Not that it made any difference, since the information was now as public as it could be, flying for all to see for miles around from the battlements of Castle Granville. But Cato would have dearly liked to know which way his enemy was going to jump. Was Rufus still sitting on the fence, watching the turmoil unfolding across the land with an ironical observer’s eye, planning his own entrance into the anarchy where it would bring him and his band the most benefit?
Cato could not believe that Rufus would make his decision based on anything other than self-interest. If Decatur allied himself with the winning side, then he could expect rewards. He could expect that the house of Rothbury would be returned to its former position of wealth, influence, and prestige.
If indeed that was what he wanted. Rufus Decatur was a born outlaw, and a born leader. He attracted men like bees to pollen. Good men and bad. Men in search of excitement. Men unwilling or unable to live within the ordinary laws of society. Would such a man ever be able to return to the civilized world?
But there was a war to be fought before such questions could be answered. And for all the excitement among the men leaving the parade ground, for all Cato’s own jubilation, the marquis of Granville saw the shadow of a bloody death across all their futures.
Chapter 5
“Well, well, will you look at that, now.” Rufus smiled within his red beard, but his bright blue eyes were hard as diamonds. He sat his horse and looked across the roll of low hills spread out before him to where Castle Granville stood on its own hill, higher than the rest, Parliament’s flags flying from keep and buttress.
“Cock of the dunghill,” he said scornfully. “Crowing defiance and boastful pride.”
“Seems like they’re having some kind of feast,” Will observed, shading his eyes with his hand. “You can smell the roasting meat from here.” There was a wistful note in his voice; they’d left Decatur village just after sunup and it was now nearly noon.
“Aye, an‘ there’s ’alf the countryside goin‘ in to join ’em, looks like,” their companion muttered.
In silence the three men watched the scene below them. Folk in holiday dress were pouring across the drawbridge into the castle, children pranced and darted, and the sound of drums and pipes drifted upward, the music both martial and merry.
“I reckon they’re celebratin‘ Granville comin’ out for Parliament.”
“So it would seem, George,” Rufus agreed absently. He tapped his whip against his boot in the stirrup, his gaze fixed on the activity below, the snapping banners, a pair of skaters on the frozen moat, a beer keg being rolled across the drawbridge by a group of exuberant youths. “So it would seem,” he murmured again.
Will glanced sideways, his expression immediately alert. He knew that tone. And when Rufus turned his vivid blue gaze toward him, Will’s heart sank. Pure mischief raced across those serenely smiling orbs, and the full-lipped mouth within the red-gold beard had a curve to it that filled Will with familiar foreboding.
“What are you thinking, Rufus?” he inquired uneasily.
Rufus’s smile broadened. “Oh, I thought maybe we should beg a little hospitality from our friend Granville. It’s been a long time since breakfast, and that meat certainly sets a man’s juices running.”
“You’re goin‘ along there, m’lord?” George sounded more resigned than horrified. “Reckon you can get lost in the crowd?”
“Why not?” Rufus shrugged carelessly, kicking his chestnut into motion. The others followed as he rode down into the valley and halfway up the hill topped by Castle Granville.
Rufus drew rein behind a screen of holly bushes, observing, “This is about as close as we can get.”
“You’re mad!” Will exclaimed. “Granville will hang you from the highest battlement.”
“He might if he knew I was there,” Rufus agreed amiably. He swung from his horse and unstrapped a blanket roll from his saddle. “Give me a hand with this, George.”
George dismounted. He knew exactly what was required of him. Rufus Decatur, among other talents, was a master of disguise.
Rufus shrugged off his cloak and fashioned a pad out of the blanket. With George’s help, he fastened the pad to his shoulder as Will watched with resignation.
“Now, how does it look?” Rufus slung his cloak of dark homespun over his shoulder, drawing the hood up, clasping it tightly at his throat. He was transformed. His tall, powerful frame was suddenly frail, bent, one shoulder higher than the other, a hump disfiguring the straight lines of his back.
“You’ll pass,” Will said with a reluctant grin. He’d seen the disguise many times, but it still astonished him. It was so simple-a transformation of the very features, his height and commanding presence, that made Rufus Decatur so distinctive. Without those features, the name of Decatur would never spring to mind.
George cut a stout stick from a sapling and handed it to the master of Decatur, and the transformation was complete. Bent and supported by his stick, in his homespun country garments of cloak, jerkin, and britches, the hood pulled low over his eyes, Rufus had become a local villager.
“I’m going in alone,” he said, waving away Will’s immediate protests. “One interloper is less risky than three.”
“Why?” Will demanded. “What can you possibly hope to gain from taking such a risk?”
“I thought you were hungry,” Rufus said in mock surprise. “I certainly am. I’m going to forage at Cato Granville’s feast- what else?”
“What else indeed?” Will muttered, watching as Rufus moved discreetly from the concealment of the bushes. “He’s up to something else, isn’t he, George?”
“Reckon so,” George agreed phlegmatically. “But I could still use some o‘ that meat. Smells powerful good from ’ere.” He gave an appreciative sniff as the wind brought the rich aromas of roasting meat mingled with wood smoke to tantalize his taste buds.
Rufus moved alone for no more than five minutes, then blended in with the stream of people climbing the hill from the village at its base, and Will had difficulty keeping him in sight as he shambled upward, leaning heavily on his stick. When the crowd reached the drawbridge, Rufus disappeared from view and Will was left to chew his nails in anxiety.
Rufus glanced sideways down into the moat as he crossed the drawbridge. The two figures he had seen earlier were still skating. He was not prepared for the strange jolt of recognition in the pit of his belly when Portia Worth swirled beneath him, the hood of her drab cloak thrown back, her orange hair fizzing in a shaft of weak sunlight.
It wasn’t that he was surprised to see her. He’d known she’d be somewhere in the castle. And yet he was aware of a most peculiar sense of disturbance… the disquieting thought that he’d come to Granville’s castle to look for her. Which was, of course, quite ridiculous.
Then she was gone, disappearing beneath the drawbridge below, and he had entered under the raised portcullis and was in enemy territory with the need to keep all his wits about him.
Great fires burned in the center of the outer ward, and barons of beef, whole sheep, and suckling pigs were roasting over the fires, pairs of young lads turning the spits, their cheeks scarlet from the heat and the contents of the ale pitchers from which they refreshed themselves, their eyes watering from the smoke.
A fiddler was playing in the corner of the ward, and a troupe of Morris dancers was entertaining the crowd, their bells melodious amid the exuberant shouts and cheers of their audience. Trestle tables laden with mounds of potatoes, breads, cakes, cheeses, and rounds of golden butter stood against the walls, but the greatest activity was centered around the kegs of ale.