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The wind sliced through her cloak and burned her cheeks, but the shiver that moved though her was entirely unrelated to the weather. Wicker had not misspoken.
Her soon-to-be-betrothed traveled at the head of a fearsome-looking contingent, large and bristling with armaments. They rode at a leisurely pace over the sere grass, for even the maddest of the mad Irishry would not dare attack such a group. All bore long swords and a legion of other steely weapons. Armor peeked through long woolen cloaks and hoods, glinting in the dim, cloudy morning light.
One of the men riding in the van lifted his helmed head and swiveled it slowly. It stopped when it was aimed directly at the walls where Katarina stood.
She pressed her palm to her temple, pressing her hair down. Her skirts blew out to the side. After a moment, she lifted her hand in case he was watching.
His rose in reply.
A smile tugged at her lips. Silly, to smile over such an exchange.
The small army started down the hill, and she turned toward the stairs. Her guards sprang to assist, but Wicker won and grinned back up at his companions as he preceded her down the stairs. He looked back at her, still smiling but his gaze full of silent questions.
Katarina, fingertips touching the wall as she descended, lifted her brows in equally silent permission.
“He’s brought a proper force, hasn’t he, my lady?” he burst out. “We didn’t expect so many, did we?”
“No, we did not,” she agreed.
“’Tis a bold force.”
“Very bold.”
“And their armor, did you see their armor?”
“I most certainly did.”
“Toledo, do you think?”
“At a distance of several hundred yards, I found it difficult to assess. It was exceptionally…steely.” It had reflected the pale sun in sharp daggers of light.
Wicker’s grin never faltered. “Toledo,” he assured her. “And their horses.” His voice crossed over into the territory of reverence. “Warhorses.”
“Yes, their horses,” she echoed. It seemed Bertrand of Bridge had brought everything but a cannon.
At the bottom of the stairs, Wicker, so nicknamed because he was so tightly wound, his energy braided but ready to burst, turned and put out a hand for her, tilting his helmed head up, his exuberance suddenly extinguished. “We are fortunate, are we not, my lady? Now that he is come?”
Things will go easier now? Things will be better? You will be safer? Aye?
He would never say such things aloud, but he was thinking them. They were all thinking them. Beyond the Pale, one was either a wife, a warrior, or dead.
Thus far, Katarina was none of those things.
Everyone knew it was only a matter of time.
God knew life was harder than stone out here, and this last year had been boulder hard. Everyone was past ready for life to become a simpler matter, by any means necessary. Even if it meant Bertrand of Bridge.
Everyone except Katarina.
She patted Wicker’s mailed arm. “Fortunate, indeed. Now go tell Sir Roger you need to be relieved of your post. I want you to roll up the wine barrels from the cellars.”
His exuberance rushed back. “Very good, my lady! Wine and mayhap…butter?”
She gave him a level look, intended to censure such bold forays into their larders, then said, “Of course.”
He emitted an improper whoop, all but swung her off the bottom step to the ground, gave an irreverent salute, and bolted off to do as he’d been told.
She was still catching her breath and righting her skirts when a voice came in from the side.
