“Eleanor’s surging ahead,” Thomas observed.
“She knows the way,” Martin grunted with a twisted smile. “She’s not as old as I am.”
A whaup called over the moor, with the sun easing through low clouds to provide a sudden shaft of bright sunlight on the Thirteen Stone Rig.
“Dear Father in Heaven,” Martin said as he clambered from the causeway onto the ridge. “There’s a sight I hoped was gone forever.” He gazed at the recumbent stones. “We’ll have to cover them up or push them into the moss. Where’s the skeleton, Mrs Machrie?”
“Here!” Eleanor said and strode to the centre of the circle. “Somewhere.” She glanced around. “It was here.”
“It’s not here now,” Martin said. “It’s gone.”
* * *
Sir Andrew watched as de Soulis’s following of household knights and men-at-arms prepared for the hunt
