Page 26

Roysa walked up to them then, cloaked. He still could not believe all three women were traveling south. Actually, Sabine’s participation made sense. She bore the mark of the order, the fleur-de-lis on her back similar to their own marks. Her parents had taken a stand against King John long before Conrad and the others had formed the order. She deserved to see their mission through, despite the danger.

But Idalia and Roysa . . . this would be dangerous for them. Although he didn’t doubt Terric’s and Lance’s ability to keep them safe, he wouldn’t want his own wife anywhere near London. Of course, he had no wife. Nor was it his decision.

“She still will not come?” Conrad asked, Roysa’s presence allowing him to avoid his friend’s question.

Why did Roysa avoid her husband’s gaze? And his own?

“Nay. Perhaps we should leave. The courtyard is filled with men . . .”

He watched her carefully. When Terric leaned down to place a kiss on his wife’s cheek, a flush crept up her cheeks. She seemed almost . . . guilty. Something was amiss, but Conrad had no notion of what it could be, and Terric didn’t seem to notice.

“Shall we go?”

When Roysa nodded, Terric extended his hand to Conrad.

Conrad clasped it, harder than was his custom. Although the Scot hadn’t said so, his gesture made it clear that, although he was displeased, their friendship remained intact. Dented, perhaps. But not broken as Conrad had once feared.

“She will be safe here,” he reassured Terric, and himself.

Conrad had decided to take just over fifty men. Much less than they’d originally intended, but all four of them, including his marshal, had agreed. If it became necessary to take London by force, they would send for reinforcements. With King John in Battleboro, his forces could be mobilized sooner than the king’s.

Still so much uncertainty. But such was the case in a rebellion.

Releasing Terric’s hand, Conrad followed him and Roysa from the hall after saying goodbye to the others, looking back one last time. Though he did not expect to see her, he was still oddly disappointed when there was no sign of Cait.

The noise of his men, and Terric’s, reached them before they even stepped out of the keep. Although their retinue was modest, horses of all kinds—sumpters and ponies, and the destriers that would be needed in case of battle—mingled with squires and pages as they finished loading the supply carts.

Conrad spotted the fisherman who would assist in feeding them between lodgings and his own squire, Christopher, loading Conrad’s personal packhorse. The day was cool, and Christopher handed him a thick mantle as he approached his mount.

“Ansel will ride at the front, my lord.”

Ansel being his marshal.

Conrad glared at the boy of ten and five, the marshal’s own son. The boy had likely saved Conrad’s life at the last Tournament of the North. Christopher had insisted on repairing the stop-rib of his left cuisse, despite his protests that the repair was unnecessary and too time-consuming. Later, of course, his opponent’s lance grazed that very thigh. The armor had protected his groin as designed, and he’d thanked the boy, who had beamed for days, telling the tale to all who would listen.

“Tell Ansel—”

“I cannot, my lord,” the boy said, his cheeks slightly red. “He knew you would protest and has already ridden out.”

“Ridden out?” Conrad boomed. He’d just seen the man moments earlier in the hall. “He cannot . . .”

Taking a deep breath, he thought about his wayward marshal, deliberately disobeying his orders. Conrad’s father had always ridden at the front, and he’d taken up the practice despite protestations from Ansel and the captain of his guard.

“He will hear about it this eve,” he grumbled.

Terric and Roysa had already moved away, surrounded by their clansmen and the knights of Dromsley who had accompanied him.

Upon closer inspection, Conrad should have known Ansel had left already with some of the men. Just half of their number remained, waiting on him. Conrad could catch him, ride to the front, and send the marshal back. But he didn’t want to shame the man or lead the men to question his authority. And so he swallowed his anger and mounted, indicating that Christopher should do the same.

Gripping the reins, he gave the command and the entire courtyard of knights, soldiers, and servants began to advance. Turning one last time, he looked toward the direction of Cait’s bedchamber, even though he knew he’d not see her through the narrow arrowslits in the stone.

He could not think of her now. She’d refused to say goodbye, even knowing he may never return. Even knowing he might die. That he’d allowed himself to be surprised, again, said more about him than it did Cait. Still, after all this time, he had been willing to talk again. To try to understand.

You are a Goddamn fool, Conrad.

He turned back, gripped his horse with his legs, and spurred it forward.

Their journey had begun.