The Hostage Bride

Chapter 20

“Did you eat something bad, Portia?” Luke’s worried little voice accompanied a dimpled hand on her back as Portia crouched in the bushes.

“Probably.” Portia sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with her kerchief.

“I ‘spect it was goosegogs,” Toby said knowledgeably, squatting down in front of her, regarding her with his head on one side. His own most recent bout of sickness had followed an extended visit to a gooseberry bush.

Portia smiled weakly but with what she hoped was reassurance. So far she’d managed to keep this gruesome early-morning business to herself, and she didn’t want the children running to Rufus with tales of her woes. “It’s all over now, I’m quite better,” she said. “Have you had breakfast?” The thought of food brought another wave of sickness sloshing through her belly.

“Bill made us coddled eggs,” Luke said. “Are you really all better?”

“Yes, really.” Portia staggered to her feet, picking up her discarded straw hat. It didn’t quite match her soldier’s costume, but it protected her delicate pallor from the sun. “Where’s Juno?”

“Down a rabbit hole.”

Silly question. “Let’s go back to the camp.” She took their hands and walked back with them to the encampment crowding the foot of Castle Granville, but before they reached the first row of tents the children’s attention was caught by a soldier repairing the broken axle of a baggage cart and they darted off to offer their assistance, leaving her to continue alone.

In the two weeks since they’d been in position, siege engineers had built bridges across the moat, sturdy enough to hold the culverins, and the steady boom of cannon was a daily ritual, at dawn and sunset. The castle walls so far had withstood the bombardment with no major breaches, but they were showing signs of wear and tear.

Archers shot their arrows in a fairly relentless harassment over the walls, and Granville men returned the fire, but in desultory fashion causing few casualties. It was too risky for them to stay above the lip of the parapet for long enough to take careful aim. The oily fires were lit under cover of darkness to render the air stifling and foul for both besieger and besieged alike. But at least those outside could retreat, Portia reflected. For the castle inhabitants the nightly suffocation would be torment. There was nowhere they could go to escape it, and the weather didn’t help. It had turned hot and thundery, but without the relief of a storm.

The sky this early June morning was steely gray with thunderheads, and the heaviness added to Portia’s miseries. It made her head ache and the continual dragging nausea seemed harder to bear, and even harder to conceal. Her duties were not arduous these days. She helped with construction of the bridges and with the light rope ladders that they would use if the opportunity arose to scale the walls. She performed picket duty, patrolling the perimeter of the camp and the moat, on the watch for any undue movement within the castle. And always as she passed the spot, she averted her eyes from the concealed door just above the surface of the moat.

Prince Rupert’s battalion had come as promised, and as Portia crossed the beaten-down grass toward the headquarters tent, she heard the prince’s voice, ringing with confidence and good humor, addressing his commanders. The prince had just succeeded in relieving the rebel blockade of York and was flushed with triumph and the conviction of success.

Because of the heat, the men had abandoned the tent and were meeting under the shade of a beech tree, gathered around a long table on which a map was spread out. The prince, magnificent in his peacock blue doublet, his scarlet slash, his hair falling in a curled and glowing cascade to the collar of Valenciennes lace spread over his shoulders, pointed with a stick to a place on the map.

“Gentlemen, we must-we will- force a decisive battle. The king demands it.” He raised his shining face to the sun, flourishing his pointer. “It is the king’s will, my lords.”

Rufus was studying the map, his expression showing none of the prince’s enthusiastic conviction. In fact, Portia thought, observing from some ten yards’ distance, he looked as if he were about to burst into vigorous disagreement. She could tell by the set of his shoulder, the line of his mouth. But to her surprise he remained silent, continuing to study the map, a frown creasing his brow.

He looked up suddenly and she knew he’d sensed her presence. With a word of excuse, he moved away from the group and came toward her. “How now, gosling?” He smiled, but the strain remained on his face. “Are you idle this morning?”

“Until noon,” she said. “Is there trouble brewing?”

“I don’t know. The prince is convinced the men are ready for a decisive action. I’m not so sure.”

“Will that mean you’ll abandon the siege?”

Rufus looked back at Castle Granville. The pennants still flew from the battlements in brave defiance of the army at its gates. “They’ve been out of fresh water for several days now. Even if they had stored extra barrels in the cellars, with five hundred people and I don’t know how many horses, they can’t last much longer.”

He glanced down at Portia, the blue eyes raking her face. “That hat isn’t going to do any good hanging from your hand.” He took it from her and set it on her head, adjusting the brim to a rakish angle. “You’re looking peaky. Are you ailing?”

“No. It’s just the heat,” she said in swift disclaimer. “What will happen to Olivia and Phoebe and Diana and the babies?”

“They’ll be given safe conduct to wherever they wish to go. Is that what’s worrying you?”

“I worry at how they’re suffering now,” she said bluntly.

“It is for Cato to bring an end to that suffering,” Rufus returned curtly. “He has only to haul down his standards and lower the drawbridge.”

“And then you’ll hang him,” she stated.

“No. He will be the king’s prisoner, not mine. I am interested only in his submission.” It was said with a cold finality.

Portia said nothing, but her freckled face was set, her angular features standing out against the white skin in the shadow of the hat brim. She didn’t believe him. Rufus was using the pretext of war to further his own ends. He had won restitution and freedom, but he still wanted Cato’s life for his father’s.

Rufus found himself waiting for her to respond, although he knew she would not, could not, give him the response he wanted. He wanted her to say that she understood, to rejoice with him in the prospect of his victory. But he knew he would get nothing more than this silent acceptance of his obsession, and the equally silent loyalty that she had promised him. And he knew that both that acceptance and the loyalty brought her pain.

The silence lengthened and with a brusque gesture he strode back to the men under the tree, turning his back on her pain, and on the fact that he was responsible for it. He could do nothing now to stop the juggernaut, even had he wished to.

Portia turned with leaden step toward the mess tent. She’d had no breakfast and she felt both hungry and sick at the same time. Her entire body didn’t seem to know what was happening to it or how to react. Her breasts were sore, her mood swung from wild elation to the depths of depression, she was as likely to snap as to smile without reason for either. This business of reproduction, she decided, was vastly overrated.

And she still hadn’t told Rufus. She wanted to tell him, but she wasn’t ready yet. She hadn’t sorted out her own feelings about it, and she was afraid, too. Afraid that he would not respond as she needed him to respond. He already had children; it wouldn’t be such a momentous thing for him. She knew he would not reject the coming child, but it was likely he would simply shrug his acceptance, promise to provide for the infant, and leave it at that. The child would be his bastard. The child’s mother was his mistress. They had no claims except those of love and honor. He would fulfil the latter claim, but Portia didn’t know about the former.

And she needed more… much much more… than a dutiful response. She couldn’t endure to think of her child growing up as she had done, knowing herself to be unwanted, to be a nuisance, a dependent burden with no established place in the world. And yet she knew with grim certainty that the bastard child of a bastard was doubly cursed.

She wanted to tell someone. Needed to confide, to talk through it, to come to some understanding of her own feelings. But apart from Rufus, she had no one else to listen to her on such a subject.

“Eh, lassie, you didn’t come fer breakfast.” Bill hailed her as she hovered in the entrance to the mess tent. “There’s a nice piece of fat bacon ‘ere an’ a fresh bannock.”

“I’ll just have the bannock, thank you, Bill,” Portia said hastily, averting her eyes from the thick white and highly prized fat around the slab of bacon Bill was preparing to slice.

“Please yerself, lass. But it’s a rare treat.”

“Just not this morning, thanks. Is there any milk?”

“Aye, in the pitcher out back.” He gestured with his head to the rear of the tent where stone pitchers stood in bowls of cold water.

Portia drank deeply, straight from the pitcher. The milk was cool, creamy, new drawn that morning from the small herd of cows at pasture in the valley. Granville cattle, pastured outside the castle. There’d be no milk for those imprisoned within the walls. She replaced the pitcher, dipping a finger into the bowl of cold water. What must it be like to have no water? To ration it and watch the level dropping with the knowledge that there would be no more?

Even if Cato had been able to send men undetected out of the secret entrance, they’d never be able to carry back sufficient water for the whole castle. He must be watching every day, in increasing desperation, for the relief forces to conie to his aid. But Fairfax and Leven were too busy after their defeat at York to spare time and men for Castle Granville.

She wandered out of the mess tent and down to the moat. The level of the water was low. It had been close to six weeks since it had last rained, and even the snowmelt had dissipated. The mud and weed at the bottom of the moat were clearly visible through the scummy water. Once in the water, she would be so far below the level of the bank she would only be visible to a man looking directly down into the moat. And the pickets didn’t do that. They walked the perimeter of the camp, and the bank along the moat around the castle, and when they weren’t looking straight ahead, they looked upward at the battlements or directly across at the castle walls. And the smoke from the fires would provide additional cover.

It would be too risky to climb down into the moat directly opposite the drawbridge. The Decatur guard was heaviest there. But around the other side, around by the duck island… It was darker there, the lights of the encampment less obtrusive. Once in the water, if she swam close under the bank, she would have a good chance of being undetected. And the secret door was set into the wall immediately below where the support for the drawbridge jutted out into the moat, even when the bridge was up. She would be in shadow there, able to take the time to find the catch to open the door.

Portia realized with remarkably little surprise that she had formed her plan without consciously coming to a decision. It seemed inevitable that she was going into the castle to talk with Olivia and Phoebe. She needed to find out how they were, and she needed to confide her own condition. Her friends had nothing to do with this damned war and even less to do with Rufus and Cato. She would not be betraying Rufus by simply talking with them. He had understood once before… had finally accepted her need to do that. This was no different from the last time.

She made her preparations with the same detached mental efficiency that had created the plan. She exchanged picket duty with Paul, who was only too happy to relinquish the midnight-to-four shift. Rufus thought nothing of her going on duty at midnight, and nothing of her retiring to bed immediately after supper while he was still entertaining Prince Rupert and his officers.

When he came to bed at eleven o’clock, Portia feigned sleep, although she was far too keyed up to sleep. He didn’t light the lamp, relying on the dim reflection of the torch kept burning throughout the night in a sconce beyond the entrance flap. She knew he wouldn’t disturb her in the half hour before she had to be up, and lay still on her narrow cot, aware of him standing above her as he pulled off his boots, aware of his eyes on her still countenance as he listened to her breathing. Then he moved away from her and she could relax and listen to him moving about the small grass-scented space.

She could see him as clearly as if she had her eyes open… see his every gesture with the clarity of love and lust, knowing when he unbuckled his belt, unfastened the waistband of his britches, unbuttoned his shirt… see him pull the shirt from the loosened waistband of his britches with both hands in a rough, hasty motion that never varied. Behind her closed eyes, she could see his broad chest now, the small hard nipples, the line of red-gold hair creeping down to the navel in the concave belly, and then down… He was pushing off his britches, kicking them free of his feet, bending to strip off his stockings.

The ropes on his own cot creaked under his weight, and she knew as surely as if he was lying beside her that he was sleeping in his underdrawers. Not that he would be wearing them if he was lying beside her. A smile touched her lips. She found deeply pleasing the idea of his sleeping in clothed celibacy when she was not available.

Her eyes were suddenly heavy, her breathing taking up the sleeping rhythm of Rufus’s deep, even breaths. Sleep came for her, soft and caressing as swansdown…

She was jerked awake. Rufus’s hand was on her shoulder, gently shaking her, and beyond the tent flap she heard the sentry sent to wake her, calling her name in a hoarse whisper.

“You were dead to the world,” Rufus said softly. He was leaning across the small space that separated their cots.

Portia groaned. She couldn’t help it. The shock of waking from the deep currents of first sleep was too much, and immediately the waves of nausea churned in her belly.

“Go back to sleep,” Rufus said. “I’ll take your duty.”

“No… no.” She sat up, thrusting the sticky cobwebs of sleep away. “No, it’s my duty. I’ll do it.” She kicked aside the blanket and sat up, keeping her head lowered in the hope that she could master the sickness before she had to stand up.

“Portia, are you ill?” His voice was sharp with concern.

“No… no.” She shook her head gingerly. “I just don’t want to be awake at midnight.” She reached for her britches at the bottom of the cot. She had gone to bed in her clothes, except for the britches, and now had only to thrust her stockinged feet into the legs and pull them up and then step into her boots to be ready to go.

Gently she stood up. The world swung around her and her stomach swung with it. She bit the inside of her cheek until the pain made her eyes water as she fastened the waistband and buckled her belt. Rapier and knife lay ready to be sheathed. She held on to the tent post as she stepped into her boots.

Rufus was lying propped on an elbow, watching her in the dim light, his eyes narrowed. Something was amiss. Was it just the disorientation of an abrupt waking? Every instinct told him to insist that she go back to her cot. But to do that would mean denying her the respect she demanded and had earned among the men of Decatur. She expected no concessions, and on the one or two occasions they’d been offered had rejected them with vigorous indignation.

Portia thrust her rapier into its sheath and tucked her knife into her boots. She had herself in hand now and was able to smile as she blew him a kiss before ducking through the small opening.

Rufus fell back on the cot and lay with his hands linked behind his head, now fully awake, disturbed by a deep unease that had no apparent cause.

Portia nodded to the man who had woken her and made her way through the camp away from the castle to the outside perimeter, where the man she was to relieve was walking the picket line. This particular patrol was a lonely one, ideally suited to her purposes. The main activity was concentrated at the castle, but the entire bivouac had to be picketed along its outer perimeters and this stretch of territory was isolated, covering the wooded area at the rear of the camp. No one would come this way. It crossed no other picket line. No one would know if the picket on duty had slipped away from her post for an hour or two. Or only in the most unfortunate of circumstances, and Portia had decided it was a risk worth taking.

Adam greeted her with a grin of relief. “Hell’s teeth, but am I glad to see you. I thought Paul was taking the next one, though.”

“I exchanged with him. I wanted some time tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh, aye.” Adam nodded in easy acceptance. “Well, it’s been about as exciting as a spinster’s bed. I wish ye joy of it.” He raised a hand in farewell and set off with a bounce in his stride to an ale pot in the mess.

Portia realized that she no longer felt sick. Perhaps terror was the antidote. She patrolled her route three times. No one came near her. There were no sounds but the occasional faint noises from the camp below, the usual forest rustles of small animals, and the call of a nightjar. The moon was new, a mere sliver in the dark sky, visible only occasionally when the heavy thunderclouds shifted. The evening star showed now and again, but on the whole the night was as dark as one could expect a night in June to be.

Portia slipped into the trees and found the oak tree she had selected that afternoon. She felt beneath the thick moss covering its roots and pulled out the dark cap that would cover her hair. She took off her boots and her stockings and her white shirt, burying them beneath the moss. Without a shirt, the dark wool jerkin was hot and prickly against her bare skin, but it would enable her to blend with the shadows. Her rapier joined the discarded garments under the moss. She bound the knife against her leg over her britches with a strip of linen, wrapping the sharp blade securely in several folds of material.

She thrust the fruit she had also hidden into her pockets – apples and pears. It was all she could take. Anything more substantial would be ruined by the water in the moat, but she had reasoned that if one was thirsty, the moist flesh and sweet juice of the fruit would be welcome. In final preparation, she tied a kerchief around her mouth and nose. Then, barefoot, she crept forward through the trees, around the castle until she was abreast of the ducks’ island.

She slithered down the hill on her belly. The picket was walking his line-a two-hundred-yard stretch between the posts. When he was three quarters of the way back, facing away from her, Portia slithered the last few yards and dropped over the rim of the moat. She stayed there, finding a foothold in the bank so she could hold herself above the water level, clinging to a twisted root poking through the mud just above her head.

The fires were smoldering against the walls, but the kerchief protected her from the worst of the smoke and would muffle an inconvenient cough. She waited until she heard the picket return. When he turned again and passed her, she inched forward, clinging like a mollusk to the bank, hoping to keep herself as dry as possible for as long as possible. There were three patrols between the ducks’ island and the drawbridge, and her greatest danger would come when she followed the curve of the moat to the stretch where it ran directly in front of the encampment.

Luck was with her. She seemed to have found a ridge of soil in the bank of the moat, just wide enough to give her toes purchase, and she was able to creep crabwise under the overhang until the shadow of the drawbridge supports loomed ahead. Above her she could hear muted voices now and again as the pickets exchanged comments, but the camp was abed. As was the castle-or so she hoped.

Facing the wall beneath the drawbridge, Portia took a deep breath. If she stopped to think, she wouldn’t do it. She slid beneath the surface of the water, feeling the weeds reaching up to twist and twine around her ankles as she swam underwater the short distance to the shadowy safety of the far wall.

She raised her head above the surface of the water and took a gulp of air. It was acrid with smoke but better than nothing. She ducked back beneath the water and waited with bursting lungs, in case anyone on the bank had noticed a disturbance on the water during her swim. Once it had dissipated, they would with luck move on and forget about it.

When she could hold her breath no longer, she slowly raised her head again. The hulking shape of the drawbridge supports was directly above her head. The castle wall where the level of water had dropped was green with slime. Above the green, however, the wall was as clean as she remembered it when she was standing on the ice. She edged closer to the wall, feeling with her toes for a crack or cranny where she could stand and lift herself out of the water and up to the level of the door. Her questing feet found what they sought. It was a bare toehold, but it lifted her high enough to reach up and find the lines of the door.

But where was the lever that opened it? She had found it by accident before. But this time she couldn’t stand with her back against it and find the pressure point by the same lucky chance. At least she knew that it was contained within the door itself and not along the edge. She took the top section of the door and moved her hands over the stone, pressing firmly with the heels of her palms. Then she moved down several inches and covered that area.

Despite the warm night, she was rapidly chilled, her wet clothes clammy and clinging. Her hands were shaking, her teeth chattering so loudly she was sure someone would hear. Whether it was with cold or tension she no longer knew, but doggedly she continued her minute exploration of the stone.

And then it happened. There was a tiny click and she felt the stone move beneath her flat palms. Her heart jumped. The slab swung inward just as she’d remembered. She hauled herself up and over the edge into the black tunnel. It seemed darker even than she’d remembered it, and she was now bitterly cold.

She hesitated, the door still open behind her. It was not too late to go back… to forget this whole crazy idea. Her teeth chattered unmercifully and she began to shake with cold. If she went back now…

Even as Portia thought this, thought of her dry shirt waiting among the roots of the oak tree, she was pulling the door gently closed behind her and moving along the tunnel, holding the walls as she’d done before. The vault opened up ahead. It was empty now. Portia made for the opening in the far wall that would take her to the stairs. She was moving swiftly, silently, without thought.

With barely a whisper, the door opened as easily as it had done before, and Portia found herself in the familiar scullery. The silence was profound. There was no fire in the range; even the clock was still. She flitted through the scullery to the back stairs. As she crossed the kitchen she heard a sound. A shuffle, a mumble. She froze against the walls, praying her dark clothes would make her inconspicuous in the shadowy kitchen. The sound came again and she relaxed. Someone was snoring. One of the kitchen boys was presumably sleeping on a bench near the empty range.

She slid onto the stairs, as stealthily as any spy in an enemy camp, and flew upward. The stairs opened onto a little-used corridor that intersected the main passage where the family’s bedchambers were to be found.

Portia had almost forgotten that she was cold and wet now. Excitement and terror warmed her, kept her moving to Olivia’s door. She lifted the latch and slipped inside, and only when she’d closed the door behind her did she realize that her heart was beating so violently it felt as if it would burst from her chest.