by Rowan Keats
“So says the man who makes his living as a thief.”
He nodded. “Aye, to the casual eye it may appear that he and I are of like mind. But we are not. His only motive was greed. Mine is . . . a story for another day. Today, our priority must be your sister. Tell me what Giric wants, Caitrina.”
She turned away, shoulders bowed, arms wrapped around her waist.
“What does it matter what he wants?”
Mostly, it was a matter of trust. Bran needed to be able to trust Caitrina, and as long as she was lying to him, he couldn’t. But there was a practical reason as well. “To thwart him, I must understand how far he will go to get what he desires.”
She slowly spun to face him. “If I tell you, you will despise me.”
“Nothing you say can make me despise you,” he said softly. “My belief in your good nature is unshakable.”
A short, bitter laugh escaped her lips. “You are doomed to be disappointed, I fear.”
He watched the war of indecision play out upon her face—in the worry of her teeth on her bottom lip and in the lines that came and went upon her brow. Truth or lie, it did not matter. He would help her, whatever she said. He owed her that much. But he still prayed for the truth.
She heaved a sigh and he held his breath.
“He means to steal the queen’s babe.”
Bran almost swallowed his tongue. Satan’s ballocks. Perhaps it was his personal leaning toward coin and gems, but he had assumed Giric’s interest would lie in the queen’s bounty of copious jewels, not in the politics of the Scottish crown. “Are you certain?”
“Aye.” Her gaze met his. “It is my task to snatch the child.”
In her role of lady-in-waiting, Caitrina would certainly have opportunity, but it would not be easy to steal a royal bairn. “So, it is King Edward’s intent to confine the lad as he has confined Gwenllian of Wales?”
Caitrina grimaced. “I know not what his intent is. Save for one brief audience several months ago, I’ve not had words with Longshanks.”
“Raising the Scottish monarch under an English roof would certainly serve him well. A lad who looks to him like a father will be quick to swear fealty.”
“Well,” she said, her cheeks flushing. “If he succeeds, it will not be on me. I will not betray my queen.”
Bran brushed a thumb over the ruddy crest of her cheek. “As long as he holds Marsailli, your will is not your own. Giric knows full well that if it comes to a choice between your sister and the queen’s babe, you will choose your sister.”
She wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t.
“I do not fault you that choice,” he said. “In your shoes, I would make the same decision.”
She grabbed his hand with both of hers. “Now you see why I forced you to aid me. If I can free Marsailli, Giric will have no hold over me. He will fail.”
It was true. The key to everything was finding and freeing Marsailli. “Dougal is searching for her as we speak,” he told her. Not precisely true; Dougal’s men were looking for Giric. But if they found the murderous Englishman, they would also find Marsailli.
She frowned. “Did you not say they had eluded you?”
“Aye,” he said. She released his hand and he immediately missed her touch. “We lost them near the northern border, but they clearly circled back. The oxcart belongs to a nearby tenant.”
A sad smile flitted across her face. “I’m sure Dougal will do a fine job, but you will be sorely missed.”
Ah, yes. His imminent departure. He’d almost forgotten about that. The Guardians of Scotland would soon be descending upon Clackmannan, and it would behoove him to be gone when they got here. But the moment that bloodstained gown had fluttered into view, leaving the manor had ceased to be an option. A young lass had suffered because of him. If he turned his back on her now, it would be like abandoning his brother all over again.
He couldn’t do that.
Not even to save his own skin.
Nor could he abandon Caitrina and the queen, not while wicked plans were afoot. The future of his country would be decided here, in this very manor, within the next month. And only he and Caitrina knew the full extent of the danger. No one else had a hope of mounting a defense against Giric—it would have to be him.
“I’m not leaving,” he said.
Her eyes opened wide. “But the risks of remaining—”
“—can be minimized,” he said. “If I acquire forged credentials.”
“Can you do such a thing?”
The scandalized note in her voice amused him. He smiled. “With enough coin, sweetling, you can do anything.”
But it wouldn’t be easy. The timing would be the greatest challenge. The only man he knew who could forge documents well enough to hoodwink the high steward lived in Edinburgh—a day and a half’s ride from Clackmannan. And the lad would need time to craft them. Even if all went smoothly, Bran could not acquire papers in anything less than five days.
He just had to hope that James Stewart was not in a hurry to answer the queen’s summons.
* * *
Magda handed Marsailli a fresh pad of linen and moss. “Place the bloodied one in the bucket,” she said. “I’ll burn it in the fire later.”
“I’m grateful for your assistance,” Marsailli said to the midwife, blushing. “Before you arrived, dealing with my menses was a mortifying experience. Men have no knowledge of such things, and during my last monthly time the soldiers treated me as they would a leper.”
The older woman shrugged. “They believe what the priests tell them—that a woman’s flux is a punishment for her sins. That it is somehow wretched and filthy. But we know better. It is merely the body’s way of preparing you for motherhood.”
Marsailli adjusted her dress and then pushed aside the curtain to join Magda in the larger part of their tent. “Is it not a punishment? The nuns at the priory said Eve did not bleed before she was cast from the garden.”
The midwife grunted. “Believe what you will. I follow the old ways, not the new.”
“Are not midwives granted license by the village priests?”
Magda laughed, a deep, hearty chuckle. “Do you think our captor cares whether a priest has blessed my skills or not? Nay. All he bothered to verify was my ability to keep a newborn babe alive.”
The midwife snatched up the bucket and left the tent.
Marsailli studied the fluttering tent flap with longing. As autumn advanced, the days grew crisp and short, and the opportunities to enjoy fine weather were limited. Sir Giric refused to look upon her face while her monthly blood flowed, and he would not allow her to step outside. Indeed, he blamed her for the need to pack up and pitch this one small tent—all the others had been abandoned. With a grimace, she picked up her sewing and sat on a stool before the small brazier that kept the chill at bay. The hems and cuffs of her dresses were wearing thin and required constant mending. Best she keep herself busy until her time was ended.
She sighed heavily.
She missed Caitrina. After their mother had passed, they’d become closer than most sisters, sharing every thought, every laugh, every fear. It was Caitrina who had taught her a proper running stitch and how to use embroidery to strengthen a fraying edge. Marsailli studied her mending efforts with a frown. She hoped her sister was having an easier time than she.
Giric was a cruel man, and one day he would make good on the villainous threats he heaped upon her. He would either rape her or kill her, of that she was certain.
What had Caitrina been thinking to send her off with King Edward and his brutish henchman? She must have known it would be Giric who would be tasked with returning her to Scotland. How could she imagine Marsailli would be safe in his care? Had she believed, as Marsailli once had, that his disfigured face was deserving of sympathy rather than fear? If so, she’d been a fool. He was every
bit as wicked as his scar suggested. Sometimes—late at night, as she cried herself to sleep—she hated her sister for that lapse in judgment.
But not right now.
Right now, she just wanted to feel the warmth of her sister’s arms around her.
Marsailli tossed aside her sewing and leapt to her feet. A braver girl would have long since made her escape, stealing a horse and dashing over the moors in the direction of Atholl. She had been happy there, for a time. But she had never been anywhere alone, and the very thought of striking out in a vague direction without a companion made her stomach heave. She could imagine what horrors would befall her.
She pushed back the sleeve of her linen sark and stared at the bruises on her arm.
Of course, the risks in remaining were high.
She closed her eyes and let the sleeve slip back into place. As evil as Giric might be, he was still the safer option. Here, she had food and clothes and fire. Here, she had the promise of seeing Caitrina and feeling her sister’s arms wrapped around her once more. The road to Atholl held only danger.
Still, she could not ignore the warning signs.
Over the past month, Giric had completely transformed. When he had first retrieved her from the priory, he had been quite pleasant and polite. But as time passed and the inconveniences of living in a tent wore on him, all efforts to appear charming ceased. Now he was vile and vituperative. All too quick to raise his voice and his fist. She needed some form of protection, some method of staving off the inevitable. But what? She wasn’t strong enough to wield a sword, and the dull eating knife at her belt would barely pierce his thick skin.
Marsailli cast about for a possible weapon.
It had to be small enough to be easily hidden, yet sturdy enough to inflict damage. Her sewing needles failed that test—even if she jabbed them in his eyes, they were unlikely to save her from a punishing blow.
She slowly spun around, mentally itemizing the goods stored within the tent. Several chests full of clothes, three small stools, and a stack of folded blankets. Nothing useful. Her gaze lit upon the wooden crucifix hanging from the tent pole near the exit. Except perhaps that.
She lifted the cross and examined it.
The rood was carved from a single solid piece of oak wood, and if the long end was whittled into a sharp point, it would make a formidable weapon. She mimicked the act of stabbing and grimaced. It would be effective only for someone with a stronger arm than hers. Jabbing such a thick object into Giric would take a great deal of force, more force than she could hope to muster. With a sigh, she hung it back on the pole.
She needed something long and thin, preferably steel.
A blade of some sort.
But Giric was careful—he did not allow her near the weapons or the horses. All she could hope was to spy something useful once she was free to roam the camp once more, something he wouldn’t immediately think of as a weapon. In the meantime, she would prepare as best she could. She retrieved the discarded bundle of her sewing, separated the needles, and tucked them into her purse. Anything was better than nothing.
Peering through the narrow gap in the tenting, she studied the soldiers milling about in the camp. What she needed now was opportunity . . . and a wee bit of luck.
* * *
Caitrina favored Bran with a heavy frown. “You need what?”
“Gowns,” he said. “Two of them. Large ones.” He used his hands to suggest hips of sizable girth. “And a pair of those white headdresses the ladies wear.”
“Brèids?”
He nodded.
What a curious a request. Caitrina struggled to find some reason that he might require ladies’ attire and failed. “What purpose will these items serve?”
He tossed her a bold grin. “I have a rather unusual plan to rout our malefactor.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I think an explanation is due.”
“Dougal’s men had no better luck tracking Giric than I. He’s hiding somewhere in the northern forest, but we have yet to determine where.”
Disappointing news, to be sure, but not unexpected.
“To capture him,” he said, “we’ll need to draw him out in a purposeful manner. To a place and time of our choosing, not his.”
She nodded.
“I can think of only one way to do that: offering him an opportunity to press his cause with you. His success is entirely dependent upon your support. If you do not steal the bairn, he will return to King Edward empty-handed.”
While she agreed with his assessment, the thought of meeting Giric again face-to-face was troubling. And she still did not understand the need for the gowns. “Aye,” she said slowly.
He smiled. “Obviously, I cannot give him any opportunity to injure you. It is my intent to disguise one of Dougal’s men as a woman.”
Caitrina choked out a laugh. “A man dressed as me? That will never work. Giric knows my face.”
“It need only work from a distance. By the time Giric is close enough to Dougal’s man to realize he has been duped, the game will be up. We will have him surrounded.”
“How will you explain your plan to Dougal? Will he not wonder why the English would be interested in a message from me?”
“I’ve already enrolled Dougal in the plan,” Bran said. “Initially, he rejected the charade and protested the use of a white flag to entrap the Sassenachs. Very unchivalrous, he said. But he is so enraged over Giric’s desecration of his men that I was able to convince him to set aside the niceties. I’ve told him the note is a sham, a mock missive from the queen.”
Still not convinced, she stared down at the map Bran had spread out on the table. “And where were you planning this auspicious meet to occur?”
He pointed to a small X that marked the location of a farm just north of the manor. “Here,” he said. “This is the bothy from which he stole the oxcart. He is clearly familiar with the area, so we shall plant a white flag of parlay in the roof and leave a note written in your hand requesting a rendezvous.”
“He will not come unprotected.”
“And neither shall we.” His gaze met hers, warm and intimate. “Can you find me the gowns?”
“I’m sure I can,” she said. Wishing they were anywhere but in the busy great hall, where a bevy of soldiers and gillies played witness to their every move, she brushed her hand lightly over the top of his. He had quite elegant hands, for a man. Large and masculine, but with lean fingers. “But I fear that he will see through your efforts.”
“It’s a possibility,” he allowed, lifting his smallest finger and grazing it along the trailing edge of her hand. A shiver of sweet longing ran down Caitrina’s spine. “But the risks are low. If he suspects a trap, he will not come, and we will be forced to devise another plan.” He shrugged. “So be it.”
She lifted her hand to her lips and kissed the spot that he had touched. “Your request was for two gowns, not one. What is the other for?”
Bran’s gaze was locked on her hand and her lips. “Me.”
“You?” Her eyebrows soared.
“I’m no more eager to endanger the couple who farm the bothy than I am to endanger you, my lady. They, too, will be replaced by fighting men. Namely, myself and one other fellow.”
Unable to help herself, Caitrina grinned. “That will be quite the sight. Will I have the opportunity to assess the strength of your disguise before you head for the bothy?”
“If you wish,” he said, giving her a smile and a short bow. “Have the gowns delivered to my chamber within the hour and I’ll see to it that you get your opportunity for amusement.”
He rolled up the map and strode across the room toward the stairs.
Everything about him bespoke blatant masculinity—the breadth of his shoulders, the heaviness of his thighs, the span of his step. Imagining him draped in a gown, attempting to appear a lady, made
Caitrina laugh. He hadn’t a prayer of pulling off such a disguise. Even if the crofter’s wife was a sturdy lass, she couldn’t be more than half his size. Despite her concerns for her Marsailli, she found herself chuckling at the lengths to which he was willing to go in order to secure her sister’s safety.
She would find the gowns.
And let out the seams as required.
* * *
Bran was standing next to Dougal in the close when Caitrina descended the narrow steps from the great hall. He tightened his brat about his shoulders and bent his head as if to study the muddy ground beneath his boots.
She strode up to them and addressed Dougal. “Have you seen the marshal, sir?”
The constable wasn’t much for playing games, and he quickly stepped to one side and pointed at Bran. “The fool is right here.”
Bran lifted his head and stared into Caitrina’s lovely brown eyes, which widened as she recognized him. A fine reward for the effort he had put into donning his disguise. He smiled. “Elsie Drummond, at your service, my lady.”
Caitrina shook her head. “I’d never have thought it possible, Marshal Gordon, but you look quite feminine. Were it not for the dark shadow of beard on your chin, you could pass for a lady.”
“A little thick around the middle for my taste,” said Dougal, with a snort.
She laughed, a sweet burble of joy that echoed through the close and drew the attention of almost every man. “Aye, but surprisingly bonnie, wouldn’t you say?”
“Make sport, if you wish,” Bran said. “I’m man enough to endure it.”
She acknowledged the truth of his words with a smile. “And what of my replacement? Where is he?”
Bran glanced around. “Yet to appear, it would seem. No doubt a tad reticent to subject himself to ridicule. But he has more time to prepare than I—we must search the farm and find suitable hiding spots for Dougal’s men before planting the white flag.”
“We may have to remain in place for some time before the Sassenachs appear,” Dougal reminded him.
“Aye,” Bran agreed. “’Twill be hardest on your men. You and I will be free to move about.”