Caitrina slipped her feet into her silk shoes and waited impatiently for the maid to brush her hair. When the ribbons were finally tied, she scurried across the room to the queen’s bed. Yolande lay limply on her pillow, her eyes closed.
“Is there aught that I can do?” she asked Gisele.
The French noblewoman turned to her with a frown. “Several of the other ladies have adjourned to the chapel with the bishop. He has agreed to hear their prayers. You may join them, if you wish.”
Caitrina nodded. But she could not simply leave her cousin, even when she was in the good care of her physician. She edged a wee bit closer to the bed and took hold of Yolande’s hand. Giving the young queen’s fingers a light squeeze, she leaned in close and whispered,“Retrouver la santé, ma belle.”
Then she stepped back.
Although the queen could not see her, Caitrina offered her a respectful curtsy and then turned and left. She was expecting the great hall to be hushed out of respect for the queen’s illness, but instead it was a hive of busy activity. Soldiers were rushing about, gathering weapons and shields, and donning mail with the help of their squires.
Bran was nowhere in sight, but the constable stood by the hearth giving orders.
“I want every able man attired and ready in the close anon,” Dougal barked, his bushy red eyebrows angled sharply.
She crossed to his side. “May I ask what’s going on?”
“Nothing that need concern you, my lady.”
Caitrina glanced at the two guards positioned at the bottom of the stairs, both armed with poleaxes. They had not been there the night before. “I think anything that poses a risk to the queen concerns me, Constable.”
His lips flattened into a thin line. Then, with a heavy sigh, he nodded. “Several of my men were slain during the night. In a clearing northwest of here.”
Caitrina’s heart skipped a beat. Northwest? Was that not where Giric and his men were camped? “Do you speak of the two men posted in the English camp?”
His frown deepened. “Aye.”
An ice-cold chill ran down Caitrina’s spine. Dear god. If the two men guarding Marsailli had been slain— “What of the lass who was held there? Is she safe?”
Dougal’s eyebrows nearly knit together under the force of his frown. “How did it come to your attention that I had men posted in the English camp? They were assigned there long after sundown.”
“The marshal told me,” she said grimly, well aware that she was tarnishing her reputation with every word. The only time that Bran could have told her was late at night, when respectable ladies were long abed. But her reputation was meaningless in the face of Marsailli’s danger. “Where is the girl, Constable?”
“Gone,” he admitted. “Along with all of the English soldiers. They’ve disappeared.”
A wave of nausea rolled over Caitrina, and she closed her eyes to compose herself. It was the very worst of her imaginings. Giric had Marsailli firmly in his clutches once more, and he could punish her any way he saw fit.
“I’ve not the time to address your concerns further,” Dougal said, with surprising kindness. “I must see to the manor defenses.”
Caitrina opened her eyes and nodded.
As he turned to march off, she caught his sleeve. “Where is Marshal Gordon?”
“In the forest,” he said. “It was he who found the bodies of my men, shortly before daybreak. He’s taken my best tracker with him on the hunt for the Sassenachs.” He spit the word “Sassenachs” as if it were a vile epithet.
“He went out with just one guard?”
Dougal smiled faintly. “Aye, but have no fear, my lady. The man he’s with is a very capable fellow. The best with a dirk I’ve ever seen.”
As he walked away, Caitrina grimaced. The best he’d ever seen might not be good enough. The assassin who had attempted to carve Giric’s throat had likely been a talented knife handler, as well. But, in truth, it mattered naught. Bran was already beyond her reach. She would have to pray that he didn’t run afoul of the huge Englishman.
Just as she would have to pray that Giric’s anger had been assuaged by the death of the two Scottish guards. She buried her face in her hands briefly. Only then could there be any hope for Marsailli’s safety, because he was not a man to show mercy.
Aware that the gillies must be eyeing her with curiosity, she straightened her shoulders, pasted on a neutral face, and headed for the kitchens. Although prayer was a fine endeavor, good deeds were a better means of keeping the devil at bay. If the queen was suffering from a fever and a dry cough, a cool broth might be just the thing to set her humors aright.
And even if it wasn’t, the task would give her less time to worry.
She pushed open the big oak door and descended the steps to the close. Dougal’s archers were thick upon the walls—all facing outward, quivers full, eyes alert. Another dozen men stood at the ready in the courtyard, but the bulk of the soldiers had marched out the front gate. As Caitrina made her way to the kitchens, the guards closed the gate and laid a heavy timber bar across the latches.
