No more mistakes now, for he’d waited far too long.
Keeping sight of Malcom, he withdrew an arrow from his quiver and notched it within his bow. And then he waited for just the right moment...
He wanted Malcom’s wee body to fall into the brush, so he wouldn’t have to touch him afterward. He wanted this kill to be a clean one, with no blood on his hands to give him away. Nor did he intend for the body to be found until he was far enough from the scene so as to be free from suspicion.
“Malcom! There ye are, lad!” Ranald bellowed, coming into view.
The bowman cursed silently, and gently eased the bowstring back into place.
“I was following a rabbit!” Malcom declared. “Look, Ranald, look! I think he’s in there!” He pointed to the bush that separated the bowman from his prey.
Ranald scattered the bush, peering within, over and about, and then he froze, meeting the bowman’s gaze through the leafage. “There’s naught in the bush, lad,” he said stiffly. “Go on wi’ ye now.”
Malcom’s face fell. “I want to make my da proud!” he said. “I wanna catch him a rabbit!”
“Aye, well, ye willna make him proud by wanderin’ aboot all alone and getting yourself lost,” Ranald scolded. “Go, now, and find the others—quickly, lest I tell your da ye were a wee rotten scoundrel and strayed away. He willna let ye come again, I think.”
“Dinna tell!” Malcom pleaded, thrusting out his lower lip.
“Go, then,” Ranald instructed.
Malcom turned at once and fled.
Ranald turned again to face the bowman hidden within the bush. “I canna let ye do this,” he said once Malcom was gone.
“Ye canna stop me.”
“I should never have helped ye to begin wi’,” Ranald hissed into the bush. He shook his head. “However did I allow ye to talk me into it?”
“You’re my verra best friend,” the bowman said simply, quietly.
Ranald’s face turned florid with anger. “No’ if ye plan to murder an innocent laddie, I am no’! I’ll have no part in this treachery! Ye said ye dinna wish to hurt him! Ye said ye only wished to have him gone! I helped ye do that, but I’ll no’ be helpin’ anymore!” he swore. “I’m going to tell Iain! He should have known long ago. ‘Tis his right to know the truth—all of it!”
“Nay!” the bowman snarled. “Ye willna tell him that he is my brother, Ranald! I swore I wouldna, and you willna either! I trusted you. You are the only one who knows, aside from Glenna, and I canna let you tell that tale.”
“He deserves to know the truth—and I will tell him, if you willna!” And with that, Ranald turned to go.
“Nay, you willna,” the bowman said with certainty, and lifted the loaded bow.
Ranald stopped and slowly turned. “You willna use it,” he predicted. “You wouldna—”
Without hesitation, the arrow flew, striking true to its aim, straight into Ranald’s heart.
Ranald clutched at the shaft as he fell backward. “Bluidy bastard!” he swore.
When Ranald did not rise, the bowman made his way to where he lay, clutching the arrow still. The trickle of blood from Ranald’s lips against the deathlike pallor of his face held the bowman captivated for an instant.
“Ye were... my friend,” Ranald choked out, his eyes liquid with tears.
“No longer,” the bowman said softly, without remorse, and stamped the arrow deeper with the heel of his boot. He drove it down until it passed into the soft ground. The death rattle came as a strangled gurgle from Ranald’s throat. Satisfied, the bowman bent to snap the remainder of the shaft in two, taking with him the feathered fletching. It was his habit to use the downy white feathers of an owl for his shaft- end, and he would not have his mark recognized by those who would know.
“You shouldn’t have betrayed me, Ranald,” he said to the lifeless body. “I would have rewarded ye well. And damn ye, too.” For now he would have to wait for a new chance to present itself. It would raise too much suspicion were both Ranald and the boy to turn up missing now, particularly since the three of them had together wandered away from the rest of the hunting party. It wouldn’t look so good if only he returned. Malcom was likely back safe in their fold already.
Damn Ranald, the meddling bastard.
It wasn’t long before Page rediscovered her ire.
The hunting party returned with quarry in hand, and while they were charitable enough to share a generous portion of their catch with their “hostage,” afterward they immediately found a sturdy tree and leashed her to it—like some mongrel they didn’t wish to have stray away. Page just sat there, watching them spread their breacans to sleep upon, all the while seething with anger.