Chapter 1
Cambuskenneth Abbey
Near Stirling Castle
October 1286
Caitrina de Montfort scurried down the darkened corridor of the abbey, a candlestick gripped tightly in one hand and a bowl of lemon brined herring in the other. The queen had awoken in the middle of the night with a fierce desire to eat fish. Given that Her Grace was only weeks away from birthing the future king of Scotland, Caitrina had happily volunteered to fulfill her request. But the timing was inconvenient. And a wee bit disquieting. The graceful stone columns and carved oak crucifixes she admired by daylight were havens for eerie shadows at this hour.
A shiver ran down her spine as she passed an unlit archway.
The circle of light cast by her flickering candle barely held the gloom at bay. Perhaps it would have been wiser to rouse one of the maids. The chambers provided to visiting nobles were in a separate tower of the abbey, more than a scream away from the sleeping quarters of the Augustinian monks...
Caitrina grimaced and slowed her pace to a more ladylike walk.Dear lord. Why did she insist on letting her foolish imaginings give wings to her feet? What reason would she have to scream? Monks lived here. These were hallowed halls.
She climbed the stairs to the third level, where a single, brave torch fought—and lost—a battle against the shadows. The dim outlines of several arched doorways were discernible along the corridor, but little else.
The queen’s quarters were at the far end—a grand set of rooms that included an antechamber, a stone hearth, and a large platform bed. Just beyond the iron-studded door ahead, a pair of armed soldiers faithfully stood guard, protecting the queen and the half dozen women who served her.
Safety was a mere twenty paces away.
She stepped forward.
A faint smile was curling her lips when a hand snaked out of the dark. Big and brutal, it grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the stone wall. She attempted to shriek, but the only sound that escaped her lips was a strangled whisper. Her candlestick toppled to the wooden floor and the flame was snuffed as it rolled, leaving her in the dead of night with a hot-breathed monster.
Heart pounding, Caitrina squeezed her eyes shut.
“You,” growled the monster, “try my patience.”
She recognized the voice, but it was no less monstrous for its familiarity. It belonged to Giric the Bear—henchman and loyal knave to Edward Longshanks, the King of England. Even with her eyes closed, she could see his large, misshapen left ear and the puckered scar some failed assassin had drawn upon his cheek.
“Every move the queen makes must be reported.”
A flush of shame seared her cheeks. Did he think she could forget, even for one moment, the horrid task demanded of her? Caitrina attempted to respond, but his hand was still too tight, still choking. Impossible.
Hearing her sputter, he eased his hold, and a sweet rush of air filled her chest. He leaned in close, his breath thick with ale and rot. “If the queen shares a meal with the abbot, you tell me. If she eats haggis instead of venison, you tell me. And if she chooses not to return to Stirling Castle for the evening,you tell me. Every move. Am I clear?”
“’Twas a belated decision,” Caitrina said hoarsely. Miraculously, she had managed to hold on to the bowl of fish, and she cradled it to her chest. A flimsy barrier, to be sure, but a strange comfort nonetheless. “She felt poorly.”
“Were she already confined, as a woman of her station ought to be, such discomfort could have been avoided.”
“And had her husband not perished on the eve of her birthday,” Caitrina responded, “she might well be resting at Kinghorn instead of seeking out every holy monk in the land. But she is convinced the unfortunate timing of Alexander’s death is an ill omen, and she fears for the soul of her unborn child.”
Giric snorted. “She’s a madwoman. All the more reason I should know what she is about.”
The insult chafed her already raw conscience. “I’m in service to the queen. I cannot be sending a messenger every hour.”
“It is King Edward you must please, not that French bitch.” Something feather soft slid along her cheek. “Honor the bargain you struck with him. Find a way to make him happy.”
Caitrina grimaced. Bargain? That made it sound as if she’d had a choice. “I have given him every insight into the queen’s affairs that I am privy to. My only lapse has been this delay.”
“A delay that might have had serious consequences.” Giric tucked the soft object into the neckline of Caitrina’s gown. “Fail him, and the king will make good on his promise to brand you and your sister as traitors to the crown.”
A vision of her sister sprang into Caitrina’s mind—the last time they’d seen each other, at Dunfermline Abbey in early April. The day after King Alexander’s state funeral. She would never forget the bewildered expression on Marsailli’s young face as Edward and his soldiers escorted her off to Uxbridge Priory. Nine years separated the two girls in age, and Marsailli had not understood that when a king offers his protection, he cannot be denied. Even when that protection was merely a mask of kindness. “I have not failed.”
The hand about her neck tightened again. “I will be the judge of your success,” he snarled. “Not you. Make your reports with more diligence, or you will not enjoy the consequences.”
Her family had been stripped of land, wealth, and title, but noble blood still coursed through Caitrina’s veins—her grandfather had been the Earl of Leicester and her grandmother had been the daughter of a king. Allowing Giric to believe she was without power would be a mistake. She opened her eyes. The henchman’s face was only inches away, and she could vaguely behold the rippled flesh of his scar. “I am cousin to the queen. Punish me without just cause and I’ll see you hang for it.”
