What a Lass Wants

by Rowan Keats

  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 wom
an 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.

  Chapter 7

  Bran glanced up at the narrow window slits on the third floor. He could only hope that Caitrina wouldn’t recognize the significance of the torn kirtle. But given the age-old tradition of hanging the bridal sheets after a wedding night, that was a slim hope.

  “Depole the men’s heads and bury them with the bodies,” he ordered crisply. “They deserve an honorable burial.”

  Dougal met his gaze, hard and meaningful. “What of the gown?”

  “Burn it.”

  The constable directed his soldiers and then returned to Bran’s side. “The men are angry. They know the Sassenachs are out there somewhere, taunting us.”

  Bran eyed the flushed cheeks and clenched fists of the men around him, and he nodded. “Their anger is justified. Gather a troop of your bravest men and mount them on your fastest horses. Let us run these scurrilous rats to ground.”

  Dougal smiled thinly and turned to make good on the request.

  “But, Dougal,” Bran said, halting him in midstride, “take care. These men are black-hearted knaves, and we cannot afford to bury any more men.”

  The constable nodded. “Aye.”

  With leaden feet, Bran mounted the steps and reentered the manor. Caitrina was due an explanation, but he was not looking forward to the conversation. How could he comfort her when his assurances had thus far proved false at every turn? He had not kept Marsailli safe. He had not even kept her close. Now her sister was in mortal danger and the culprit responsible was waving gruesome banners under their noses. Any vows Bran made would be meaningless.

  He rapped his knuckles upon the door to the queen’s chamber.

  “Who goes there?” her guard demanded.

  “Marshal Gordon,” he responded. He slid his ring under the door as proof of his identity. “All is safe, for now. You may move about freely.”

  From within, he heard the scrape of moving furniture, and then the door unlatched. Two stern-faced guards wielding sharp halberds greeted him when the door swung open. “He is alone,” one of them confirmed.

  “That is indeed the marshal,” Caitrina confirmed, stepping into view.

  He eyed her carefully. Pale face, dark eyes. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, the knuckles white, and a small piece of rush from the floor was entwined in her hair. He did not need to ask her if all was well; the answer was obvious. Giric’s message had been delivered straight to her heart.

  “A word, if I may,” he beseeched her quietly.

  She nodded to the guards, who lifted their halberds and let her through.

  They walked to the end of the corridor and Bran waved her onto a small wooden bench under a window. This close, the damage was even more clear. There were streaks of salty residue on her cheeks and the faint beginnings of a bruise on her chin. His fault, all of it. He’d fallen into the worst trap of all: getting too comfortable in his stolen clothes. He’d begun to believe he was actually a marshal, a chivalrous knight capable of defending innocent young lasses. But he was not. He was a charlatan. Still, he was a man of his word, and he clearly owed Caitrina his best efforts to right this wrong.

  Although his arms itched to gather her to his chest, he did not touch her; he dared not breach the stiff wall of resolve she had erected around herself. It looked too fragile to withstand a kindness, and given the words he was about to speak, she would not thank him for the gesture.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “that there is more to this tale than you have yet shared.”

  She stared at him, bleak and unspeaking.

  There was no censure in her eyes, but he felt it anyway.

  Although it pained him greatly, he continued, “You told me that Giric was only interested in information. That he was simply spying upon the queen and reporting back to his liege lord. As late as this morning, when I entered his camp and saw that he had fled, I believed your tale to be true. It made sense that a spy would flee the instant our suspicions were pricked.”

  Caitrina sat perfectly still. Waiting.

  “But the wagon in the close tells a different story. It’s quite obviously a warning. A threat.”

  What little color there was in her cheeks drained away.

  “He wants something from you,” he said. “And I must know what it is.”

&n
bsp; Caitrina glanced away. Her clasped hands parted and she smoothed her palms over her azure skirts, the movement a little shaky. “You say that as if I could know what horrible thoughts a monster such as Giric would contemplate. I do not.”

  If there was one thing that Bran knew well, it was a lie. And Caitrina was lying.

  “He has asked you to perform some reprehensible deed,” he guessed matter-of-factly. “And he has threatened to slay Marsailli if you do not bow to his will.”

  She leapt to her feet, bristling with indignation. “Why would you think such a thing? Only a traitorous wretch would give in to such demands.”

  “Or a person willing to risk all for someone they love.”

  “I am not a traitor.”

  “Did I call you that?” He shook his head. “You are simply trying to save your sister.”

  “It does not matter what you think,” she said hotly. She pointed down the hall at the closed doors of the queen’s chamber. “It matters what they think.”

  Bran sighed. “Traitor, thief, liar—they’re all just words. Labels do not define us; our actions do. Tell me what Giric has demanded of you.”

  “Gah!” She threw up her hands. “You’ve no understanding at all. They are not just words. My father was named a traitor, and it destroyed our family. His intentions were honorable; he was avenging the murders of his father and brother, but in the end that mattered naught. We were stripped of our title, cast from our lands, and forever shamed by that word: traitor.”

  He folded his arms over his chest. “You think you are the only one with a sorry past? My father loosed his bowels upon the gibbet, strung up by his neck for thievery. I know full well the power of such accusations. But his actions do not define my own.”