She slid down into the moat, and the water felt almost warm through the clammy cold of her wet clothes. She reached up to pull the door closed, and in that moment, as her body was outlined against the gray wall, a torch threw its light across the still, dark waters of the moat.
Portia felt the light on her back, felt herself exposed like a black dot against white parchment. Her heart hammered. She didn’t dare to move. And then the shout came and she knew she was lost as the alarm was raised.
There were excited cries, racing feet, the bright light of more torches. Portia slid into the water, not knowing what else to do. As the surface closed over her head, a musket cracked and the ball smacked against the wall behind her. She swam desperately underwater, trying to get a sense of direction. Was she going toward the bank? Musket balls whizzed over the water and she knew that they were waiting for the moment when her head broke the surface and gave them a proper target. Her lungs were bursting.
When she knew she must breathe in air or water, she raised her head. Someone shouted from the bank and a musket fired again, the ball splashing just by her head. She ducked again, with a lungful of air. That second had given her back her sense of direction, and had also shown her that three men stood on the bank, muskets at the ready. If she could get them to fire all three at once, then she’d have time while they reloaded to declare herself.
Portia had given up all hope of escaping. Now she wanted only to stay alive. She thrust her hand above the water. A musket fired. She raised the other one and was rewarded with another crack. Then she lifted her head and ducked instantly below the water. The third shot landed in the water so close to her head she could almost smell the gunpowder.
She raised her head and yelled the day’s password. Then she screamed, “Hold your fire!” as she splashed her way to the bank, making as much noise as she could… making it clear that she was giving herself up.
The three watchmen reached down and hauled her up onto the bank. She lay on her belly, gasping for breath, choking with the water she had swallowed in the last frantic moments. They stood over her. She could see their boots. Then one of them pushed her onto her back with his foot. She looked up into unfamiliar faces. These were not Decatur men, they were from Prince Ruperts battalion and they wouldn’t know her.
“I belong to the Decatur militia,” she got out.
“What’s a Decatur man doin‘ comin’ outta the castle?” one of the men demanded, prodding her again with his foot.
“Reckon he’ll be answerin‘ questions soon enough,” one of his companions said. “Let’s get ’im to the captain.” Two of them bent and grabbed her under the arms, dragging her to her feet.
“I can walk,” she protested, but they ignored her, dragging her along through the sleeping camp to the tent that housed the captain of the guard.
The guard captain of the prince’s battalion was sitting over a pot of ale, throwing dice with his second in command He looked up with interest as the sentries marched in with their prisoner.
“What have we here?” He pushed back the canvas stool and stood up, coming over to Portia, who had been thrust to her knees on the ground.
“Caught ‘im comin’ outta the castle, sir. Outta the wall… some kind o‘ concealed entrance. ’E was swimmin‘ across the moat.”
“Scrawny looking lad,” the captain observed. He reached down and yanked Portia to her feet by her collar. “So, let’s hear your story, m’lad.”
Portia shook her head, then reeled as the captain’s hand slammed across her mouth, his heavy signet ring cutting her lip.
“Come, come,” he said, all persuasive malice. “You’ll be singing soon enough. Who are you?”
Portia wiped blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m with the Decatur militia.”
The captain struck her again across her cheek and she reeled and fell to her knees. “Fetch Lord Rothbury,” she gasped through the tears of pain that clogged her throat. She had never been mistreated in such a way, and with her terror came a surge of rage that anyone would dare to use her with such uncalled-for violence. “He’ll vouch for me.”
There was a moment of silence. Then the captain said, “And just what d’you know of Lord Rothbury, fellow-me-lad?”
“I told you. I’m with his militia,” Portia repeated doggedly. She staggered to her feet.
The man hesitated, uncertain how to proceed in the face of the prisoner’s apparent certainty. “All right,” he said eventually. “But if this is some kind of trick, my lad, you’ll pay for it” He turned to one of the sentries. “Go and rouse Lord Rothbury. The rest of you go back on watch.”
The sentry’s urgent call roused Rufus from sleep. He had sat up and was out of his cot in one movement, reaching for his britches. “What is it?”
“Captain of the guard sent me, m’lord. We’ve caught a prisoner, sir, comin‘ outta the castle, swimmin’ across the moat. Captain wants to interrogate ‘im, but the prisoner says as ’ow you’ll know ‘im.”
“Sounds interesting,” Rufus observed, dressing rapidly. An escapee from Castle Granville was certainly an interesting development.
He followed the sentry through the camp, ducking into the entrance of the guard tent with a cheerful, “So, what have we here, Captain?”
Portia was standing somewhat unsteadily in the center of the tent. Rufus took in her soaked clothes, her swollen and bleeding mouth, the dark swelling on her cheekbone.
“What in the name of sanity…” he began, turning angrily to the captain of the guard. “What the hell is this?”
The captain found himself blustering under the livid glare of the earl of Rothbury. “We caught him trying to swim the moat from the castle, m’lord. The watchmen saw him come out of the castle by a hidden door.” He saw the earl’s expression change and said with more assurance, “He says you know him, m’lord.”
Rufus ignored the captain. He turned to Portia, his face now carved in granite, his eyes empty. “What were you doing in the castle?”
Portia touched her lip again with a fingertip. It came away sticky with blood. “I went to see Olivia and Phoebe.” It seemed simpler to tell the plain truth without protestations and defenses at this point. But she saw with a desperate sinking of her heart that Rufus was already gone from her.
“How did you get in?” There was no expression to his voice or on his countenance. It was as if he had not the slightest interest in the person whom he was questioning, only in the information.
“There’s a concealed door,” she said miserably. “I discovered it when I was staying in the castle.”
Now that deep and apparently baseless unease was explained. Now it seemed to Rufus that everything fell into place. She had known of the door and she had said not one word. The siege could have been ended long since if the besiegers had been able to enter the castle by surprise. She had had that information and she had not divulged it. And there could be but one reason for her silence.
Now he knew that she had been deceiving him all along. She had come to him with information that would convince him of her credentials, but Granville had offered him the treasure only as a means to plant a spy in his camp. It was so simple and he’d fallen for it. He had just once dropped his guard with a Granville, and they’d made a fool of him.
The cold dispassion left him and the dreadful devils of rage that he thought would tear him asunder pulsed in his voice. “You’ve been using it to gain entry to the castle ever since we began the siege. You’ve been visiting your family, carrying information, providing comfort. What has Cato to say about-”
“No!” she cried. “No, I have not. This was the first time. I did not betray you, Rufus. I wanted to see my friends. That was all.”
“Your pardon, m’lord, but I’m confused.” The captain spoke up hesitantly. “This is one of your men, then?”