Hunted (The Scottish Falconers Book 2) (15 page)

Follow the Graham family falconers as they continue their mission to protect the sacred Scottish regalia and preserve this valuable piece of history.

Book One: Besieged

Book Two: Hunted

Book Three: Redeemed

Scotland

August 1652

Thunk. Thunk.

Long pikes hit the ground behind him. The horse could run faster than a pike could be thrown, but arrows were a different story. One arrow protruded from the leather saddle, and one lodged painfully in Finlay Graham’s thigh. Thankfully, only the top had gone into his flesh. He would deal with it later. The English soldiers chasing him took all his attention.

Finlay Graham smiled and pressed his face on the lathered neck of the galloping horse as they moved down the dirt wagon path running through the thick weeds. He could leave the path and lose them, but he wanted the bastards to follow. His plan was working.

Slowing the horse to prevent killing it, he kept riding north, drawing the English further from Dunnottar Castle and the cottage in the woods where his family lived.

How he hated these invaders of Scotland, these English soldiers. But he had to make one exception for his sister Isobel’s love, Derek Sinclair. In actuality, Derek was no longer an English soldier. The man had turned traitor to his army to save Isobel and the rest of the Graham family from capture by Colonel Morgan. Since Sinclair no longer needed the red coat, Fin had taken it. He had been able to draw away the English soldiers who now mistook him for the turncoat, Sinclair.

Leaving his family had been difficult, but as a single young man, Fin knew where his duty lay. He alone could protect his father, brother, sister-in-law, sister, and their ward, little William Ogilvie. By default, Derek Sinclair, who was with Isobel, would benefit as well.

Twisting, Fin glanced behind him. He was getting too far ahead of the four soldiers. If he lost them, they could well turn back and go after the Grahams once more.

Sitting straighter in the saddle, Fin relaxed his legs and loosened his grip on the reins, letting the horse slow even further.

He eyed the arrow stuck in his leg. It hurt and had to go. Falling off the horse and driving the thing further into his leg was not an option.

Letting the reins rest across the horse’s neck, he reached up and untied his neckcloth. Then he wrapped both hands around the arrow shaft.

One, two, three!

“Oof!”

With a mighty yank, the arrow was out. Quickly, Fin pressed the cloth against his thigh as blood bubbled out of the hole in his leg.

The horse tossed its head and pranced sideways, the whites of its eyes showed.

“Woah, easy boy. It’s my blood, not yours.” Fin picked up the reins again and glanced behind him. Here in Dunnottar Woods, it was not easy to see for any distance with the thick underbrush in the way. Riding off the trail was also difficult. But Fin wanted to be pursued, so the trail was best.

A brief flash of red appeared between the trees. He touched his heels to the horse’s flanks and got it moving forward again.

Kak! Kak!

Fin glanced skyward, but he already knew he probably would not catch a glimpse of his trained peregrine falcon, Grizel. Her call warned him of danger and told him she was ready to swoop down and sink her claws into an English soldier’s flesh.

He didn’t give her an answering whistle.
Stay safe in the treetops, m’ lass. I’ll not have an English arrow take ye out.

A horse whinnied behind him, calling out to Fin’s horse. The English grew closer.

Hunger and thirst gnawed at Fin’s insides, but self-preservation was more important. He kicked the horse into a gallop, splashing through a small stream then up the slight bank to the other side. Forcing the animal to keep moving, despite its efforts to stop and get a drink. Fin knew it needed water, but now was not the time.

Zing!

An arrow ripped through the sleeve of the red coat, nearly unseating him.

The horse picked up speed.

Thirty minutes later, Fin decided it was time to lose his pursuers. He left the trail.

Picking out a zig-zag route between the trees took more time, but the shadows were lengthening, and he wanted a safe place to spend the night. They had been climbing higher into the hills, exposed to view as the trees thinned.

No arrows had cut him down.

More and more rocks and pebbles littered the ground. Fin slowed the pace. Splashing through another small stream, the horse suddenly slipped and pranced in a panic.

“Woah! Woah!”

He pulled it to a stop and dismounted in the water, hanging onto the saddle for a moment before putting his weight on the injured leg.  It throbbed, but held him upright.

Letting the horse drink, Fin glanced around him. Somewhere on his travels, he expected to pass out of the Scottish Lowlands and move into the Highlands. Tales told at Dunnottar Castle, where he grew up, spoke of strange mystical things in this mountainous part of Scotland. Changlings, faeries, kelpies, and ghosties were just a few of the creatures living here. As children, he and his siblings loved to hear these stories but were secretly glad to live far away from such things in their Lowland castle.

Now, he headed toward this unknown land with only his horse and falcon for company.

To get some rest, Fin would need to find a place where the English soldiers wouldn’t see him.

A dark opening on the side of the rocky hill held some promise, so he filled his water bladder, picked up the reins to guide the horse, and limped in that direction.

As Fin suspected, the dark spot in the hill was indeed a cave. The horse planted both hooves and pulled back against the reins; it had no desire to go inside.

“I dinna blame ye, laddie. ‘Tis a dark and fearsome place, I grant ye that.”

Finding a scrubby tree outside the cave, Fin tied the horse to it and hobbled into the darkness alone.

He hadn’t gone far when the light from the cave’s mouth no longer penetrated the gloom inside. The air was heavy with dampness and the slight smell of something nasty. Perhaps the horse had the right idea?

Fin went back to the horse and dug through the saddlebags. He found a feedbag and some oats, so he fed the animal. Going back into the bags, he came up with pieces of flint and steel.

“Perfect.”

Minutes later, he had gathered enough sticks, peat moss, twigs, logs, and dry grass to start a decent fire. Groaning as pain shot through his injured thigh, he crouched down and struck the flint sharply on the steel. A bright white spark flared and died. He did it again, holding the implements even closer to the dry grass. Finally, by the fifth strike, he was able to coax the spark into a flame.

He’d have to work fast or the light from the fire would be easily seen against the darkening sky.

Pulling his
sgian dubh
from his boot, he cut a piece of cloth from the lining of the English red coat, wrapped the cloth around a long stick, and set it on fire.

Fin kicked dirt over the fire to extinguish it, and then he untied the horse and led it into the cave, while holding the torch high.

* * *

Kelsi Davidson wiped her hands on her apron, picked up a basket of supplies, and glanced around the main room of the stone crofter’s house.

“Coleen, where did you get to now?” No one answered. The room was unoccupied, except for the orange tabby cat napping on Kelsi’s basket of spun yarn.

“Naught to do but find ye.” Turning to the front of the house, she pulled the heavy wooden door open, ignoring the groaning of rusty hinges.

She stepped out into the mild summer air of the rugged Grampain Mountains and took a deep lungful of fresh air.

The scene outside her door showed her the flock of Scottish Dunface sheep grazing on a nearby grassy hillside that was dotted with scrubby trees. Rocks stuck up here and there as if they were parts of a stone giant who struggled to rise up out of the earth. Lying in the grass, their ever-vigilant sheep herder dog, Molly, kept a close eye on the herd. None would wander away with Molly on duty.

Kelsi headed toward the barn first, it was Coleen’s favorite place, which is something Kelsi understood and shared. When Coleen’s father had been alive, they’d had two horses to pull the wagon and help haul fleeces to the market. But Kelsi had been forced to sell them off for feed, seeds, and a good breeding ram.

As if he knew she was thinking of him, Shamas let out a plaintive bleat. This was not an ordinary, aggressive breeding male. Shamas was tame like a pet dog. He was playful as a lamb at times and would rub against her leg in a bid for attention.

Kelsi stuck her head into Shama’s stall. No Coleen. The Scottish Dunface ram looked up at her with soulful eyes in a brown face and bleated again.

“Sorry, lad. I ken ye want to be with yer ladies, but I canna have lambs born in mid-winter.”

She walked on, her boots stirring up little clouds of dust on the dirt floor. One of the too-many-to-count barn cats sat washing its paws and watching her.

The next stall contained stacks of shorn wool. In the third stall, she found Coleen. The little girl lay curled up in the straw with a rescued red fox mama nestled in her arms. The tiny baby kits tumbled over each other and over Coleen’s feet as they played under the watchful eyes of their mother.

For a few minutes, Kelsi watched her sleeping daughter. A smile touched Kelsi’s lips as she remembered what Brian would say about their child. “
The lassie’s the splitting image of you, Kelsi; the same chestnut hair and bonnie brown eyes. Aye, she’s even got the same need to love.”

Coleen missed her Da fiercely. She seemed to be filling the void by bringing home more and more injured and sick wild animals. This red fox was her most recent find. While picking berries, they’d come across the fox. She was caught in a leg trap, and in the process of chewing off her paw to get free. The plucky little thing was heavy with unborn kits at the time.

“Coleen, Coleen,
nighean
, wake up. We need to change the little mamm’s bandage.”

Kelsi opened the door and stepped inside the stall, careful not to tread on any baby foxes. Sitting beside them, Kelsi place her basket on the straw. In no time, several tiny red balls of fur were trying to scale the sides and get inside with her supplies.

Yawning and rubbing her eyes, Coleen sat up. Blinking at her mother, she nodded and dutifully held the mother’s fox’s head, patting and murmuring sweet Gaelic words while Kelsi removed the old bandage on the animal’s front leg.

“’Tis healing well. This little mama is fortunate God let us to her before she damaged herself overmuch.” Kelso spread her homemade healing ointment on the wound and rebandaged the leg.

Coleen yawned again then gave the fox a kiss on the head before releasing the animal. They both watched it limp to the corner of the stall and lay on her side. Her three babies soon stumbled and tumbled over to her and settled down to nurse.

Kelsi put an arm around her daughter, who snuggled against her side.

“Mamm?”

“Aye?”

“Can we go up to the mountain again tomorrow?”

“I suppose we can do that. After chores, mind.” Kelsi kissed the top of her head. “Do ye want more berries?”

The five-year old’s smooth, rounded face tipped up to her mother. “Och, aye, and I want to look for another animal that needs us.”

With a laugh, Kelsi pulled her close. “Just remember what I said. No dangerous animals.”

The Scottish Falconers, Book Three: Redeemed available soon.

Thanks to:

Janet Abney, my wonderful editor.

Jack Hubley, a naturalist, who gave me the opportunity to hold a falcon and bring it back to the glove during “The Falconry Experience” in Hershey, PA. He patiently answered all of my questions and provided most of the information about falconry contained in this book.
http://www.jackhubley.com
.

Diane and the Falcon