The young lad bent over a small oak chest by the window abruptly straightened. “Marshal! My apologies. I thought to be done afore you returned.”
“What in the bloody blazes of hell are you doing?” demanded Bran. His satchel lay at the young man’s feet, the contents open to view. The fine wool of the two purloined tunics spilled out onto the plank flooring.
“Unpacking your belongings.”
Was that a glint of silver he spied in the corner of the satchel? Lord. If the lad but touched the bag once more, the crown would be revealed.
“This is how you mind my effects?” he asked coldly, pointing at the satchel. “Allowing my clothing to wipe the mud from the floor?”
A flush rose in the lad’s cheeks. He immediately bent and reached for the spilled cloth, but Bran halted him.
“Nay,” he snapped.
The young man straightened. His lips were twisted with regret, but Bran could not allow a moment of sympathy to undo all his hard work. He’d paid a high price to acquire that crown.
“Do not touch my things again. Get out.”
The lad bobbed his head and scrambled for the door.
Bran watched him flee down the corridor, then closed the door and sighed. A thousand ways for this ruse to go astray, and he’d just tripped over one of the simplest. He had forgotten that well-born men had others unpack their bags. Fool. And sending one lad running would not save his treasure. With the queen in residence, there would be gillies constantly underfoot, sweeping cobwebs and delivering firewood and lighting candles. He could not continue to keep the crown inside the manor.
The safest place was the stables. He’d noted several dark spots up in the rafters.
But he’d have to wait for nightfall to move the crown.
Bran placed his clothing in the chest and looked around for a temporary hole to hide the crown. Not in the bed—gillies might warm the sheets before he retired for the night. Not under the bed—the bed stood on a platform. He slowly spun around. A cushioned chair, a small table, the hearth... Not a lot of choices. His gaze tilted upward. The bed hangings were really his only alternative—there was a chance the gillies would ruffle them to rid them of dust, but he suspected that was not a frequently performed chore.
A sharp rap sounded on the wooden door. “Marshal?”
Bran shoved the crown under the bed pillows. “Aye?”
The door swung open. The cook stood there, a white cloth wrapped around his substantial middle and a worried frown upon his brow. “Murtagh, sir. The cook. I wonder if I might have a word regarding this eve’s meal?”
“Have you consulted with Her Grace’s cook?”
The man’s frown deepened. “Oh, aye. That I have. And there lies the root of my difficulty. The wee Frenchie’s demands are quite unreasonable, Marshal. He’s asking for delicacies we’ve no hope of acquiring.”
“What sort of delicacies?”
“Almond paste and sea bream.” Murtagh wrinkled his nose. “Apparently Her Grace is particularly fond of fish at the moment, but the salmon from our rivers will no satisfy her delicate needs. She’ll only eat white-fleshed fish. And where am I to get almonds? Or the spices her cook is insisting upon? The man is a witless knave. We’ve only—”
“Haud your wheesht.” Bran folded his arms over his chest. “Hosting the queen at Clackmannan is the greatest of honors. I’ll not allow Her Grace to suffer whilst under our roof. You will find a way to satisfy her cook, or die in the attempt. Is that clear?”
“Aye,” said Murtagh, flushing. “But I cannot conjure items I do not have.”
“There are always options.” Bran nodded at the open door. “Collect the queen’s cook and meet me down in the manor stores.”
“I will also need several fire pits dug. The kitchen hearth is not large enough to feed the queen’s retinue. I must put a boar, two lambs, six geese, and forty capons on the spit.”
“Consider it done.”
Murtagh nodded. “Thank ye, Marshal.”
Bran said nothing, just stared at the cook, hard.
And Murtagh got the message. He backed out of the room. “I’ll fetch the queen’s cook.”
When the door was shut and Bran was once again alone, he retrieved the crown. Boot to the bed platform, he lifted himself up and tucked his prize in a swath of cloth draped over the forward bedposts. A discerning eye might notice the lump, but not in the next few hours. Satisfied, he leapt down.
