With the gateway sealed, Caitrina had little fear for the queen. Giric’s men numbered only a dozen, and the queen’s garde du corps was made up of seasoned warriors. Combined with the soldiers Dougal had left behind, Her Grace was well protected.
She ducked into the kitchen, a small square room with a large hearth at one end and a work table in the middle. On one side of the room, the baker and his apprentices were busy kneading, rolling, and baking fresh loaves of bread. On the other, the two cooks were doing silent battle, each with his own small group of gillies. One was preparing venison, the other a trio of fat fall hares. Caitrina could tell by the vivid flush on Master Andre’s cheeks and by the glares the little man kept shooting over his shoulder that he was very unhappy.
“What goes on here?” she demanded.
Master Andre spun around and, upon recognizing her, cast a triumphant smile at the other cook. “See? I told youle lapinwas an unacceptable choice. A queen does not eat rodents.”
The other cook scowled. “Did she say that, you bloody French capon?”
“You dare to call me a castrated cock?” Andre’s cheeks flushed an even deeper scarlet. He lifted the large, sharp blade in his hand. “You, whose eyes are like currants in a bowl of suet?Cochon!”
Caitrina quickly stepped between the two men. “Cease.”
Although his eyes glittered and his arm shook with rage, Andre subsided. The other cook was less accommodating. He came toe-to-toe with Caitrina and pointed over her shoulder. “Let me at that wee bastard,” he snarled. “He’s been baiting me for days.”
She met his gaze evenly. “Are you aware, Mr. Murtagh, that using the term ‘bastard’ in the presence of a lady is inappropriate?”
His gaze dropped to his toes. “Aye. My apologies.”
“Accepted,” she said. “Now, what exactly is the problem here?”
“This is my kitchen,” he said hotly. “And I know what stores and what spices we have available.” He pointed to Andre. “He does not.”
“True,” she said, offering him a smile. “But he knows the queen’s tastes. Can not the two of you work together? Surely that would produce the best results?”
Murtagh wrinkled his nose, clearly not enthused by that option.
“Do not make me seek out the marshal, Mr. Murtagh. I doubt his decision on who rules this kitchen while the queen is in residence would go in your favor.”
He blanched.
Apparently, Bran had already shared words with the cook on this subject. Words that closely matched her own. She smiled. Even in his absence, he supported her.
“Now,” she said. “If you can put aside your differences, I would like you to produce a broth for Her Grace. It must be cold, with no lumps, and both of you must taste it and agree that it is worthy of the queen.”
She stared at Murtagh until he nodded. Then she turned to Andre. He nodded, too.
“Perfect. Bring it to me promptly, as soon as it is ready.”
***
Bran and young Robbie tracked Giric and his men for hours without success. The English soldiers had traveled light, leaving behind the wagon and the tents, taking only what they could pack on the horses. They had followed the burn in an easterly direction for quite some time, then cut across Clackmannan lands toward the northern boundary. Robbie did a fine job of picking up their trail until they entered a deep burn at the base of a crag. Where the waters ran rough, all evidence of the soldiers’ passing was lost, and although they searched the shoreline, they could find no sign of exit.
“Did they swim?” Bran asked.
The lad lifted his gaze from the turbulent eddies. “They must have.”
Bran watched a waterlogged branch shoot down the burn. The water here ran swift and deep, swirling and burbling as it sluiced between the rocks. It hardly seemed possible that eleven men on horseback, plus one lass, could have made the journey downstream in safety. But what other explanation could there be?
“Then I suppose we must follow.”
Robbie shook his head. “I cannot swim.”
Neither could Bran. It had never been a concern before today. He stared into the foam-flecked water. Danger lurked in those depths, without a doubt. But if he didn’t make an attempt, how would he face Caitrina? How would he explain that he’d given up the search for her sister?
“Wait for me here,” he told Robbie. “I’ll return anon.”
He urged his horse forward. The edge of the burn was rocky and narrow, quickly dropping off into murky oblivion, but his mount faithfully followed his guidance. Until another branch came sailing down the burn and whacked the horse’s foreleg. Then it snorted and fought the bridle.
