What a Lass Wants (2 page)

Bowing deeply, Caitrina stepped back.

The other ladies closed in, tucking the sheets around the queen and lowering the drapes.

Lady of the nursery. How incredible. She’d never imagined the queen would honor her with such an appointment. Especially now. If Yolande had any inkling of the conversation in the corridor, she’d have Caitrina wrapped in chains and thrown into the dungeon. And rightly so. Disloyalty and treason should never be rewarded, no matter how fine the intentions were.

With her heart beating a heavy march, Caitrina reached into the neckline of her gown and pulled out the feather-soft item Giric had tucked there. It was a lock of hair, bound with a piece of hemp. Gleaming, nut-brown hair, with a slight curl. Caitrina’s breath caught in her throat.

Marsailli’s hair.

It had been hacked roughly from her sister’s head, the shorn edges uneven and varied in length—a rather obvious threat: steal the bairn, or your sister will suffer. Giric probably intended the hair to be a mild warning, but the sight of it stabbed Caitrina deep in the chest. It was one thing to shear a man’s hair, but a woman’s? Giric might just as well have laid Marsailli’s cheek open with a blow or broken her nose. Her sister’s beauty would be marred for some time to come.

Giric was truly a monster.

And he now had control over her sweet, innocent Marsailli.

Caitrina lifted her gaze to the queen’s bed. The ladies-in-waiting were blowing out candles and returning to their pallets. As fearful as she was to defy the Bear, the time had come for action. She could not allow Marsailli to remain in that wretch’s clutches. Nor could she bring herself to steal Yolande’s precious babe.

Nay.

She must find her sister and determine some way to outwit Giric.

*   *   *

As Bran MacLean urged his mount over the ridge and down into the glen, he stole a glance over his shoulder. Rolling hills of brown grass and faded purple heather filled his gaze. No visible sign of pursuit. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there. The band of MacCurrans on his tail were very determined. And skilled. They had successfully navigated his every effort to shake them thus far, and he’d be a fool to assume he’d lost them.

The night before, under the light of a full moon, he’d caught a glimpse of their camp about a league distant. In the hours since, they would surely have gained ground.

He bent lower over the horse’s neck as the mighty beast galloped down the hill, the wind whipping its mane into his eyes. In hindsight, stealing this charger had been an error. He had allowed its worth to blind him. Aye, it was a magnificent animal with a deep chest and heavily muscled legs, but it was bred for war, not speed. The MacCurrans had given chase on fleet-footed coursers.

Any hope of reaching Edinburgh ahead of the
MacCurrans and disappearing among its familiar streets had been dashed. They would catch him long before he reached the city. A new destination was in order. Stirling, perhaps. It was nearly as large and crowded as Edinburgh. But could he reach the walls before the MacCurrans ran him down?

He spared another glance over his shoulder.

A flash of white at the crest of the ridge sent a shot of ice water through his veins. They were almost atop him. He was about to lose the treasure in his pouch . . . and quite possibly his life. Unless he did something bold and unexpected.

With a tug on the reins, he veered south toward the heavy forest that hid the Black Devon Burn from view. He entered the woods at full canter, ducking to avoid low-hanging tree branches. Aware that his mount was weary and eager for water, he urged the horse toward the stream with his heels, then untied his pouch from the saddle and waited for the right moment. It came upon him swiftly—a moss-covered fallen log to the right. He dove off the horse, hitting the ground so hard he could barely draw breath. But that served him well. He had no sooner rolled into the musty lee of the fallen tree than his eager pursuers thundered past, following the hoofprints his mount had left in the loam.

Bran leapt to his feet, aching from head to toe.

He had only a few minutes to save his skin. Once the MacCurrans caught sight of his riderless horse, they’d swiftly backtrack. The village of Clackmannan lay a short distance west. The manor was held by the holy monks of Cambuskenneth, and with any luck, he’d find sanctuary there.

Tossing his satchel over his shoulder, he wended his way through the bracken, taking care not to bend the withering fern fronds in his direction. When he reached the burn, he waded through the water for thirty paces. A temporary measure at best. The MacCurrans were Highlanders—they would soon pick up his track. He reached the bounds of the forest and found himself at the edge of a fallow field. Across the field lay the small village, and beyond that, the dark stone walls of the manor. But ’twas not the sleepy town he’d expected.

A large party had arrived at the manor house; at least twenty horses, two carriages, and several carts piled high with goods stood in the close. A crowd of villagers had gathered to watch the servants unload. Bran swiftly scanned the scene, his gaze halting when he reached the banner held by a young soldier—a split shield: gold with three red lions rampant on one side, azure with three argent fleurs-de-lis on the other.

The arms of Yolande, the dowager queen of Scotland.

Bran smiled.

A busy scene would serve him well. Where there were many hands in the work, there was also confusion, and confusion almost always brought opportunity. His best chance of eluding the MacCurrans would be to hide where they least expected to find him: in the thick of the queen’s retinue. His gaze lifted to the top floor of the manor house. But it would not be easy to gull the sort of men who surrounded a queen.

He opened his pouch and stared at the silver and sapphire crown within.

Then again, nothing worth having ever came easy.

He circled around the village and approached the manor from the north, where activity was the greatest. Head low, stride purposeful, he headed directly for the caravan of carts. To blend into a royal household, he would need finer garments than the simple lèine he currently wore. With a swagger that suggested he was exactly where he belonged, he sauntered up to a cart stacked with personal effects, seized a brass-banded chest, and hefted it over his shoulder. Then he did precisely what the other carters were doing—headed for the interior of the manor house.

But as he passed the seneschal and his clerk, who stood at the wide-open gate guiding the unloading, he was hailed. “You there,” the seneschal said. “Halt.”

Bran paused, keeping his head bowed. The seneschal must not get a good look at his face.

“Who told you to gather that chest?”

An excellent question. For which he had no truthful answer. “One of the queen’s ladies,” he lied. “She feared that some of their clothing had gone astray.”

“Nonsense,” the seneschal said. “I accounted for all of the queen’s chests myself. This one belongs to Chevalier Francois, who will be occupying a chamber on the second
étage
. Third door on the left. Take it there immediately.”

“Aye,” he said, nodding.

Bran mounted the stairs, but did not stop on the second floor. He climbed to the third level and ducked into the first empty chamber he found. Then he set the chest down, closed the door, and rummaged through the contents. Unfortunately, Chevalier Francois must
be a knight overly fond of rich food. Everything inside was too large for him.

Abandoning the chest, he left the room and made his way back down the stairs, merging with the other servants returning to the carts.

“Did ye lay eyes upon the queen?” the heavyset carter in front of him asked of another.

“Aye,” his friend replied. “But only a wee look. She and her ladies went straight to their rooms.”

“Is it true she’s got the face of an angel?”

The other man snorted. “I canna say. All I noted was her swollen belly.”

“A shame Marshal Finlay is off to his cousin’s wedding in Oban.” The stockier man strode to the cart and hauled a chest atop his shoulders. “He’ll be right fashed to learn he’s had a royal guest.”

“He’ll have chance enough to pay his respects when he returns.”

“Aye?”

“Aye. Fearchar says the abbot will play host to Her Grace until the bairn is born.”

Bran selected another well-appointed chest and repeated his effort. It took him three tries to locate the attire he was seeking—simple, elegant tunics crafted of the finest wool and light linen sarks that drifted over his skin like warm water. Dressing swiftly, he exchanged his lèine for a dove gray tunic and a black belt.

The chest gave up several other useful items—two additional tunics, one blue and one green, and a hooded cloak, all of which he stuffed into his satchel. Near the bottom, he found a pair of soft leather
gloves—just the sort a man of means would use for riding. He tucked those into his belt.

Now came the difficult part.

Carving out his place.

Having spent the better part of a lifetime observing the wealthy in order to rob them, he knew a great deal about looking the part of a noble. But successfully playing a role, even for as short a time as he intended to remain in Clackmannan, would require more than just the right look. It would require him to think swiftly, act without hesitation, and dance the very fine line between truth and lie.

Descending the stairs, Bran waited just inside the manor until the seneschal and his clerk were engrossed in deciding the fate of two more items from the carts, and then he slipped past the pair and headed for the stables. Once inside the dim confines of a horse stall, he donned the cloak and tied his satchel to one of the saddles slung over the stall walls.

As he applied dirt from the stable floor to the hem of his cloak to acquire a well-traveled look, a one-eyed tabby cat entered the stall, her belly heavy with a litter of soon-to-be-born kittens. She rubbed her body against his legs with an arched back and a plaintive mewl.

“Hey there, lassie,” he said, crouching to scratch the cat under the chin. The tabby was leaner than he would expect a village cat to be, so he dipped a hand into the small purse at his belt and found his last piece of dried herring. He offered it to the cat in the palm of his hand and waited patiently as she nibbled. Not that he could afford to wait much longer. The MacCurrans would descend upon the village forthwith.

Standing in the shadowy interior of the stables, Bran eyed the seneschal. Thin faced and heavily browed, he was poring over his clerk’s list with an unrelenting frown. A man with a ruthless attention to detail, it would seem.

Bran glanced down.

Was he missing anything? Cloak, gloves, dirk, purse. All good. His boots were a wee bit shabby, but if he properly held the seneschal’s attention, that shouldn’t be a problem. He spread his hands. Och,
there
was the hole in his plan. Jewels. A well-born man would wear at least one ring. Digging into his leather purse, he found one of the other items he’d filched at the MacCurran wedding. A gold ring set with a small ruby.

He slid it over his middle finger. Perfect.

He stepped into the sunlight and marched toward the manor house.

“Where is the master carter?” he demanded as he approached. “Someone must collect my satchel.”

The seneschal looked up, frowning. “And who might you be, sir?”

Bran met his gaze easily. “Giles Gordon, marshal of Feldrinny. Feldrinny is a liege estate to Cambuskenneth, bordering the abbey to the west. Abbot Michael insisted that I journey to Clackmannan in Marshal Finlay’s absence to ensure all is well tended for the queen’s sojourn. It is the marshal’s deepest regret that he be absent at this time, but we shall do everything in our power to ensure the queen’s comfort.”

The seneschal stared at him, hard.

The wool cloak was lightweight, but it still brought a flush of heat to Bran’s cheeks. He wasn’t accustomed
to wearing so much clothing, even on a cool autumn day. But he ignored the discomfort, facing the seneschal with a slight sneer. “And you, sir?”

“Roger de Capelin, the queen’s seneschal.”

Bran nodded. “Excellent. Have someone collect my satchel from the stables. I got word only this morning that Her Grace would be confined here and, by necessity, I left without my man.”

Then, without waiting for de Capelin’s response, he entered the manor.

“I wish to see the constable, Clackmannan’s seneschal, and the priest,” he said loudly to those going about their business in the great hall. “Immediately.”

“Brother Torquil and Seneschal Amos accompanied Marshal Findlay to Oban.”

Excellent. The fewer people he had to convince, the better. “Fetch me the constable and the seneschal’s clerk, then.”

The trick to a good ruse was to mix as many truths with the lies as possible. Feldrinny was indeed an estate belonging to the monks at Cambuskenneth. He knew that because his father had once been the marshal to Laird MacLean, who held the land bordering Cambuskenneth to the northwest. Of course, his information was twenty years old, dating back to the years before his da stole from the laird and was banished in disgrace. But surely things had not changed much in that time?

“I understand Marshal Finlay’s seneschal and the priest traveled with him to Oban,” Bran said to Dougal, the constable, when he appeared. A big, brawny man with long red hair and a wiry beard.

“Aye.” The constable’s tight, distrustful face eased with Bran’s command of the facts.

“Did they leave you with the keys?”

“Aye.”

“And what of the supplies? Do we have good measure of the foodstuffs on hand? Can we provide for the queen in the manner she deserves?”

Dougal shook his head. “We’ve no venison, and birds we have on hook will not last long with forty additional mouths to feed.”

“Organize a hunt, then,” Bran said. “And have our cook speak with the queen’s cook about Her Grace’s preferences.”

“Marshal Gordon?”

Bran looked up. A young lad had come in through the big front door, his hair disheveled and smudges of dung upon his lèine. “What is it?”