Down the corridor, past Robert’s chamber Beth strode, descending the stairs and exiting through the donjon’s heavy double doors. She stood at the top of the steps for many long minutes, breathing deeply of the cool, fresh air and looking out across the bailey.
That was one difference she hadn’t noticed immediately upon awakening in the clearing. The air here was so fresh. So fragrant. So clean.
There was no air pollution. No daily ozone warnings. No health-threatening haze blanketing the land like milky fog each morning, leading meteorologists to warn people with asthma and other lung ailments to remain indoors or advise parents to keep children inside.
As long as one avoided close contact with the moat and didn’t stand downwind of the stables, the air here smelled wonderful.
Stepping to one side, Beth seated herself on the top step. Resting her feet upon the third step, she propped her elbows on her knees, cupped her chin in her hands, and waited, cold stone chilling her bottom.
The sun sank behind the curtain wall. Pinks and oranges morphed into purples and blacks. The flickering light of torches appeared at intervals upon the battlements. Periodically men’s faces, mostly hidden by helmets, faded in and out of view as the guards paced and kept watch, ensuring the safety of all within.
It was quiet here, too. There were no airplanes or jets roaring past above. No police helicopters circling as they searched for criminals from the safety of the sky. No cars creeping past, booming bass so loudly it rattled the house’s windows. No car alarms screeching or honking. No horns blaring. No sirens screaming. No gunshots shattering the night. Or day. There wasn’t even the familiar hum of the refrigerator, beep of the microwave, flush of the toilet or whoosh of the air conditioner turning on.
Just quiet.
Here and there a dog barked. Occasionally the low murmur of conversation drifted to her on the breeze.
It was so peaceful here.
How ironic, considering Robert might at that very moment be engaging in a violent, bloody battle for his life.
The door opened behind her.
Beth didn’t turn around, hoping whoever it was would leave her alone.
“My lady?”
She looked up. “Oh. Hi, Marcus.”
Closing the door, he frowned down at her. “Are you well?”
Nodding, she looked toward the gate. “Aye.”
The teenager shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “A storm approaches.”
Again she nodded. Here, she could actually smell the rain coming.
“’Tis cool. Would you not be more comfortable in the great hall?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine where I am. Thank you, though.”
He lingered a few minutes longer, then went back inside.
Beth’s gaze remained fastened on the gatehouse as she willed Robert’s safe return.
In the distance, thunder rumbled, almost fooling her into believing the men were returning on the backs of galloping steeds. Patches of clouds flashed golden with lightning before blending again into the night sky.
Two men exited the castle and tromped down the stairs, casting her curious looks. She watched them cross the bailey to one of the towers. No doubt they worried for their friends.
Would they blame her if Miles and Winston died?
She would blame herself, either way.
The door behind her opened, then closed once more.
A cloak fell about her shoulders.
Surprised, she glanced up. “Thank you.”
Marcus shrugged and seated himself beside her. He was a tall, thin, yet muscular boy who might very well attain Robert’s height before he stopped growing. “I would not wish you to catch a chill, my lady.”
Tugging the warm material more closely around her, she realized it was Robert’s.
It must be. His scent clung to its folds.
Burying her nose in it, she breathed in deeply.
Please come home safely, Robert. Please.
“After the hours you spent toiling over Sir Miles and Sir Winston, I thought you might be hungry.” Marcus held up a wineskin, a goblet, and a hollowed-out loaf of bread piled high with food. A trencher, they called it.
She would have refused, but her stomach chose that moment to growl.
The boy’s lips twitched. “Please, my lady. Lord Robert has been sorely concerned over your meager appetite, and will be displeased should he return to find you have not supped.”
Sighing, she chose a piece of what she hoped was overcooked chicken and forced herself to chew and swallow it. Marcus swiftly offered her additional morsels with his knife.
“Aren’t you going to have any?” she asked. Maybe if he was distracted with satisfying his own substantial appetite, he wouldn’t notice if she ate less. A lot less.
If she ended up trying to make a place for herself here, she would have to have a serious talk with Robert’s cook.
Marcus declined at first. A few prods and encouraging words later, however, he dug in with amusing enthusiasm. For every five mouthfuls he devoured, she nibbled another piece of chicken.