The direction of the conversation was concerning. In no time, the man would be comparing notes on various branches of the Gordon clan and wondering where Bran fit in.
“I don’t recall appointing a Gordon as marshal of Feldrinny,” Stewart said, as a gillie carved a layer of mud from the bottom of his boot.
Caitrina took a deep breath and crossed the room. She curtsied to the royal steward. “Good day, Lord Steward.”
Stewart leapt to his feet and offered her a deep bow. “Lady Caitrina. A pleasure to see you looking so well.”
“Thank you,” she responded. “I could not help but overhear your query regarding Marshal Gordon. I confess, I had some concerns about the man in the beginning, but he’s done quite well by us. Is that not so, Constable?”
Dougal nodded. “He’s gone to great lengths to ensure the queen’s safety and comfort.”
Caitrina smiled at the royal steward. “I don’t recall which family seat the marshal said he hailed from—I read his credentials, but I likely reviewed them as I review most official documents.” She gave a short laugh. “Swiftly.”
“So you saw his patents?”
“Indeed,” she said. “And I am sure he’ll happily regale you with his impressive lineage when he returns. He is out hunting that deplorable band of Englishmen who slayed several of our guards.”
Stewart nodded. “Thank you for your insights, Lady Caitrina. Please inform the queen that I shall request an audience once I have properly freshened from my journey.”
Caitrina curtsied again. “Her Grace will be most pleased to see you again, Lord Steward.”
She left the men to their discussion. Wrapping her brat tightly about her shoulders, she traded the warmth of the great hall for the chill of a rainy October day. Bran must be warned about the royal steward’s presence. He’d made arrangements to have letters patent drawn up, but had there been enough time to receive them?
She frowned.
It was impossible to know. But alerting him to the inquisition he was likely to face when he stepped inside was a necessity. The only question was, how? She could hardly stand here in the close and wait on his return. Such an act would raise all sorts of eyebrows.
Slowly pivoting, she eyed what little activity there was in the courtyard. One sodden stable lad shoveling mucked straw into a cart, a villein rolling a barrel toward the kitchen door, several stalwart soldiers braving the wet weather with impassive resolve. As her gaze settled on the group of soldiers huddled near the steps leading to a wall, she smiled.
What she needed was an ally.
And she knew just who to tap. Someone who, to her mind, still owed her a debt.
***
Halfway to Clackmannan, Bran and his men were met by a solitary rider cantering hard and fast, despite the steady downpour. Thanks to the heavy mist, he was nearly upon them before they could put the bearded face to a name. Young Jamie. He eyed Bran’s party with a frown.
“No English?”
“Nay.”
The young soldier shifted in his saddle. “We thought for sure you’d roust him. All the men were eager to be a party to your venture.”
Disappointment was a bitter pang in Bran’s chest. “What brings you to my side?”
The young warrior stiffened at the sharp tone of Bran’s query. “Lady Caitrina insisted that I bring you this message.” He pulled a small rolled parchment from the folds of his brat and offered it.
Bran took the parchment.
A message so urgent that it needed a rider could not be good. He untied the delicate ribbon, unrolled the message, and read it quickly. Raindrops smudged the ink even as he absorbed the significance of Caitrina’s words. The royal steward had arrived, and he would not be an easy man to gull. He knew almost as much about the Book of Arms as the marischal and he would likely question the heredity of Giles Gordon. Without his forged papers—which had not yet been delivered and could not be expected until after the feast of Samhain—he would need to be quite creative if he wanted to divert the steward’s questions.
The other option, of course, was to run.
Bran glanced at the wet, weary faces of the men who’d followed him to the burn. They looked to him for leadership and hope and the promise of justice for their dead comrades. To them, he trulywasMarshal Gordon, skilled warrior and bastion of lawful right. When he had descended the slate crag path where they had patiently awaited his return and delivered the news of the huge numbers of Englishmen preparing to attack their home, these men had briefly lost hope. It had beenhiswords that shored up their faith. It had beenhisoath to see justice served that had erased the bleak looks and rekindled the fires of passion.
If he ran now, it would be a cruel betrayal.
And he would be leaving Caitrina to face Giric’s attack alone.
