“Servants?” Lenora repeated blankly.
“Aye.”
Lenora swiveled around to look up at Berta. “What say you, Berta?” Her servant grimaced but started unfastening her drab wool cloak. Lenora reached up to unfasten her head-dress. Luckily her hair was simply coiled at her nape instead of worn in any of the elaborate styles she had favored before her illness. She removed her coif and unpinned the many veils. “Where shall I put these?”
Garman took them from her and crammed them unceremoniously into one of the saddlebags. Berta passed down her cloak and Lenora swathed herself in the dark gray cloak. She looked uncertainly at Garman.
“It’ll have to do,” he said, and to her surprise, seized her by the waist and hefted her up onto the seat beside Berta, with little apparent effort.
Lenora straightened herself. “Thank you,” she said. He did not acknowledge the pleasantry, but instead moved back to his own horse, secured her mount to his, then swung up into the saddle. Seeing Berta had made no move to, Lenora took up the reins and urged the cart horse to follow along behind him as he moved forward. “Do you think we will be challenged at the gate?” Lenora murmured to Berta as the horse hooves struck against the stones in the courtyard.
“Don’t know that I’ve ever tried to pass through ‘em at this hour,” Berta said doubtfully.
“Neither have I.” Lenora grimaced. “I can’t help but think it might look a little strange. Still,” she brightened. “Perhaps he lost today.” At Berta’s blank look, she added. “And did not want to hang around to compete on the third day.”
“Even if that were so,” Berta said heavily. “Would he not have left before all the celebrations, while it was still light?”
Lenora’s face fell. That was probably true enough. Dead of night was hardly ideal travelling conditions. “Or mayhap he was a victor?” she ventured.
“If he’d won, what would be his reason for sneaking away under cover of night?” Berta asked wryly.
“Maybe…” Lenora hesitated, waiting for a plausible reason. “He has a sick relative on his death-bed?” she ventured.
Berta snorted. “You see him rushing to hold their hand?” she asked. “Him?”
Lenora flushed. “Maybe he’s their heir?” she suggested. “And wishes to ensure there is no last-minute change to the will.”
“What an imagination you do have,” Berta retorted. The way she said it was not complimentary.
“Do you think so?” asked Lenora. She spotted lit torches ahead and her heart sank. The gate was manned and the guards milling there looked up with interest at their approach. Oh damn, thought Lenora. She did not imagine that Sir Garman would be at all good at thinking up plausible stories. He looked far too tight-lipped and grim to possess a silver tongue. She steeled herself for a confrontation, watching anxiously as the guards exchanged a few words with Orde. She definitely picked out the words ‘servants’ as he gestured toward them. Lenora watched as one of the guards detached himself from the others and stroll over to their cart. She felt his keen gaze pass over her as he held up a lit torch so he could peer into the back of the cart.
“Where you off to then, so late, ladies?” he asked in a faintly mocking tone. He was a good-looking young man, and rather pleased with himself, thought Lenora. Not to mention officious. None of the other guards seemed remotely curious about them after listening to Orde’s explanation.
“We be off to the country,” she supplied, doing her best imitation of Berta’s accent. “To my master’s estate at Cofton Warren.”
He made no comment, peering into one of the hessian sacks. “Who’s that?” he asked, glancing up at Berta. “Cat got her tongue?”
“This is my old mum,” Lenora told him confidingly. “But she’s quite deaf, poor old thing. Did you want her to speak?” She turned to Berta. “Mum?” she said loudly. “Tell the nice guard how we’re going back home to the country.”
Berta started. “That’s right, dearie,” she said loudly. “And don’t you be bothering my girl. She’s a good girl, she is, not one of your city slatterns!” She eyed the soldier cantankerously.
He snorted, glancing back at Lenora. “Why in the midst of night? Seems a funny sort of time to be setting off.”
Lenora leant forward. “Well, we thought so too,” she said, lowering her voice. “I reckon the master had a bad day in the lists. Gone into a proper fit of the sulks, he has.”
The guard’s gaze flickered over to Garman who sat stony-faced and glaring at them, though Lenora didn’t think it likely he could hear a word of their exchange.
“These knights and the notions they do get,” she added with a sigh. “Some days a poor maid doesn’t know her own arse from her elbow!” She winked and to her surprise watched a faint blush cover the soldier’s cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Yes, I—er—can imagine.”
“What the hell is this delay?” Garman barked. “I fail to see why I’m stood waiting here while you importune my servant!”
The guard stood back smartly, his face flaming now. “Carry on,” he said in a hoarse voice. Lenora beamed at him, but he seemed unable now to meet her eye.
6
Five hours later, they sat outside a small inn at a backwater village, having left the main road out of Caer-Lyoness as soon as was possible. Garman had put in an order for ale and oatcakes and now joined Lenora and Berta who were sat at a rough-hewn wooden table. The old servant shifted to the far end of the bench and turned her face in contemplation of the fields opposite in what he could only surmise was a tactful retreat to give them some privacy. He wondered briefly if Lenora had confided in the old woman, that he had been bribed to run away with her? He fancied she had not, as the servant seemed to think they might desire private speech with one another. He found himself lowering his voice, accordingly.
“For your information,” he started grimly. “I was successful yesterday in the joust.” For some reason, he had been smarting the entire journey at her ridiculous sallies with that impudent guard.
“Oh, you heard that, did you?” she responded, without Garman thought, any noticeable discomfort.
“Yes, I did. Unlike ‘your old mum’, I’m not deaf.” His tone was biting, but whatever reason his words tickled Lenora Montmayne’s fancy and she went off into a peal of laughter. He stared at her.
“What did you think of my accent?” she asked.
“It was execrable,” he answered bluntly. “I couldn’t tell if it was meant to be Aphranian or Somerlow.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, but that’s good!” she said. “For Berta was originally from Aphrany but has lived this past twenty years in Caer-Lyoness! And I was doing an impression of her, you see. So, it must have been pretty accurate.”
He grunted. The delight she clearly took in this surprised him. Watching her through narrowed lids, he began slowly revising his impression of Lenora Montmayne. From his glimpses of her about court these past three years, he had thought her a bloodless, limpid type; pure of feature, and somewhat dim.