He signaled to Robbie.
As the young tracker trotted forward, Bran said to Aiden, “The English commander is a ruthless bastard who’ll not hesitate to sacrifice any and all to get what he wants. If you’re wise, you’ll let young Robbie here guide your way into the rocks.”
Aiden nodded. “So long as you know that if he leads us astray, you’ll pay the price, one strip of flesh at a time.”
Two thirds of the MacCurrans rode off with Robbie, leaving Bran with Wulf and, by a quick count, a dozen men. “They know me here as Marshal Gordon,” Bran said to the big warrior. “I’d be obliged if you would maintain that ruse.”
Wulf said nothing. He didn’t even acknowledge that Bran had spoken. He simply raised a big hand to signal his men and made for the manor at a determined trot.
Gritting his teeth at the insult, Bran gave chase. He would willingly pay for his crime after Giric was defeated. Right now, his men and the people of Clackmannan were best served by confident, steady leadership—and that did not include Wulf riding up to the gate ahead of him.
Wretch.
When he caught up to Wulf, he tossed the warrior a hard glance. “The archers on the wall await my signal,” he said. “Friend or foe, your fate rests in the turn of my hand.” Without waiting for Wulf’s response, he gave the signal forfriend. The archers on the wall relaxed their stance, lowering their bows and taking a step back.
Wulf grunted.
“You are not the only honorable man in Scotland,” Bran reminded him. “The men of Clackmannan have sworn to keep the queen safe, at any cost. Do not belittle their efforts.”
The warrior sliced him a grim stare. “If a man earns my respect, he gets my respect.”
The implication being that Bran had done the opposite. Well, Wulf could think whatever he liked about Bran’s character. All that mattered was that he had agreed to help protect the queen—and Caitrina.
His lovely lady-in-waiting stood just inside the manor gate as they rode in. She displayed suitable decorum, standing quietly as they dismounted. But he could see the relief shining in her eyes. Clearly, she had been convinced that the MacCurrans would cut him down.
As Wulf handed off his horse, he turned and addressed the group of people gathered in the close. “I seek the lady Caitrina de Montfort,” he said boldly.
“I am she,” Caitrina said, stepping forward.
Wulf took her hand in his, bowed low, and kissed her knuckles. “Our sincere thanks for your missive. We will forever be in your debt, lass. Should you ever need a boon, and it is within our power to grant it, it will be yours. I swear it.”
She blushed furiously. “You are too kind, sir.”
The big warrior released her hand and stepped back. “I request an audience with Queen Yolande.” He tugged on the silver chain around his neck and produced a ring. Bran recognized it as the favor the queen had bestowed upon Wulf the morning after her husband’s death. “If she will see me.”
Caitrina studied the ring. The queen’s arms were quite distinctive, and she immediately understood the significance of his possession of them. She curtsied. “She is indisposed, sir, but I will make inquiries. Who shall I say requests a moment in her presence?”
“Wulf MacCurran.”
He offered no title, no detail, no reason the queen might agree to see him.
But Caitrina’s eyes widened with awe. “You are the knight who saved the queen from a death by poison.”
He grimaced. “I merely alerted her to the danger. If any saving was done, it was surely done by her guards.”
“Nonetheless, it is the greatest of honors to meet you, Sir Wulf,” Caitrina said. “I was not yet appointed to Her Grace’s service at the time of the attempt on her life, but the events of that morn have oft been retold. You are a true hero.”
A flush rose on Wulf’s cheeks. “You make too much of it.”
“We will let Her Grace decide that,” Caitrina said. “I will share the news of your arrival with her anon. In the meantime, I hope you will partake of our hospitality.” She opened her hand toward the main door of the manor. “Some ale would surely be welcome?”
“Always,” he said, offering her his arm.
As they climbed the stairs, Bran felt a pang in his chest that was swiftly becoming familiar. Jealousy. But this was not the mild indignation he’d felt at supper the other night—it was a deeper-seated ache that he had difficulty putting aside. Caitrina saw Wulf in a light that would never fall on him the same way. As she herself had said, the MacCurran warrior was a hero, a man unquestionably deserving of respect and admiration. Bran was merely playing a part. Even if he played a significant role in Giric’s defeat, it would change nothing. At the end of the day, he would still be a thief.
An important fact to remember.
***
