It was more of a challenge to bypass the English sentries.
Having learned a lesson from the failures of the afternoon, the guards were now patrolling in pairs. These two were heavily armed, wore solid helms upon their tender brows, and scanned the woods with true dedication. But the night was Bran’s ally. A canny sense of timing and dark clothes had gotten him past many a guard in Edinburgh, and they did so now as well.
Each time the men’s heads turned, even briefly, he darted to another tree. He made slow but steady progress through their line to the edge of the clearing, where he paused to determine his best route into the camp.
That’s when his clandestine survey mission became something else entirely.
Down in the firelit center of the camp, Caitrina’s sister was dragged out of one tent, across the muddy field, and into another. Bran was too far away to see faces, but the stiff reluctance evident in the girl’s shoulders and the sharp yanks the soldier made on her arm put his teeth on edge. Something unpleasant was about to transpire.
He had to get closer.
Bran swiftly counted the men visible in the camp. Five, if he included the fellow who had just escorted Marsailli into the tent. Six others were patrolling the perimeter. That left one unaccounted for, if Dougal’s original assessment was accurate. One soldier who was likely inside the tent with the leader.
A loud male voice raged from the tent.
The words were indistinguishable, but the fury that shook every syllable gave wings to Bran’s feet. A man with such anger bottled inside him would find some way to unleash it. Bran dove for the soldier closest to him, unsheathing the dirk at his belt as he ran. A man wearing a mail hauberk was protected against attack, save for in two places: the loins and the neck. Reaching the loins required an adroit knife thrust up and under the hem of the hauberk. The neck was a much easier target.
The man was seated on a fallen log.
Bran swiftly silenced him and dragged his body back into the shadows. Four more to go. The three huddled around the fire would be the true test of his skills. But the one tending the horses would be an easy—
“No!”
The desperate cry froze Bran’s blood. He knew that sound—he’d heard it before. Once. In a dark wynd in Edinburgh. It was the hopeless plea of a lass who believed she was doomed. He was out of time. If he didn’t intervene right now, Caitrina’s sister would be ruined or dead.
He grabbed the dead soldier’s sword, spun on his heel, and raced for the rear of the tent where Marsailli was being held. A decisive slice of his dirk parted the canvas, and he stepped inside. The scene was just as he’d imagined—the lass was pinned to a pallet by a very large scar-faced man, who had turned his head at the sound of ripping canvas.
Bran pointed his sword at the man’s naked back. “On your feet.”
The lout ran a finger down Marsailli’s tearstained face. “I do not answer to nameless curs, especially in my own tent.”
“As long as you are on Clackmannan land,” Bran said, “you answer to me. My name is Marshal Gordon, and my soldiers surround your camp even as we speak.”
The man made no attempt to stand. Instead, he kissed the lass’s cheek. “You overstep your bounds, Marshal. Even the king has no right to interfere in the matters between a man and his wife.”
Marsailli’s pale, thin arm, visible beneath the man’s large body, trembled violently.
“The lass appears unwilling,” Bran noted. “You’ve proof, I trust, of this union between you?”
The man threw him a scowl. “I have twelve men who will vouch for me.”
Eleven men, actually. Bran shook his head. “I’ll need more than statements from your men. This lass is a Scot, and as such, is owed my full protection. I assume the vows were made before a church?”
Rising to his feet, the big man faced him, quite unabashed by his state of undress. The scar across his cheek formed a ragged line from the edge of his mouth to his mangled ear. Caitrina’s Giric, no doubt. “Nay, they were made here, just moments ago.”
Bran grabbed a blanket and tossed it to Marsailli. “Moments ago, I heard a man’s voice raised in anger and a woman’s plea for rescue.”
“A marriage in Scotland is made by mutual consent,” Giric said, dismissing Bran’s comments with a wave of his hand. “By law, the word of a man and his wife is proof of the union. So, ask the girl to verify my tale. Ask her to confirm that we are wed.”
Bran glanced at Marsailli. The girl was cowering beneath the woolen throw, still shaking badly. Her wordshouldbe enough—but her fear made her an unreliable witness. She was a captive in Giric’s camp, surrounded by his soldiers. What would she say if he asked? “I should like a moment with her alone.”
A thunderous frown descended on Giric’s brow. “Absolutely not. No man shall be alone with my wife, save I.”
There it was, then—Bran had no choice but to ask Marsailli for the truth and let her words fall where they may. He crouched beside the pallet. “Lass,” he said softly. He tried and failed to meet her gaze. “I swear I will protect you with my life, should you need it. Tell me the truth. Did you willingly wed this man, or no?”
***
It was late when Caitrina descended the stairs to the great hall. The evening meal had been cleared away and only a handful of gillies remained at work, banking the fire in the hearth and dousing most of the candles. Bran was seated near the hearth, with an ale in hand and a heavy frown upon his brow.
