by Rowan Keats
“Did you not say the English were hiding to the north?”
Bran nodded. “But the trees to the west allow a closer approach. It’s wise to keep a watch in all directions.”
“The fall harvest is only recently completed, and an inventory of the stores suggests we can survive a lengthy siege.”
Bran glanced at him. “As long as the wall remains unbreached.”
“We have the advantage,” Dougal insisted.
“We also have a village to protect.”
The older man sighed. “The queen must be our priority, if there is an attack.”
“You doubt Giric’s intent?” Bran asked. “Even after witnessing the atrocities enacted against your guards, without provocation?”
“The steward is right,” Dougal said. “He is a simple brigand.”
“No simple brigand would gather troops.”
Dougal shook his head, his red beard swaying. “I think you see fire where there is only smoke. Any large-scale attack by the English would be seen as an act of war. King Edward has long been an ally of the Scots. Why would he suddenly seek to sour relations with his neighbor to the north?”
“King Edward once hoped that his nephew would sit upon the Scottish throne,” Bran reminded him dryly. “But his sister and all of her issue are dead. The new Scottish monarch will either be half French or half Norse. Edward’s influence will be limited. That’s reason enough for him to take a hand.”
Dougal was silent.
Bran was no royal courtier gifted with inside knowledge of Scottish politics, but he had spent many an hour in an Edinburgh tap house debating the actions of those who were his betters. “The Welsh were independent once, too. When the Prince of Wales refused to swear his allegiance, King Edward rode in with his armies and conquered him. He has imprisoned all claimants to the Welsh throne. Why do you believe he would treat Scotland any differently?”
“The Welsh were rebellious heathens,” Dougal scoffed. “Their prince was never truly recognized by the English monarchy.”
Bran snorted. “Those are Stewart’s words.”
“The man was an adviser to King Alexander. Why would we not have faith in his knowledge of King Edward?”
“I’ve never met King Edward,” Bran acknowledged. “But I’ve met my fill of greedy men, and I can tell you this—they don’t cease until they own it all.”
“How can you be certain this band of English brigands is under orders from Edward?”
“I can’t.” Not openly. “But he’s shown remarkable dedication for a simple bandit. In my experience, a man in search of easy coin preys on the weakest target. Waylaying a lone merchant, perchance, or robbing a farmer as he returns from the market. He does not attack soldiers.”
Dougal tossed him a wry smile. “Perhaps he’s learned his lesson.”
Movement in the trees sharpened Bran’s gaze. An eagle-eyed watchman on the wall trumpeted the alarm an instant later as a long line of men on horseback broke from the trees, each carrying a distinctive black targe. At least two dozen men were visible, and he glimpsed more in the shadowy wood behind them.
Dougal stiffened. “Those look like Scots.”
Three large men rode at the center of the line—all broad shouldered, brown haired, and grim faced. Bran recognized them immediately. Niall, Aiden, and Wulf MacCurran. He drew in a deep breath and slowly released it.
“They are,” he told Dougal.
Then he spun on his heel and descended the steps to the close. The time had clearly come to pay the piper.
Chapter 11
When the trumpet sounded, Caitrina ran to the window. Upon confirming that all eyes were facing westward, she begged her leave of the queen and scurried downstairs. The arrival could be another Guardian, but most likely it was the MacCurrans.
They would assuredly demand a meeting with her, and Bran would need to remain out of sight while they collected the crown. Unfortunately, she had yet to enroll him in her plan. She stood on the steps and scanned the faces in the close. Explaining her decision would be a challenge—one that would likely bring an abrupt end to their affair. But if she hoped to save his life, it was a conversation that must be had.
She halted a passing soldier. “Where is Marshal Gordon?”
He pointed to the stables.
Caitrina dried her damp palms on her woolen skirts, straightened her shoulders, and crossed the close to the open arch of the stables. Postponing the discussion would not make it any easier to endure.
Bran was cinching the saddle on his big gray stallion, head bent to the task, his dark blond hair hiding his face.
“What are you doing?” she asked him quietly.
He looked up. His gaze softened as he absorbed the expression on her face—no doubt her worry was evident in every crease and line. “What I must.”
“Nay,” she said. “They’ve come for the crown, not for you. Stay in the shadows until they’re gone and all will be well.”
A heavy frown settled on his brow. “You know it is the MacCurrans who approach?”
Guilt was a cold stone in her belly. “Aye. ’Twas I who sent for them.”
“You?”
She nodded, wringing her hands. “I could not continue to keep the crown, not once I knew its importance. My deepest apologies, but it rightfully belongs to the MacCurrans and I must see it returned.”
He took a step back. “You sent them a message? When?”
“Two days ago.”
Bran stared at her for a long moment. Then he suddenly turned and ordered the other soldiers and stable lads, “Out. All of you.”
His voice was cold and hard, quite unlike the Bran she knew so well. Her gaze traced the stiff lines of his shoulders and the angry cant of his head. He felt betrayed. Quite understandable.
She waited until they were alone, and then said softly, “I will tell them the thief is long gone. That he hid the crown in the stables and I found it. They need never know you are here.”
He spun slowly to face her. “You kept this from me.”
Caitrina swallowed tightly and nodded.
“Even as we made love.”
A point well taken. Intimacy at such a moment implied a certain level of trust—trust she had abused. “I did not know how to tell you. The crown is important to you. I know that.”
He shook his head. “You know nothing.”
“You need coin to buy the loyalty of the castle guards, not the crown. I can help with that.”
“That may be true,” he said quietly. “But the point is that you did not trust me with your concerns. You did not believe that a thief could be party to such a decision, and you sent a message in secret. That tells me far more about your true opinion than you likely intended.”
“Nay,” she disputed. “You judge my opinion unfairly. I do trust you. I swear it.”
“It hardly matters now, does it? What’s done is done.”
“The crown belongs to the MacCurrans.”
He nodded. “And it shall be returned to them. Fetch it, please.”
She frowned. Perhaps she hadn’t been clear. “You cannot be present when I hand it over. They will surely recognize you as the thief.”
“Fetch it,” he repeated.
Caitrina crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re being difficult. I made the arrangements, and I will be the one to relinquish the crown. You’ll remain inside. If you’ll not agree, then I’ll not fetch the crown.”
“You say that you trust me,” he said. “And yet your actions defy your words.”
His comment was a stab to her chest. It was true, at least in part. She wanted to trust him, but she was leery of what he would do if she gave him the crown. There was a chance he would take the crown and run, but she suspected the more likely scenario was that he would do the foolishly honorable thing and ta
ke the crown to the MacCurrans. So, nay, she did not trust him. Not to follow her plan to hand over the crown and lie about the thief.
But his words made her sound so cold and cruel. So unfaithful.
“All right,” she said. “I will get the crown.”
“Be quick,” he urged. “The MacCurrans are not known for their patience.”
She returned to her room and retrieved a wooden box from the bottom of her clothing chest. It was one of several boxes designed to hold satin shoes without crushing them. Inside the box was a velvet bag, and inside the bag lay the silver crown. She did not open it, or explain to the other ladies what she was retrieving. She simply scurried from the room and returned to the stables.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the velvet bag into Bran’s hands. “Now we shall see what my trust begets.”
Taking the crown, he tucked it into a leather satchel on his mount’s saddle. “Some say trust is a weakness.”
When he turned to face her, she retorted, “They say the same about love.”
He smiled. “Aye, so they do.”
Untying the stallion from the iron ring in his stall, Bran led the huge gray beast into the close. “I need you to understand that what I do now I do because my soul demands it. Wounding you in any way is not my aim.”
Caitrina swallowed a lump in her throat.
If he thought to reassure her, he failed. There was still a chance that he would run, and she prayed that would be his choice. Better to lose him to the dark shadows of the forest than to watch him struck down by the MacCurrans before her very eyes. But his next words proved that hope false.
“Mount up,” he ordered the six soldiers around him. “But leave your weapons sheathed. The MacCurrans are renowned for their battle prowess—let us not antagonize them.”
Within minutes, all were ahorse. The gates were opened and Bran led the way out of the manor. Not once, as he rode through the village and across the field, did he glance back at her. Shoulders straight, head high, he approached the band of fierce, dark warriors that awaited him.
* * *
Bran kept his gaze locked on the face of Aiden MacCurran, the clan chief. It was better to avoid a chance meeting of eyes with Wulf. He felt the stare of the largest MacCurran drill into him like a hot blade in his chest.
He and Wulf had never seen eye to eye, especially where Wulf’s lovely wife was concerned. Morag had befriended Bran several months earlier in Edinburgh, much to Wulf’s chagrin. And she had invited Bran to visit her at Dunstoras—an invitation that had led to the theft of the crown. Wulf would surely carve Bran’s heart out, given the chance.
Not that Bran intended to give him the chance.
He halted his men one hundred paces from the Black Warriors, instructed them to wait for him, and then rode the rest of the way alone. “I propose a bargain,” he said firmly to the clan chief.
“Give us what we came for and we’ll let your men live,” Aiden said. “That’s the only bargain we’re prepared to make.”
Although the crown was burning against his left thigh, Bran stared straight ahead. “Help me foil a plot against the queen and the prize is yours.”
Aiden’s eyes narrowed. “What game do you play now, MacLean?”
“No game. The queen is truly in jeopardy. The English are plotting an attack on Clackmannan as we speak.” He opened the satchel, drew out the velvet bag, and offered it to Aiden. “You can leave now with the crown.” Bran met the chief’s gaze firmly and honestly. “But if you do, there is a good chance that the queen and her bairn will live the rest of their days as prisoners of King Edward.”
Aiden took the bag, peered inside, and then handed it to his brother Niall. “You are a liar and a thief. No matter how intriguing your tale, I give it no credence.” He tugged on his reins and turned his horse northward. “One word to any soul about this crown or where you found it, and you’ll die a very painful death.”
“I may be a thief and a liar,” Bran said sharply, “but I also risked my life to save your kin.” He twisted in his saddle and faced Wulf squarely. “You might well have swung upon the gibbet were it not for me. When you ran afoul of King Alexander’s traitorous brother this past spring and were sentenced to hang, ’twas I who came up with the plan to save you. I who prepared the disguise for Morag and coached her to enter the castle undetected. Whether you choose to acknowledge it or no, ’twas my efforts that saw you freed from Edinburgh Castle. In return, I only ask that you protect the queen—the very same queen whose ring you wear about your neck.”
Wulf said nothing, just stared at him. Hard.
Aiden continued to ride away, his silent Highlander warriors following in his trail, and Bran grew desperate. “Were the Black Warriors not once the personal guard of Kenneth MacAlpin? Is it not in your blood to protect the kings of Scotland?”
At the name Kenneth MacAlpin, the warriors hammered their targes with their fists. But they did not stop.
“If you’ll not take me at my word,” Bran said crisply, “then see for yourself. Two leagues north of here lies a burn running through a slate crag. The English are gathering there, preparing their attack.”
Aiden halted. Without turning in his saddle, he asked, “What is your gain if we aid you, MacLean? What is your prize?”
An honest question. Bran had done very few things in his life that did not earn him a clear reward. He’d helped Morag and Wulf in Edinburgh in exchange for coin; he’d attended Aiden’s wedding with the intent of fleecing the man’s guests; he’d helped Caitrina in order to earn back the crown. The gain for his actions today? Nothing tangible. Love and pride and honor. Rewards no one who knew him well would believe. He smiled wryly. Except Caitrina. If he spouted such nonsense now, the MacCurrans would ride off and never look back.
But he needed them as allies.
With their help, he could defeat Giric.
“There is a gold cross in the Clackmannan chapel,” he said, “encrusted with jewels. If I stave off this attack, it’s as good as mine.”
Aiden turned and skewered him a thunderous glare. “You are truly a detestable knave.” He sighed. “But if there’s a chance your words are true, I cannot ignore them. Wulf will ride to the manor and request an audience with the queen. Niall and I shall assess the threat at the crag.”
“I’ll accompany you,” Bran said. “It’s not easy to find the English in the rocks.”
“Nay, I’ll take one of your men. You’ll remain with Wulf. He’s the only one I trust to resist your dubious charms.”
Although he would have preferred to accompany Aiden northward, Bran settled back in his saddle. He’d won their cooperation—a far better outcome than he had expected. As long as Wulf controlled his urge to separate Bran’s head from his shoulders, all would be well.
He signaled to Robbie.
As the young tracker trotted forward, Bran said to Aiden, “The English commander is a ruthless bastard who’ll not hesitate to sacrifice any and all to get what he wants. If you’re wise, you’ll let young Robbie here guide your way into the rocks.”
Aiden nodded. “So long as you know that if he leads us astray, you’ll pay the price, one strip of flesh at a time.”
Two thirds of the MacCurrans rode off with Robbie, leaving Bran with Wulf and, by a quick count, a dozen men. “They know me here as Marshal Gordon,” Bran said to the big warrior. “I’d be obliged if you would maintain that ruse.”
Wulf said nothing. He didn’t even acknowledge that Bran had spoken. He simply raised a big hand to signal his men and made for the manor at a determined trot.
Gritting his teeth at the insult, Bran gave chase. He would willingly pay for his crime after Giric was defeated. Right now, his men and the people of Clackmannan were best served by confident, steady leadership—and that did not include Wulf riding up to the gate ahead of him.
Wretch.
/> When he caught up to Wulf, he tossed the warrior a hard glance. “The archers on the wall await my signal,” he said. “Friend or foe, your fate rests in the turn of my hand.” Without waiting for Wulf’s response, he gave the signal for friend. The archers on the wall relaxed their stance, lowering their bows and taking a step back.
Wulf grunted.
“You are not the only honorable man in Scotland,” Bran reminded him. “The men of Clackmannan have sworn to keep the queen safe, at any cost. Do not belittle their efforts.”
The warrior sliced him a grim stare. “If a man earns my respect, he gets my respect.”
The implication being that Bran had done the opposite. Well, Wulf could think whatever he liked about Bran’s character. All that mattered was that he had agreed to help protect the queen—and Caitrina.
His lovely lady-in-waiting stood just inside the manor gate as they rode in. She displayed suitable decorum, standing quietly as they dismounted. But he could see the relief shining in her eyes. Clearly, she had been convinced that the MacCurrans would cut him down.
As Wulf handed off his horse, he turned and addressed the group of people gathered in the close. “I seek the lady Caitrina de Montfort,” he said boldly.
“I am she,” Caitrina said, stepping forward.
Wulf took her hand in his, bowed low, and kissed her knuckles. “Our sincere thanks for your missive. We will forever be in your debt, lass. Should you ever need a boon, and it is within our power to grant it, it will be yours. I swear it.”
She blushed furiously. “You are too kind, sir.”
The big warrior released her hand and stepped back. “I request an audience with Queen Yolande.” He tugged on the silver chain around his neck and produced a ring. Bran recognized it as the favor the queen had bestowed upon Wulf the morning after her husband’s death. “If she will see me.”
Caitrina studied the ring. The queen’s arms were quite distinctive, and she immediately understood the significance of his possession of them. She curtsied. “She is indisposed, sir, but I will make inquiries. Who shall I say requests a moment in her presence?”