Page 28 of Summer Warrior

“Nay and neither will David,” he said, glancing at King David speaking with his men at a nearby table. “We have agreed to wait for you young ones to return.”

“We did not see you at Mass,” remarked Ragnhild, her delicate fingers holding a piece of bacon before her lovely mouth.

“I first had to see to my ship and my men, else I would have attended.” Though that was truth, Somerled preferred the Culdee services. Still, he would have made an effort to attend just to be with her had he known she would be there.

The huntsmen in their green garb and hats returned, telling the Master of the Hunt they had spotted several harts, at least one of which possessed ten tines on his antlers.

The deerhounds, waiting with their keeper and sensing the hunt was about to begin, whined and strained at their leashes. At the instructions from the Master of the Hunt, the huntsmen took the hounds forward to be stationed along the expected route the hart would take.

Somerled quickly finished his meal and rose with Ragnhild and the other hunters, who were heading to their horses. One of the grooms brought a chestnut courser to him. “He’s swift and sure, my lord. A good horse for the hunt.”

“My thanks,” said Somerled. He checked the cinch and stirrups, then mounted and walked the horse to join Ragnhild, who was stowing her bow and arrows in a leather bag tied to the saddle of a black palfrey. “You ride another horse today.”

“I do. Fairhair stayed on the isle. I miss him, but King David’s constable has been most gracious to offer the use of his stables.”

The hunting horn sounded a double note to signal that the hunt had begun. In the distance, the braying of the hounds echoed through the woods.

They set off, Somerled keeping just behind Ragnhild as she urged her horse into a gallop. As they entered the forest, the hair on the back of Somerled’s neck prickled.

He would not have needed Liadan’s warning to know danger was near.

RAGNHILD GALLOPED BEHIND the other hunters in pursuit of the hart, the sound of pounding hooves echoing through the woods. Around her, dappled light filtered through the trees. Behind her, she heard the sound of Somerled following. She hoped the hunt would give her a chance to show him she was capable and quick with her bow.

A hart could be cunning, dashing into a burn to hide his trail or doubling back to confuse the hounds. Thus, she was careful to listen for the horn’s signals indicating such might be happening. Ahead, she heard the hounds baying loudly. They must have encountered a hart, perhaps more than one since the harts ran in packs this time of year.

The huntsman sound a quick series of doubled notes, indicating the hart being pursued was running in the open. As her horse galloped ahead, she looked around, listening for a creature crashing through the woods.

He could be anywhere.

“I see him!” Somerled shouted. “He has doubled back and is coming this way. Quick, watch the clearing on your right.”

Ragnhild reined in her horse, reached for her bow and nocked an arrow, its point sharpened only this morning.

The large deer bounded into the clearing and she focused, then loosed her arrow. It hurtled though the air toward the hart, catching him in the chest, bringing him down.

Before she could turn to see Somerled’s reaction, the sound of another arrow whizzing past her caught her attention. Behind her, she heard a grunt.

Turning in the saddle, she saw Somerled slide from his agitated horse, a splash of red turning his sleeve scarlet. An arrow was lodged in the flesh of his arm.

“Somerled!” she shouted, getting down from her horse and running to where he stood among the leaves strewn about the forest floor. “You’re hit!”

SOMERLED HAD WITNESSED the princess’ well-aimed shot and had seen the hart drop to his knees in the clearing bathed in sunlight. The successful kill had distracted him. By the time he had heard the release of another arrow, it was too close to avoid altogether. He pressed himself to the courser’s neck but that did not spare him.

He grunted as the arrow struck, tearing through his sleeve and ripping into the muscle of his left arm. His horse reared and a stab of pain made him grimace with the movement.

Sliding to the ground, his left arm throbbing, he soothed the courser with soft words. Carefully, he scanned the trees, searching for the one who had loosed the arrow. A movement in the undergrowth some distance off drew his gaze but he saw no one. Mayhap ’twas only a forest creature frightened by the sounds.

Ragnhild rushed to his side, eyes wide at the arrow protruding from his arm. “You are bleeding!”

“Aye, but I do not think the arrow hit the bone, thank God.”

She looked around and then back to his arm. “What a clumsy hunter to not see you in the way of his shot.”

He didn’t want her to know the shot had been intentional, a near miss of his vital organs. “Aye, a shot gone awry. Help me remove the arrow.”

She swallowed, pressing her lips together, and nodded. “What shall I do?”

“Break the shaft that is behind me and give me the fletching.” He clenched his jaw and waited as she snapped the shaft and handed him the part of the shaft that contained the fletching. He tucked it into his sword belt. “Do you have any ale? Wine?” he asked her.