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“I lost that pack.”
Her ribs compressed on a silent laugh, then her gaze swung to his. “Did you like it, outlaw?”
“Sing another, princess.”
She flashed him a genuine smile, no guile or purpose behind it, simply pleasure, before facing forward again. “Very well. I have one that was sung by a Goliard cleric. There is drinking in it, so you will enjoy it.”
He smiled to himself.
“It is quite bawdy.”
“My lady,” he murmured.
She laughed.
And so, they rode, the sun rising while Cassia sang bawdy songs in Latin and French for him. He’d never felt the sun shine so brightly, as they moved unerring toward Rose Citadel, so he could get his sword and give her up forever.
Chapter 26
They slipped into the crowds surging through the baileys of Rose Citadel two hours after sunrise.
Getting through the main gates had been simple—everyone was let through in daytime—but getting into the castle itself, day or night, would be a different matter.
Cassia waited while Máel went out into the crowd, “gathering intelligence,” as he called it.
He’d mingled with the flocks shopping at the recently-erected merchant stalls Lord Yves’s had allowed to be installed for the tourney. The town market was the best place to get one’s needs met, but this miniature market could supply anything required on short notice: meat pasties; silver-eyed sewing needles; riding spurs; spicy peppercorns.
Cassia watched, the hood of his cloak tugged up over her head, as Máel spoke to various people, tending, she noticed with irritation, toward the most beautiful women.
He rejoined her and reported back.
“They say your father has been gone since last night. He gave out that he had sudden, urgent business requiring his attendance, and did not wish to leave his devoted daughter behind. That is the reason they think you—and he—are gone.”
“Which woman told you that?” she snapped. “The one wearing green or the one with the extremely high eyebrows?”
He looked surprised, then smiled. “Jealous, lass?”
“Jealous of what?” She turned away.
The crowds were dense and happy. Even at this early hour, more than a few were half-drunk, some on ale and some
simply addled by merriment. In the lists beyond, jousts were happening. She heard the clash of wood and excited cheers. She felt as though she was in a dream.
How was this the real world? How had this all been happening—the pennants, the music, the jousting, the drama of it all—how had this all been going on, while she was lost in an otherworld of moonlit forests and outlaw passion?
It seemed so much less real than Máel’s touch.
And no one cared that she’d been gone. Without her father to corral and correct her, no one quite cared one way or the other.
It was rather freeing.
“The question remains,” she said, “how do we get inside?”
“Only one way.” Their eyes met.
“Straight through the front door?” she asked unhappily.
He nodded. “They never expect you to do that.”
