swirled beneath him, the hood of her drab cloak thrown back, her orange hair fizzing in a shaft of weak sunlight.
It wasn’t that he was surprised to see her. He’d known she’d be somewhere in the castle. And yet he was aware of a most peculiar sense of disturbance … the disquieting thought that he’d come to Granville’s castle to look for her. Which was, of course, quite ridiculous.
Then she was gone, disappearing beneath the drawbridge below, and he had entered under the raised portcullis and was in enemy territory with the need to keep all his wits about him.
Great fires burned in the center of the outer ward, and barons of beef, whole sheep, and suckling pigs were roasting over the fires, pairs of young lads turning the spits, their cheeks scarlet from the heat and the contents of the ale pitchers from which they refreshed themselves, their eyes watering from the smoke.
A fiddler was playing in the corner of the ward, and a troupe of Morris dancers was entertaining the crowd, their bells melodious amid the exuberant shouts and cheers of their audience. Trestle tables laden with mounds of potatoes, breads, cakes, cheeses, and rounds of golden butter stood against the walls, but the greatest activity was centered around the kegs of ale.
Rufus blended seamlessly into the throng. Will had guessed aright that the master of Decatur had more than pure deviltry in mind in this escapade. He was in search of information. Any little tidbit, any piece of gossip, anything that would give him a sense of the size of Cato Granville’s militia and an insight into the man’s intentions, into how he was going to proceed in his support for Parliament.
Rufus approached the kegs of ale and took a tankard cheerily passed to him by a red-faced farmer who held a roasted potato between his gloved finger and thumb, taking hearty bites while he regaled a group of merrymakers with a particularly ribald tale.
Rufus could see no sign of Cato and he thought sardonically that mingling with his peasantry was probably beneath Granville. He’d provide them with the wherewithal to celebrate a decision that would leave widows and orphans across Granville land, while holding himself aloof.
Then he saw him, at the far side of the court. Rufus’s blood flowed swift. Cato was talking with three of the most prominent landowners between Lammermuir and York. It could mean only one thing. Viscount Charter, the earl of Fairoaks, and Sir Graham Preston were following Granville’s lead and throwing in their lot with Parliament. Theirs was a conversation Rufus Decatur thought might prove interesting for an eavesdropper.
He shuffled casually through the throng, drinking his ale, shielding his body among the knots of people, moving almost shadowlike, so inconspicuous that people barely noticed his passing.
On the moat, Portia skidded to a stop against the castle’s curtain wall. She was laughing as she steadied herself, enjoying the heady sense of freedom that skating gave her, the icy freshness of the air after the fetid urban stews she’d been inhabiting for the last several years. Leisure for skating had not often come her way, and these bone skates strapped to her boots were wonderfully sharp edged, adding to the exhilaration even as they showed up her lack of skill.
“One of these days, I need to learn to stop without having to run into something,” she called to Olivia, who, a much more accomplished skater, came to an elegant halt beside her.
Portia glanced up at the crowds still pouring across the drawbridge and her eyes narrowed. “What do you think about joining the festivities, Olivia?”
Olivia looked startled. “But we haven’t b-been invited.”
“No, but as your father’s daughter, don’t you think you should play hostess a little?” Portia casually smoothed her gloves over her fingers, waiting to see how Olivia would respond to this novel suggestion.
“I never have done,” Olivia said doubtfully. “It’s D-Diana’s
It wasn’t that he was surprised to see her. He’d known she’d be somewhere in the castle. And yet he was aware of a most peculiar sense of disturbance … the disquieting thought that he’d come to Granville’s castle to look for her. Which was, of course, quite ridiculous.
Then she was gone, disappearing beneath the drawbridge below, and he had entered under the raised portcullis and was in enemy territory with the need to keep all his wits about him.
Great fires burned in the center of the outer ward, and barons of beef, whole sheep, and suckling pigs were roasting over the fires, pairs of young lads turning the spits, their cheeks scarlet from the heat and the contents of the ale pitchers from which they refreshed themselves, their eyes watering from the smoke.
A fiddler was playing in the corner of the ward, and a troupe of Morris dancers was entertaining the crowd, their bells melodious amid the exuberant shouts and cheers of their audience. Trestle tables laden with mounds of potatoes, breads, cakes, cheeses, and rounds of golden butter stood against the walls, but the greatest activity was centered around the kegs of ale.
Rufus blended seamlessly into the throng. Will had guessed aright that the master of Decatur had more than pure deviltry in mind in this escapade. He was in search of information. Any little tidbit, any piece of gossip, anything that would give him a sense of the size of Cato Granville’s militia and an insight into the man’s intentions, into how he was going to proceed in his support for Parliament.
Rufus approached the kegs of ale and took a tankard cheerily passed to him by a red-faced farmer who held a roasted potato between his gloved finger and thumb, taking hearty bites while he regaled a group of merrymakers with a particularly ribald tale.
Rufus could see no sign of Cato and he thought sardonically that mingling with his peasantry was probably beneath Granville. He’d provide them with the wherewithal to celebrate a decision that would leave widows and orphans across Granville land, while holding himself aloof.
Then he saw him, at the far side of the court. Rufus’s blood flowed swift. Cato was talking with three of the most prominent landowners between Lammermuir and York. It could mean only one thing. Viscount Charter, the earl of Fairoaks, and Sir Graham Preston were following Granville’s lead and throwing in their lot with Parliament. Theirs was a conversation Rufus Decatur thought might prove interesting for an eavesdropper.
He shuffled casually through the throng, drinking his ale, shielding his body among the knots of people, moving almost shadowlike, so inconspicuous that people barely noticed his passing.
On the moat, Portia skidded to a stop against the castle’s curtain wall. She was laughing as she steadied herself, enjoying the heady sense of freedom that skating gave her, the icy freshness of the air after the fetid urban stews she’d been inhabiting for the last several years. Leisure for skating had not often come her way, and these bone skates strapped to her boots were wonderfully sharp edged, adding to the exhilaration even as they showed up her lack of skill.
“One of these days, I need to learn to stop without having to run into something,” she called to Olivia, who, a much more accomplished skater, came to an elegant halt beside her.
Portia glanced up at the crowds still pouring across the drawbridge and her eyes narrowed. “What do you think about joining the festivities, Olivia?”
Olivia looked startled. “But we haven’t b-been invited.”
“No, but as your father’s daughter, don’t you think you should play hostess a little?” Portia casually smoothed her gloves over her fingers, waiting to see how Olivia would respond to this novel suggestion.
“I never have done,” Olivia said doubtfully. “It’s D-Diana’s
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