Wind hurled snow past as Cailin peered between dense branches of fir, thankful when the small contingent of Dalkirk’s knights swerved from where he and Elspet hid then halted about twenty paces away.
A large bearded man, his face hardened into a frown, scanned the area before turning to the others. “We have seen naught all morning.”
“I dinna think they have traveled this far west,” a fierce-looking warrior to his right said. “We should keep our search closer to Tiran Castle.” Snow flew from his mount’s hooves as he kicked the horse into a canter, and the others followed.
“They believe we are near the castle.” Elspet’s breath feathered his ear.
He released the thick branch and met her worried gaze. “For whichI am thankful.”
She nodded. “We are nearing Father Lamond’s home and need to move deeper into the forest.”
Once they’d mounted, Cailin guided his steed deep into the weave of trees, thankful for the cover and the break from the wind. Though she hadn’t complained, no doubt the hard travel irritated her injury.
After they’d ridden down a steep incline, she pointed toward a break in the shrubs ahead. “Once you reach the opening near the large oak, bear to the right, then we continue for another league.”
At the break, he guided his horse through the gap. For as far as he could see stood ancient oaks, their limbs arching toward the sky like battle-seasoned warriors. Sunlight streamed through the branches, illuminating the endless tangle of limbs enshrouded in moss, and the greenish hue that filled the air as if cast by the fey.
Memories rolled through him, and his throat tightened with emotion as he took in his surroundings. “I had forgotten this area. ’Twas one of my favorite places to visit during my youth. I assure you, with the hues of murky green filling the air and illuminated in the sunshine, ’twas rich fodder for a lad’s imagination.”
Laugher sparkled in her eyes as she nodded. “I enjoyed riding here with my stepfather over the years. When I was young, he’d lower his voice, and with the skill of a bard, tell me tales about wayward lads who dared to challenge those from the Otherworld upon this sacred ground. And,” she whispered with mock warning as she’d heard her stepfather do many times over, “those who disappeared for their defiance.”
He shot her a wry smile as he guided his horse up the steep incline. “I heard several tales in my youth as well. The stories nay doubt meant to sway unruly children from misbehaving.”
“Whatever the reason—” she glanced around with appreciation, “this unusual corridor inspires many an enchanted thought.”
He inhaled a deep breath, appreciated the scent of aged wood, earth, and time unique to this locale. “Aye, ’tis a place of magic.”
She arched a brow. “I am surprised a man of war believes in magic.”
“There are many things I believe.” He held her gaze, the weight of their situation far from allowing him to linger on whimsy. “Fewerthat I trust.”
The warmth in her eyes faded, and he damned the reminder that their perilous situation had stolen her moment of joy. Cailin scanned the dense woods, the enchanted aura of moments ago fading beneath the reality of dangerous shadows where those in pursuit could hide.
As they rode, clusters of stones came into view. “See the large boulders edged with a dense, impassable thicket?”
Cailin followed her arm as shepointed. “Aye.”
“Where it ends, we circle to the other side, then continue until we reacha narrow path.”
He guided his destrier along the thick tangle of branches, impressed when a short while later they came across a worn pathway on the ground barely visible. To anyone passing, the impressions could easily be mistaken fora game trail.
As they traveled, the mighty oaks gave way to a mix of alder, birch, and fir. Glimpses of blue sky came into view, then the dense swath fell way, exposing a snow-laden field.
Amazed, Cailin drew his steed to a halt. On the far side of the meadow, framed within a stand of birch, stood a stone hut, a crude window near the thick-hewn door, and smoke puffing from the aged,thatched roof.
“I traveled through this area several times during my youth, but never did I know this place existed. Then again, with the complex track we took to reach Father Lamond’s home, one would have to knowwhere to look.”
“Exactly, which is why this cottagewas selected.”
“I recall your explanation that the earl, as others within Dalkirk, believe Finnean Howe is an ailing man with a malady that is highly contagious, a story concocted to sway those with thoughtsof going near.”
“Aye.”
“Incredible. ’Twas as if…”
She frowned. “What?”
Given the complexity of the story, of the hideaway, and the false name, ’twas as if designed by the Knights Templar. A foolish notion. Except for deep faith and the priest’s loyalty to King Robert, no ties existed between him and the Brotherhood. With the Bruce a member of the Knights Templar, if a link between Father Lamond and the Templars existed, King Robert would have informed Cailin, wouldn’t he?
