“He’ll have chance enough to pay his respects when he returns.”
“Aye?”
“Aye. Fearchar says the abbot will play host to Her Grace until the bairn is born.”
Bran selected another well-appointed chest and repeated his effort. It took him three tries to locate the attire he was seeking—simple, elegant tunics crafted of the finest wool and light linen sarks that drifted over his skin like warm water. Dressing swiftly, he exchanged his lèine for a dove gray tunic and a black belt.
The chest gave up several other useful items—two additional tunics, one blue and one green, and a hooded cloak, all of which he stuffed into his satchel. Near the bottom, he found a pair of soft leather gloves—just the sort a man of means would use for riding. He tucked those into his belt.
Now came the difficult part.
Carving out his place.
Having spent the better part of a lifetime observing the wealthy in order to rob them, he knew a great deal about looking the part of a noble. But successfully playing a role, even for as short a time as he intended to remain in Clackmannan, would require more than just the right look. It would require him to think swiftly, act without hesitation, and dance the very fine line between truth and lie.
Descending the stairs, Bran waited just inside the manor until the seneschal and his clerk were engrossed in deciding the fate of two more items from the carts, and then he slipped past the pair and headed for the stables. Once inside the dim confines of a horse stall, he donned the cloak and tied his satchel to one of the saddles slung over the stall walls.
As he applied dirt from the stable floor to the hem of his cloak to acquire a well-traveled look, a one-eyed tabby cat entered the stall, her belly heavy with a litter of soon-to-be-born kittens. She rubbed her body against his legs with an arched back and a plaintive mewl.
“Hey there, lassie,” he said, crouching to scratch the cat under the chin. The tabby was leaner than he would expect a village cat to be, so he dipped a hand into the small purse at his belt and found his last piece of dried herring. He offered it to the cat in the palm of his hand and waited patiently as she nibbled. Not that he could afford to wait much longer. The MacCurrans would descend upon the village forthwith.
Standing in the shadowy interior of the stables, Bran eyed the seneschal. Thin faced and heavily browed, he was poring over his clerk’s list with an unrelenting frown. A man with a ruthless attention to detail, it would seem.
Bran glanced down.
Was he missing anything? Cloak, gloves, dirk, purse. All good. His boots were a wee bit shabby, but if he properly held the seneschal’s attention, that shouldn’t be a problem. He spread his hands. Och,therewas the hole in his plan. Jewels. A well-born man would wear at least one ring. Digging into his leather purse, he found one of the other items he’d filched at the MacCurran wedding. A gold ring set with a small ruby.
He slid it over his middle finger. Perfect.
He stepped into the sunlight and marched toward the manor house.
“Where is the master carter?” he demanded as he approached. “Someone must collect my satchel.”
The seneschal looked up, frowning. “And who might you be, sir?”
Bran met his gaze easily. “Giles Gordon, marshal of Feldrinny. Feldrinny is a liege estate to Cambuskenneth, bordering the abbey to the west. Abbot Michael insisted that I journey to Clackmannan in Marshal Finlay’s absence to ensure all is well tended for the queen’s sojourn. It is the marshal’s deepest regret that he be absent at this time, but we shall do everything in our power to ensure the queen’s comfort.”
The seneschal stared at him, hard.
The wool cloak was lightweight, but it still brought a flush of heat to Bran’s cheeks. He wasn’t accustomed to wearing so much clothing, even on a cool autumn day. But he ignored the discomfort, facing the seneschal with a slight sneer. “And you, sir?”
“Roger de Capelin, the queen’s seneschal.”
Bran nodded. “Excellent. Have someone collect my satchel from the stables. I got word only this morning that Her Grace would be confined here and, by necessity, I left without my man.”
Then, without waiting for de Capelin’s response, he entered the manor.
“I wish to see the constable, Clackmannan’s seneschal, and the priest,” he said loudly to those going about their business in the great hall. “Immediately.”
“Brother Torquil and Seneschal Amos accompanied Marshal Findlay to Oban.”
Excellent. The fewer people he had to convince, the better. “Fetch me the constable and the seneschal’s clerk, then.”
The trick to a good ruse was to mix as many truths with the lies as possible. Feldrinny was indeed an estate belonging to the monks at Cambuskenneth. He knew that because his father had once been the marshal to Laird MacLean, who held the land bordering Cambuskenneth to the northwest. Of course, his information was twenty years old, dating back to the years before his da stole from the laird and was banished in disgrace. But surely things had not changed much in that time?
“I understand Marshal Finlay’s seneschal and the priest traveled with him to Oban,” Bran said to Dougal, the constable, when he appeared. A big, brawny man with long red hair and a wiry beard.
“Aye.” The constable’s tight, distrustful face eased with Bran’s command of the facts.
