know it.
Her mother, the daughter of a Scottish lord, had died when Lilias was born, having dallied with young Robert Bruce before they could marry. His sister, Lady Christina Bruce, had raised the child with her own brood; yet months ago, Lady Christina had been captured with Bruce’s queen and the other women. King Edward had refused to negotiate, confining a few of the women to iron cages and shutting the rest in convents. Determined to rescue them, Bruce was also taking measures to protect Lilias and his other illegitimate offspring. He knew Edward would hunt for anyone close to him.
“Here is Andrew!” Lilias said. Margaret looked up. The son of the late hero Sir Andrew Murray was another young person Bruce valued. “Perhaps he has news.”
Margaret smiled as Andrew Murray drew up his horse beside them. Thirteen also, he was tall and lanky, still sweet-faced as a girl, with wide brown eyes and a tangle of golden curls. Andrew had come to Kincraig at age nine, sent by his widowed mother to foster under Sir Robert Keith. Sir Andrew Murray had perished of battle wounds when his son was small. A close friend andadvisor of Sir William Wallace, Murray was revered in memory. And his son felt like another sibling to Margaret.
“Riders ahead,” Andrew reported. “Sir Hugh Stewart sent men to see if they are the ones we are to meet.”
“Soon we will sail!” Lilias beamed bright enough to banish any dark cloud. Margaret felt a nagging sense of worry lift for a moment.
“I expect King Robert will send a fine ship for us,” Andrew said. “They do say the king has a fleet of eighteen birlinns of forty oars each. What a sight that would be!”
“He will not make a show of fetching his daughter,” Margaret said. “Likely he will send a smaller ship, old and plain, and we will hope for fog to veil our escape.”
“We have sun and blue skies and we are off for Ireland. I can hardly wait!” Lilias smiled again. “Look at that beautiful hawk! That is surely a good omen for our journey.”
Margaret looked up to see a hawk, wings spread wide, feathers fingered at the end, tilting and sailing overhead. She thought of Duncan Campbell then—a habit she could not seem to break. Every hawk and falcon reminded her of Duncan and the beautiful white gyrfalcon they had rescued together.
But Duncan Campbell was gone, deceased in captivity, so her father had said. The gyrfalcon would be gone by now too, either returned to King Edward or lived out its years. Still, every bird of prey in flight looping overhead reminded her of Duncan Dhu and dreams that would never come to be.
Now she felt once again a twinge of that broken heart. But her life had changed. She had changed, becoming strong and independent. But if she let the memories slip in, she felt the old hurt like a blow. She had forgiven him long ago, especially knowing that he dwelled in heaven with the saints, where she could think of him kindly.
At first she had been angry, then sad; soon after, she and her mother had fallen so ill that her father had taken them to Lincluden Priory to recover. There, word had come of Duncan Campbell’s death. Mourning him in those bittersweet days, her love for him had grown. Sir Duncan Dhu Campbell transformed into the ideal love she would never have, the man she would never marry, the knight who could never be equaled.
And so over ten years she had refused, adamantly at times, four offers of marriage. At twenty-four, she was not wed and might never be. She had accepted that future. None could compare in her mind—in her heart—to Duncan Campbell.
Her father had not agreed. Had he lived, he would not have given up looking for the best match for her. Henry, busy after he inherited, meant to continue the search, but so far, he had had no time for it. Margaret told herself she was content, she was strong, and her siblings needed her.
“What does a hawk signify?” Andrew asked.
“It reminds us to be determined and purposeful,” Margaret said. “Or it can be a sign that we are protected and watched over, as if we have an angel on high.”
“I like that,” Lilias said. “White falcons look like angels. Have you ever seen one?”
Startled, Margaret said nothing. The hawk vanished into the trees.
“Something is happening up there. Look.” Andrew pointed toward the head of the escort. Suddenly Margaret heard shouts, and saw Sir Hugh and other knights take off at a gallop toward a group of men riding out of the trees that lined the road.
“Is that our escort to the firth?” Lilias asked.
“I do not think so.” Margaret felt a cold chill of fear. “Lilias. Andrew. Get behind me.” She reached for her bow. Even riding sidesaddle, she could try to shoot if she could keep her balance. Heart thumping, she prayed she would not have to try.
“Dear God,” Andrew said. “Who are they?”
Riders were barreling toward them now, swords out. They were not Keith men, and certainly not Bruce’s men, Margaret was sure. They carried shields and wore badges on their arms and surcoats that she did not recognize. The seven or eight descending on them wore chain mail and surcoats and were heavily armed.
“Quick!” she cried. “Get off the road into the trees!” Turning her horse, she led the way down a grassy slope toward a fringe of oaks and beech trees. But the horsemen pursued them, hooves pounding. Before she reached the trees, Margaret heard Andrew cry out and Lilias scream. Snatching an arrow from her quiver, wrapping the reins around one arm, she turned, lifted the bow as best she could, nocking an arrow, and shot. The bolt hit the ground. She nocked another, aiming as her horse cantered, with Lilias and Andrew riding alongside. She shot again. Hearing a cry, she thought she hit an attacker.
A glance in the distance showed a skirmish underway. The men of their escort struggled to hold off the attackers, while two Kincraig men and one of Bruce’s men rode after Margaret and the younger ones to try to protect them.
But it was too late. She heard Lilias scream again as a man grabbed her; saw Kincraig men knocked from their horses; heard Andrew shout in protest. She groped for another arrow but she lost her grip on the bow when an ambushing knight rode up, grabbed her in a beefy arm, and dragged her over his saddle.
When he knocked her hard across the head, she slumped.
Chapter Two
Coming out ofa gray fog, she looked around. The ambush had happened so fast, she hardly understood what had occurred. The enemy knights had taken some of them away. She rode across her captor’s lap, reluctantly leaning on him to avoid falling. Looking ahead, she saw Lilias, still on her horse, her hands tied, the horse’s reins in the keeping of one of the attackers. The girl was struggling, kicking, trying to get free. The knight reached over and took hold of her cloak in case she managed to squirm away.
