“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?”

Rufus leaned forward and plucked the cap from Portia’s head. “No,” he said distantly. “She’s not one of my men, but she travels with us.”

“Oh, aye.” The captain nodded his understanding. Camp followers were common enough, although it was unusual to see them dressed as this one was. But then, this one had been up to something more sinister than merely following the drum. “But she’s been spying, you say?”

“So it would seem,” he said as distantly as before. “And not for the first time.”

“No, I haven’t!” Portia heard the desperation in her voice. She couldn’t believe that Rufus had denied her to the captain… had relegated her to the status of a whore. “You know I haven’t, Rufus.”

He ignored the appeal. “You do not deny that you entered the castle by a secret entrance?”

“No.”

“You do not deny that you knew that by so doing you were consorting with the enemy?”

“Olivia and Phoebe aren’t the enemy,” she said, her voice dull as she understood that she was not going to convince him of the innocence of her errand… not this time.

“You were in that castle. You were among the enemy.” He waved a dismissive hand. “You swore allegiance to the Decatur standard and you betrayed that allegiance.”

Portia shook her head, her cheek and lip throbbing. “Please, Rufus – ”

“Did you take anything into the castle?” The interruption was as hard and rasping as a file against iron She looked at him, bewildered. “Just fruit,” she said. “I thought they might be thirsty.” And then she heard how she had finally condemned herself.

The captain said swiftly, “That’s offering comfort and succor to the rebels, the king’s enemies. It’s treason and a matter for headquarters.”

Rufus looked steadily at Portia. “How could I have been so deceived?” he said. “You are a Granville. You carry the germ of deceit and betrayal in your blood.” He turned away with a gesture of disgust.

“It’s a matter for headquarters, m’lord,” the captain repeated. “She’ll be sent there for questioning as soon as it’s light.”

“Rufus…” Portia held out her hand in appeal. He couldn’t walk away from her. Surely he couldn’t.

He glanced over his shoulder and said with the same cold distance. “I can do nothing for you. You condemned yourself.” He pushed through the tent door and was gone.

Portia stared at the tent flap still stirring where he’d roughly thrust it aside. She couldn’t believe that her whole world had collapsed, so suddenly, so completely, and so without just cause. But they were binding her hands with thick, rough rope and prodding her forward, out into the night, and the reality of imprisonment, of the horrors of interrogation that awaited her in York, of the spy’s noose at the end of the agony, filled her mind. She wanted to scream at the injustice, but her tongue was locked.

They forced her to sit at the base of a tree a few hundred yards from the guard tent, and they tied her securely to the trunk with rope beneath her arms. They used the loose end of the rope that held her wrists to bind her ankles as well, and then they left her trussed, wet and shivering, to await the dawn.