After a few discreet queries, she located Bran in the infirmary.
“You’re injured,” she said, staring at the bloodstained bandage wrapped around his middle.
He grimaced. “’Tis little more than a scratch, but the barber is insisting on plying his needle.”
“And how, pray tell, did you acquire this injury?” She bent and lifted the edge of his bandage. “It looks like a sword slice.”
“It is,” he confessed. “But it was unavoidable, I swear.”
The three MacCurran warriors, Niall, Aiden, and Wulf, entered the infirmary and made their way to Bran’s side. “A fine bit of swordsmanship,” Aiden said. “I confess, I wouldn’t have thought you capable. Defeating a man of that size is no easy task.”
Caitrina glanced from Aiden’s reluctantly admiring face to Bran’s slightly guilty visage. “Who did you defeat?”
“Giric.”
Caitrina stiffened, afraid to hope. “Giric is dead?”
“Aye.”
Her eyes met his. “And Marsailli?”
He shook his head. “There was no sign of her. I think it possible she escaped the camp sometime before we attacked.”
“Then she is out there in the wild, lost and alone.”
The MacCurran chief frowned. “Of whom do we speak?”
“My sister,” said Caitrina. “She was a prisoner in the English camp.”
Wulf raked a hand through his long hair. “The body of a lasswasrecovered in the wreckage of the camp.”
Caitrina’s throat clenched tight and she closed her eyes, refusing to believe. “Nay.”
Bran’s hand clasped hers, squeezing gently. “Stay strong,” he said. “It may not be her. There was another woman in the camp.” Turning to Wulf, he asked, “What age would you guess the lass to be?”
“Difficult to tell,” Wulf admitted. “She had been beaten.”
Caitrina’s knees shook and her belly heaved. She knew just what such an injury looked like. She’d seen the broken body of that poor wretch Giric had slain. “Dear god.”
Bran tugged her against his chest and smoothed a broad hand over her brow. “Do not assume the worst. In his last moments, Giric implied that she had escaped.”
“Then we should search the crag for her,” Caitrina said.
“Such was my intent,” Bran said. “Had the barber not insisted, I would be there still.”
“I’ll go with you,” Niall offered.
“And I’ll go, too,” Caitrina insisted. “After all she’s been through, she might need a familiar face to set her at ease.”
“It’s a long ride,” Bran warned her. “And the weather is about to turn wet again.”
“Then give me a few moments to change my attire. A lad might be better suited to such a journey than a lady.”
He smiled at her. “Fair enough. We’ll meet you at the postern gate.”
***
They began their search in the basin of the slate crag. Despite the words of assurance he had offered to Caitrina, Bran insisted on seeing the body of the dead woman. To his relief, it was immediately clear that she was a good deal older than Marsailli. Her hands were spotted with age and the skin around her neck was loose.
