ashen grey, but beneath the tangled canopy of oak and rowan it was still dark.
Alexander Seton looked up sharply as Robert emerged through the undergrowth. Beside him, Uathach raised her head from her paws with a whine at the sight of her master. ‘You have it?’ Alexander stood to greet him, his eyes going to the cloth-wrapped object in Robert’s hand.
Ignoring Uathach, who trotted over to nose at his palm, Robert gestured to Nes and the other squires, who had set about making a temporary camp in the glade. Blankets and cloaks had been hung from branches to air and a small fire had been lit, the smoke twisting up through the boughs. ‘Pack up. We’re leaving.’
As the squires hastened to obey, collecting the gear and bags of provisions, Alexander caught Robert’s arm. ‘What is it?’
‘He heard a hound,’ said Edward, hoisting his iron-embossed shield over his shoulder by its strap.
Christopher and Niall were helping the squires sling bags over the backs of the four pack-horses, while Cormac scuffed soil on to the fire with the edge of his boot.
Robert glanced irritably at Edward as Nes handed him Fleet’s reins. ‘You heard it too, brother.’
‘It was a farmer’s dog most likely. We passed a few farmsteads yesterday.’
‘That was miles back,’ Robert said. ‘This was close.’
Thomas joined them. His fair hair curled around his brow, dampened by the moist morning air. ‘We didn’t hear anything.’ He nodded at Uathach and the three other hounds. ‘The dogs would have alerted us, surely?’
Robert took in their expressions – a mix of concern and disparagement. After a pause, he shook his head. ‘You’re right, it’s probably nothing, but I don’t want to linger here any more than I have to. We have a long journey ahead of us and precious cargo.’
Jabbing his boot into the stirrup, Robert swung up into the saddle. Shifting his filigreed scabbard, he loosened the belt a notch, enough to wedge the staff through, so it was held against him alongside his broadsword. He smiled to himself, grimly satisfied. Once back in Scotland he would offer it to Edward in return for the Stone of Destiny, which lay entombed in a coronation chair in Westminster Abbey, a symbol of England’s dominion; its weight in guilt around his neck. And if the king refused? Well, Robert would have his last relic and Edward would have failed in the eyes of his faithful followers.
After Nes had tightened Fleet’s girth and tethered Uathach to the crupper, Robert walked his horse to the edge of the glade. The others followed, the monks on their sturdy palfreys, the squires on rouncies, leading the pack-horses, and his brothers and the Setons on coursers. Together, they made their way out of the clearing, the vestiges of smoke from the campfire drifting in their wake.
There was no track to follow, except for the natural lines made by trees and the going was slow. As a grey light revealed the way ahead, Robert picked out the deep pocks the hooves of their horses had made yesterday. Satisfied they were headed in the right direction, he let Fleet be his guide, allowing the horse to find the best paths through the boggy ground. The land rose steadily, until he glimpsed the lough stretching away behind him, glass-smooth, the distant isle of Ibracense breaking the surface. They hadn’t gone more than a mile, when Uathach began to growl.
Robert looked round to see the bitch straining on her leash, ears flat against her head. Pulling Fleet to a halt, he gave a whistle, but Uathach didn’t heed it. Her gaze was fixed on a high ridge to their left, where the trees marched up, thinning as they neared the crest.
‘What has she smelled?’ called Cormac, turning in his saddle. ‘A coney?’
Suddenly, Uathach sprang forward, the leash snapping tight. At the same time, the other hounds began barking harshly, all of them fixed on the ridge. The tension in Robert broke in a rush of anticipation. ‘To me!’ he roared, pulling
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