All thoughts of dalliance, all vestiges of perplexity, were instantly banished. The call meant only one thing. Something of more than ordinary interest had been spied by a sentry. He set off at a rapid pace, climbing back up the hillside.
Portia stood on the path for a minute, still trying to order her senses. Then the trumpet shrilled again and without further thought she began to clamber up after Rufus. There was something so urgent, so elemental, about that call that it couldn’t be resisted.
Will, terse with excitement, handed Rufus a spyglass as the master reached him. “Troop of soldiers, to the north, at four o’clock.”
“Granville men?” Rufus wiped the glass with his gloved thumb before putting it to his eye. Neither man acknowledged Portia’s swift and silent arrival.
“Don’t reckon so. They’re not flying the Granville standard.”
Rufus examined the troop of horsemen moving across the barren landscape some five miles distant. “Looks like Leven’s standard,” he said. “Cavalry-fifteen or twenty of ‘em. Wonder where they’re going?”
“We going to stop ‘em getting wherever that is?” Will was grinning ear to ear as he asked what was clearly a rhetorical question.
Rufus lowered the spyglass. “Well, now,” he teased. “I’m not sure about that.”
Will’s grin widened. “How many of us?”
“Thirty. Pikes and muskets. Breastplates and gauntlets, but tell ‘em to keep their cloaks tight. We’ll keep our warlike aspect hidden until we’re upon them.”
“Right. Shall I sound the call to arms?”
“By all means.” Rufus turned and seemed to see Portia for the first time. “Don’t get in the way,” he commanded, as crisply authoritative as if that moment on the path had never taken place. Then he set off down the hill, without undue haste this time, while behind him the trumpet shrilled two notes that sent another shiver of excitement down Portia’s spine.
Portia followed, keeping back so as not to draw attention to herself, and if Rufus was aware she was following him he gave no sign. He strode through the village where men were crowding the lane, strapping on breastplates, shouldering muskets, as they hurried to muster on the bank of the river.
Will appeared as if from nowhere, moving among the men, sending some of them back to work, ordering the others to form a group beneath a bare willow tree.
Rufus walked up to the group of thirty men, and their excited chatter died down. They regarded him expectantly. Portia hung back, fascinated.
“Who’s for a foray against Leven’s men?” Rufus inquired genially, standing feet apart, hands resting on his hips. His eyes were electric and Portia could feel the energy pulsing from him in waves that drew the men toward him even as they yelled an exuberant affirmative.
“We’ll prick his tail a little,” Rufus said. “We’ll take the More battle track and circle them, meeting them head-on this side of Yetholm, Any questions?”
“We takin‘ prisoners, m’lord?”
“All prisoners will be escorted to royalist headquarters at Newcastle,” Rufus stated crisply. “Anything else?”
There were headshakes in response. “Right, gentlemen, let’s get moving.”
The men broke up, heading for the stables at a run, barely hampered by their armor and weapons. Rufus turned and saw Portia, who was half hiding behind another willow tree. He beckoned her across and there was no sign now of the man who had kissed her with such passion such a short time ago.
“You’ll stay here. You know where the mess is; they’ll feed you there. You have the use of my cottage.” He caught her chin on a gloved hand and said with unmistakable menace, “If you cause any trouble while I’m gone, Mistress Worth, I promise you will regret it. Do I make myself clear?”
“As crystal,” Portia said, refusing to lower her eyes.
He still held her chin in silence for a minute, then he released her and strode home. Portia kept pace with him.
In the cottage she stood leaning against the door, watching as he lifted a massive sword, sheathed in leather, from a hook on the far wall. He buckled it to his thick swordbelt, and strapped on a steel breastplate over his buff jerkin. He ran a gloved finger over the blade of a wickedly curved dagger before sheathing it, then slung his cloak over his shoulders, clasping it at the neck.
“Remember what I’ve said.” He gave her a short nod, then moved her aside and left, taking some current of energy with him, leaving the kitchen feeling deserted and lifeless.
Portia huddled deeper into her cloak, gazing sightlessly at the glowing coals in the hearth. With a sudden unplanned movement, she drew the hood up to cover her blazing hair. She left the cottage, not sure exactly what she intended doing but infused with a sense of excitement and daring that seemed to propel her along a path of its own choosing.
Chapter 10
The stable yard on the surface was a scene of chaos. Men and horses milled, grooms raced to and from the tack room with equipment, while others were scurrying around filling saddlebags with provisions from the mess. Rufus stood head and shoulders above the throng, holding Ajax’s bridle and issuing orders to Will, who stood beside him.
It was clear to Portia after a minute’s observation that beneath the apparent chaos was a steady, well-ordered process with which everyone was thoroughly familiar. No one had time to notice her, and even if they did they would see only an unremarkable figure in britches and frieze cloak who could be any one of the young men rushing around the yard.
She slipped into the stable, knowing exactly which horse she was looking for. A dainty mare called Penny, who had caught her eye on her earlier visit to the stables during her tour with Rufus. The horse was still in her stall at the far end of the stable block, saddle and bridle hanging conveniently on the crossbar at the rear of the stall, and it was a matter of minutes to saddle her in the deserted building.
Casually, with what she hoped was an air of authority and familiarity, Portia led the mare out of the stable and into the yard. Men were mounted now and the horses stamped and blew, sensing the excitement.
Portia swung herself up onto Penny and unobtrusively edged the mare into the group of mounted men. Rufus mounted the magnificent Ajax, cast a glance over his troop of men, then raised his hand and gestured forward. The young men who had been left behind looked enviously at their luckier fellows as the chosen group clattered out of the yard and turned along the riverbank.
Toby and Luke tumbled into the lane as the cavalcade approached. They clambered onto a gate shouting, “Papa… Papa!” at the tops of their voices.
Rufus drew rein and leaned down to scoop them off the gate, setting them on his saddle in front of him. It was a position they were used to, but one that awed them. Their ecstatic shrieks were abruptly cut off. They gazed around wide-eyed in mingled terror and pride as Ajax climbed the hill at the head of the troop of horse.
At the top of the hill, Rufus lifted his sons down into the waiting arms of the watchman. “Send them back when we’ve gone.”
“Aye, m’lord.” The man grinned, settling a child on each hip. “Good luck, sir.”
They passed through the sentry post and trotted across the hillside, no one as yet aware that Lord Rothbury’s little troop contained not thirty but thirty-one members.
Portia realized with a startled jolt that she had succeeded in escaping Decatur village. She had acted without conscious motivation, not really believing that she would pull it off. But here she was, lost in this knot of men, unnoticed by their commander, and presumably a moment would come when she could lag behind, slide into a clump of trees, vanish from sight. She’d be free and clear, despite Rufus Decatur’s complacent lectures on the security of his stronghold.
She couldn’t help grinning, and then her grin faded as she wondered how Cato would receive her return. Surely he’d be interested in her information? Diana, of course, had probably been singing good riddance since Portia’s abrupt disappearance, but Olivia, at least, would be pleased to see her.