Jane Feather - The Hostage Bride

It was all very uncomfortable and she was overwhelmingly glad when Giles announced that the blizzard had let up enough to enable them to leave. The men rode their horses bareback, drawing their cloaks tightly across their opened jackets in a vain effort to keep out the piercing stabs of cold.

They rode in the same formation as before, Portia with Giles sandwiched between the other four. It provided Portia with a windbreak, but the morose silence of her companions was little comfort. They rode through silent shuttered hamlets like ghosts in the night. Not even the taverns showed a welcoming light.

“Is this still Decatur land?” Portia ventured after they’d been riding for an hour.

“Half an‘ ’alf,” Giles replied. “But we’ll not risk askin‘ fer succor until we’re well into Granville territory.”

“It’s wretched weather for armies on the move,” she said, trying to make conversation, to turn their minds to broader issues.

“Like as not, they’ll be ‘oled up someplace.”

“I hope so for their sakes. King or Parliament, you wouldn’t want to be fighting more than the weather,” Portia observed, steadying Patches as he stumbled into a drift up to his hocks. Giles merely grunted in response, reaching over to grab her bit to haul her horse forward through the snowbank.

Portia abandoned conversation and let her mind wander into a world where fires burned bright and hot, tables groaned under laden platters of meat and pitchers of wine and ale, beds were deeply feathered with thick quilted comforters atop. It was a fantasy she’d often employed in the past to deal with the grimmer reality and was so adept at it she could actually taste the food on her tongue and feel the warmth licking her limbs.

The snow had stopped, bright starlight now filling an achingly clear sky when they reached Castle Granville. Portia stared upward at the forbidding gray structure, with its donjon and keeps, its parapets and battlements. It bore no relation to a family home, and she remembered the gracious half-timbered manor house on the banks of the Thames where Cato had married his second wife, the impossibly beautiful and elegant Lady Diana Carlton.

It was hard to imagine that lady making a home for herself here.

As they clattered over the drawbridge that lay across a wide frozen moat, the iron portcullis was raised to admit them into the outer bailey. The opposing armies might be holed up by the warmth of their separate fires, but the country was still at war and Lord Granville’s castle was closed to the outside world.

Men ran forward to take their horses, shouting questions, exclaiming at the lateness of the hour. The snow had been swept from the cobbles and lay in huge piles against the walls, rosy and glittering in the light of the pitch torches flaring from poles. Patches shuffled in the straw scattered over the cobbles to prevent slipping on the ice-slick surface. Portia wondered what to do.

Her escorts had all dismounted and were surrounded by their own comrades. Giles was striding toward the archway leading to the inner bailey. Before he reached it, a slender cloaked figure emerged into the bailey. The girl began to run toward Portia and Patches.

“P-Portia… I am so glad you’re here!” Olivia exclaimed as she took hold of Patches’ bridle, her black eyes shining in the torchlight. “I c-can’t tell you how glad I am.”

“I’m rather glad to be here myself,” Portia said a little awkwardly. She remembered that Olivia had seemed tall for her age when they’d met at the wedding, and that had not changed. Indeed, she was now almost as tall as Portia, her small head crowned with dark braids, and despite the glow of pleasure in her eyes, there was still an underlying somberness to her expression.

Portia swung down to the cobbles. She didn’t know what to do next, but something seemed required. She stuck out her hand. “How are you? Three years is a long time.”

Olivia took the proffered hand and shook it, smiling shyly. “I’m quite well, thank you.”

“Welcome to Castle Granville, Portia.”

Portia turned at the quiet voice. Her father’s half brother was a tall, lean man with brown eyes, an aquiline nose, and a well-sculptured mouth. His brown hair receded from his forehead in a pronounced widow’s peak. He drew off his glove and extended his hand.

Hastily Portia followed suit.

“You’re cold,” he said, chafing her fingers. “You’ve had a dreadful journey in that blizzard.” He nodded toward Giles, who had retraced his steps to come up beside his lord.

“We ran into an ambush, sir.”

Cato’s expression lost its benevolence. “Decatur?”

“Aye, sir.” Giles nodded.

Cato released Portia’s hands. “Take your cousin into the warmth, Olivia, and see to her needs. She’s half frozen.” He turned to Giles. “Come, man, let’s hear it.”

They walked off toward the keep, where the men were housed. Portia pulled on her glove again.

“This way.” Olivia led the way to the arch leading to the inner bailey and the donjon.

Portia squared her shoulders and followed her.

“This is to be your chamber.” Olivia opened the door on a small bastion room. “It’s n-not a very nice room,” she said apologetically. “But D-Diana says you’re to have it.”

Portia stepped into the chamber. The stone walls were softened by a few threadbare tapestries, and there was rush matting on the floor. A sullen fire burned in the hearth, and tallow candles flickered from a double pewter candlestick. The high window recessed into the thick stone was sealed with oiled parchment that rattled under the gusts of icy wind. Apart from the low, narrow bed, there was a stool, a small table and washstand, and a linen press.

Portia absorbed all this in a sweeping glance. The bare furnishings told her much about her position in this household. “Am I to share it?”

“Oh, no!” Olivia was shocked. “No, of c-course not.”

“Then it’s a palace,” Portia declared cheerfully, pulling off her gloves. “A deal more comfortable than I’ve been accustomed to, I can tell you.”

Olivia looked doubtful. “I expect they’ll be bringing up your b-baggage in a minute. It’ll be c-cozier when you have your own things around you.”

Portia laughed. “What baggage? All I have is what I stand up in. Oh, except for my little box that was strapped to Patches’ saddle. I wouldn’t want to be without that.” Her smile faded for a minute. “It’s little enough to show for seventeen years in the world, but it’s all I have.” All she had to prove who she was, she thought. Those little keepsakes, pathetic though they would seem to some eyes, were her only anchors to the life she’d known and the only parent she’d known.

“You don’t have any other clothes?” Olivia stared.

Portia shook her head, saying with a return to her previous cheerfulness, “Only what I’m wearing. And they’re a vast improvement on what I was wearing before Sergeant Crampton found me.” She unclasped her cloak and tossed it on the bed before bending to poke at the sullen smolder in the grate. “The wood is green,” she observed. “Maybe I can find some seasoned logs when I’ve learned my way around.”

Olivia frowned. She suspected that the servants who’d prepared the chamber had been given the impression by Lady Granville that they need not put themselves out to make the new arrival particularly comfortable.

“I should t-take you t-to D-Diana.”

Portia straightened. Olivia’s stammer seemed to become worse at the prospect of her stepmother.

“Is she a gorgon?”

Olivia nodded. “She’s quite horrid.”

“Oh.” Portia nodded. “I suppose she doesn’t want me here.”

Olivia nodded again.

“Does Lord Granville know?”

Olivia shook her head. “No! D-Diana never shows him her b-bad side. He thinks she’s wonderful and k-kind.”

“Men are always so blind,” Portia observed with weary knowledge. “Even the nicest ones don’t see what’s under their noses. Well, let’s go and brave the gorgon, then.”

Olivia’s smile chased away the shadows on her pale, composed face, and her black eyes lit up, transforming her countenance. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Portia was reserving judgment in the light of what she’d learned in the last few minutes, but she said only, “Castle Granville is a vast improvement on St. Stephen’s Street.”

Diana was waiting for them in her parlor. She set down her tambour frame and regarded Portia with sharp, unfriendly eyes. “Olivia has shown you your chamber.”

“Yes, madam.” Portia curtsied politely. “I am most grateful for your hospitality.”

“Yes, I believe it’s rather above the call of family duty,” Diana said coldly. “I expect you to repay my husband’s generosity in kind.”

Ah, thought Portia. Now we’re coming to it. “I don’t believe you’ll find me lacking in gratitude, madam.”

“Your chamber is very close to the nursery. You will be able to hear the babies if they cry in the night and be on hand to give the nursemaid any help she needs. Do you sew?”

“I’m not unskilled in the domestic arts, madam.”

“Good, then you’ll be able to take care of Olivia’s wardrobe. My own seamstress is really too busy to give it adequate attention. Also, there will be household mending. I’m sure you’ll be glad to make yourself useful wherever you can.”

Portia merely curtsied again. She could feel Olivia beside her thrumming with the desperate need to speak out and the dreadful frustration of knowing that she would not be coherent. Portia gave her a quick sidelong look and allowed one eyelid to drop in an almost imperceptible wink.