“I’m not certain,” she confessed.
He arched a brow. “Are you in need of a champion?”
“Nay,” she said, with a light laugh. “My worries are not so dire as that.”
Setting his armload down, he offered her a crooked smile. “If you change your mind, seek me out. I’m off to revisit the English camp. I’ll report back with my plan to rescue your sister.”
She watched him leave, entranced by his every move. He had a natural grace that was a pleasure to watch, and a smooth charm that left smiles in his wake. The young maid he passed in the hall beamed when he but nodded in her direction. When he had disappeared into the stairwell, she pushed open the inner doors and entered the queen’s chambers.
Yolande was lying abed, her long auburn hair spread across the pillows, her eyes dark pools in her pale face. She was surrounded by a small group of people that included the royal midwife and her confessor, William Fraser, the bishop of Saint Andrews.
The moment the queen spied Caitrina, she attempted to sit up.“Ma cousine,”she called.
Caitrina quickly washed her hands in rosewater and joined the queen at her bedside. “My humble apologies, Your Grace. I spent the day in the cellars searching for appointments for the nursery. Had I known you had need of me—”
Yolande’s eyes lit up. “Appointments?Très bien!What did you discover?”
“Please, Your Grace,” admonished the midwife. “You must rest.”
A worried frown dulled the excitement in the queen’s eyes. “But you assured me the babe was healthy.”
“He moves,” the midwife said, “but not as vigorously as he once did. You must preserve your strength to ensure a successful birth.”
“Am I to remain abed now until the babe is born?”
“Aye,” the old woman said. “’Twould be best.”
“I concur.” The bishop leaned over the bed and took the queen’s hand in his own. “Although the birth is several weeks away, I also think it would be wise to consider gathering the Guardians of Scotland, Your Grace.”
The queen lay back against her pillows with a huge sigh. “One simple bout of weariness and suddenly disaster looms.”
“Nay,” the bishop protested. “God shines his blessings upon thee, but it will take time to send messengers, and the Guardians should be present at the birth.”
“Fine,” she said. “Send for them. They should bear witness to the event that my dearest Alexander will never know. The birth of his son.”
Tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes, a rare moment of weakness from the young royal. To protect her cousin from unwarranted judgment, Caitrina began closing the bed curtains. “Her Grace will sleep now,” she said, ushering the bishop and the midwife away. “I will inform you the instant she awakens.”
When the room was once again the domain of women, Caitrina carried the wooden baby basin over to the quietly weeping queen. “Look,” she said. “Lilies.”
Yolande bit her lip and wiped her eyes with a linen and lace cloth. She smiled tremulously at the fine carving that edged the basin. “You have a kind heart, Caitrina. In spite of all that has befallen you and your family, you remain a generous soul.”
Caitrina shook her head. “You are a far kinder soul than I, Your Grace. You welcomed me into your entourage when none else would acknowledge me.”
“Bah! It is not your fault that your grandfather’s titles were seized, or that your father disgraced his family. The blood of kings runs in your veins. You deserved more than to rot away on your uncle’s estate.”
“Atholl was good to us.”
The queen shrugged. “He ignored you.”
“He’s young, and he has his own battles to fight.”
Yolande snorted. “He’s an earl. Age has no bearing on obligation.” Her expression turned thoughtful and she ran a slow hand over the mound of her belly. “My son will also have battles to fight.”
Caitrina set the basin down. “You fear the English?”
“Nay,” the queen said. “The Guardians. King Alexander had a strife-torn minority. I do not wish the same for his son.”
“Is not the bishop of Saint Andrews one of the Guardians?” Caitrina asked, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Have you reason to doubt him?”
