Cato cast her a quick glance now and again, relieved to see that for once she was behaving with perfect propriety, eating in silence and making no attempt to draw attention to herself. The men around the table were considerately ignoring her, knowing how uncomfortable she must be feeling. The main problem was where she was to sleep. He frowned, ladling vegetable soup into his bowl.

Phoebe had finished her platter of suckling pig, but she was still hungry and the rich aroma of the soup was tantalizing. The great tureen, however, seemed to have come to a stop beside Cato. She tried casting a speaking look in his direction, but he was deep in conversation about horse breeding, a subject that clearly interested him more than the welfare of his wife.

She hesitated for a second, then lifted her chin and got up from her stool. There were a few surprised glances as she came around the table to Cato and the tureen.

“What is it?” Cato asked, with a quick displeased frown.

“May I have some soup?” She met his frown with another little tilt of her chin.

It was hardly an unreasonable request, although it had done what he’d been trying to avoid and every eye was now upon her. “Sit down, then,” Cato instructed with a crisp edge to his voice. He inched up on the bench and put an arm at her waist as she clambered over.

“There’s a shortage of bowls and spoons, so you’ll have to use mine.” He refilled his bowl and passed it to her with the spoon. “Take what you want and I’ll finish it. Then I’ll find you somewhere to sleep.”

He wanted her to hurry and Phoebe obliged. She didn’t think she could endure many more minutes in this uncomfortable situation. Even Cato’s proximity was for once no help, and the impatience he was radiating destroyed her pleasure in the soup.

She put the spoon down and said, “I’ve finished, thank you, my lord.”

“Good. Let’s go abovestairs.” He swung off the bench with alacrity and helped her to her feet.

“Good night, Lady Granville. I trust you won’t be too disturbed,” Cromwell said. “We’re not all the quietest of sleepers.” Someone guffawed at this and there were a few more muted chuckles.

Now, just what did that mean?

“I bid you good night, gentlemen,” Phoebe said with a little curtsy to the company.

She followed Cato across the room to a narrow staircase at the far end. She understood the significance of Cromwell’s comment when they got to the top of the stairs. There was one long room under the eaves. It was lined with cots and leather-bound trunks.

“Does everyone sleep up here?” Her eyes widened at the implications. “All those men?”

“I did tell you there wasn’t any privacy,” Cato reminded her, holding up the lamp he’d carried up from the hall below. “It’s the very devil of a situation!”

“I didn’t make it happen,” she pointed out, stung. “If you like, I’ll go and sleep with the horses.”

Cato shot her a swift appraising glance. “This is hardly the time for jesting,” he observed aridly. He returned to his examination of the long room. “We’ll just have to make the best of it. Over here will do as well as anywhere.” He moved to the rear of the loft.

Phoebe followed, threading her way through the lines of cots. “But don’t the beds belong to people?”

Cato shook his head. “No. There’ll be folk moving in and out of them all night as the watch changes. No one lays claim to any one space.”

“Oh.” Phoebe looked around a mite helplessly.

“Here, this one’ll do. It’s against the wall, so you’ll only have one neighbor.” He gestured to a cot in the corner. “There’s a blanket and a pillow of sorts. Don’t strip down beyond your shift.”

“I wasn’t about to,” Phoebe said. “Where will you sleep?”

“I’ll decide when I come up later.” He set the oil lamp on one of the chests at the foot of the cot. “Turn down the wick when you’re in bed.”

“Yes, but… but I need the privy,” Phoebe said in sudden panic. “I can’t go to bed without using it.”

Cato swore.

“I can’t help it,” Phoebe protested. “Everyone has to go sometimes. Even soldiers!”

Despite himself, Cato’s lips twitched. She had a point. “There’s an outhouse at the rear of the kitchen garden. No one uses it. Take the lantern and go down that way.” He gestured to a stairway that was little more than a ladder at the rear of the loft. “You shouldn’t meet anyone, but if you do, don’t talk, just be quick.”

He hastened away, obviously in a great hurry to get back to his cronies, Phoebe reflected acidly. She took up the lantern and went to find the outhouse.

She returned to the long dormitory having met no one on her journey. She took off her outer garments, laying them tidily over the chest. Her shift felt very skimpy as she stood by the cot. She could hear laughter from below and lamplight showed through the spaces in the floorboards. If she listened hard, she could distinguish snatches of conversation and recognize some of the voices.

She extinguished the lamp and lay down on the narrow cot, pulling the thin blanket over her. The pillow and mattress were stuffed with straw and crackled when she turned over. She lay listening to the sounds from below. The laughter had ceased and there was a different tenor to their voices, as if, supper over, they had returned to business. Phoebe identified the rich, mellow cadences of Cato s voice interspersed with the sharp and unmelodious tones of Cromwell and the lighter tones of General Fairfax. It sounded as if they were in dispute.

“If a man hasn’t the courage to take the ultimate step, then I can’t help but question his commitment,” Cromwell said, his voice nasal and strident.

“I trust it’s not my commitment you’re questioning.” Cato’s voice was even, almost amused, as if such an idea were laughable.

“You’d vote to depose the king?” Cromwell demanded.

Phoebe listened, straining to catch Cato’s reply. “It’s not a step to be taken lightly,” he replied after a minute. “We force peace on our terms. I see no reason to do more.”

“You think the king would abide by such an agreement?” The question came from General Fairfax and produced a buzz of response from the company.

“I think we must assume that he would.” Cato’s response was firm, rising over the buzz. “I didn’t enter this war to establish a republic.”

“Then this war has overtaken you,” Cromwell declared. “It’s no longer a gentlemanly exercise to persuade Our Sovereign Majesty to heed the wishes of his subjects.” His voice was bitter and ironic. “It’s a fight for the right to rule England. And I say the people’s rule must hold sway.”

“You go too far for me, Oliver,” Cato said, as firmly and evenly as before. “But we can surely agree to differ on the final outcome without throwing accusations of disloyalty at one another.”

“Aye, you have the right of it, Cato,” Fairfax said warmly. “Oliver, ‘tis foolish to fall out with your friends.”

“I said nothing about disloyalty,” Cromwell declared. “Only of a failure of commitment. But you’re right, ‘tis too early to talk of such things. Let us win first.”

This was received with a rousing cheer and stamping feet and the sound of goblets being banged upon the table in resounding approval.

Phoebe drifted off to this lullaby.

She awoke in darkness, faintly aware through the clinging tendrils of sleep of the sounds of breathing, of snores, the creaking of straw palliasses as men shifted in sleep. For a moment she was disoriented, then she felt the hand on her back and she remembered.

“Cato?” she breathed.

For answer, he kissed the back of her neck. She was lying on her stomach, her shift tangled around her waist, and she could feel his length along her back, the hard throb of his erection against her bottom. She reached her arms over her head in a languid, luxuriant stretch as her body came alive, her skin began to tingle in anticipation.