To Kiss A Kilted Warrior (19 page)

W
ulf knocked on the iron-hinged door and waited for a response.

When the door swung open, he was greeted by the laird, who was attired in a simple linen lèine belted at his waist. “Did you bring it?”

“Aye,” Wulf said, handing Aiden the swath of brightly colored cloth.

His cousin stepped back into his chamber and shook out the folded cloth. He studied the pattern with a thoughtful expression. “She designed this just for me?”

“Aye.” It had taken Morag weeks to design and weave the cloth. Determined to craft something unique and special for the laird, she’d spent countless hours at the loom, sometimes discarding a whole day’s work as she sought perfection. The finished cloth was a vibrant mix of blue, green,
white, and red, which Morag assured him were meant to capture the beauty of Dunstoras: blue for the waters of the loch, green for the forest, red for the mountains at sunset, and white for the winter snows that graced the glen in January.

Wulf thought her view of Dunstoras was perfect.

It was a fine piece of weaving, and the laird seemed pleased.

“Will you wear it?” he asked.

Aiden grinned. “I will indeed.”

“Best you hurry, then,” Wulf urged him. “Else you’ll miss the entire celebration.”

Aiden’s grin fell away. “She would not dare to begin without me.”

“Your wife is a woman unto herself,” Wulf said. “She bade me remind you that Dunstoras still officially belongs to her, and that if you disappoint her by being late, she will do what she must.”

Aiden swept the brightly hued cloth over his shoulder and pinned it at his throat with a heavy silver brooch. “Vixen,” he muttered.

They descended the stairs together, passed through the empty great hall, and exited into the close. Summer was but a whisper away, and the vines that clung to the tower were flush with new green leaves. The sun shone in a rare all-blue sky, its warmth giving many a waiting villager reason to
fan themselves as they waited silently within the castle walls.

Wulf glanced about, found the freckled face of Morag, and tossed her a reassuring smile. She’d feared the laird would not like her gift. An unfounded concern, but even after a month of living in the keep, she was still a little nervous about her acceptance.

With a quick point of his finger, Wulf drew Aiden’s attention to the woman standing before the door of the kirk. Isabail’s white-blond hair was braided down her back and entwined with gold thread—the same gold thread that decorated the neckline and hem of her midnight-blue gown.

“Your lady awaits.”

As Aiden strode across the close, Wulf found his way to Morag’s side. “He’s pleased.”

She smiled. “Good.”

Aiden reached the kirk and smiled at Isabail. “My apologies for being tardy.”

“Only you could be late to your own wedding and expect forgiveness,” Isabail said without rancor. “What cause had you to be delayed?”

He took her hand in his and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “I am but a foil for your beauty, lass, but the occasion demanded I don something special.”

She touched the finely woven brat about his
shoulders, then lifted her gaze to glance at Morag. “Truly a beautiful design, Morag. I think I will have one made to match. A wife should show her allegiance to her husband in every way possible.”

All eyes turned to Morag, and she blushed furiously. “I would be honored, my lady.”

There were smiles from several of the villagers, and others nodded approvingly. The tension that had held Morag’s shoulders tight the entire morning slipped away, and she relaxed against Wulf’s arm.

Wulf’s gaze drifted across the faces of their invited guests—William Comyn, Robert le Brus and his young son, and the royal marischal, William de Keith. Great men, all instrumental in guiding the fate of Scotland. All vying for positions of power during the upcoming royal minority. Having them present for Aiden’s official wedding was a moment none could have imagined just a few short weeks ago.

Now all was forgiven.

Aiden’s arms would be added to the new Book of Arms the marischal had commissioned, and his son would inherit the title of laird. Dunstoras had remained in Isabail’s hands, but it had been agreed by all that any children of their union would inherit the keep, too.

Wulf’s gaze moved to the faces of Bran, the cutpurse, and Morag’s father. Two people who’d
appeared quite unexpectedly for the wedding. He wasn’t entirely sure Bran was a welcome addition to the castle, even though the man had proven himself worthy of some respect in Edinburgh. He’d warned Aiden to keep a close eye on his valuables. As for Parlan . . . Wulf had taken the opportunity to deliver a few choice words about the true measure of a man.

Wulf’s hand sought Morag’s.

It would be Ana and Niall’s turn next. A wedding in midsummer.

He and Morag would wait until the first harvest. She wanted to make her own gown, and a special brat for him, and he was a much more patient man these days. Truly content.

Or he had been until this morning. Bhaltair had come to see him, talking about messages in the stars. Something about risks to the new monarch and stirrings in England.

Wulf lifted Morag’s hands to his lips.

But those were worries for another day. Today he intended to celebrate.

Cambuskenneth Abbey near Stirling Castle
September 1286

C
aitrina de Montfort scurried down the darkened corridor of the abbey, a candlestick gripped tightly in one hand and a bowl of lemon brine herring in the other. The queen had awoken in the middle of the night with a fierce desire to eat fish. Given that Her Grace was only weeks away from birthing the future king of Scotland, Caitrina had happily volunteered to fulfill her request. But the timing was inconvenient. And a wee bit disquieting. The graceful stone columns and carved oak crucifixes she admired by daylight were havens for eerie shadows at this hour.

A shiver ran down her spine as she passed an unlit archway.

The circle of light provided by her flickering candle barely held the gloom at bay. Perhaps it would have been wiser to rouse one of the maids. The chambers provided to visiting nobles were in a separate tower of the abbey, more than a scream away from the sleeping quarters of the Augustinian monks—

Caitrina grimaced and slowed her pace to a more ladylike walk.
Dear Lord
. Why did she insist on letting her foolish imaginings give wings to her feet? What reason would she have to scream? Monks lived here. These were hallowed halls. She had nothing to fear.

She climbed the stairs to the third level and turned down a hall lined with several doors.

The queen’s quarters were at the far end—a grand set of rooms that included an antechamber, a stone hearth, and a large platform bed. Just beyond the iron-studded door ahead, a pair of armed soldiers stood guard, protecting the queen and the half dozen women who served her.

Safety was a mere twenty paces away.

A faint smile was curling her lips when a hand snaked out of the dark. Big and strong, it grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the stone wall. She attempted to shriek, but the only sound that escaped her lips was a strangled whisper. Her candlestick toppled to the wooden floor and the flame was snuffed out as it rolled, leaving her in the dark of night with a hot-breathed monster.

Heart pounding, Caitrina squeezed her eyes shut.

“You,” growled the monster, “try my patience.”

She recognized the voice, but it was no less monstrous for its familiarity. Giric the Bear—henchman and loyal knave to Edward Longshanks, the king of England. Even with her eyes closed, she could see his large, misshapen left ear and the puckered scar some failed assassin had drawn upon his cheek.

“Every move the queen makes must be reported.”

Caitrina attempted to respond, but his hand was still too tight, still choking her efforts to breathe.

Hearing her sputter, he eased his hold, and a sweet rush of air filled her chest. He leaned in close. “If the
queen shares a meal with the abbot, you tell me. If she eats haggis instead of venison, you tell me. And if she chooses not to return to Stirling Castle for the evening, you tell me.
Every
move. Am I clear?”

“’Twas a belated decision,” Caitrina said hoarsely. Miraculously, she had managed to hold on to the bowl of fish, and she cradled it to her chest. A flimsy barrier to be sure, but a strange comfort nonetheless. “She felt poorly.”

“Were she already confined, as a woman of her station ought to be, such discomfort could have been avoided.”

“And had her husband not perished on the eve of her birthday,” Caitrina said, “she might well be resting at Kinghorn, instead of seeking out every holy monk in the land. But she is convinced the unfortunate timing of Alexander’s death is an ill omen, and she fears for the soul of her unborn child.”

Giric shook his head. “She’s a madwoman. All the more reason that I should know what she is about.”

“I’m in service to the queen. I cannot be sending a messenger every hour.”

“It is King Edward you must please, not that French bitch.” Something feather-soft slid along her cheek. “Honor the bargain you struck with him. Find a way to make him happy.”

Caitrina swallowed. “I have given him every insight into the queen’s affairs that I am privy to. My only lapse has been this delay.”

“A delay that might have had serious consequences.” Giric tucked the soft object into the neckline of Caitrina’s gown. “Fail us, and you lose the land the king has promised you in Skye.”

“I have not failed.”

The hand about her neck tightened again. “I will be the judge of our success,” he snarled. “Not you. Make
your reports with more diligence, or you will not enjoy the consequences.”

Her family might have fallen out of favor with Edward Longshanks, but noble blood still coursed through Caitrina’s veins—her grandfather had been the Earl of Leicester and her grandmother had been the daughter of a king. Allowing Giric to believe she was without power would be a mistake. She opened her eyes. Her attacker’s face was only inches away, and she could vaguely discern the rippled flesh of his scar. “I am cousin to the queen. Punish me without just cause, and I’ll see you hang for it.”

The Bear snorted in her ear. “You and your sister are the spawn of an excommunicated murderer. Who do you imagine will leap to your defense?”

His words sparked a bitter fire in Caitrina’s chest, and she struggled against his hold. “He was not a murderer. My father simply did what honor demanded. He avenged his kin.”

“There was no cause for vengeance. Your uncle and grandfather died on a battlefield. Henry of Almain had his throat cut in a church.”

“You paint Henry as an innocent,” she said. “But he was not. He stole Leicester’s colors and then slaughtered every man who flocked to his banner.”

“King Edward does not tell the tale the same way.”

“Of course not. Henry was obeying Edward’s orders!”

Giric’s thumb pressed deeply into her throat. “I do not care to debate the past,” he snarled. “All that matters is the babe. Do as I say, or your dreams of redeeming your family honor will die. Understand?”

Caitrina’s arguments vanished along with her air. She nodded.

“Is the birth imminent?”

She shook her head.

Giric eased his hold again. “The midwife in my employ suggests it could be anytime in the next fortnight. I must know the moment she is confined.”

Caitrina’s gut knotted. What need would Giric have for a midwife? She had been spying on the queen for several months, and she knew King Edward’s interest lay in the bairn—the future monarch of Scotland. But what was the king’s ultimate intent? “The monks have offered the queen the hospitality of their fine manor at Clackmannan. We travel there on the morrow.”

“Good.”

“I assume that once the bairn is born, I will be free to leave the queen’s retinue and take up residence in the new hold the king has promised to me?”

A short silence followed her question.

Finally, he released her and stepped back. “You may leave when your task is complete.”

“And when is that?”

“After you snatch the babe and bring it to me.”

Caitrina stared at his murky outline, her stomach heaving. Steal her cousin’s babe? The only child Yolande would ever have with her now dead husband? “No word was ever said about me stealing the bairn. I was asked to spy, nothing more. I cannot do such a thing.”

“Did you truly believe a bit of spying would be enough to earn you a title and a hold in Scotland?” the Bear jeered. “Surely you are not so witless as that.”

Head spinning, Caitrina slumped against the stone wall. If not witless, then certainly naive. It all made a terrible sort of sense now—why King Edward had approached her in the first place, why he’d offered the perfect prize for spying on the queen, and why Giric had taken her sister into his care. This had been their plan all along. Her sister wasn’t being protected by Giric. She was his prisoner. God only knew what horrors
Marsailli was enduring at this mongrel’s hands. At ten and five, her sister had developed into a willowy beauty with a gentle soul. She would not fare well under abuse. But Edward Longshanks cared nothing for the lives of innocent young lasses—he cared only for his own plans.

And those plans included hammering the Scots into submission in any way he could. He was determined to rule Scotland one way or another—even if that meant snatching Yolande’s new bairn.
Dear Lord
. “Kidnapping the heir to the throne of Scotland will be no easy feat.”

“You are cousin to the queen,” he reminded her.

“Cousin or no,” she protested, “what you ask is impossible. The bairn will never be alone.”

“Find a way,” he said softly. “Or lose everything you value.”

Then he took another step back and disappeared into the darkness.

As his footsteps faded and silence took over the corridor, the stiffness in Caitrina’s shoulders eased. Echoes of the Bear’s threats still rang in her ears, but she darted for the big oak door at the end of the corridor with the bowl of herring clasped to her bosom like a stolen treasure. She’d been gone far too long. The queen would be weak from hunger.

Inside the antechamber, the two armed guards draped in red-and-gold tabards stood silent and purposeful, completely unaware of the incident in the corridor. Not that they would have come to her defense had they known—they were members of the royal
gardes du corps
. They would die before leaving the queen’s side.

She pushed on the inner doors and entered.

A waft of soft heat from the fire greeted her. Five ladies-in-waiting, clad only in their white linen night rails and silk slippers, were loosely gathered around
the huge platform bed in the center of the room, chatting in quiet undertones.

Gisele de Noyon, the mistress of the robes, scurried to her side. She snatched the fish from Caitrina’s hands, irritation evident in the deep creases on her brow. “
Mon dieu!
You lazy wench. Did you stop to stare at the moon? Martine was right. I should have sent a maid.”

“The kitchens are on the far side of the abbey,” Caitrina reminded her.

But she need not have bothered. Gisele had already spun about and sailed for the bed. The heavy velvet draperies hung open on one side, revealing the young queen reclined upon a sea of embroidered pillows. A broad smile spread across Yolande’s face as she spied the fish, and she eagerly accepted a silver spoon with which to eat. She had the spoon poised above the bowl, about to partake, when she suddenly lifted her gaze and stared across the room.

“Caitrina,” she called, “come.”

The informal summons earned Caitrina a glare from Gisele. Ladies-in-waiting were typically addressed by their titles, and the queen rarely strayed from that etiquette. Except with her cousin.

Avoiding the censure in Gisele’s eyes, Caitrina crossed to the bed with as much speed as decorum would allow and curtsied. “How may I serve you, Your Grace?”

“Lady Gisele has assured me that no food would be brought to me without being tasted,” Yolande said, gently caressing her rounded belly with her free hand. “But I need to hear that assurance from your own lips. For the sake of my prince.”

Her fears were not groundless. Some months ago, a fiend had attempted to poison the queen and her unborn child—and very nearly succeeded. “You have my
word,” said Caitrina. “I woke the cook, and he tasted the fish himself, right before my eyes.”

Satisfied, the queen dipped her spoon into the bowl and scooped up a small portion of the flaky fish. Yolande’s eyes closed briefly as she savored her midnight meal. “Perfect,” she murmured, after the mouthful was consumed. Then she emptied the bowl in a series of delicate but eager bites.

Gisele removed the bowl to a side table, and one of the other ladies offered the queen a lavender-scented cloth to wipe her lips. Now replete, the queen laid her head back. “I wish to rest.”

Caitrina was about to step away when the queen’s eyes popped open and she grabbed Caitrina’s hand. “Tomorrow, we will talk, my little cousin. You have been a true comfort to me these past months since my Alexander’s death.”

“I live to serve you, Your Grace.”

“We will require a lady of the nursery,” the queen said, her eyelids drooping, “someone who will put the needs of the new prince above all else. You have proven your loyalty time and again, and I can think of none better to entrust my babe and his future to.”

Caitrina felt, rather than saw, the stabbing glance from Gisele. “Would you not wish to appoint a woman with more experience, Your Grace? A woman with children of her own?”

“Nay,” the queen said, allowing her eyes to close on a soft sigh. “An unwed woman is best. The lady of the nursery should have no other claims on her attention.” She released Caitrina’s hand. “But we will speak more on this tomorrow.”

Bowing deeply, Caitrina stepped back.

The other ladies closed in, tucking the sheets around the queen and lowering the drapes.

Lady of the nursery. How incredible. She’d never imagined the queen would honor her with such an appointment. Especially now. If Yolande had any inkling of the conversation in the corridor, she’d have Caitrina wrapped in chains and thrown into the dungeon. And rightly so. Disloyalty and treason should never be rewarded, no matter how fine the intentions were.

With her heart beating a heavy march, Caitrina reached into the neckline of her gown and pulled out the feather-soft item Giric had tucked there. It was a lock of hair, bound with a piece of hemp. Gleaming, nut brown hair with a slight curl.

Marsailli’s hair.

It had been hacked roughly from her sister’s head, the shorn edges uneven and varied in length, and Caitrina’s throat clenched tight. A rather obvious threat: Steal the bairn, or your sister will suffer. Giric probably intended the hair to be a mild warning, but the sight of it stabbed Caitrina deep in the chest. It was one thing to shear a man’s hair, but a woman’s? Giric might just as well have laid her cheek open with a blow or broken her nose. Her sister’s beauty would be marred for some time to come.