As Bran MacLean urged his mount over the ridge and down into the glen, he stole a glance over his shoulder. Rolling hills of brown grass and faded purple heather filled his gaze. No visible sign of pursuit. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there. The band of MacCurrans on his tail were very determined. And skilled. They had successfully navigated his every effort to shake them thus far, and he’d be a fool to assume he’d lost them.
The night before, under the light of a full moon, he’d caught a glimpse of their camp about a league distant. In the hours since, they would surely have gained ground.
He bent lower over the horse’s neck as the mighty beast galloped down the hill, the wind whipping its mane into his eyes. In hindsight, stealing this charger had been an error. He had allowed its worth to blind him. Aye, it was a magnificent animal with a deep chest and heavily muscled legs, but it was bred for war, not speed. The MacCurrans had given chase on fleet-footed coursers.
Any hope of reaching Edinburgh ahead of the MacCurrans and disappearing among its familiar streets had been dashed. They would catch him long before he reached the city. A new destination was in order. Stirling, perhaps. It was nearly as large and crowded as Edinburgh. But could he reach the walls before the MacCurrans ran him down?
He spared another glance over his shoulder.
A flash of white at the crest of the ridge sent a shot of ice water through his veins. They were almost atop him. He was about to lose the treasure in his pouch... and quite possibly his life. Unless he did something bold and unexpected.
With a tug on the reins, he veered south toward the heavy forest that hid the Black Devon Burn from view. He entered the woods at full canter, ducking to avoid low-hanging tree branches. Aware that his mount was weary and eager for water, he urged the horse toward the stream with his heels, then untied his pouch from the saddle and waited for the right moment. It came upon him swiftly—a moss-covered fallen log to the right. He dove off the horse, hitting the ground so hard he could barely draw breath. But that served him well. He had no sooner rolled into the musty lee of the fallen tree than his eager pursuers thundered past, following the hoofprints his mount had left in the loam.
Bran leapt to his feet, aching from head to toe.
He had only a few minutes to save his skin. Once the MacCurrans caught sight of his riderless horse, they’d swiftly backtrack. The village of Clackmannan lay a short distance west. The manor was held by the holy monks of Cambuskenneth, and with any luck, he’d find sanctuary there.
Tossing his satchel over his shoulder, he wended his way through the bracken, taking care not to bend the withering fern fronds in his direction. When he reached the burn, he waded through the water for thirty paces. A temporary measure at best. The MacCurrans were Highlanders—they would soon pick up his track. He reached the bounds of the forest and found himself at the edge of a fallow field. Across the field lay the small village, and beyond that, the dark stone walls of the manor. But ’twas not the sleepy town he’d expected.
A large party had arrived at the manor house; at least twenty horses, two carriages, and several carts piled high with goods stood in the close. A crowd of villagers had gathered to watch the servants unload. Bran swiftly scanned the scene, his gaze halting when he reached the banner held by a young soldier—a split shield: gold with three red lions rampant on one side, azure with three argent fleurs-de-lis on the other.
The arms of Yolande, the dowager queen of Scotland.
Bran smiled.
A busy scene would serve him well. Where there were many hands in the work, there was also confusion, and confusion almost always brought opportunity. His best chance of eluding the MacCurrans would be to hide where they least expected to find him: in the thick of the queen’s retinue. His gaze lifted to the top floor of the manor house. But it would not be easy to gull the sort of men who surrounded a queen.
He opened his pouch and stared at the silver and sapphire crown within.
Then again, nothing worth having ever came easy.
He circled around the village and approached the manor from the north, where activity was the greatest. Head low, stride purposeful, he headed directly for the caravan of carts. To blend into a royal household, he would need finer garments than the simple lèine he currently wore. With a swagger that suggested he was exactly where he belonged, he sauntered up to a cart stacked with personal effects, seized a brass-banded chest, and hefted it over his shoulder. Then he did precisely what the other carters were doing—headed for the interior of the manor house.
But as he passed the seneschal and his clerk, who stood at the wide-open gate guiding the unloading, he was hailed. “You there,” the seneschal said. “Halt.”
Bran paused, keeping his head bowed. The seneschal must not get a good look at his face.
“Who told you to gather that chest?”
An excellent question. For which he had no truthful answer. “One of the queen’s ladies,” he lied. “She feared that some of their clothing had gone astray.”
“Nonsense,” the seneschal said. “I accounted for all of the queen’s chests myself. This one belongs to Chevalier Francois, who will be occupying a chamber on the secondétage. Third door on the left. Take it there immediately.”
“Aye,” he said, nodding.
Bran mounted the stairs, but did not stop on the second floor. He climbed to the third level and ducked into the first empty chamber he found. Then he set the chest down, closed the door, and rummaged through the contents. Unfortunately, Chevalier Francois must be a knight overly fond of rich food. Everything inside was too large for him.
Abandoning the chest, he left the room and made his way back down the stairs, merging with the other servants returning to the carts.
“Did ye lay eyes upon the queen?” the heavyset carter in front of him asked of another.
“Aye,” his friend replied. “But only a wee look. She and her ladies went straight to their rooms.”
“Is it true she’s got the face of an angel?”
The other man snorted. “I canna say. All I noted was her swollen belly.”
“A shame Marshal Finlay is off to his cousin’s wedding in Oban.” The stockier man strode to the cart and hauled a chest atop his shoulders. “He’ll be right fashed to learn he’s had a royal guest.”
