Bran soothed the animal with quiet words of encouragement that he did not believe. “Easy, laddie. All will be well.”
The stallion snorted one last time and then stepped forward. One pace. Then two. The water rose steadily higher, lapping at the toes of Bran’s boots. He wrapped the reins around his fists and held on tightly. Every step was shaky, and the cold chill of the burn eventually crested the top of his boots and filled them, but the journey was not as precarious as he’d feared. Assuming the horse could swim, he should arrive downstream cold and wet, but in one piece.
Or so he thought. But with the next step, disaster struck.
The horse completely lost its footing, tumbling into the water and sinking beneath the surface. Bran was swept from the saddle and carried away by the swift current. Frigid water filled his nose and mouth, choking him, and he struggled for breath. The only thing that saved him was the tight hold he had on the reins. The horse’s head burst into the air, its eyes wild and wide. It whinnied in shrill panic, but immediately struck out for the shore, pulling Bran along.
As he bobbed uncontrollably, spun by the eddies in the current, he lost all sense of time and distance. His throat was raw, his chest tight. All he knew for certain was the feel of wet leather wrapped around his hands.
Strangely, as he prepared to die, he did not give any thought to the long, eventful years he had spent in Edinburgh. To the many friends and companions who’d shared his life. Instead, he called an image of Caitrina’s face to mind—the pale oval of her face, the bright sparkle of her eyes, the full lips of her mouth, all framed by her glorious dark hair.
It was a sweet image to take to his watery grave.
And then, as suddenly as it began, the wild ride was over. He felt a sharp yank on the reins, and then his boot struck a rock—a slimy, growth-covered rock, but most definitely a rock. And he was grateful for that slime when the horse began to drag him over the rocks. First his hip, then his elbow took a sharp whack against a boulder. Although it was tempting to let go of the reins, he did not. Not until the water was shallow enough for him to push his head free and take a sweet, dry gulp of air. Then he unraveled his hands and dragged himself to the shore, where he collapsed, utterly weary.
Lying on his back, drawing in slow, deep breaths, he stared up at the sky.
Never the sort to depend on anyone but himself for life’s fortunes, he nonetheless found himself thanking the lord almighty. It was surely a miracle that he’d made it to shore. Pushing to his elbows, he looked around. His horse had gone no farther than a choice field of grass. Saddle askew and soaking wet, it grazed nonchalantly a few feet away. Rowan trees and blackthorn bushes grew along the rocky edge of the burn, their leaves the tired green of late October.
Even here, there was no sign of Giric and his party.
His treacherous adventure had been for naught. The canny Englishman had managed to make good his escape, and Bran would be forced to face Caitrina with the unpleasant fact that he’d lost Marsailli.
He got to his feet. His boots were ruined, but they were stolen anyway, so he could hardly bemoan their loss. It was his hands that had suffered the worst. The wet leather had rubbed his palms raw and the rocks had ripped several deep gouges across his knuckles. A small price to pay for his life, however.
Whistling softly, he called his horse.
The great beast pricked his ears, but did not stop eating. Having saved Bran’s life, it certainly deserved a fine meal, so Bran slowly crossed the field to the horse, his feet squishing in the wet boots. As he neared, the stallion lifted its head and looked at him, its eyes bulging slightly. It seemed to be considering a quick jump sideways or a flee into the brush, so Bran halted and spoke gently to it.
“There’s a good lad,” he said. “You’re a fine swimmer, you are. Saved us both, and I’m grateful. But now we must be away back to the manor.”
The horse settled, and Bran was able to approach and reposition the saddle.
When the trappings were once again snug and well fitting, he leapt upon the horse’s back and headed upstream. It took him well past midday to circle the huge slate crag and make his way to the spot where he’d left Robbie. As his mount picked its way over the rocks, Bran scanned the outcrop for any sign of Giric and his men, but all was quiet.
Slate was a common roofing material, valued for its hardiness and its ability to resist fire. The manor at Clackmannan had a fine roof fashioned from dull gray slate, but this stone was blue-green in color, quite vividly so down by the water’s edge. Several of the finer houses in Edinburgh had slate roofs with distinct colors, some from as far away as Ballachulish, but he’d never seen a roof quite this shade.
Bran ducked under the low branch of an elm tree and came upon Robbie lounging against a moss-covered fallen log. The lad did not look surprised to see him.
He leapt to his feet and dusted off his arse. “Did you spy them?”
“Nay,” Bran said. “They’re well and truly gone.”
Robbie nodded. “Whilst you were abroad, I searched the shore high and low in both directions and found nary a flash nor an overturned stone. ’Tis like the washerwoman made off with them.”
The washerwoman was one of the fairy folk—a hag typically found knee deep in a burn, washing blood from the grave clothes of men about to die. Bran gave no credence to such tales, but neither did he have an explanation for Giric’s disappearance. So he simply shrugged.
“Mount your horse,” he said. “Let’s away to the manor.”
It was a long journey over rolling braes, through trees clinging to the last of their fall leaves, and across windswept moors. Holding the reins loosely in his battered hands, Bran used his knees to guide the horse. He was seriously considering stealing the valiant beast—a braver, more well-trained steed would be difficult to find—when they topped the ridge overlooking the manor. It was obvious in an instant that the manor was still on high alert. Dougal’s men had surrounded the village, and Bran and Robbie were met by armed soldiers long before they reached the manor walls.
Dougal himself rode out to greet them.
“Are all inside safe?” Bran asked.
The constable nodded. “There’s been no attack on the manor.”
A relief, to be sure, although he’d been reasonably certain that all of the English soldiers had departed together. When they had examined the deserted camp, Robbie had found no hoofprints leading toward the manor.
