17
Henry’s call to arms came on a morning of sublime beauty, when the sun spread its mellow light upon the land, the tender green of new grass clover and bracken lay like velvet upon the hills, and birds swooped in delirious flight, singing on the wind. The herald lingered only long enough to present his message and wolf down bread, beef and ale. Then he raced away to the next keep.
At least the village women had sense enough to dread the news, Cate thought in despair. The young men seemed to view it as a holiday from labor, swaggering and boasting as they gathered under the command of their leaders. Ross and Braesford, by contrast, were methodical and grimly accepting. They also seemed to be everywhere, checking supplies and the carts that would transport them, assigning weapons, sending messengers here and there, deciding the order of placement between green recruits and veteran men-at-arms, and a thousand other details.
Soon, too soon, the line of march was ready. Mothers hugged their sons and men kissed their wives goodbye. Orders were shouted, and the column of soldiers levied by the king began to move. Dogs barked, running back and forth. Young boys trotted alongside the marching men. The villagers gathered along the road, calling, waving, while some few wiped their eyes or clasped their hands in prayer. The first rank began to gain distance along the road, tramping away to reach the king, who was at Kenilworth, where he had been joined by the queen and his mother.
They were going, and Ross had not said goodbye. Cate had lain abed while he dressed, watching as he pleated his plaid around him, strapped on his sporran and slapped his bonnet on his head, pulling it down on one side to make it snug. To distract herself from what he meant to do, she had wondered if he would ever fully adopt English dress, and thought it would be a loss if he did. She liked the view of his sun-bronzed knees she caught now and then, and the hard muscles of his calves.
She also liked the ease with which he could take her when the mood struck him, without any awkward fumbling with hose and points. It was a benefit she had discovered in these past days since he had returned.
He had kissed her, a brief brush of the lips, before he strapped on his sword and whirled out of the room. Pausing at the door, he had thrown her a tight smile, then was gone. She had not known it was for the last time before he went to war. She had thought surely he would come to her once more before he left.
Or was it possible he was waiting for her to come to him? From the battlement where she stood she could see a few horsemen pacing along with the marching men, but Ross was not among them, nor was Braesford or his squire, David. She could not see into the court directly below, in front of the pele tower, though she thought she heard restless hooves on the cobblestones. Mayhap these leaders lingered there for their goodbyes.
Turning in a swirl of skirts, Cate ran down the stone steps, one hand against the rough wall for balance, then raced along the corridors. The door of Isabel’s solar stood open as she passed. She glimpsed her sister inside, held fast in the arms of her husband, along with their new babe and young Madeleine, as he bent to her lips. Cate did not pause.
She did break stride in the great hall. Marguerite sat there on a bench. David was on one knee before her. He held her hand in his while he bowed, pressing it to his forehead in reverent intensity. Marguerite, a look of stunned bemusement on her face, used her free hand to touch his well-shaped, golden head with gentle fingers.
It was a farewell too private to be interrupted or even witnessed. Cate turned away, running a few steps again as she made toward the tower stairs that gave onto the court. Then she stopped, dragging breath into her burning lungs.
Ross was emerging from the shadowed staircase. He was coming toward her.
He reached her in a few strides, bringing with him the scents of fresh air and leather, warm wool, heather and horse. His eyes burned darkly blue, and his face was hard with determination. His gaze rested on her mouth as he caught her shoulders in his hands.
“Ah, Cate,” he said, his voice rough, “I’d not go if I need not.”
“No,” she whispered.
He stared down at her as if memorizing her face. His hands caressed her arms. Then his lips tightened. Abruptly, he bent and scooped her up in his arms. His strides long and swift, he carried her to the stairs, mounting them without pause. At their chamber, he strode inside and kicked the door shut, then stepped to place her on the side of the bed.
“Forgive me, sweet, but I must…”
“Yes,” she said in breathless haste, reaching for his belt.
He caught her hands, stilling them, and then leaned to take the hem of her skirts and flip them into her lap. Pressing her back onto the mattress, he spread her legs and lifted his plaid.
He took her then in fast, hard possession, with a look on his face that was like pain. And Cate took him, as well, wrapping her legs around him as he pressed into her again and again as if trying to reach her very core. It was a furious joining, a mating both animalistic and divine. It was an affirmation of life, the defiance of fate and of death. And in the midst of it, as she felt the sweet internal shift, the sudden giving of her being at the apogee of desire, she knew she loved him, had loved him for weeks. She would love him forever, even if he never returned.
“Ross,” she whispered.
“Ah, my Cate,” he said, his breath warm in her hair.
Then it was over. He stepped back, adjusted his plaid, caught her to him for a last hard, deep kiss. He turned toward the door.
“Stay safe!” she called, the words almost strangled in the tears that clogged her throat.
He made no answer. Mayhap he did not hear.
In the space of a drawn breath, he was gone.
And it seemed to Cate, in that moment of aching loss, that now must be when the curse would finally strike, now when she could least bear it. Henry’s battles in defense of his crown would be the instrument that must take Ross from her. What could be more likely? What, indeed?
The days crept past, spring moved forward into early summer, the year turned with its cycle of plowing and planting, herding and shearing, carding, spinning and weaving. Flowers bloomed in the blowing grass, birds nested and berries ripened. All was as it should be, and yet nothing was right.
Isabel, as Braesford’s wife, had been left in command of the keep. She was slow in regaining her strength after the early childbirth, however. As a result, much of the responsibility came to rest on Cate’s shoulders. She formed the habit of riding out as Braesford had done, surveying the coast, overseeing the workers that remained to till the fields, and hearing the complaints of the villagers. The difference, of course, was that she never rode alone, had always a quartet or more of men-at-arms at her back, part of the complement left on guard duty.
It was while returning from one such circuit that her guard suddenly spurred forward to surround her. The captain, a grizzled, one-eyed veteran of tournaments and sundry wars on the Continent, flung out his arm as he drew even, pointing southward.
“Horsemen, milady,” he said in his gruff way. “There, coming fast.”
So it was, a mounted troop small with distance, riding beneath a drifting pall of dust. The sunlight glinted on mail, helmets and the tips of lances. It was possible they were friends, but were just as likely to be foes.
Braesford Hall stood on its prominence, a bastion of safety. The gates were open, however, allowing villagers to pass in and out. Cate stared from it to the approaching troop while her heart jarred against her lungs with a sudden hard beat, leaving her breathless.
“Ride!” she called out in a firm order, and set heel to her palfrey, leaning forward over its neck as she turned Rosie’s head toward home.
The race was headlong, thunderous with the dull thudding of hooves, deafening with the rush of the wind. Sheep fled from their path. Clods were thrown high behind them. A cowherd’s dog ran after them, snapping at their heels. Ahead of them, the guards at watch on the battlement gathered, pointing away behind them. As they drew near the keep, Cate saw men running to man the gate, to don armor, to snatch up weapons. Women flew after their children, bundling them out of harm’s way, while dogs leaped, barking in excitement, and pigs ran squealing for cover.
Then Cate and her guard were sweeping over the drawbridge, under the portcullis and through the gate, rattling to a halt in the courtyard. The heavy barrier slammed shut behind them and the portcullis rumbled down, its teeth clanging into place. The babble and cries that greeted them died away, and all was quiet within Braesford’s walls.
Hoofbeats pounded closer outside. They slowed to a halt. A shout rang out.
“Hallo the keep! Lord Trilborn begs leave to enter. He would hold converse with Lady Catherine and her sisters, the Three Graces of Graydon!”
Trilborn.
Cate heard the name with disbelief. Trilborn here, while Braesford and Ross were away.
“What does he want?”
It was Isabel who asked, coming from the tower door as Cate stepped off her palfrey at the mounting block. Her sister’s features were set in lines of distaste. Trilborn had never been a favorite of hers, and hearing from Cate of how he had attempted to force marriage upon her had made him even less so.
“I’ve no idea,” Cate answered. “He should be with the king’s forces.”
Isabel’s face lost even more color. Her voice was tight as she spoke. “Do you suppose he has news?”
It was a pertinent question. Anything could have taken place since the men of Braesford and Grimes Hall had departed: an accident on the road, an attack by stray York forces, even a pitched battle. The only way they would learn of it was if someone sent to let them know.
“Hallo the keep!”
At this second call, Cate spun from where she stood and ran to the open stone staircase that led to the top of the keep’s curtain wall. Her foot was on the first tread when she realized Isabel was behind her. Retreating, she allowed her sister to go first, not only because she was true chatelaine at Braesford, but also to make certain Isabel did not grow dizzy and fall. Before they reached the top, Marguerite came running from the tower entrance and pounded up behind them. Together, the three of them followed the walk, passing behind the men-at-arms who stood armed and ready, and stopped above the milling horsemen beyond the drawbridge.
Trilborn spied them before they could speak. Removing his helm, pushing back his mailed hood so it gathered around his neck, he swept them a bow from the saddle. “Lady Catherine, Lady Isabel, Lady Marguerite, I give you good day,” he called up. “Pray open to weary travelers who have need of your kind hospitality!”
Isabel, every inch the mistress of the Braesford hall, stared down at him in cool hauteur. “What is your business, sir?”
“Why, nothing, fair lady, except to visit with old friends and mayhap bring news you would wish to hear.”
“What news?” Cate demanded. “Has there been a battle?”
“Not yet, Lady Catherine, but soon.”
“You have word from my husband?” Isabel asked tightly.
“Nay, milady. Why would you think so?”
Isabel turned to Cate, her eyes wide. Braesford might have no more use for Trilborn than the rest of them, but would never have let him ride north without sending a written message. That was, of course, if they had been with the same army.
“It’s a trick,” Marguerite murmured, with the certainty of an oracle in her voice.
It seemed all too likely.
“We are puzzled, milord,” Cate said, clenching her hands on the stones of the wall as she looked over it. “Why are you not with the king’s forces?”
“At Henry’s command, I journey far and wide to gather more to his standard. It is thirsty work, Lady Catherine.”
Such a thing could be true, for Henry had sent him on a similar errand while they were at Shene. But was it?
“Don’t let him in,” Marguerite whispered to Isabel.
“At least, not with his men,” Cate added, so quietly only her sisters could hear.
“Fair ladies, I beg you!”
Isabel turned back to the supplicant below. “We would hear your news, Lord Trilborn, my sisters and I. We invite you to sup with us, if you will leave your men outside.”
“Have mercy, Lady Isabel,” Trilborn said, a scowl drawing his brows together as he stared up at them. “They have been long on the road, and crave those comforts to be found within your fine walls.”
“And we are desolated to withhold them, but what would you?” Cate said in mournful tones. “The best we can do is lower ale, beef and bread. The country is unsettled, and we are three females alone. You must allow for our womanly fears if you wish to join us within our walls.”
Trilborn didn’t like it; that much was clear. Still, he agreed in the end. Sending his men to camp in a nearby hollow, he entered upon his destrier and surrendered himself to their hospitality.
Cate dressed with care for the repast that was to come, selecting her wedding gown of green velvet, as it was the most sumptuous in her possession. She allowed Gwynne to tint her cheekbones with color and add berry-redness to her lips. Deliberately, she pulled her girdle tight, while bending from the waist to encourage a deeper valley between her breasts at the neckline of her bodice.
She thought of these preparations as similar to donning battle armor. Trilborn was at Braesford Hall for a purpose, and she meant to engage him in verbal skirmishing until she discovered what it might be.
That was all, however. Trilborn had been accorded the honor of having a bath prepared for him. By rights, Isabel should have attended him, but used her weakness after childbed as an excuse to avoid it. Cate might have offered to take the duty, but sent a serving woman instead. No matter how much she longed to know why Trilborn was here, she was not so big a fool as to be closeted alone with him while he was unclothed. Letting him into the keep was dangerous enough.
Shortly thereafter, Cate and her sisters were seated at the high table with their guest. Florid compliments tripped off his tongue without letup. All three ladies came in for their share, while Trilborn preened in the manner of a lone rooster among a flock of hens. With Marguerite on his left, Isabel on his right and Cate beyond her, he smoothed his chin, played with a lock of his hair and stretched his shoulders back to display his chest under a doublet of wine velvet embroidered in silver.
Cate, watching the expression that flitted over Isabel’s face, was not surprised at the curl of distaste that formed at the corner of her mouth. Nor was she amazed when her sister went on the attack.
“What brings you here, sir? You can’t think we have men to send to Henry’s aid. My husband has joined him with his complement, as has Cate’s bridegroom.”
“Oh, I am come to see Lady Catherine,” he answered at once, “as it was no great distance out of my way. There is a matter left unfinished between us.”
Isabel gave him a frown. “I believe not. My sister is married, and that’s an end of it.”
“Not if her husband dies,” he said in silken suggestion.
“Sir!”
“But let us not quibble over details. I am still in need of a bride, and have a taste for the Graces of Graydon. Now that I see your younger sister, I am inclined to pay her my addresses.”
Marguerite, just taking a sip of her wine, choked and coughed. Before she could prevent it, a spray of wine bejeweled the doublet of their guest, lying like droplets of blood on the purple-red velvet.
“Forgive me!” she said in a croak. Her ale-brown eyes were wide with horror, though whether for Trilborn’s suggestion or the desecration of his clothing, it was difficult to say.
Cold displeasure sat on their guest’s brow. He used the tablecloth pooled in his lap to wipe at the wine with quick, hard strokes.
“Marguerite has sworn not to wed,” Cate said quickly, in hope of diverting his attention, “a most solemn vow.”
“So I have,” Marguerite seconded with vigor as she blotted her mouth on the hem of her veil. “I am also under the protection of a most dedicated knight.”
“You are?” It was Cate’s turn to be amazed, while Isabel blinked at their younger sister.
“David has sworn a most solemn oath to be my shield and buckler,” she answered, having raised the young squire to knighthood with a fine disregard for reality. “His love for me is pure and true, a perfect example of a knight bound to the service of his lady.”
“Service.” Trilborn’s laugh had a salacious edge, and he licked his moist lips. “I’m sure of that.”
“So you may be,” Marguerite answered, lifting her firm chin. “He has sworn to protect me from all things, asking only that I allow him the honor.”
So that was the meaning of the tender scene she had glimpsed, with David on one knee before her younger sister, Cate thought. How very gallant it sounded, but also how young and idealistic. In keeping with the tenets of devotion handed down from the Courts of Love of ancient Aquitaine, a knight might attend his ladylove in all ways, but the relationship must be of the spirit rather than the flesh.
“And you return his ardor?” Trilborn inquired.
Marguerite arched a brow. “That is for me to know. The point is that there is no bride for you here.”
“A noble fool,” Trilborn said, lowering his eyelids so they shielded his expression. “Loyal, too, no doubt.” It was clear he gave no credence to her protests.
“You disdain loyalty, sir?” Isabel inquired, drawing back a little in her chair.
“That depends on the object of it, milady.”
“And the man?” Cate took up the question, partly to spare Marguerite, but also out of curiosity. “Surely you are loyal to the king?”
Trilborn glanced at the remaining Braesford men-at-arms who lined the table below them, eating with rough haste and a low mutter of male badinage. Pitching his voice so it could not be heard above the melodious tune of the minstrel’s harp, he said, “Since you ask, I will admit I lack a proper sense of fealty toward our Lancaster sovereign. I was promised the defunct title of earl of Graydon, along with you and the property that went it. Henry snatched these from my grasp at the last minute for the sake of a deeper game. What allegiance do I owe someone who played me false, a usurper with only the weakest claim to the throne, based on a union between a long dead prince and his concubine?”
“If you mean Henry’s ancestor, John of Gaunt, he married his ladylove when he was able, and legitimized his children. Yes, and Henry won his crown on the field of battle, a sign of divine will.” It was clear Trilborn felt free to admit his fault because he considered her and her sisters of trifling importance, Cate thought, three women far from the arena of important events and helpless to effect them. The arrogance of it fired such anger inside her that she felt scorched by it.
Their guest made a dismissive gesture. “So he likes to claim.”
“You might live to regret it, should you join those allied against him,” Isabel suggested, the scraping sound of her voice suggesting a similar rage behind her cool demeanor.
“Think you so? I am not impressed by the army he gathers around him. Mercenaries from the best armies of Europe will support the young king crowned under York’s white rose. They are a tough, disciplined force that will cut through Henry’s men like a scythe through wheat stalks.”
“But they are in Ireland.” Cate spoke in calculated derision.
“On the contrary, they have embarked for Piel Island off the west coast near Furness. Once on the mainland, they will march with Edward VI and the earl of Lincoln at their head. They will be upon Henry before he knows what is happening.”
“You are sure of it?”
Trilborn laughed. “Oh, yes, very sure.”
“Yet you tarry here, instead of riding with the news.”
“A man must look at all sides before he acts.”
Marguerite leaned forward, snaring his attention as she spoke. “You almost sound inclined to turn your coat.”
The man’s smile was superior as he directed it at her. “It’s a possibility.”
“It’s treason!”
Cate was surprised at the heat in her younger sister’s voice, though she blessed her for engaging Trilborn’s attention. Her own thoughts were barely coherent. Invasion was imminent, and Henry did not realize it, had no idea of the quarter from which it would come.
Trilborn knew, but had no apparent intention of informing the king.
“Treason is no more than a word if the rightful king wins,” their guest said easily.
“You mean the right king,” Isabel said with a frown, the distinction being a question of legitimacy versus mere preference.
“Do I? Of course, it will be all the same if the wrong king dies. These things happen on the battlefield.”
Cate lifted a brow at that. “I doubt Henry will make the same mistake as Richard III. He’ll not be so rash as to mount a personal attack against the pretender.”
“Probably not, as he is cautious to a fault. The attack will have to come to him.”
“York forces will first have to breach the wall of his defenders,” Isabel said in sharp disdain, no doubt because she was thinking of Braesford, who might well be charged with protecting the king.
Something malevolent flickered in Trilborn’s eyes and was gone. “Or not.”
A frisson of chill foreboding slid down Cate’s spine. It almost sounded as if he… But no, she would not put it into solid thought. “La, sir, ’tis fine to talk of betrayal, but I feel sure you will be rejoining Henry as soon as possible.”
“In good time, milady, in good time.”
When Marguerite opened her mouth with fiery condemnation in her eyes, Cate put out a hand beneath the drape of the tablecloth, clasping her sister’s knee in silent caution. Marguerite closed her lips with a snap, though she trembled with indignation.
Isabel, following the byplay with close attention, spoke in soothing tones. “It will assuredly turn out as God wills, and there is little we poor females can do about it.” She rose to her feet, continuing with scarcely a pause, “Meanwhile, I believe my husband has a butt of rare malmsey put by for guests. How could I have forgotten? Excuse me, if you please, while I have it properly decanted for you.”
“Surely a manservant can see to it,” Trilborn began with a frown.
“Your indulgence, sir,” Cate said at once, leaning close with a confiding air. “My sister has endured a difficult labor not that long since, and is still far from strong.” Let him think Isabel was leaving the table to check on her babe, or that she had need of the garderobe, if he would. She was certain the mistress of Braesford had other things on her mind. It might have been the straight glance Isabel gave her over Trilborn’s head, or merely the silent communication that sometimes happened with the three of them, but she felt her elder sister’s hard purpose as if it were her own.
She prayed for it, as some manner of diversion was needed. Someone must ride to inform the king of the invasion force approaching the west coast, and where they intended to land. Advance knowledge would allow the army to meet the invaders before it became entrenched. Still, who could be trusted with such a vital message?
Braesford had taken the most steadfast of his men-at-arms with him. The captain of the guard was the exception, but he was required here to safeguard the keep and those within it. The other men were mere soldiers. Though loyal enough in their fashion, they had little of the cunning it might take to reach Ross or Braesford, who could then take the message to the king.
What could be done to stop Trilborn from interfering with such a messenger? Their guest might be seized and bound, but how long could he be held? Yes, and what reprisal might he not visit upon them for the indignity? Someone might slip away from the keep, but how far could he get with Trilborn’s men encamped just beyond the front gate?
Isabel, so it proved in good time, had the matter in hand. She returned with a serving man bearing the malmsey. She poured it herself, all the while lamenting its sweetness and asking with every sign of concern for Trilborn’s opinion. Watching him taste it, she neglected to serve Cate and Marguerite. When Marguerite picked up her glass as a reminder, their older sister made a tiny negative movement of her head. Taking that as her cue, Cate beckoned a serving woman and had her glass, and that of her younger sister, filled with a common vintage diluted with water.
The next half hour was a severe strain on Cate’s nerves. Uncertain what to expect, she followed Isabel’s conversational lead on court scandals, summer fairs and the difficulty of maintaining clothing of suitable elegance while immured in a remote hall. Trilborn’s eyes soon began to glaze, as well they might, given the inanity of what was being said around him. He lolled in his chair, leaning heavily on the table.
Cate, eyes wide, stared at Isabel, who moved her gaze to the wineglass in his fist and gave a slight nod. All solicitude then, Cate filled their guest’s glass once more, urging him to revive his flagging spirits with the malmsey. When his eyes finally closed and he keeled forward in his chair, it was all she could do not to leap to her feet in triumph.
Marguerite whisked away their guest’s silver plate just before his face could land in it. Isabel gave an artificial trill of laughter. “Dear me, I do believe Lord Trilborn is in his cups.”
Those men-at-arms who had looked up at the oddity of a man passing out at the head table, went back to their cheese and nutmeats. It was nothing so unusual for those below the salt, after all, nor was it any of their affair.
“I believe it’s as well that we leave Lord Trilborn here,” Isabel said, rising and shaking out her skirts with a decided air. “He’ll wake soon enough, and won’t thank us for witnessing his overindulgence.”
“No doubt his long and weary ride today is to be blamed,” Cate said in kindly tones. Waiting for Marguerite to rise and follow Isabel, she trailed after her sisters as if bored by the prospect of an early evening.
None of them spoke again until they had climbed the stairs and the door of the solar was tightly shut behind them.
“You must go, Cate,” Isabel said at once as she swung to face her and Marguerite. “The stable hands are used to saddling your mare and will think little of you riding out, particularly if you mention one of the village women heavy with child. The guard who usually goes with you may think an evening outing unusual, but I feel sure you can handle their questions.”
“Yes,” she said in swift comprehension, though she felt light-headed from the sudden acceleration of her heart. It did make sense, though she suspected it would not be as simple as Isabel made it sound. “We can leave by stealth from the postern gate.”
“Yes, as you must avoid Trilborn’s camp. It will be necessary to circle wide to prevent raising the alarm.”
Marguerite frowned as she looked from one to the other of them. “The journey will be fearsome.”
It would indeed. But at the end, she would see Ross again, Cate thought. Was that what she wanted? Was it?
“Gwynne must gather what’s needed for you and your escort,” Isabel said, still forming plans.
“She can’t go with me.”
“No, that would be too arduous for her and somewhat obvious, as well. She should be on hand when Trilborn wakes in the morning, or mayhap toward midday. If she tells him you have gone to the village, he will believe her, as he might not a mere sister.”
“So will waste time awaiting my return.” Cate shook her head. “He will be in a rage when he discovers I’ve gone. I would not leave you to become the target of it.”
“I shall not meet him alone,” Isabel said.
“I will be there,” Marguerite stated with a decided nod, “and armed guards, as well. With any luck at all, the devil of a man will tear away to seek you in the village, giving us a chance to close him outside the gates.”
Isabel gave a nod of agreement. “Besides, the fate of England may ride with you, Cate. Without the knowledge you must carry, Henry may be defeated. The lives of those who have supported him will not be worth a shilling, including those of our men. Everything Braesford has gained, everything he’s worked so hard to build, will be forfeit. Ross will lose what he was given. You do this for all of us.”
It was a huge responsibility.
What if she failed?
If she did so, Ross might die fighting alongside Braesford and the king, or else be hanged by Yorkist victors as a traitor.
She would not fail, she thought with a lift of her chin. Not as long as she had breath in her body.
They lingered for several minutes longer, planning details. But time was more important than perfection. Every minute lost might spell life or death for those they loved.
“Cate?” Marguerite said, gliding into the chamber where she stood pulling on her gloves. “My love?”
“When you see David…”
Cate’s distracted counting off of items needed for the ride ceased at once. She met her sister’s eyes, which were dark with concern. “Yes?”
“Tell him…oh, tell him…”
“What?”
Her sister put a corner of her veil between her teeth, tugged on it an instant, then dropped it. “Never mind.”
Sympathy rose in Cate, filling her chest with hard pressure. “Are you sure?”
Marguerite nodded. “It will be all right.”
She wasn’t so certain, but refrained from saying so. With a swift hug for her younger sister, she went quickly from the chamber and down the corridor.
Cate looked in on Isabel. She was feeding her baby, as she scorned to use a wet nurse for so important a small personage as Braesford’s young son. Little Madeleine sat at her skirt hem, playing with wooden blocks. Leaning over her, Cate placed a kiss on her older sister’s forehead, bent to touch Madeleine’s soft, red-gold ringlets, and trailed her fingertips over the fine black hair that covered the babe’s small head. Her throat ached, suddenly, with unshed tears.
Would she ever hold Ross’s child to her breast? It seemed possible, for her courses had not appeared since his return to Grimes Hall, and other signs were there. She could not dwell upon it now, however, not and do what she must.
Smiling with an effort, she met her sister’s eyes, seeing there all the trepidation she felt, as well as the shimmer of welling moisture.
“God go with you,” Isabel whispered.
“And leave his angels to watch over all here,” Cate answered.
Another strained smile, and then she turned in a swirl of skirt and cloak hems to leave the solar. Quickly, she made her way down a back servants’ stair to the kitchens. From there, she let herself out into the dark back court. Soon, soon, she was on the opposite side of the postern gate, where her guard waited with their mounts behind them.
“Milady,” the one-eyed captain who had been put in charge of the expedition said as he stepped forward, “is this wise?”
Her laugh was soft and tinged with irony there in the dark. “By no means.”
“If we refuse to go…”
“If you refuse,” she said simply, “Baron Braesford may die, as well as many of those who went from here with him.”
“And your Scotsman, too.”
It was a daring thing to suggest. He had the right, however, as he would be putting his life on the line to protect her over the next few days. In truth, it was her most virulent fear, the one that made her heart race, fretting at this delay, demanding she ride like the wind.
“Yes, and him.”
The night breeze drifted around them, shifting their cloaks. A horse stamped and blew through its nostrils.
Abruptly, the captain nodded and swung around to confront the five men gathered behind him. “Why do you delay?” he demanded. “Follow Lady Catherine.”
An eternity later, they skirted the camp where Trilborn’s men slept, walking their horses far beyond its perimeters. Leaving it behind, they reached the main road, a dusty ribbon glowing dully in the light of a half-moon. Mounting up, they began the long journey southward.