He surged to his full height.
“Follow me,” he said to the men, stepping into the water. As the frigid burn poured into his boots, the memory of being swept downstream assailed him with breath-snatching clarity. But he ruthlessly shoved it aside.
He waded upstream, taking care not to create noisy splashes that might echo off the rocks. His men followed, equally quiet. Just before they reached the stone column, they paused and drew their weapons. A quick glance confirmed that everyone was ready, and then Bran dove around the outcropping and into the open. But he was met with disappointment, not a band of Englishmen—all he found was more rock. And a steep path leading up into the crag.
Bran gritted his teeth and began a slow and careful ascent.
He eyed every boulder and every outcrop above him, looking for sentries. On a clear day, Giric would have had the advantage—it would have been near impossible to approach the crest of the crag without being seen. But the mist limited sight to no more than thirty paces and they were able to climb steadily.
Despite the dampening blanket of fog, it wasn’t long before sounds from the camp above reached their ears. The low hum of men talking, the rasp of whetstones on sword edges, and the soft clink of ring mail armor. Bran raised a hand and brought his men to a halt.
He frowned.
The sounds he’d expected; it was the volume that concerned him. Giric should have had no more than half a dozen men left, but this cacophony implied far greater numbers than that.
“Wait here,” he said to Robbie.
The young warrior nodded and signaled to the others to take cover.
Bran sheathed his weapon and slipped into the rocks ahead. He needed a higher vantage point to spy upon the camp. As he scaled the wet rocks, a sharp memory returned to him of a similarly misty day twelve years before, when his father had been found and dragged off by Laird MacLean. He’d been only a lad then, but the memory was still vivid. The wails of his mother, the stoic face of his father, the glistening beards of the MacLean warriors, and the bitter ending upon the gallows. He’d vowed then never to return to these miserable moors, and yet here he was.
He grimaced. The amazing part was, he would break any vow to ease Caitrina’s burdens.
Pulling himself up the slippery slab of rock, he peered over the edge. A flat, grassy plateau stretched out before him, the bottom of a great bowl in the rocks, with steep walls of shale all around. Tents and groups of men filled up the grassy expanse; a quick count confirmed the presence of at least one hundred soldiers, all intently preparing for battle. Even more concerning, a large group of the men carried unusually long bows, similar in style to those used by the Welsh. Dangerous weapons, they were capable of piercing armor.
Bran slid back down the rock. Giric wasn’t planning to run. He was planning to attack the manor. And he was gathering an army to support him.
With his back against the stone slab, Bran grimly considered his options. Dougal’s men totaled fifty, and the queen’s personal guard added another two dozen to their number. The walls of the manor were solidly built and well maintained, but not intended to repel a lengthy attack. Reinforcements could be drawn from Edinburgh and Stirling if necessary, but it was clear that Giric was anticipating the arrival of even more men. Additional tents were being pitched and latrines dug.
Which meant his men on the path were at risk of discovery.
It was time to move. Returning promptly to the manor to warn the queen was paramount.
***
Caitrina was in the chapel attending morning prayer with the other ladies and most of the queen’s court when the riders arrived at the gate. A young page entered the chapel and reported the news to the courtiers standing near the door. After that, word spread through the small room in frenzied whispers, despite glares from the bishop and his two priests.
“The first Guardian has arrived,” Gisele murmured.
Caitrina’s heart skipped a beat. “James Stewart?”
The lady of the wardrobe nodded.
Oh, dear. The royal steward’s arrival was much sooner than expected. It was only the eve of Samhain, and the birth of the new king was not expected for several weeks. The bishop’s message must have carried a note of urgency.
Caitrina waited impatiently for morning prayers to conclude, then returned to the great hall with as much haste as decorum would allow. The visitors’ horses were still in the close, being tended by the stable lads—a dozen fine steeds, including a mighty bay stallion.
The great hall was a hive of activity when she entered, gillies scurrying to and fro with their arms full of linens or firewood or flagons of wine. The royal steward was seated before the hearth, having his boots cleaned.
“If Marshal Finlay is away to Oban,” the steward was saying in a booming voice, “then who is seeing to the manor affairs in his absence?”
Caitrina glanced at the faces gathered around him. Dougal. The queen’s seneschal, Roger de Capelin. The captain of the queen’s guard.
“Marshal Gordon,” replied Dougal.
James Stewart frowned. “Archibald Gordon? Of Strathbogie?”
It was Dougal’s turn to frown. “Nay, Giles Gordon of Feldrinny.”
