“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I haven’t thought that far ahead…” Then with a flash of defensive impatience, “For God’s sake, Portia, I only received the news this morning. And we’re in the middle of a war. I have other things on my mind.”
“Yes, of course you do.” Portia turned once more to the clothes on the bed. “I’ll see to the boys’ packing, and ours. I’m sure you’re needed elsewhere.”
Rufus hesitated, puzzled by the tenor of the conversation. He had the feeling that he was missing something, that Portia had some point she was trying to make, but it had eluded him. “I really don’t see any alternative to taking the boys with us,” he said, returning to what had begun the discussion.
“No, I suppose not,” Portia said. “I wasn’t thinking very clearly. I don’t imagine it’ll be any different for them there than here, really.”
“Except that they’ll be living under canvas.”
“Well, that’ll certainly find favor.” She flashed him a smile over her shoulder as her hands kept folding and refolding the same shirt. “You’d best get back to work.”
“Yes…” Still he hesitated, then with an uncertain shrug he hurried away, his sons’ voices billowing out through the door in his wake.
Portia sat on the bed, holding the shirt forgotten between her hands. She’d been speaking of herself, she realized. Or at least, including herself with the children. What place would there be for her in the rehabilitated household of the earl of Rothbury? She belonged to the armed camp, to the outlaw’s way of life, just as Luke and Toby did. And what if she was carrying a child? Another of Rufus Decatur’s bastard offspring…
“Portia… Portia… we need you!” Luke’s head popped up at the top of the stairs, his father’s vivid eyes aglow. “I can’t find my green shirt. An‘ it’s my absolute favorite.”
It was also in rags, as a result of one too many encounters with a thornbush. Rufus, on one of the infrequent occasions when he noticed what his sons were wearing, had spirited it away, hoping that out of sight would be out of mind. It had worked for a week. No longer, apparently.
Portia stood up, telling herself firmly that moping about imponderables was pointlessly wearying. There were enough practicalities to occupy her. “I’ll see if I can find it, Luke.”
It was dark when the main body of the cavalcade passed between the sentry fires of Decatur village. Portia rode beside Rufus at the head, Juno sitting on her saddle, upright and alert beneath her cloak. Luke and Toby had gone ahead, riding in the cart that carried Bill and the mess, a pack train of laden mules accompanying them.
Portia, even after five months in the Decatur stronghold, was astonished at the speed and efficiency with which this massive operation had been put under way. And even more by the utter secrecy. Boats laden with arms and ammunition had been dispatched downriver. They’d be met and unloaded onto carts in the dark hours before dawn, just before the river snaked out of the hills into the valley at the foot of Castle Granville. Farmers’ carts trundled through the countryside, their burden of culverins concealed beneath bales of hay for cattle feed.
The village had been left with a skeleton guard. There was nothing to steal there, no armed troops to be destroyed. Rufus had reasoned that rebel marauders would not waste their time on a near-deserted village, populated by the elderly and infirm.
There was no conversation in the ranks of riders. They were all dark clad, blending into the moonless night as they rode in close rank through the desolate landscape. But there was a prickle in the air, a quiver of excitement and anticipation to which only Portia, it seemed, was immune. She could sense it in Rufus beside her. He rode without his usual relaxation. His body was taut in the saddle, his eyes darting from side to side, missing nothing… not the flicker of grass as a hare loped by, nor the faint crackling in the undergrowth made by some night creature. An owl hooted, an animal screamed in pain, the sound shocking in the still night. Juno trembled and crept closer to Portia.
For the most part, Rufus took a route that kept them away from habitation, but once they rode through a shuttered hamlet, moving their horses onto the grassy verge that ran alongside the gravel lane running through the center of the village.
Portia found it eerie, riding right through these sleeping people, horses’ hooves muffled by grass, the wicked glint of sword, dagger, pistol, hidden beneath dark cloaks. They would waken in the morning and have not the faintest idea that an army had passed among them.
At two in the morning, they reached the wooded hillside opposite Castle Granville. Concealed among the trees, the men dismounted, tethered their horses, and ate the provisions they’d carried in their saddlebags. Leather flagons of wine were passed around, but there was little sound… nothing that could carry across the valley to the watchers on the ramparts of Castle Granville.
Portia, nibbling a thickly buttered bannock, walked to the edge of the trees and stood looking across at the bulk of the castle, grayish white in the darkness. Rufus intended to make his move just before daybreak, bringing his men up to assault and surround the castle walls before the sentries fully realized what was happening. Once the besiegers were in place, the castle would be sealed tight as a drum.
She turned, feeling rather than hearing the footstep on the mossy ground at her back. Rufus came up beside her. He placed a hand on her shoulder and held a flagon of wine to her lips.
She drank the rough red wine with pleasure, but shook her head when he encouraged her to drink again. “What will you do if Cato sends his men out to fight?” Her voice was barely a whisper, in keeping with the inhabited silence around them.
“He won’t,” Rufus returned, a glint of satisfaction in his eye. He drank deep from the flagon. “Not without suffering unacceptable losses. He’d have to lower the drawbridge, and we would block it at our end.”
“Yes, of course. But will you have enough men?”
“A troop of Prince Rupert’s infantry will join us by midday. Infantry and engineers experienced in digging siege-works. There’s no way Granville and his men will be able to leave.”
From nowhere the image of the concealed door beneath the drawbridge flew into her head. She could feel the lines in the stone against her hands, could see the low narrow runnel winding through the vaults, up the stone stairs, emerging into the scullery.
She hadn’t mentioned the door when she’d told Rufus of the conversation she’d overheard between Cato and Giles. She’d had only one thought, to warn Rufus of the trap. Extraneous details had been lost in the mists of her exhaustion.
Should she tell him now? But an entire troop couldn’t leave by that exit. They would emerge onto the moat within the besiegers encampment, and while one man might evade the sharp eyes of Decatur watchmen, a group could not.
She had no need to tell Rufus of the door. If Cato couldn’t use it to evade the royalist siege, then Rufus didn’t need to know of it. She could forget it existed.
But if Rufus knew it existed, he could use it to gain entrance to the castle.
The pit of her stomach seemed to drop. Her skin prickled as if she’d walked through a bed of nettles. If she was truly loyal to Rufus, she would tell him what was to his advantage. Surely she would?
“Rufus?” Will’s voice came out of the darkness, and Rufus turned away from Portia. She breathed deeply. The moment was passed… for now.
“Is it done, Will?” There was a ring of urgency, of anticipation in his voice.
“Aye.” Will stepped up to them.
He had not accompanied the cavalcade, and Portia saw now that his face was blackened with dirt, his teeth glimmering white as he grinned. She could see his excitement, feel it coming from him in waves. “It’s done. They’ll be without water within the week.”