The army left at dawn. Portia heard them go in the gray early light, the steady tramp of boots, the clatter of hooves, jangle of bit and bridle. For once, there was no martial music, no pipe or drums, and the absence lent a somber note to the departure, so that Portia wondered if they were even flying the standards with the brave show of an army who believed in itself, in the rightness of the cause and the certainty of victory.
Rufus had always been open with his doubts about the wisdom of the king’s high command. Their bravery was unquestioned but their tactics and their assumptions were often less than rational. Now Portia wondered if he was feeling they were on a fool’s errand. She wondered what had happened at Castle Granville. Had Cato capitulated in the week she’d been absent? It was possible but unlikely. And if he hadn’t, then how had Rufus reacted to being given orders to abandon the siege?
It was dreadful to be so ignorant. Josiah had volunteered no information, and pride, useless and pointless, had kept Portia from asking directly what he might have gleaned about the siege, the army’s plans, and the mood in the camp.
She paced her cell, tormented with her ignorance, tortured with images of Rufus dead, dying, mutilated, screaming in agony. And then she heard the soft clop of hooves, the faint jingle of a bridle, a small whinny, and her heart leaped with hope. She ran to the barred door of her cell and stood there, holding the bars, listening for the familiar footstep.
Juno whined and stood on her hindlegs, putting her forefeet firmly on the door lock. Footsteps meant release.
“Rufus?” Portia could barely speak his name as she heard the bar lift on the outside door. Her hands were clammy, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. “Rufus…” Her voice died. Her disappointment was so great she didn’t think she could bear it.
Josiah came in, his arms laden, a glint in his faded eyes. “Come along, now, lass.” He set his burdens on the table and unlocked the cell door.
“The rear’ll be no more than ‘alf an hour ahead of you. And they’re not Decatur men. Decatur men are in the van… where’d you’d expect ’em to be.” He nodded with a hint of pride. “You’ll be able to mingle wi‘ the stragglers easy enough, ’cause they’ll not know you.”
“What’re you talking about, Josiah?” Portia stepped out of her cell. There was an unusual energy emanating from Josiah. And she felt the first stirrings of a nameless hope.
“You must go after ‘em, of course,” Josiah declared. “I’ve brought yer rapier an’ musket, an‘ the knife George took off you. An’ ‘ere’s yer breastplate, an’ ‘elmet, an’ jerkin. Penny’s all saddled an‘ ready to go. The army’s ’eadin‘ fer Marston Moor, just beyond York. There was plenty o’ talk in the mess last night. So, off you go, lass.”
Suddenly, Portia knew what was happening. She saw her way clear. Josiah was giving her her freedom and the means to be once more in command of her own destiny. She was no longer helpless.
She was too much a soldier now herself to have any more illusions about the coming battle than she knew Rufus would have. From the most optimistic viewpoint, he was as likely to die upon the field as to walk away from it. She wanted only the chance to put things right between them before he fought on that field.
As she pulled on her buff leather jerkin and strapped on her breastplate, she refused to allow the thought that Rufus wouldn’t listen to her, would still be so locked into his rage, that obsession-fueled rage of vengeance, that he would not hear her. She would make him listen to her. Make him hear.
Josiah handed her her weapons and she sheathed her rapier, thrust her knife into her boot, slung her musket and bandolier across her chest. Immediately she felt as if she’d reentered the world she knew. These were the tools of her trade. She tucked her telltale hair into the knitted black cap and put on her steel helmet. Only those who knew her well would recognize her for what she was.
“Will you take care of Juno, Josiah?”
“Aye. Don’t you worry about the pup,” Josiah replied. “Just get on wi‘ what ye’ve got to do.”
Portia went to the door and whistled for Juno. The puppy came scampering along the riverbank toward her, wagging her tail and bouncing on her large paws. Portia picked her up with some effort, and Juno licked her face ecstatically. “You’re going to stay with Josiah,” Portia told her and carried her into the jail.
“Can you hold her while I make my getaway?”
Josiah received the wriggling bundle placidly. “Away wi‘ you, then, lass, and God be wi’ you.”
“With us all,” Portia said somberly. Then she kissed Josiah soundly on both cheeks. “I’ll never forget this.”
“Eh, I’m an old man, lass, an‘ I can’t stand to see folks makin’ themselves un’appy fer no cause. You go after him, an‘ you put things right. The master’s a stubborn wite at times an’ ‘e makes mistakes like the rest of us.” He waved her away with his free hand.
Penny was cropping the grass, reins knotted at her neck. She whinnied in greeting as Portia stroked her neck and pulled her ears in her own customary greeting, inhaling the rich scent of horseflesh and leather.
It was the last day of June. Portia swung into the saddle and breathed deeply of the soft morning. It was still early, but the air already held the promise of another hot day. She turned Penny toward the hills and the mare trotted briskly upward and out of the Decatur stronghold through the now-deserted sentry post.
They took the York road. The sun came up, hot and dazzling, and the earth was hard, the grass smelling almost scorched. Penny seemed anxious to move quickly, her ears twitching with the knowledge of the army ahead of her, in whose ranks she knew she belonged. But Portia was in no hurry to catch up with the army. Their route would be easy to follow, and she wanted to run no risks of premature discovery, so she held the mare to an easy trot.
The hillside was yellow and purple with broom and heather, and Portia’s heart was singing as jubilantly as the larks hovering over the fragrant heath.
Rufus would listen to her. He would.
Chapter 23
The two men walked through the trees down to the river. Behind them rose the smoke of cooking fires in the afternoon air and the sounds of a large army making camp. Portia shadowed them, flitting soundlessly from the concealment of tree and bush, keeping them in sight but never coming close enough to risk detection. In the last two days, since they’d left Decatur village, she’d followed Rufus whenever the opportunity arose. Sliding in and out of crowds, her eyes hungrily pursuing him, her ears straining for the sound of his voice. It was an agony to be so far from him, and yet the sweetest torment to observe him in this way, unobserved herself.
During the march that had brought them to this place, the mounted Decatur men had stayed in the van, Prince Rupert’s infantry marching behind, a small cavalry force bringing up the rear. They had bivouacked for the night outside the walls of York, and throughout that night they were joined by the rest of the royalist force, marching in from the countryside under their individual commanders.
Portia had mingled with the newcomers, safe from recognition. It was simple enough to escape attention-she was experienced enough now to know how to conduct herself in a company of soldiers, and no one questioned her claim to belong to some company positioned at another point along the line.
Whenever she saw Rufus, her stomach quivered, her body plunged forward under a spur of longing. She needed to run to him, to feel his arms strong around her, to smell his skin and hair, to run her fingers through the silky red-gold beard, to bask in the warm living light of his eyes. They had been so cold, so dreadfully distant, the last time they’d looked upon her, and she could barely contain her need to banish that memory, to put in its place the loving, humorous, tender gaze that alone made her feel whole.