He frowned.
He’d been gone far longer than he had intended. Ularaig would be taking advantage of his absence, making life miserable for the citizens of Lowertown. The filthy wretch had almost every castle guard in his pocket and had begun to demand a portion of all coin earned by nefarious means. Any who refused were threatened with the full weight of the law.
“Well,” said Caitrina, sliding onto the chair next to him. “Let’s have a look at those hands.”
She took one of his big hands in hers and laid it palm up on her knees. Using the knife at her girdle, she pried off the thin layer of wax that covered her jar of unguent. Then she slathered the foul-looking stuff all over the deep chafes on his hand. A ridiculous bit of nursing, to his mind, but he would never tell her so. Her tender ministrations were more of a balm to his soul than to his flesh.
As she switched her attentions to his other hand, he said softly, “I will find her and bring her back. I swear it.”
She lifted her gaze and smiled sadly. “There isn’t time.”
“We’ve no cause to believe Giric has slain her,” he said, praying he was right. “And Dougal has assured me that Marshal Finlay is unlikely to return before Samhain.”
“That may be so,” she said, as she packed up her pot and wiped her hands on a square of clean linen. “But this place will soon welcome the four Guardians of Scotland. Messengers left this morning, at the behest of the bishop of Saint Andrews. It is their duty to be present at the birth of the new king.”
Bran sat back in his chair.
William Fraser was himself a Guardian, as was Robert Wishart, the bishop of Glasgow. Religious men he could sway. They concerned themselves more with god than with the law. Earl Buchan and the high steward? They would not be easily fooled by his charade.
“James Stewart resides in Edinburgh,” he said. “He can journey here in less than two days.”
She nodded. “You should leave now, while your identity is still unquestioned.”
The large manor door swung open and a soldier ran into the great hall, his boots heavy on the planking. “Marshal Gordon! The constable requests your immediate presence on the wall!”
Bran shot to his feet. “What is it?”
The lad simply shook his head and ran back the way he came.
Bran grabbed Caitrina’s arm. “Gather the other ladies and withdraw to the queen’s chamber. Open the door to none but I.” When she hesitated, he looked her in the eye and urged, “Go. Quickly now.”
Only when he was certain she was in action did he march out the door.
***
There was no need for Caitrina to prod the other two ladies from their chairs—both women had taken note of the panicked guard and were bundling up their embroidery. As she hastened to their side, they turned to her with worried frowns.
“Is the manor under attack?” Etienne asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But the marshal is a very capable man. He and the queen’s guard shall see to our safety.Allons. Let us not make his task any more challenging.”
The plump woman put a shaky hand to her throat. “No matter how capable the soldiers, we aresans défensein such amanoir piteux. Why did Her Grace not return us to Stirling Castle?”
A rather pointless question, at this stage.
They scurried up the stairs to the third floor. The queen’s guard ushered them into her chamber and then barricaded the door with two heavy chests stacked one atop the other. The physician and the midwife were seated beside the bed—everyone else stood at the narrow arrow loops overlooking the close. A low rumble not unlike a cart bumping along a rutted path vibrated through the air. Other than that, the close was somber and silent.
Although curiosity nearly got the best of her, Caitrina ignored the crowd hovering at the windows and crossed to the bed. Yolande was awake, but pale and weak. The fever had abated during the night, and although her cough lingered, she breathed easier. She smiled halfheartedly as Caitrina approached.
“We are experiencing some excitement,non?”
“Not the sort of excitement we typically enjoy,” she responded dryly.
The rumbling abruptly ceased, and for a moment there was only silence. Then a quiet male voice ordered, “Open the gate.”
Caitrina couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Bran. Why he would choose to open the gate in the face of danger, she had no clue. But she had faith in his decisions. The risk must be minimal.
“Fetch me a cup of wine,ma chère,” the queen requested, pointing to the decanter at her bedside.
