Indeed, he did not doubt that if they were captured again, neither of them would survive the day.
*
Bartholomew was not certain how far they had run, but he did not think it was enough. Duncan was limping, though that man struggled on, and he wished he had Anna’s knowledge of the forests. Which was the best direction to flee? Where might they find a haven? It was clear that Duncan could not travel much farther. Bartholomew might have led the other man back to the refuge of the villagers, but he was uncertain of his direction in the snow, as well as aware of Anna’s protectiveness of her fellow outcasts. He did not doubt that Royce would hunt him and Duncan and did not want to bring danger to those who had shown him hospitality. Were there more hidden caves? Could he find one?
They reached a stream that looked familiar, though he would wager that all streams looked much the same. Some slight sound prompted him to glance over his shoulder at the surrounding forest.
Then he froze in place, for in the shadows behind them, he could discern Anna. She had loaded the crossbow and aimed it at his chest. She was dressed again in man’s garb, her chausses and tabard simple and dark of hue. Her hair hung down her back in a dark braid and her expression was accusatory.
He recalled all the warnings he had ever heard of the wrath of a woman scorned and took a step back.
“Come, lad,” Duncan said, with a glance at the sky. “If we hasten, we can put good distance between us and the keep before they can lend chase.”
“Nay, Duncan,” Bartholomew said quietly.
The older man turned and followed his gaze. He whistled through his teeth even as Anna took measured steps toward them. Her gaze was steely and her aim unwavering.
Bartholomew licked his lips. “I did not wish to awaken you this morning.”
“Because you will leave,” she charged. “You pause only for your comrade and now would leave forever.”
Bartholomew had no argument to make against that.
“Surely, you did not imagine he would stay,” Duncan said, looking between the pair of them. “Come, lass, his fortune lies away from this place.”
“Does it?” Anna challenged, which puzzled Bartholomew. “You did not tell them,” she said to him, fury in her tone.
Duncan sat down heavily. “Tell who what?” he demanded with impatience.
“He is the lost son of the last Baron of Haynesdale,” Anna declared.
Duncan regarded her. “How do you know?”
“He bears the mark of the true son.”
Bartholomew’s blood went cold. “You cannot know…”
“I do.” She glared at him.
Duncan rubbed his brow. “How do you know, lass?”
“He was marked by the smith, my father, so that he could not identified no matter how much he changed or how many died.” She glared at Bartholomew, her vexation with him clear. “You mean to abandon your legacy!”
Bartholomew was well aware of how Duncan looked at him in curiosity. “So this is why you insisted upon the Haynesdale road,” the Scotsman mused. He considered Anna anew. “And this is why Fergus says you are bound to his fate.”
“I am?” Anna asked in surprise.
Duncan smiled. “It was why he bought the kirtle, he said, for he saw you in his dreams.”
This appeared to fluster Anna. “I do not believe it. No one can see the future.”
“Fergus can,” Duncan insisted. He eyed Bartholomew, then spoke to Anna again. “What is this tale you tell of my companion?”
“It is no tale. It is truth. Haynesdale is his rightful legacy.”
“What do you know about it?” Bartholomew demanded.
“Everything! You are the lost son returned. You are the hope of all those people, who begin to despair that justice will ever be restored.”
