What a Lass Wants (16 page)

The young lad with her note rode out of the gate and headed west toward Stirling.

She would rehearse her words well and leave out the part where she identified her thief as the marshal. So long as her tale rang true and the MacCurrans never caught sight of Bran, they would take the crown and depart without their culprit.

All would be well.

Heavy raindrops began to fall, slowly at first and then faster and faster. The villeins below ran for cover. Her fingers trembled slightly, and she wove her hands together to calm them.

It had to be.

*   *   *

They arrived at the deep burn soaked to the skin. The rain had not let up the entire journey, and any glamour Bran had attached to his role as marshal had long disappeared by the time they reached the blue-green crag near the northern border. In Edinburgh, he spent most cold, wet days in a pub, lifting coins from fat merchants who gathered around the fire. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d willingly endured the October rains.

Young Robbie rode up alongside him.

“What are you hoping to find?”

Bran pointed to the huge shards of shale looming above them. A low, wet mist had settled across the glen and the higher points of the crag disappeared into the clouds. “A way up into the rocks.”

“But we’ve already examined every inch of the shore,” Robbie said, frowning, “and found no sign of a trail.”

“We missed something; I’m convinced of it.”

The lad nodded, but doubt tugged at his eyebrows. “Then we’ll look again.”

Bran dismounted and gathered the men around him. Rain had plastered their hair to their faces and droplets dripped steadily from their noses and chins. “Revenge is within our grasp, but it must be claimed with discipline. Leave the horses here and move quietly up the brae. Surprise will be our best ally.”

He led them forward over the rocky terrain, showing them how best to travel with stealth—finding the silent, mossy footfalls and avoiding loose slides of shale. The mist worked to their advantage; the slippery rocks did not.

Twice the treacherous terrain brought a soldier to his knees with a loud clatter of stone.

And twice they froze and waited for their foes to race out of the mist with blades held high.

But the blanket of cloud must have contained the noise, because neither fall brought Giric and his men raging down upon them. Bran peered up into the foggy reaches of the crag. Perhaps the huge Englishman had grown so confident of his hiding spot that he no longer posted guards.

At the burn’s edge, they again sought signs of passage.

His men spread out along the shore, examining every turned stone and bent rowan leaf. They scoured the burnside and the base of the rising tower of slate with
devotion, as eager to find a clue as Bran was. But as time passed, their enthusiasm slowly eroded. As before, the search met with no success.

Robbie met Bran’s gaze with a grim look and a shake of his head.

Bran picked up a stray piece of rose quartz at his feet and whipped it across the swiftly running water. Bloody hell. How could he have been so wrong? Logic told him this was the most likely place for the English to be hiding . . . So where was Giric? The rock bounced off the wall of stone on the other side of the burn and dropped into the foaming water. But it didn’t disappear into the depths as Bran had expected. Once the splash receded, he could still see the rock clear as a summer day, its pink shimmer no more than an inch or two below the surface.

He crouched, peering into the dark water as it sluiced through the narrow chasm.

Sure enough, a flat ridge of rock followed the wall of shale just under the surface, wide enough for a horse. If they stayed close to the edge, they could walk around the huge column of shale that hid the rest of the stream from view. As for what lay beyond that? Only discovery would tell.

He surged to his full height.

“Follow me,” he said to the men, stepping into the water. As the frigid burn poured into his boots, the memory of being swept downstream assailed him with breath-snatching clarity. But he ruthlessly shoved it aside.

He waded upstream, taking care not to create noisy splashes that might echo off the rocks. His men
followed, equally quiet. Just before they reached the stone column, they paused and drew their weapons. A quick glance confirmed that everyone was ready, and then Bran dove around the outcropping and into the open. But he was met with disappointment, not a band of Englishmen—all he found was more rock. And a steep path leading up into the crag.

Bran gritted his teeth and began a slow and careful ascent.

He eyed every boulder and every outcrop above him, looking for sentries. On a clear day, Giric would have had the advantage—it would have been near impossible to approach the crest of the crag without being seen. But the mist limited sight to no more than thirty paces and they were able to climb steadily.

Despite the dampening blanket of fog, it wasn’t long before sounds from the camp above reached their ears. The low hum of men talking, the rasp of whetstones on sword edges, and the soft clink of ring mail armor. Bran raised a hand and brought his men to a halt.

He frowned.

The sounds he’d expected; it was the volume that concerned him. Giric should have had no more than half a dozen men left, but this cacophony implied far greater numbers than that.

“Wait here,” he said to Robbie.

The young warrior nodded and signaled to the others to take cover.

Bran sheathed his weapon and slipped into the rocks ahead. He needed a higher vantage point to spy upon the camp. As he scaled the wet rocks, a sharp memory returned to him of a similarly misty day twelve years
before, when his father had been found and dragged off by Laird MacLean. He’d been only a lad then, but the memory was still vivid. The wails of his mother, the stoic face of his father, the glistening beards of the MacLean warriors, and the bitter ending upon the gallows. He’d vowed then never to return to these miserable moors, and yet here he was.

He grimaced. The amazing part was, he would break any vow to ease Caitrina’s burdens.

Pulling himself up the slippery slab of rock, he peered over the edge. A flat, grassy plateau stretched out before him, the bottom of a great bowl in the rocks, with steep walls of shale all around. Tents and groups of men filled up the grassy expanse; a quick count confirmed the presence of at least one hundred soldiers, all intently preparing for battle. Even more concerning, a large group of the men carried unusually long bows, similar in style to those used by the Welsh. Dangerous weapons, they were capable of piercing armor.

Bran slid back down the rock. Giric wasn’t planning to run. He was planning to attack the manor. And he was gathering an army to support him.

With his back against the stone slab, Bran grimly considered his options. Dougal’s men totaled fifty, and the queen’s personal guard added another two dozen to their number. The walls of the manor were solidly built and well maintained, but not intended to repel a lengthy attack. Reinforcements could be drawn from Edinburgh and Stirling if necessary, but it was clear that Giric was anticipating the arrival of even more men. Additional tents were being pitched and latrines dug.

Which meant his men on the path were at risk of discovery.

It was time to move. Returning promptly to the manor to warn the queen was paramount.

*   *   *

Caitrina was in the chapel attending morning prayer with the other ladies and most of the queen’s court when the riders arrived at the gate. A young page entered the chapel and reported the news to the courtiers standing near the door. After that, word spread through the small room in frenzied whispers, despite glares from the bishop and his two priests.

“The first Guardian has arrived,” Gisele murmured.

Caitrina’s heart skipped a beat. “James Stewart?”

The lady of the wardrobe nodded.

Oh, dear. The royal steward’s arrival was much sooner than expected. It was only the eve of Samhain, and the birth of the new king was not expected for several weeks. The bishop’s message must have carried a note of urgency.

Caitrina waited impatiently for morning prayers to conclude, then returned to the great hall with as much haste as decorum would allow. The visitors’ horses were still in the close, being tended by the stable lads—a dozen fine steeds, including a mighty bay stallion.

The great hall was a hive of activity when she entered, gillies scurrying to and fro with their arms full of linens or firewood or flagons of wine. The royal steward was seated before the hearth, having his boots cleaned.

“If Marshal Finlay is away to Oban,” the steward was saying in a booming voice, “then who is seeing to the manor affairs in his absence?”

Caitrina glanced at the faces gathered around him. Dougal. The queen’s seneschal, Roger de Capelin. The captain of the queen’s guard.

“Marshal Gordon,” replied Dougal.

James Stewart frowned. “Archibald Gordon? Of Strathbogie?”

It was Dougal’s turn to frown. “Nay, Giles Gordon of Feldrinny.”

The direction of the conversation was concerning. In no time, the man would be comparing notes on various branches of the Gordon clan and wondering where Bran fit in.

“I don’t recall appointing a Gordon as marshal of Feldrinny,” Stewart said, as a gillie carved a layer of mud from the bottom of his boot.

Caitrina took a deep breath and crossed the room. She curtsied to the royal steward. “Good day, Lord Steward.”

Stewart leapt to his feet and offered her a deep bow. “Lady Caitrina. A pleasure to see you looking so well.”

“Thank you,” she responded. “I could not help but overhear your query regarding Marshal Gordon. I confess, I had some concerns about the man in the beginning, but he’s done quite well by us. Is that not so, Constable?”

Dougal nodded. “He’s gone to great lengths to ensure the queen’s safety and comfort.”

Caitrina smiled at the royal steward. “I don’t recall
which family seat the marshal said he hailed from—I read his credentials, but I likely reviewed them as I review most official documents.” She gave a short laugh. “Swiftly.”

“So you saw his patents?”

“Indeed,” she said. “And I am sure he’ll happily regale you with his impressive lineage when he returns. He is out hunting that deplorable band of Englishmen who slayed several of our guards.”

Stewart nodded. “Thank you for your insights, Lady Caitrina. Please inform the queen that I shall request an audience once I have properly freshened from my journey.”

Caitrina curtsied again. “Her Grace will be most pleased to see you again, Lord Steward.”

She left the men to their discussion. Wrapping her brat tightly about her shoulders, she traded the warmth of the great hall for the chill of a rainy October day. Bran must be warned about the royal steward’s presence. He’d made arrangements to have letters patent drawn up, but had there been enough time to receive them?

She frowned.

It was impossible to know. But alerting him to the inquisition he was likely to face when he stepped inside was a necessity. The only question was, how? She could hardly stand here in the close and wait on his return. Such an act would raise all sorts of eyebrows.

Slowly pivoting, she eyed what little activity there was in the courtyard. One sodden stable lad shoveling mucked straw into a cart, a villein rolling a barrel toward the kitchen door, several stalwart soldiers
braving the wet weather with impassive resolve. As her gaze settled on the group of soldiers huddled near the steps leading to a wall, she smiled.

What she needed was an ally.

And she knew just who to tap. Someone who, to her mind, still owed her a debt.

*   *   *

Halfway to Clackmannan, Bran and his men were met by a solitary rider cantering hard and fast, despite the steady downpour. Thanks to the heavy mist, he was nearly upon them before they could put the bearded face to a name. Young Jamie. He eyed Bran’s party with a frown.

“No English?”

“Nay.”

The young soldier shifted in his saddle. “We thought for sure you’d roust him. All the men were eager to be a party to your venture.”

Disappointment was a bitter pang in Bran’s chest. “What brings you to my side?”

The young warrior stiffened at the sharp tone of Bran’s query. “Lady Caitrina insisted that I bring you this message.” He pulled a small rolled parchment from the folds of his brat and offered it.

Bran took the parchment.

A message so urgent that it needed a rider could not be good. He untied the delicate ribbon, unrolled the message, and read it quickly. Raindrops smudged the ink even as he absorbed the significance of Caitrina’s words. The royal steward had arrived, and he would not be an easy man to gull. He knew almost as much about the Book of Arms as the marischal and he would
likely question the heredity of Giles Gordon. Without his forged papers—which had not yet been delivered and could not be expected until after the feast of Samhain—he would need to be quite creative if he wanted to divert the steward’s questions.

The other option, of course, was to run.

Bran glanced at the wet, weary faces of the men who’d followed him to the burn. They looked to him for leadership and hope and the promise of justice for their dead comrades. To them, he truly
was
Marshal Gordon, skilled warrior and bastion of lawful right. When he had descended the slate crag path where they had patiently awaited his return and delivered the news of the huge numbers of Englishmen preparing to attack their home, these men had briefly lost hope. It had been
his
words that shored up their faith. It had been
his
oath to see justice served that had erased the bleak looks and rekindled the fires of passion.

If he ran now, it would be a cruel betrayal.

And he would be leaving Caitrina to face Giric’s attack alone.

Nay. Running was not an option.

Did he not pride himself on his ability to fool almost anyone? Well, here was his chance to make good on his boasts. If he could convince the royal steward that he was indeed Marshal Gordon—without the support of official letters of patent—he would truly be a charlatan of legend.