“The steward is right,” Dougal said. “He is a simple brigand.”
“No simple brigand would gather troops.”
Dougal shook his head, his red beard swaying. “I think you see fire where there is only smoke. Any large-scale attack by the English would be seen as an act of war. King Edward has long been an ally of the Scots. Why would he suddenly seek to sour relations with his neighbor to the north?”
“King Edward once hoped that his nephew would sit upon the Scottish throne,” Bran reminded him dryly. “But his sister and all of her issue are dead. The new Scottish monarch will either be half French or half Norse. Edward’s influence will be limited. That’s reason enough for him to take a hand.”
Dougal was silent.
Bran was no royal courtier gifted with inside knowledge of Scottish politics, but he had spent many an hour in an Edinburgh tap house debating the actions of those who were his betters. “The Welsh were independent once, too. When the Prince of Wales refused to swear his allegiance, King Edward rode in with his armies and conquered him. He has imprisoned all claimants to the Welsh throne. Why do you believe he would treat Scotland any differently?”
“The Welsh were rebellious heathens,” Dougal scoffed. “Their prince was never truly recognized by the English monarchy.”
Bran snorted. “Those are Stewart’s words.”
“The man was an adviser to King Alexander. Why would we not have faith in his knowledge of King Edward?”
“I’ve never met King Edward,” Bran acknowledged. “But I’ve met my fill of greedy men, and I can tell you this—they don’t cease until they own it all.”
“How can you be certain this band of English brigands is under orders from Edward?”
“I can’t.” Not openly. “But he’s shown remarkable dedication for a simple bandit. In my experience, a man in search of easy coin preys on the weakest target. Waylaying a lone merchant, perchance, or robbing a farmer as he returns from the market. He does not attack soldiers.”
Dougal tossed him a wry smile. “Perhaps he’s learned his lesson.”
Movement in the trees sharpened Bran’s gaze. An eagle-eyed watchman on the wall trumpeted the alarm an instant later as a long line of men on horseback broke from the trees, each carrying a distinctive black targe. At least two dozen men were visible, and he glimpsed more in the shadowy wood behind them.
Dougal stiffened. “Those look like Scots.”
Three large men rode at the center of the line—all broad shouldered, brown haired, and grim faced. Bran recognized them immediately. Niall, Aiden, and Wulf MacCurran. He drew in a deep breath and slowly released it.
“They are,” he told Dougal.
Then he spun on his heel and descended the steps to the close. The time had clearly come to pay the piper.
Chapter 11
When the trumpet sounded, Caitrina ran to the window. Upon confirming that all eyes were facing westward, she begged her leave of the queen and scurried downstairs. The arrival could be another Guardian, but most likely it was the MacCurrans.
They would assuredly demand a meeting with her, and Bran would need to remain out of sight while they collected the crown. Unfortunately, she had yet to enroll him in her plan. She stood on the steps and scanned the faces in the close. Explaining her decision would be a challenge—one that would likely bring an abrupt end to their affair. But if she hoped to save his life, it was a conversation that must be had.
She halted a passing soldier. “Where is Marshal Gordon?”
He pointed to the stables.
Caitrina dried her damp palms on her woolen skirts, straightened her shoulders, and crossed the close to the open arch of the stables. Postponing the discussion would not make it any easier to endure.
Bran was cinching the saddle on his big gray stallion, head bent to the task, his dark blond hair hiding his face.
“What are you doing?” she asked him quietly.
He looked up. His gaze softened as he absorbed the expression on her face—no doubt her worry was evident in every crease and line. “What I must.”
“Nay,” she said. “They’ve come for the crown, not for you. Stay in the shadows until they’re gone and all will be well.”
A heavy frown settled on his brow. “You know it is the MacCurrans who approach?”
Guilt was a cold stone in her belly. “Aye. ’Twas I who sent for them.”
