He found a short stick and, as if it were a pistol, pretended to shoot at birds with it.

She shook her head. The boy would make anything into a weapon.

When they rounded the hillside, the stench of smoke met her nose. She grasped Rory’s hand and pulled him along with her. Shouts and a scream in the distance chilled her.

Forcing herself to move forward, she cut through the trees above the cottage. Flames devoured the thatched roof.

Mora!

“Where is Mora?” she whispered, ran several paces, then halted. Her dear friend lay face down in the dirt yard, a sword protruding from her back. “Dear God.” She felt as if a dagger had struck her own heart.

Donald’s men milled about around Mora.

Murdering fiends!

Horror crumpled Gwyneth’s body and she fell to her knees among the rocks. “Oh, dear heaven, Mora, what have I done?” she sobbed, pressing a hand to her mouth to hold in a scream.

“Ma, I’m scared,” Rory whimpered.

“Shh. You must be quiet.” She turned Rory away from the carnage and held him tight in her trembling arms.

Donald must have found out about Angus MacGrath. Was it because of Rory’s friend, or had MacGrath been captured when he was trying to escape?

Either way, Mora was dead and Gwyneth took full blame because she’d insisted on helping him. Mora had cautioned her against it.

I’m so sorry, Mora. I will never forgive myself.

Gwyneth wiped her eyes and stood. “Come. We must hide.” She shoved her herb basket under a short bush, grabbed Rory’s hand and they ran through the wood, slipping on leaves and pine needles.

Two of her kinsmen appeared some distance away, headed to the left of them.

Freezing, she glanced about frantically, and then spotted a ditch behind a rock. She dragged Rory toward it.

“Lie down, and don’t make a sound,” she whispered. When he wadded himself into a ball on the ground, she covered him with soggy leaves and twigs. Hiding herself would be more difficult. She amassed a large pile of leaves and burrowed beneath. She laid a hand on Rory to keep him calm. As a mere babe, he had learned how to be quiet when it was important. Baigh had made sure of it. He’d hated a crying child.

The MacIrwin men walked by, talking. Panic quickened her blood.

Please God, don’t let them find us.

She couldn’t believe sweet, kind Mora was dead. A plague upon Donald! She would see him pay for this. Mora had done nothing wrong.

The men’s voices moved further away, and silence returned. Gwyneth concentrated on Rory’s warm, trembling hand within her own. The rocks on the ground beneath her jabbed into her shoulder and hip. She found the scent of moldy leaves and damp earth comforting because they hid her, and kept her and Rory safe.

Night descended, the temperature cooled and two owls hooted. She would not be helping Mora milk her cows this day, or ever again. They would never share another meal or work together delivering bairns. Dear Mora, a good woman. A strong woman. But not stronger than Donald’s gang of murderers. Tears streamed from Gwyneth’s eyes and dripped into the stony dirt.

Her only hope now was to flee with Rory, try to make it to MacGrath land and hope Angus MacGrath would ask his laird to give them safe passage to the Lowlands, or someplace away from here.

Donald’s men would undoubtedly be posted at various points to watch for her during the night. The MacGrath holdings were a long distance away, perhaps five miles.

***

Gwyneth and Rory stayed that night in the wood, hiding beneath the soggy, rotting leaves. The next morn before daybreak, Gwyneth pushed herself up, wincing at the pains that radiated from her stiff back and legs. A chill breeze penetrated her damp clothing, and she shivered. Quietly, she woke Rory.

Holding his hand, she led him a short distance through the wood. Using her dirk she dug roots for them to eat. Mora had taught her well which wild plants were poisonous and which ones might serve as food. Gwyneth’s eyes burned and her throat closed each time she thought of her dear friend.

Mora had been the only one to help her bring Rory into this world during a difficult birth. In truth, Mora had been like a second mother to her.

“I don’t like this.” Rory grimaced as he gnawed on the crunchy silverweed root.

“I know. I’m sorry, but it’s all I could find. Later, we will look for berries. You like those.”

He nodded, but his eyes were red and moist. She felt like bursting into tears herself, but couldn’t. She had to stay strong for his sake.

“Did Laird MacIrwin kill Mora?”

“Yes, he or one of his men did.”

“Because we helped Master MacGrath?”

“Yes.”

Rory dropped his gaze to his lap. “Was it my fault because I told Jamie?”

“No, Rory. It wasn’t your fault.” It was mine. “But I hope if Master MacGrath made it back to his clan, his laird will help us now in repayment for the good deed we did. He told me the laird was his cousin.”

Gwyneth held Rory’s small hand, and they slipped further through the wood. From her cover behind thick bushes, she spied one lookout during the day. He was near the trail she usually took. In faith, Donald will not give up until we are dead.

At dusk, Gwyneth quickened their pace and eventually they left the trees and came upon bush. Bilberry and gooseberry grew thickly. She and Rory ate their fill of the unripe, tart berries and waited for nightfall. When darkness surrounded them, they left the cover of the bushes and set out across the damp moor.

They were headed toward MacGrath lands—that much she knew. She prayed, if he was there, Angus MacGrath would return the favor of saving his life. But what if he turned out like so many other men she’d known and betrayed her at the last moment? Pains gripped her stomach, both from anxiety and hunger.

Rory was all she had—the most valuable thing in her world. For him, she would go to the MacGraths and beg assistance. Protection.

But first, they had to safely cross the moor.

***

For hours, Gwyneth and Rory trudged through darkness, with only the moon for light, and picked their way through the gorse and heather not yet in bloom. A movement up ahead at a lone tree caught her attention. She recoiled, breath held. In the dimness, her eyes strained to identify the movement—a horse swishing its tail. Where was the rider?

“Shh,” she hissed at Rory, and gave the tree a wide berth.

The horse snorted and stamped its hooves.

Gwyneth’s skin prickled. She crouched and pulled Rory down beside her.

A man grunted, groaned, then strode out into the moonlight to relieve himself. Once finished, he returned to the shadows, and a screeching birdcall sounded from the tree. Some distance away, an answering call responded. Her blood chilled. The men were communicating. What were they saying?

Gwyneth and Rory sat hunched for an immeasurable time, until her legs cramped. If they moved now, the watchman was certain to see and capture them. Vigilant to all the sounds and movements around her, she seated herself into a more comfortable position upon the damp ground and waited for the man to fall asleep.

A mist floated above the ground like a giant cloud, obscuring the moon, and the first glimmer of dawn brightened the horizon before her. Indecision tormented her. They had to leave now or be discovered in the daylight. If only the mist was lower it might conceal them.

“Shh,” she whispered to Rory. “We must move quickly but quietly.”

Rory blinked sleepy eyes at her, seemingly half aware of where they were.

“Are you awake?”

He nodded. Her poor, sweet child. She hated that he had to go through this.

She rose and tugged him along with her. They slipped toward a distant hill, her skirts snagging on heather and gorse. Cold water from the peaty soil seeped through her rawhide slippers. The cool, damp air around them vibrated with tension. She tried to ignore the knotting pain in her stomach and the weakness of her whole body from lack of food.