The Ranger by Monica McCarty Page B

fixed on the path before him. “I did my best,” he lied, not knowing why Dugald’s attempts to improve his skills were grating on him.
    He could have bested either man if he’d wanted. But preserving his cover was all that mattered.
    He’d “lost” many times before. He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. He sure as hell didn’t care about impressing the lasses—or any one lass in particular. Pride could get him killed.
    “Which wasn’t good enough to win,” Dugald pointed out, just in case he’d forgotten.
    He hadn’t.
    “The next church is just across the river,” the friar said, in a welcome change of subject.
    They’d just come through Ben Cruachan, the highest mountains in Argyll, along the narrow, steep-sided pass of Brander or
Brannraidh
, place of ambush. Appropriately named, he thought. Opposite them lay the relatively flat, grassy land on the southern bank of Loch Etive.
    “You mean Killespickerill?” Arthur asked. The ancient church in Taynuilt had once been the seat of the Bishop of Argyll.
    “Ah, you know of it?”
    Arthur exchanged a look with Dugald. The good friar was obviously unfamiliar with the history between the Campbells and MacDougalls. “A bit,” he said in an understatement. The small village of Taynuilt was located at the key juncture of Loch Etive and the river Awe, which connected three miles downstream to Loch Awe. Lorn’s lands, but close to Campbell lands. His jaw clenched. The former Campbell lands, that is.
    “If you wish to make Oban by nightfall we shouldn’t stay long. We’ve still a good twelve miles to travel.”
    At this pace it would take them another two days. It seemed as if they’d visited every church between Tyndrum and Loch Etive. Not that Arthur was complaining. It gave him more of an opportunity to scout the area. When Bruce and the rest of the men marched west to Dunstaffnage to face Lorn, they would pass through this same countryside. Their slow pace would also delay his return to the castle, which was fine by him.
    But joining the friar hadn’t brought him any closer to discovering how messengers were slipping through King Robert’s net. They had to be churchmen, but so far not
this
churchman. He hadn’t seen the friar slip anything in or out of the leather sporran he wore around his waist. Nor had he discovered anything last night while the friar slept, when he’d taken the opportunity to make sure.
    “Brother Rory makes the best pottage in the Highlands,” the friar said. “You won’t want to miss it.”
    The last church had had meat pies, the one before that jam. Arthur suspected the stops at the various churches were more about tasting the local specialties than ministering to the faithful. Not that you would know it by the lance-thin churchman. He was more bone than flesh, and hearty of temperament rather than girth.
    They crossed the river at the bridge of Awe and followed its banks, skirting the edge of the forest to the south. Simple gray stone cottages peppered the landscape, becoming more numerous and closer together as they drew nearer the village.
    A few minutes later, nestled in the center of the lazy village on a small rise, the old stone church came into view.
    There were a few people about, mostly women, and the light sounds of laughter and children playing ruffled through the air.
    He stilled, hearing the traces of a song. A woman’s voice. His senses buzzed as if a bee had just passed behind his neck.
    “Is something wrong?”
    The friar, seated behind him, was close enough to pick up on his reaction. Arthur waited. His gaze flickered back and forth, but there was no sign of anything unusual, nor did he pick up the unmistakable air of danger.
    He shook his head. “Nay, nothing.”
    They continued on into the churchyard to the small building behind, where the priest slept and ate.
    Friar John was good to his word. Brother Rory’s pottage was indeed one of the best Arthur had ever had. After two bowls he would