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down wi’ yer back to that tree,” Morrigan commanded.
    The minstrel complied, casually reclining back against a tree. If he was concerned for his safety, he hid it well.
    Morrigan stepped around him to the back of the tree. “Yer hands,” she commanded, and he readily complied, placing his arms behind himself around the tree. It was almost irritating, his lack of fight. Why would a man carrying such a sword let her tie him to a tree without any resistance? And with what was she going to tie him?
    “My bootstraps might work if there be nothing else.”
    Morrigan exhaled through gritted teeth. “Give them to me.”
    The minstrel did so quickly, which only added to Morrigan’s frustration. She was supposed to be taking him captive, rendering him helpless. Why then did she feel he held the power?
    She tied his hands behind the tree securely. If he thought she would be gentle or did not know how to tie a knot, he would soon learn his mistake. Morrigan stomped off without sparing him a glance, taking his sword and cloak with her. She tromped through the brush, not caring for her direction. She needed to get away from the mysterious minstrel and his confusing actions and befuddling words. Who was he?
    Morrigan sat on a fallen tree trunk and tried to think. She had a mission. She had to kill the bishop. And she had to kill… the minstrel? She put her head in her hands. It was all starting to sound like some tragic ballad. How could she have possibly gotten herself into such a mess? The McNab curse. No matter what they did, it always came out wrong.
    In the cold darkness, Morrigan realized nothing about her situation had changed. She still needed to kill the bishop, and if she left the minstrel alive he could tell everyone who did it, which could bring retribution onto her clan. Hellfire, how she hated her life.
    One thing was for sure. The night would end in death.
    Morrigan sat on the tree stump as the night air grew cold, and the silver moon rose above the trees. She considered many different options, but they all circled back into the same set of facts. The bishop must die to save the clan. The minstrel must die because he saw her. Morrigan pressed her head in her hands. Her damnation was complete; she was already in hell.
    A soft rustle in the bushes caught her attention. Without making a sound she picked up her loaded crossbow. A deer, an old buck, ambled into view. She aimed and shot. Dinner was served.
    Morrigan attempted to haul the carcass back to where she had left the minstrel tied to the tree but the animal was quite heavy. She strained but made little progress, cursing the deer, herself, the minstrel, and her general lot in life.
    Digging down with her knees, Morrigan strained to pull the carcass. Suddenly her load became lighter and she stumbled forward, unprepared for the sudden shift in weight. Behind her, someone had lifted the backside of the carcass. Morrigan spun and gasped.
    It was the shadowy form of the minstrel.

Five
     
    “What? How?” Morrigan sputtered.
    “I am at your service.” The minstrel smiled as if he had offered to pick up a dropped handkerchief.
    Morrigan dropped her end of the beast, causing the back end to be jerked from his hands. “I left ye tied to a tree. How are ye here?”
    “Yes, my apologies for causing you any unwanted surprise. But see you?” He drew back his sleeve and revealed a sheath for a knife. “I could not remain comfortable while a lady was in need.”
    “I am no lady.” Morrigan spat on the ground for emphasis. “Ye’re free now. Ye can go and tell everyone I tried to kill the bishop.”
    “Ah, but then I would have to say why I, too, was in the garden, and I do not know what my reason might be.”
    “Why are ye still here? Ye could run away.”
    The minstrel gave a quick smile that did not reach his eyes. “Yes, perhaps I should go as you say. But then, I am not sure if the bishop is friend or foe. Can you say why you pointed at him the loaded