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Ice-blue eyes looked down at her. “The garrison?”
“Ten in total,” she told him, ignoring the armored leg pressed up against hers. “Armed to the teeth and most bold.”
The hand at her back tightened, and he spun her around to face him. She came to a stop opposite him, their capes snapping in the air between them.
“Ten?” he repeated incredulously. “You hold the barony of Rardove with ten men?”
Winds whipped her hair across her face as she stared into his eyes. “I had to, my lord. I had no more.”
He stared. A knot tightened in Katarina’s stomach. Clearly the queen had not relayed the sad news about the state of Rardove’s garrison. Perhaps because Katarina had neglected to inform the queen of it in any meaningful way. But then, no one had ever asked. Being in Ireland meant being forgotten.
It was one of the things she loved best about it.
So. They were about to witness how Bertrand of Bridge dealt with disappointment.
“That is impossible,” he said slowly. He sounded quite certain of this, even though she had been doing it for years now.
“I have found, sir, that one does not know the limits of possibility until one reaches them.” She pressed a palm to her temple to catch her flying hair. “I have not yet reached mine.”
Something shifted in the shadowed eyes holding hers. “I see. And am impressed.”
A cascade of unfamiliar heat flushed through her belly. She waved her hand dismissively. “For no need. ’Twas more stubbornness than anything.”
“And yet…” His gaze swept the bailey, then came back to hers.
She smiled faintly. “And yet.”
His smile in reply, though small, was rather devastating.
“But be assured, sir, my men are most brave, and have had occasion upon which to prove it.”
“And so they shall have to again,” he said, and quite grimly too, as only a wise soldier would. That was hopeful. One did not want a braggart with a sword out beyond the Pale.
No, Katarina most certainly did not recall Bertrand of Bridge having s
uch restraint of manner, nor such piercingly pale blue eyes. But then, she’d only seen him twice, once from a distant of several hundred yards, the other from a much closer distance—far too close—but then, it had been dark.
Far too dark.
Perhaps Bertrand had changed, she thought hopefully. People did. It was known to happen. On occasion. Very rarely.
They started toward the castle. He kept a hand at her back in case any more gusts of wind bore down on them, but he did not take hold of her elbow to assist with the ruts. He thought her capable of ruts. More hopeful yet.
Being a wise woman, she would take help with the wind wherever it appeared.
Hay blew past, and hard bits of snow began swirling around them as they hurried toward the keep, and somehow, she realized, he’d put his arm behind her back. The grim intensity of him grew, expanding like a breath being taken. He was closer to her now, moving her across the bailey, propelling her faster and faster. She felt pressed upon. They took the stairs two at a time. The door squealed as he pushed it open and ushered her inside.
The brittle winds ceased abruptly. Cavernous and stone walled, the great hall opened below them, a vast expanse fifty feet long and arching overhead to a stony cathedral ceiling. It was filled with half-erected trestle tables and low fires burning, but empty of souls. The servants would be in the kitchens and storerooms, frantically trying to prepare for the extra mouths to feed.
His body was an inch behind hers. She stopped short. Behind him, the door, heavy and rusted, stood open. She could see the cold, sharp blue sky and the way his men were spreading out along the walls.
Uneasiness crept down her spine. “Ought I not call for my men, apprise them…?” she asked, turning.
“Your men are being apprised of the circumstances as we speak.”
Confusion swirled in her belly, then fear crept up behind on cold, pricking spider legs.
Circumstances?
