The morning sun filtered weakly through the dense canopy of the forest, casting dappled shadows on the ground. Sir William Fenton stood at the edge of the makeshift camp, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Beside him, Brody was busy extinguishing the remains of their small fire, scattering the ashes with his boot. The gaunt man they had encountered the previous night—who had introduced himself as Isaac Granger—sat a short distance away, his eyes darting nervously between them.
"Are you sure we can trust him?" Brody asked under his breath, his tone laced with suspicion.
William glanced at Isaac, who was fiddling with the frayed edge of his cloak. "No," he admitted. "But sending him away could bring more trouble. If Dawlish's men catch him, he might talk."
Brody grunted in agreement but kept his wary gaze fixed on Isaac. "We'll have to keep an eye on him. One wrong move, and he's out."
Isaac seemed to sense their mistrust. "I understand why you're cautious," he said, his voice low but steady. "But I swear, I mean you no harm. I just want to get out of these woods alive."
"Then you'll follow our lead," William said firmly. "No wandering off, no questions. Understood?"
Isaac nodded quickly. "Understood."
The trio set off shortly after, weaving through the dense forest with practiced caution. The terrain grew more challenging as they moved deeper into the wilderness. Gnarled roots jutted out from the ground like skeletal fingers, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves.
William led the way, his keen eyes scanning the path ahead for any signs of danger. Brody followed close behind, his knife in hand, while Isaac trailed at the rear, his movements hesitant and unsure.
By midday, they reached a small clearing where a narrow stream cut through the underbrush. The water gurgled softly, a rare sound of peace in their otherwise tense journey. William knelt by the stream to refill his flask, his thoughts racing as he considered their next move.
"We need to decide where to go from here," Brody said, crouching beside him. "The forest won't keep us safe forever."
William nodded, his gaze fixed on the shimmering water. "We'll head south, toward the river. If we can reach the old mill, we might find allies there."
"And if Dawlish gets there first?" Brody asked.
William's jaw tightened. "Then we'll deal with it."
Isaac, who had been standing a few paces away, spoke up hesitantly. "The mill... is it far?"
William turned to him, his expression unreadable. "Why do you ask?"
Isaac shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. "No reason. Just wondering if it's safe."
"We'll find out soon enough," William said curtly.
After a brief rest, they resumed their journey, following the stream as it meandered through the forest. The hours passed in silence, broken only by the occasional snap of a twig or the distant cry of a bird.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the forest floor, the trio came upon a narrow path that cut through the trees. William hesitated, his instincts warning him to stay off the open trail.
"Think it's a trap?" Brody asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Could be," William replied. "But it's also the fastest way to the river."
Isaac, who had been silent for most of the journey, spoke up. "If Dawlish's men are nearby, they'll be watching the main paths."
William studied him closely, searching for any sign of deceit. Isaac's face was pale and drawn, his eyes wide with fear. If he was lying, he was doing a good job of hiding it.
"Let's take the path," William said finally. "But stay alert."
They moved cautiously down the narrow trail, their footsteps muffled by the soft forest floor. The trees seemed to close in around them, their twisted branches forming an almost impenetrable wall on either side.
It wasn't long before William's instincts proved correct. As they rounded a bend in the trail, a sudden rustling in the underbrush brought them to an abrupt halt.
"Hold," William whispered, drawing his sword.
Brody stepped forward, his knife at the ready, while Isaac froze in place, his expression one of sheer terror.
The rustling grew louder, and a moment later, a figure burst from the underbrush, stumbling onto the trail. It was a young woman, her face streaked with dirt and her clothes torn. She looked up at them with wide, frightened eyes, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath.
"Help me," she gasped, collapsing to her knees.
William lowered his sword slightly, his gaze narrowing. "Who are you?"
The woman shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "Please... they're coming. They'll kill me."
"Who?" Brody demanded, stepping closer.
"Dawlish's men," she sobbed. "They're not far behind."
William exchanged a quick glance with Brody before turning his attention back to the woman. "Get up," he said firmly. "We don't have time to waste."
She nodded weakly and struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on William for support. Brody scowled but didn't protest, and Isaac hovered nervously in the background, his eyes darting toward the forest.
"Move," William ordered, leading the group off the trail and into the dense underbrush.
They pushed on in silence, the woman's labored breathing the only sound. The tension was palpable, every crack of a branch or rustle of leaves sending their hearts racing.
As the forest grew darker, they finally came to a halt in a small hollow. William helped the woman sit down, her body trembling with exhaustion.
"What's your name?" he asked, his tone gentler than before.
"Margaret," she whispered. "Margaret Chalmers."
"Why are Dawlish's men after you?"
Margaret hesitated, her gaze flickering to Isaac before returning to William. "I... I was helping some Jacobites escape. They found out."
William studied her carefully, noting the desperation in her eyes. Her story was plausible, but the timing of her appearance was suspicious.
"You're safe for now," he said finally. "But if you're lying to us..."
"I'm not," Margaret interrupted, her voice trembling. "I swear it."
Brody muttered something under his breath but didn't argue. Isaac, meanwhile, had retreated to the edge of the hollow, his expression unreadable.
As night fell, the group settled into an uneasy silence. William sat by the fire, his sword resting across his lap, while Brody kept watch from a nearby tree. Margaret huddled close to the flames, her eyes darting nervously to the shadows beyond.
Isaac, who had remained quiet for most of the evening, finally spoke up. "We can't stay here for long. If Dawlish's men are close, they'll find us."
"We'll move at first light," William said firmly. "Until then, we stay put."
Isaac didn't respond, but his fidgeting suggested he wasn't happy with the plan.
As the hours dragged on, William couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. The forest was too quiet, the air too still. And then there was Margaret, whose sudden appearance had thrown their already precarious situation into further disarray.
Sleep was out of the question. William's mind raced with questions and doubts, each one more troubling than the last.
By the time the first light of dawn began to filter through the trees, he had made up his mind.
"Let's move," he said, rising to his feet.
The group gathered their belongings and set off once more, their steps quick and purposeful. The river was close now, its distant roar growing louder with each passing hour.
But as they neared their destination, William couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking into a trap. The forest seemed to close in around them, the shadows growing darker and more menacing.
And then, as they reached the edge of the trees, they saw it: the river, wide and fast-moving, with the old mill perched on its banks like a sentinel.
But they weren't alone.
A group of red-coated soldiers stood by the mill, their muskets gleaming in the morning light.
William's heart sank. Dawlish had beaten them here.