“Rightful sovereign.” Sir Huwe grunted. “The Bruce murdered his rival at the church of the Greyfriars to ensure he received the crown.” His fingers tightened on the man’s garb. “Tell us where he is or die!”
Alesone straightened, stepped into the opening, drew back the bowstring, and aimed. “Leave him.”
Sir Huwe’s gaze shifted to her. Surprise darkened to recognition. Thick brows narrowed. “You are a fool to dare threaten me.”
“Move back,” she ordered, praying he didna see her trembling, “and I will allow you to walk away, which is more mercy than you showed Grisel.”
With a cold smile, he shoved the wounded man to the ground, strode toward her. “Like you, she deserved none.”
Bastard!She released the shaft.
The arrow drove through the knight’s heart. On a gasp, Sir Huwe collapsed.
Outrage reddened his accomplice’s face. He withdrew his sword, charged.
Her second arrow plunged deep into his chest.
Face ashen, he stumbled back, dropping to the ground with a thud.
After ensuring nay others were in sight, Alesone secured her bow, then hurried to the injured man. “I am a healer.” She knelt by his side, tore a strip from her garb, and pressed the cloth against the large gash across his shoulder.
Pain-filled eyes held hers. “You must leave! A contingent of Comyn’s troops wait beyond the corrie. I was on my way back to warn…” The stranger’s face paled.
“King Robert. I heard you. Dinna worry,” she said as she secured his broken arm. “I am loyal to the Bruce.”
His body sagged with relief. “The king must be informed of the threat.”
“Aye.” She assisted him to his feet. “Can you walk?”
He nodded. “My name is Sir Deargh.”
“I am called Alesone.” With one last look around, she helped him into the shield of trees.
* * *
Firelight illuminated the powerful sovereign’s face, that of a warrior, a man renowned for his tactical expertise. Fighting to steady her nerves, Alesone curtsied before Scotland’s king. “’Tis an honor to meet you, Your Grace.”
“Rise, Mistress Alesone,” Robert Bruce said.
Exhausted, she stood, relieved they’d arrived before the last rays of sunlight faded.
The crackle of the campfire melded with the murmurs of men outside the tent as the king settled in a sturdy but unadorned wooden chair. He motioned for her to sit on a bench paces away. “You saved the life of one of my knights. For that I thank you.”
She clenched the ring in her palm. “I am a healer. I did naught but come to the aid of a wounded warrior.”
“Which explains your actions in part.” He paused. “My knight could have been a criminal.”
“A worry I would have considered, Your Grace, had I not heard his attackers demand that he reveal your camp’s location. Both men serve Lord Comyn.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes, and then his gaze narrowed. “How would you know their allegiance?”
“My loyalties lie with you, Your Grace,” she rushed out, aware that with but a word he could name her a traitor and order her hanged.
“From my man’s account, I believe your claim.” The Bruce rubbed his chin. “You are brave to have faced down two knights alone.”
Brave? Nay, furious.
“Tell me, why are you in the forest without protection when Scotland is at war?”
