wilderness in hiding so they wouldn’t have to interact with outsiders, or were they simply few and far between?
“Stephen, what if we were to try to cut through the east and approach Finney’s Flat from the north side?” she asked.
“Princess, do you not see the mountain straight north of us?” he asked. “The Buchanan laird told your father that toward the bottom of the mountain there is a limey cliff with a wide stone overhang above Finney’s Flat…”
“Your father, the baron, told us that the path winding down from the overhang is the only way to get to the bottom, and it is heavily guarded. If you squint against the sun, you can see it,” Lucien explained.
“The mountain from the base of the trail to the land above is controlled by the clan MacHugh, and they do not suffer trespassers.” Faust made this comment.
“Suffer trespassers?” She smiled as she repeated his words.
“They are…quick to rile,” Christien said. “And quick to react.”
“We could not allow you to go there,” Stephen said.
“Laird MacHugh is a dangerous man,” Faust said.
“Aye, we have heard the MacHugh clan is quite fierce, and their leader is a savage,” Christien told her.
She shook her head. “I would not be so quick to judge a man because someone has spoken ill of him.”
“What is your pleasure then, Princess?” Stephen asked. “How would you have us proceed?”
“We’ll walk through the forest directly ahead of us,” she said. “It is the fastest route, is it not? And it will be good for us to stretch our legs.”
Stephen bowed his head. “As you wish, Princess. I would suggest that we ride as far as we can into the woods so that our horses will be hidden from the curious who happen by. Faust, you will stay with the mounts when we are forced to walk.”
As it happened, they were able to ride a fair distance into the woods, though there were a few tight squeezes through prickly brush. Twice they had to backtrack to find another way around, but once they had crossed a narrow creek, they were able to gather speed. When they reached the last crush of trees, they dismounted. Handing over the reins of her horse to Faust, Gabrielle followed Stephen who parted the brush ahead of them.
The clearing was only a few yards away when Stephen suddenly stopped and put his arm out to block Gabrielle from going any farther. She stood beside him, straining to hear the sounds of the forest. As she waited, she silently adjusted the strap holding her pouch of arrows over her shoulder and shifted her bow to her left hand in preparation. A few seconds later she heard a harsh bellow of laughter followed by a loud blasphemy.
She stayed perfectly still. She heard men talking, but their voices were muffled and it was impossible to understand the conversation.
Raising her hand to her guards so that she would get no argument, she slowly crept forward. She was well-hidden by the trees, but when she shifted ever so slightly to the left, she had an unobstructed view of the flat land beyond. She spied seven men, all dressed in monks’ garb with their brown hoods pulled up over their heads.
For a moment she thought they were standing over one of their own, praying for his soul before they buried him. They were clustered together near what appeared to be a pit. Near the hole was a fresh mound of dirt. When their true intentions became clear, she nearly gasped. An eighth man was on the ground. He wasn’t dressed as a monk but wore a muted plaid. His hands and feet were bound, and he was covered in blood.
Gabrielle moved closer. She felt Stephen’s hand on her shoulder, but she shook her head and continued on. Still shielded by the trees, she watched and listened to the discussion under way.
The men were arguing over which way to drop the bound man into the hole. Three wanted him to go in headfirst. Others vehemently disagreed, wanting the captive tossed in feetfirst. The one who had been silent, most likely their leader,