She couldn’t, of course... unlessshewas the one to attend the meet. But when it came to sword arms, she would be even less useful than a gillie. Unless she brought a guard. A gentlewoman did not typically travel anywhere unaccompanied, even for short distances. Giric would expect her to bring a man along.
She would not be abandoning the queen. Although she couldn’t be certain the broth made by the two cooks deserved the credit, the queen’s health had improved to the point that she was once again spending time seated before the fire. Caitrina was free to spend longer periods away from Her Grace’s side. The more she thought about it, the more sense it made that she be the one to go.
But the truth was, Caitrina did not want to go. The very thought of climbing atop a horse and facing more of Giric’s men cinched her throat so tight she could barely breathe. If Bran’s entire plan did not hinge upon the arrival of a woman purported to be her, she would not consider it, not even for an instant.
Her fingers clenched the silk gown.
Someone had to go, and she could not ask some innocent gillie to do what she was too craven to do herself. She lifted her gaze to the door of the barracks where her bearded young soldier had disappeared. So it would be her, and she knew just who to conscript as her guard.
Chapter 8
It was tedious, waiting for Giric and his men to appear.
Bran and Dougal played the roles of the crofter couple, threshing the fall grain harvest in the barn with flails. They kept the doors, both front and back, wide open to reduce the chaff dust and keep a clear view of the surrounding countryside. The soldiers had found a variety of suitable places to hide, some distance from the bothy. Some were in evergreen bushes, some in tall brown grasses, and some beneath piles of fallen leaves.
The hours passed slowly and uncomfortably.
Bran was confident that Giric was coming, however.
Not long after Dougal had planted the white flag in the roof of the bothy, a lone rider had stopped by to ask what it was for. When Dougal explained that it was a message from a lady at the manor, the rider had collected the note and immediately headed north at a gallop.
The sun was on its descent, the shadows reaching across the fields, when he spied horses approaching from the manor. It surprised him to see two horses, when he was expecting only one. The lass in the purple dress was obviously young Jamie, but who was the second? He squinted into the setting sun. A bearded fellow; beyond that, he was impossible to identify.
Dougal nudged him with his elbow.
Bran looked north. Sure enough, a group of horses had left the trees and were crossing the field toward them. Giric had taken the bait.
“Wait until they are nearly upon us before you give the signal,” he said to the constable.
Dougal nodded. “Who is that with Jamie?”
Bran’s gaze again turned west. The lass in the purple dress looked surprisingly bonnie. He frowned. Nay, it couldn’t be. Caitrina would never take such a needless risk. But the longer he looked, the more he became convinced that it was indeed Caitrina mounted on the small bay mare. In part, because the bearded fellow began to look more and more like Jamie.
“I think it’s Lady Caitrina,” he said with a heavy sigh.
“Bloody hell.”
There was no time to consider the implications or recalibrate their plans. Giric and his band of helmeted soldiers galloped into the yard, and Dougal ran for the bell they had hung at one end of the barn. With several sharp tugs on the rope, he signaled his men to attack.
Bran flung off his disguise, leapt on his horse, and drew his sword. Hoping that Jamie had the good sense to turn Caitrina around and head back to the manor, he dove into the fray. His swordsmanship was a wee bit rusty—it had been years since he had been called upon to do battle with a long blade—but he successfully dispatched one of Giric’s men and moved on to a second.
Dougal’s men rode in from all directions, surrounding the Englishmen, and the clash of sword on sword rang through the clearing.
They outnumbered the Englishmen and the fight was going well. Bran was winning his battle against a second soldier when he caught a glimpse of purple silk in the corner of his eye. He prayed desperately that it wasn’t what he thought it was, and parried a jab from his opponent. But it was—he spied Caitrina race into the yard a moment later, urging her escort to join the fracas. Despite the distraction, Bran defeated his foe with a swift downward slice. He paused, weary but triumphant.
Only to hear Caitrina scream, “Behind you!”
He spun around just in time to block a bone-rattling blow from Giric’s sword. The Englishman was a full head taller and at least four stone heavier than he, and although Bran attempted to angle his edge away, Giric’s sword bit into the steel of Bran’s weapon. Normally, such edge-on-edge swings were avoided—the damage to fine swords too severe—but Giric didn’t seem to care.
There was murder in his eyes.
He swung again and again, raining blows upon Bran’s blade.
Bran’s sword arm began to weaken under the unrelenting attack, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Not in a traditional fight. He palmed his dirk in his left hand and looked for opportunities to break through the huge warrior’s defenses. But Giric was not an easy man to study—his fighting style was erratic and punishing. He left little room for any kind of opportunity, and Bran began to worry that the end was nigh. His arm ached and throbbed with such ferocity that could only mean it was about to collapse.
And then, just when he thought all was done, his opportunity came. For the briefest of moments, Giric paused and glanced over Bran’s shoulder.
Bran took advantage. He ducked under the big man’s sword and slashed his dirk along the back of one thigh. It might have been a defining blow, except for the terrified shriek that rose into the air as he swung in for the final attack.
