“They are out there, somewhere,” she indicated the field that disappeared into the mist. “In this weather, however, they will blend in with the fog and we will never find them.”
Shrouded in the clouds, they could hear bleating. It was one or two of the sheep at first, followed by several responses. Toby dismounted her horse, followed by Tate and the others. Deftly, she jumped on to the top of the rock wall and slid down the other side into the wet grass. She knew this field well and it seemed oddly quiet to her.
“We have three men that tend the herd,” she looked around. “I do not see them. I will go and call for them.”
Gathering her skirts as much as possible to keep them out of the wet, she walked out into the misty field. Tate and his men fanned out slightly, their eyes ever-watchful.
“Gordon?” she called out. “Emmit? Can you hear me?”
There was no answer. The sheep suddenly started bleating wildly. Concerned, Toby picked up the pace in the direction she thought the sound was coming from. Soon, she was running, unaware that Tate and his men were keeping pace behind her. The mist was denser the further she ran into the field. Something suddenly flew past her ear and she yelped, startled. As she tripped and fell to her knees, she bumped into a mass on the ground. A shepherd lay there with an arrow through his neck. Before a scream could bubble to the surface, a warm body fell atop her and she was buried underneath it, sandwiched between the wet earth and a pile of armor.
Tate had thrown himself on her when he realized arrows were flying. His arms were around her head lest an arrow come flying in that direction. Toby could hear the zinging sound of the projectiles sailing over them.
“Bandits!” she gasped.
Tate could not disagree. But their situation was precarious. They were in the mist, shielding their enemy from them,with nowhere to hide. Their survival now would depend on a combination of skill and luck. He called out to his men.
“Stephen?” he hissed. “Kenneth?”
They answered affirmative in rapid succession. “Where is John?” Tate asked.
“I am here,” the squire was several feet away, on the ground.
“Are you well?”
“Well enough,” the lad sounded frightened. “Where are the arrows coming from?”
Tate could not have guessed at the moment. They seemed to be coming from every direction. “Stay down,” he commanded. “Do not move until I can see something in this soup.”
Tate would have reconnoitered himself, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to move and possibly draw their attention to himself and, consequently, to Toby. That last thing he wanted was for the arrows to come flying at her unprotected body. He shifted his weight slightly, more closely against her, and heard her grunt beneath him.
“Sorry,” he whispered, knowing he must be quashing her.
“’Tis all right,” she grunted. “But your knee.…”
He shifted again, removing his right knee from what was surely the back of her thigh. When he had come down on her, much of his weight had come down on the right side of her body. He hoped he hadn’t broken any bones.
“Better?” he muttered.
“Aye.”
“I did not hurt you, did I?”
“Not at all.”
He was quiet after that. He didn’t need to give his adversaries a homing beacon with his voice. His biggest priority at the moment was to put Stephen and Kenneth on the move to scout the source of the arrows. As he turned his head to call to the knights, the dogs that had been following them since Forestburnsuddenly ripped past them on a dead run. All teeth and a blur of legs, the dogs disappeared into the mist and there was a chorus of snarls, growls and various other unidentifiable cries. Tate listened to the grunts of men being bitten by the dogs and singled out at least three different voices. The dogs’ snarling faded, the yipping rolling off into the distance. Then, it was eerily quiet.
Still, he didn’t move. He was a warm, protective cocoon over Toby and he wasn’t about to leave his position. Besides, he rather liked being this close to her in spite of the deadly circumstances. When one of the dogs suddenly emerged from the fog and went up to Toby, licking her forehead, Tate knew that all was well. He whispered a prayer of thanks for the dogs, sorry he had thrown the rock back at Forestburn. The animals had served a valuable purpose.
Still, he was cautious. Dogs or no, he wasn’t comfortable in an open field covered with mist. Standing up, he pulled Toby to her feet. She was soaking from having lain on the grass.
“You are wet,” he observed. “We should return you home immediately.”
Her face was pinched from the chill. “I need to see what has happened to our shepherds,” she said. “I only saw… Emmit.”
She wouldn’t look at the body, a few feet away. Tate muttered something to Stephen, who was the closest, and the knights disappeared into the gloom. The men at arms came to stand near Tate and Toby, crossbows drawn and cocked. The squire walked up, wiping the mud from his face.
“Did anyone see them?” he asked. “Were they Scots?”
