What a Lass Wants (11 page)

Whistling softly, he called his horse.

The great beast pricked his ears, but did not stop eating. Having saved Bran’s life, it certainly deserved a fine meal, so Bran slowly crossed the field to the horse, his feet squishing in the wet boots. As he neared, the stallion lifted its head and looked at him, its eyes
bulging slightly. It seemed to be considering a quick jump sideways or a flee into the brush, so Bran halted and spoke gently to it.

“There’s a good lad,” he said. “You’re a fine swimmer, you are. Saved us both, and I’m grateful. But now we must be away back to the manor.”

The horse settled, and Bran was able to approach and reposition the saddle.

When the trappings were once again snug and well fitting, he leapt upon the horse’s back and headed upstream. It took him well past midday to circle the huge slate crag and make his way to the spot where he’d left Robbie. As his mount picked its way over the rocks, Bran scanned the outcrop for any sign of Giric and his men, but all was quiet.

Slate was a common roofing material, valued for its hardiness and its ability to resist fire. The manor at Clackmannan had a fine roof fashioned from dull gray slate, but this stone was blue-green in color, quite vividly so down by the water’s edge. Several of the finer houses in Edinburgh had slate roofs with distinct colors, some from as far away as Ballachulish, but he’d never seen a roof quite this shade.

Bran ducked under the low branch of an elm tree and came upon Robbie lounging against a moss-covered fallen log. The lad did not look surprised to see him.

He leapt to his feet and dusted off his arse. “Did you spy them?”

“Nay,” Bran said. “They’re well and truly gone.”

Robbie nodded. “Whilst you were abroad, I searched
the shore high and low in both directions and found nary a flash nor an overturned stone. ’Tis like the washerwoman made off with them.”

The washerwoman was one of the fairy folk—a hag typically found knee deep in a burn, washing blood from the grave clothes of men about to die. Bran gave no credence to such tales, but neither did he have an explanation for Giric’s disappearance. So he simply shrugged.

“Mount your horse,” he said. “Let’s away to the manor.”

It was a long journey over rolling braes, through trees clinging to the last of their fall leaves, and across windswept moors. Holding the reins loosely in his battered hands, Bran used his knees to guide the horse. He was seriously considering stealing the valiant beast—a braver, more well-trained steed would be difficult to find—when they topped the ridge overlooking the manor. It was obvious in an instant that the manor was still on high alert. Dougal’s men had surrounded the village, and Bran and Robbie were met by armed soldiers long before they reached the manor walls.

Dougal himself rode out to greet them.

“Are all inside safe?” Bran asked.

The constable nodded. “There’s been no attack on the manor.”

A relief, to be sure, although he’d been reasonably certain that all of the English soldiers had departed together. When they had examined the deserted camp, Robbie had found no hoofprints leading toward the manor.

“We chased them north to the boundary marker,” Bran said, “before we lost them.”

Dougal grimaced. “Wretched bastards. They should meet the point of my blade for what they did to my men.”

The two guards had been decapitated, castrated, and then strung up feetfirst in the trees—a brutal and insulting message. Neither of the men’s missing parts had been found.

“If they return,” Bran promised, “you’ll get your chance.”

The heavy wooden gate swung open and they entered the close. Bran scanned the faces of those gathered in the courtyard, hoping to spy Caitrina’s dark hair and delicate features. But there was no sign of her. He dismounted and handed off his horse to one of the stable lads. “Have you made an accounting to the queen?”

The constable shook his head. “Her Grace has taken ill.”

“Let us not share the details,” Bran said. “No need to worry the queen needlessly. It’s possible we’ve seen the last of those Sassenach scum.” Unlikely, given that Giric’s interest lay in Caitrina and the queen, but possible. “But keep the watch on the wall until we’re certain.”

Dougal nodded. “You should have one of the ladies see to those hands, Marshal.”

The constable’s face was bland, but Bran had a sense that the man knew exactly which lady would be willing to offer her services.

“Indeed.”

With a sharp nod to the constable, he climbed the stairs and entered the great hall. Supper was still hours away and the room was largely empty. Two of the queen’s ladies were seated before the hearth, working on their embroidery and chatting in hushed tones. Neither was the lady that he sought, but a cask of ale stood on the table behind them and his throat was parched, so he crossed the wooden planking in their direction.

“Marshal Gordon?”

He halted and turned. At the bottom of the stairs, looking slightly disheveled but sweeter than a ripe pear, was Caitrina. The look in her eyes was heartbreaking—a mix of deep fear and faint hope. She clearly knew her sister was gone. It took every ounce of his willpower to remain exactly where he was. The urge to run to her and gather her in his arms was so intense, his arms trembled. “My lady?”

She walked hesitantly toward him, almost as if she expected the worst.

“Have you any news?”

“Nay,” he said. “The Englishmen have escaped.” He didn’t add,
I failed you
, but those words hung in the air between them. He had underestimated Giric, just as she’d urged him not to, and Marsailli’s loss lay squarely on his shoulders.

Her gaze met his. “I heard that bodies were found.”

“The two guards. No women.”

“You’re certain?”

“Aye.” She had stopped far enough away that even a surreptitious brush against her hand was impossible. “They decamped swiftly, leaving most of their
belongings behind. We had the opportunity to do a thorough search.”

“Then we must hope for the best.” She turned to walk away.

Unable to help himself, Bran reached for her arm. “My lady—”

She halted, her gaze dropping to his hand. “By the saints, Marshal. Those wounds are most unpleasant. What befell you?”

“Nothing more than would befall any nobleman who forgot his gloves,” he said dryly.

She guided him to a chair before the hearth and encouraged him to sit. “Well, whatever the cause, they are in need of bandages.”

Bandages? Was she mad? “Absolutely not,” he said, with a scowl. Every gillie in the hall would think him a faintheart.

“Fine,” she said. “No bandages. But we cannot allow those wounds to fester. Give me a moment and I’ll return with some salve.”

He would have refused, save for one thing—allowing Caitrina to care for his hands would give him a legitimate reason to bide awhile in her company. “I’ll wait,” he agreed. “But be quick about it. I’ve tasks that I must see to.”

She smiled and darted for the stairs.

Bran stretched out his legs, aiming his still-damp boots toward the fire. By god, how did noblemen survive long hours on their arses? He was bored already and Caitrina had only just disappeared up the stairwell. The life of a gentleman was definitely not for him. He glanced at the two ladies quietly plying their
needles. At this time of day in Edinburgh, he’d be fleecing wealthy men and women headed home from the market.

He frowned.

He’d been gone far longer than he had intended. Ularaig would be taking advantage of his absence, making life miserable for the citizens of Lowertown. The filthy wretch had almost every castle guard in his pocket and had begun to demand a portion of all coin earned by nefarious means. Any who refused were threatened with the full weight of the law.

“Well,” said Caitrina, sliding onto the chair next to him. “Let’s have a look at those hands.”

She took one of his big hands in hers and laid it palm up on her knees. Using the knife at her girdle, she pried off the thin layer of wax that covered her jar of unguent. Then she slathered the foul-looking stuff all over the deep chafes on his hand. A ridiculous bit of nursing, to his mind, but he would never tell her so. Her tender ministrations were more of a balm to his soul than to his flesh.

As she switched her attentions to his other hand, he said softly, “I will find her and bring her back. I swear it.”

She lifted her gaze and smiled sadly. “There isn’t time.”

“We’ve no cause to believe Giric has slain her,” he said, praying he was right. “And Dougal has assured me that Marshal Finlay is unlikely to return before Samhain.”

“That may be so,” she said, as she packed up her pot and wiped her hands on a square of clean linen. “But
this place will soon welcome the four Guardians of Scotland. Messengers left this morning, at the behest of the bishop of Saint Andrews. It is their duty to be present at the birth of the new king.”

Bran sat back in his chair.

William Fraser was himself a Guardian, as was Robert Wishart, the bishop of Glasgow. Religious men he could sway. They concerned themselves more with god than with the law. Earl Buchan and the high steward? They would not be easily fooled by his charade.

“James Stewart resides in Edinburgh,” he said. “He can journey here in less than two days.”

She nodded. “You should leave now, while your identity is still unquestioned.”

The large manor door swung open and a soldier ran into the great hall, his boots heavy on the planking. “Marshal Gordon! The constable requests your immediate presence on the wall!”

Bran shot to his feet. “What is it?”

The lad simply shook his head and ran back the way he came.

Bran grabbed Caitrina’s arm. “Gather the other ladies and withdraw to the queen’s chamber. Open the door to none but I.” When she hesitated, he looked her in the eye and urged, “Go. Quickly now.”

Only when he was certain she was in action did he march out the door.

*   *   *

There was no need for Caitrina to prod the other two ladies from their chairs—both women had taken note of the panicked guard and were bundling up their
embroidery. As she hastened to their side, they turned to her with worried frowns.

“Is the manor under attack?” Etienne asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But the marshal is a very capable man. He and the queen’s guard shall see to our safety.
Allons
. Let us not make his task any more challenging.”

The plump woman put a shaky hand to her throat. “No matter how capable the soldiers, we are
sans défense
in such a
manoir piteux
. Why did Her Grace not return us to Stirling Castle?”

A rather pointless question, at this stage.

They scurried up the stairs to the third floor. The queen’s guard ushered them into her chamber and then barricaded the door with two heavy chests stacked one atop the other. The physician and the midwife were seated beside the bed—everyone else stood at the narrow arrow loops overlooking the close. A low rumble not unlike a cart bumping along a rutted path vibrated through the air. Other than that, the close was somber and silent.

Although curiosity nearly got the best of her, Caitrina ignored the crowd hovering at the windows and crossed to the bed. Yolande was awake, but pale and weak. The fever had abated during the night, and although her cough lingered, she breathed easier. She smiled halfheartedly as Caitrina approached.

“We are experiencing some excitement,
non
?”

“Not the sort of excitement we typically enjoy,” she responded dryly.

The rumbling abruptly ceased, and for a moment
there was only silence. Then a quiet male voice ordered, “Open the gate.”

Caitrina couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Bran. Why he would choose to open the gate in the face of danger, she had no clue. But she had faith in his decisions. The risk must be minimal.

“Fetch me a cup of wine,
ma chère
,” the queen requested, pointing to the decanter at her bedside.

Caitrina poured a small amount of red wine into Yolande’s silver cup and then lifted her head to help her take a sip. As the queen lay back against the pillows, the cart rumbled again, louder this time and accompanied by the creaks and groans of an empty wooden wagon.

A few moments later, it stopped, and one of the ladies at the window gasped in shock. Another sank to her knees, genuflected, and began to mutter a prayer.

“Mon dieu,”
said a third, turning from the window.
“C’est barbare!”

Caitrina’s throat closed tight and a wave of dizziness washed over her. What was so terrible that it shocked women who’d seen almost everything?

Yolande grabbed her hand, squeezing it. “A queen cannot shy from that which offends others. Be my eyes and ears—go look for me. Tell me what barbaric display has appeared in our courtyard.”

Caitrina swallowed the lump in her throat. The
women were not weeping; they were flinching with disgust. Surely that meant the cart in the close had nothing to do with Marsailli? She nodded to the queen, then crossed to the window, knock-kneed but determined.

The group around the window parted to let her pass.

Taking a deep breath, she peered through the cross-shaped hole in the thick stone wall.

The ox-drawn cart stood in the center of a group of soldiers. Three wooden hay forks had been planted in the flatbed of the cart, two of them acting as poles for the severed heads of the two murdered guards. But the heads were not simply staked—the eyes had been gouged out, the skin flayed, and the mouths stuffed with what could only be the guards’ genitals.

Caitrina’s mouth soured.

The third fork carried a message meant only for
her
. It was a torn white sark, rent right down the middle and emblazoned with a dark red-brown bloodstain. Bile rose in her throat. It was Marsailli’s sark. The blood was Marsailli’s blood. Another wave of dizziness struck Caitrina and her knees gave out. With a low keen of despair, she slid to the floor.

Her worst nightmare had come true.

Giric had raped her wee sister and was proudly displaying the evidence.