Portia jumped back into bed, pushing her freezing feet deep down into the night’s warmth of the blankets. “What?”

“My father!” It was hard to tell from her wide-eyed excitement whether Olivia believed her news to be good or dreadful. Portia waited patiently as the other girl mastered her thoughts.

“He… he has d-declared for P-Parliament!” Olivia finally got out. “He’s raising the standard this morning.”

“Now, that is interesting,” Portia said thoughtfully. The Granvilles were the most influential noble family in the north. Their allegiance to Parliament’s cause would be a big blow to the royalists.

“My stepmother has taken to her bed.” Olivia took a deep breath, then said all in a rush, “She does that when something’s happening that she doesn’t like.” She exhaled noisily at the end of that effort and regarded Portia with the air of one who had done all that could be expected of her.

“Well, that should give everyone a little relief,” Portia observed and was rewarded by a chuckle from Olivia. Portia pushed aside the covers again with an air of resolution. “I should get up.”

“J-Janet was wondering where you were.”

“The nursemaid?” Portia pulled a face as she unraveled herself from the quilts and stood shivering for a minute in her shift. “I think that lady and I are going to find it difficult to get along.” She dressed rapidly, her fingers turning blue in the cold. “But first I need wood for the fire, and washing water. Where can I find it?”

“Summon a maid.”

Portia shook her head. “I don’t think anyone in Castle Granville is going to take kindly to waiting upon me. And I’m quite capable of looking after myself.” She slung her cloak around her shoulders, muttering, “I wish I didn’t feel the cold so dreadfully.” She hurried to the door, Olivia trailing behind her.

“Let’s go to the kitchen first.”

Olivia shrugged agreeably and followed the whirlwind who had entered her life, as Portia half ran down the corridor, her cloak swirling around her. In the kitchen, Olivia watched as Portia in a relaxed and easy fashion made herself known to the servants and the cook toiling amidst bubbling kettles and turning spits. In a matter of minutes she was provided with a jug of steaming hot water to wash with in the scullery, and on her return to the kitchen sat down to a dish of veal collops and eggs.

“Have you broken your fast, Olivia?” she inquired, hungrily spreading golden butter on a hunk of barley bread. “These eggs are very good.” She gestured with her knife to the bench beside her.

“Goodness me, Lady Olivia can’t be eatin‘ in the kitchen!” the cook exclaimed. “Off you go, m’lady. This is no place for you.”

“But I don’t wish to go,” Olivia declared with a stubborn air that Portia noted with interest. Olivia sat down beside Portia and looked defiantly around the room.

“Lord love a duck!” muttered a servitor from the pantry. “ ‘Er ladyship’ll ’ave a apoplexy!”

“Not bleedin‘ likely!” laughed a rotund, red-cheeked pastry maker. “Not that one. She’s all ice. She’ll freeze us all like Lot’s wife. That’s what ’er ladyship’ll do.” She slapped the rolling pin onto the sheet of pastry, sending flour rising into the air in a fine mist.

“Now, you ‘old yer tongue!” the cook chided, gesturing significantly to Olivia, who didn’t appear to be listening anyway. However, a somewhat uneasy silence fell, disturbed only by the sounds of pots and pans, until the kitchen door burst open, letting in a blast of icy air, and Lord Granville came in with Giles Crampton.

“How many kegs of ale have we in the scullery, Garsing?” Cato inquired cheerfully of the castle butler, a man distinguished from the other servants by the heavy cellar keys attached to his belt. “I want at least half a dozen in the outer ward tomorrow morning.

“And we’ll have barons of beef, suckling pig, and a couple of sheep on spits over the bonfires. Can you take care of that, Mistress Quick? There’s some celebrating to be done.” He stamped his feet and blew on his hands, his cheeks reddened with cold. But his eyes were bright, his whole body radiating energy and purpose.

And then his eye fell on the two girls at the table. He frowned. “What are you doing in here, Olivia?”

Portia jumped up and answered for her. “She was keeping me company, my lord, while I broke my fast.”

“And why are you breaking your fast in the kitchen?” His frown deepened.

“I didn’t consider it seemly that your servants should wait upon me, sir.”

Cato glanced around the kitchen, and his servants avoided his eye. He returned his gaze to his daughter, his frown deepening. “Where is your stepmother? Surely she would not have approved your presence here.”

Olivia pinkened with the effort of gathering the sounds together. Cato waited, slapping his gloves into the palm of one hand. Portia, without resuming her seat, surreptitiously chased the last mouthful of veal collop onto her fork.

“Madam my m-mother is abed, sir.”

Cato frowned. As he’d feared, Diana was seriously upset by his decision to change allegiance. But she was his wife. She’d support him once she’d become accustomed to the idea.

He lost interest in his daughter’s presence in the kitchen and turned back to Giles, who was waiting patiently by the door. “Giles, declare tomorrow a holiday for the men and tell them to bring their families to the feast. Open the gates and bid the villagers welcome, too. All those, at least, who’ll stand up for Parliament with their lord,” he added, but in a tone that indicated any dissenters would surprise him. “If it doesn’t snow again, we’ll find some music, have dancing. A holiday feast for all who choose to join us.” He gestured expansively.

“The men’ll be right glad of it, sir.” Giles beamed. “They’re in ‘oliday spirits already. Ye’ll not find any turnin’ their back on the standard.”

“Good.” Cato nodded his satisfaction and headed for the door again. Then he paused and glanced across at Portia, who, no longer the focus of attention, had resumed her place at the table and was finishing her breakfast.

Cato examined her pale freckled face as intently as if he could read the thoughts behind the clear green eyes. Why did he have the impression that this newcomer to his household was as unreadable as a cipher? With a sudden decision to catch her off balance, he asked abruptly, “What personal impression did you gain of Lord Rothbury, niece?”

The question took Portia completely by surprise, but she answered calmly enough, “I don’t think I gained one at all, my lord. At least, I didn’t find him very interesting.”

Cato raised an eyebrow. If his niece had not found Rufus Decatur interesting, she was a most unusual member of her sex, if rumor was to be believed. It was said the man rampaged around the countryside like a rutting stallion, leaving a trail of broken hearts and bastard children in his wake. But then, judging by the dagger-throwing episode, Jack’s daughter was a most unusual creature.

He turned again to the door. “Olivia, you should visit your stepmother without further delay. She may have need of you.” He drew on his gloves again and banged out of the kitchen in another icy blast.

Outside, he strode to the parade ground, where the men were falling out after the morning’s drill. Cato paused to look back up at the castle battlements where the pennants snapped, flying the colors of Parliament. They made a brave show against the ice blue sky. The air was so cold it hurt to breathe deeply, and the sun was a pale yellow round hanging low over the hulking Lammermuir Hills without a thread of warmth to it.

Where was Rufus Decatur at this moment? Holed up in his private fold of the Cheviot wasteland? The earl of Rothbury had known since the previous afternoon that Cato Granville was declaring for Parliament. The information had been pricked out of one of Giles’s less stoic companions during their ordeal at the hands of Decatur moss-troopers while the robber baron himself had entertained Granville’s niece by a cottager’s fireside. Cato was in little doubt that the attack on his men had been primarily designed to produce the information.