The Hostage Bride

Chapter 5

“Well, well, will you look at that, now.” Rufus smiled within his red beard, but his bright blue eyes were hard as diamonds. He sat his horse and looked across the roll of low hills spread out before him to where Castle Granville stood on its own hill, higher than the rest, Parliament’s flags flying from keep and buttress.

“Cock of the dunghill,” he said scornfully. “Crowing defiance and boastful pride.”

“Seems like they’re having some kind of feast,” Will observed, shading his eyes with his hand. “You can smell the roasting meat from here.” There was a wistful note in his voice; they’d left Decatur village just after sunup and it was now nearly noon.

“Aye, an‘ there’s ’alf the countryside goin‘ in to join ’em, looks like,” their companion muttered.

In silence the three men watched the scene below them. Folk in holiday dress were pouring across the drawbridge into the castle, children pranced and darted, and the sound of drums and pipes drifted upward, the music both martial and merry.

“I reckon they’re celebratin‘ Granville comin’ out for Parliament.”

“So it would seem, George,” Rufus agreed absently. He tapped his whip against his boot in the stirrup, his gaze fixed on the activity below, the snapping banners, a pair of skaters on the frozen moat, a beer keg being rolled across the drawbridge by a group of exuberant youths. “So it would seem,” he murmured again.

Will glanced sideways, his expression immediately alert. He knew that tone. And when Rufus turned his vivid blue gaze toward him, Will’s heart sank. Pure mischief raced across those serenely smiling orbs, and the full-lipped mouth within the red-gold beard had a curve to it that filled Will with familiar foreboding.

“What are you thinking, Rufus?” he inquired uneasily.

Rufus’s smile broadened. “Oh, I thought maybe we should beg a little hospitality from our friend Granville. It’s been a long time since breakfast, and that meat certainly sets a man’s juices running.”

“You’re goin‘ along there, m’lord?” George sounded more resigned than horrified. “Reckon you can get lost in the crowd?”

“Why not?” Rufus shrugged carelessly, kicking his chestnut into motion. The others followed as he rode down into the valley and halfway up the hill topped by Castle Granville.

Rufus drew rein behind a screen of holly bushes, observing, “This is about as close as we can get.”

“You’re mad!” Will exclaimed. “Granville will hang you from the highest battlement.”

“He might if he knew I was there,” Rufus agreed amiably. He swung from his horse and unstrapped a blanket roll from his saddle. “Give me a hand with this, George.”

George dismounted. He knew exactly what was required of him. Rufus Decatur, among other talents, was a master of disguise.

Rufus shrugged off his cloak and fashioned a pad out of the blanket. With George’s help, he fastened the pad to his shoulder as Will watched with resignation.

“Now, how does it look?” Rufus slung his cloak of dark homespun over his shoulder, drawing the hood up, clasping it tightly at his throat. He was transformed. His tall, powerful frame was suddenly frail, bent, one shoulder higher than the other, a hump disfiguring the straight lines of his back.

“You’ll pass,” Will said with a reluctant grin. He’d seen the disguise many times, but it still astonished him. It was so simple-a transformation of the very features, his height and commanding presence, that made Rufus Decatur so distinctive. Without those features, the name of Decatur would never spring to mind.

George cut a stout stick from a sapling and handed it to the master of Decatur, and the transformation was complete. Bent and supported by his stick, in his homespun country garments of cloak, jerkin, and britches, the hood pulled low over his eyes, Rufus had become a local villager.

“I’m going in alone,” he said, waving away Will’s immediate protests. “One interloper is less risky than three.”

“Why?” Will demanded. “What can you possibly hope to gain from taking such a risk?”

“I thought you were hungry,” Rufus said in mock surprise. “I certainly am. I’m going to forage at Cato Granville’s feast- what else?”

“What else indeed?” Will muttered, watching as Rufus moved discreetly from the concealment of the bushes. “He’s up to something else, isn’t he, George?”

“Reckon so,” George agreed phlegmatically. “But I could still use some o‘ that meat. Smells powerful good from ’ere.” He gave an appreciative sniff as the wind brought the rich aromas of roasting meat mingled with wood smoke to tantalize his taste buds.

Rufus moved alone for no more than five minutes, then blended in with the stream of people climbing the hill from the village at its base, and Will had difficulty keeping him in sight as he shambled upward, leaning heavily on his stick. When the crowd reached the drawbridge, Rufus disappeared from view and Will was left to chew his nails in anxiety.

Rufus glanced sideways down into the moat as he crossed the drawbridge. The two figures he had seen earlier were still skating. He was not prepared for the strange jolt of recognition in the pit of his belly when Portia Worth swirled beneath him, the hood of her drab cloak thrown back, her orange hair fizzing in a shaft of weak sunlight.

It wasn’t that he was surprised to see her. He’d known she’d be somewhere in the castle. And yet he was aware of a most peculiar sense of disturbance… the disquieting thought that he’d come to Granville’s castle to look for her. Which was, of course, quite ridiculous.

Then she was gone, disappearing beneath the drawbridge below, and he had entered under the raised portcullis and was in enemy territory with the need to keep all his wits about him.

Great fires burned in the center of the outer ward, and barons of beef, whole sheep, and suckling pigs were roasting over the fires, pairs of young lads turning the spits, their cheeks scarlet from the heat and the contents of the ale pitchers from which they refreshed themselves, their eyes watering from the smoke.

A fiddler was playing in the corner of the ward, and a troupe of Morris dancers was entertaining the crowd, their bells melodious amid the exuberant shouts and cheers of their audience. Trestle tables laden with mounds of potatoes, breads, cakes, cheeses, and rounds of golden butter stood against the walls, but the greatest activity was centered around the kegs of ale.

Rufus blended seamlessly into the throng. Will had guessed aright that the master of Decatur had more than pure deviltry in mind in this escapade. He was in search of information. Any little tidbit, any piece of gossip, anything that would give him a sense of the size of Cato Granville’s militia and an insight into the man’s intentions, into how he was going to proceed in his support for Parliament.

Rufus approached the kegs of ale and took a tankard cheerily passed to him by a red-faced farmer who held a roasted potato between his gloved finger and thumb, taking hearty bites while he regaled a group of merrymakers with a particularly ribald tale.

Rufus could see no sign of Cato and he thought sardonically that mingling with his peasantry was probably beneath Granville. He’d provide them with the wherewithal to celebrate a decision that would leave widows and orphans across Granville land, while holding himself aloof.

Then he saw him, at the far side of the court. Rufus’s blood flowed swift. Cato was talking with three of the most prominent landowners between Lammermuir and York. It could mean only one thing. Viscount Charter, the earl of Fairoaks, and Sir Graham Preston were following Granville’s lead and throwing in their lot with Parliament. Theirs was a conversation Rufus Decatur thought might prove interesting for an eavesdropper.

He shuffled casually through the throng, drinking his ale, shielding his body among the knots, of people, moving almost shadowlike, so inconspicuous that people barely noticed his passing.

On the moat, Portia skidded to a stop against the castle’s curtain wall. She was laughing as she steadied herself, enjoying the heady sense of freedom that skating gave her, the icy freshness of the air after the fetid urban stews she’d been inhabiting for the last several years. Leisure for skating had not often come her way, and these bone skates strapped to her boots were wonderfully sharp edged, adding to the exhilaration even as they showed up her lack of skill.

“One of these days, I need to learn to stop without having to run into something,” she called to Olivia, who, a much more accomplished skater, came to an elegant halt beside her.

Portia glanced up at the crowds still pouring across the drawbridge and her eyes narrowed. “What do you think about joining the festivities, Olivia?”

Olivia looked startled. “But we haven’t b-been invited.”

“No, but as your father’s daughter, don’t you think you should play hostess a little?” Portia casually smoothed her gloves over her fingers, waiting to see how Olivia would respond to this novel suggestion.

“I never have done,” Olivia said doubtfully. “It’s D-Di-ana’s place.”

“But Diana’s not coming out of her bedchamber today,” Portia pointed out. She was leaning against the wall, arms folded, her green gaze bright and questioning and more than a little shrewd.

Olivia absorbed this in thoughtful silence. She glanced up at the gray castle walls, towering above her. The sounds of music, of voices raised in merriment, billowed forth from the outer ward.

“It would make Diana look remiss,” she said slowly.

“Precisely.” Portia chuckled. “Come.” She skated to the bank, Olivia following, and sat down to remove her skates. “And it’ll keep me out of Janet Beckton’s clutches for a while longer this morning, too.”

Olivia’s laugh was both nervous and excited as they made their way across the drawbridge back into the castle.

Cato was surprised to see the girls mingling with the merrymakers in the outer ward, but he was pleased to see the confident manner in which Olivia was supervising the filling of the tables. She seemed to know what she was doing.

Portia, deciding that Olivia didn’t need her assistance in her domestic overseeing, veered toward the fires, attracted by the aromas of roasting meat. Hunger was still such a lively memory that Portia never passed up the opportunity to eat when it presented itself.

She wriggled through the crowds around the spit where a suckling pig was turning over the flames. An elderly man, his back misshapen beneath a homespun cloak, stood beside the spit, slicing through the crisp pork with his dagger, spearing succulent meat on the point of his knife and offering it to his neighbors.

“I’ll have a slice, goodman,” Portia said cheerfully, stripping off her gloves, holding her bare hands to the fire’s warmth as she waited for meat. She was standing very close to the man, and the strangest sensation rippled over her skin, the fine hairs lifting as if a ghost had crossed her path. She froze, her extended hands motionless, her breath stopped in her chest. Impossible recognition crackled in her veins.

“D’ye care for the crisped skin, mistress?” The man spoke in an old and creaky voice, his Yorkshire burr very pronounced as he sliced deep into the carcass, cutting off a thick chunk of meat with its crisp golden skin. He turned toward her, his eyes blue sparks beneath the concealing hood, drawn low over his forehead.

Portia stared at Rufus Decatur, incredulous. What was he doing here? Lord Granville’s mortal enemy standing casual as you please within the castle walls, cheerfully helping himself to Granville meat. She took a step backward out of the circle around the fire, whether for her own protection or Decatur’s she wasn’t sure. But Rufus Decatur stepped back with her, his offering still poised on the tip of his dagger.

“Are you run quite mad?” she whispered, unknowingly echoing Will.

Rufus seemed to consider this, but his bright eyes were far from serious as they rested on her upturned face. He was laughing at her, and she had the unmistakable impression he was inviting her to share in the jest.

“Are you mad?” she repeated in a bare whisper, trying to tear her own eyes away from the lodestone of that gaze.

“I don’t believe so, Mistress Worth,” he said thoughtfully.

“But it might be safer if you could manage to look a little less like a mesmerized rabbit. I’m afraid you might draw unwelcome attention, when I’ve gone to such great lengths to make myself inconspicuous.” He offered an apologetic smile but his eyes were still laughing at her.

Portia couldn’t help a guilty glance at the people around them, and Rufus tutted reproachfully. “That’s a sure way to draw attention to oneself,” he murmured.

He moved an arm and his cloak swirled out like a bat’s wing, and without Portia’s knowing quite how it happened, she was moving within the shield of this wing. Being moved rather than moving of her own volition, she decided numbly. And when she came to a halt, again without her own volition, she found herself in a secluded corner of the court, sheltered from the crowd by the massive outcrop of a buttress.

“What do you want?” she demanded in a hiss. She was still contained within the swirling wing of his cloak, standing so close to him she could feel the heat of his body, smell the leather of his buff jerkin, the rough wool of his homespun shirt and britches. The world seemed to have shrunk to this small, dim, aromatic spot, and the boisterous sounds of a merrymaking crowd came from a great distance.

Rufus didn’t answer. He merely offered her the meat that he still carried on the tip of his knife. Without thinking, she reached to take it and then gave a little cry as it seared her bare fingers.

“Careful!” he warned, sounding genuinely concerned. He took the meat with his own bare hand and blew on it. “Try it now.” He held the succulent morsel to her lips, and in a kind of daze Portia opened her mouth to take it. It was delicious, the skin crisp and slightly scorched, the meat beneath juicy and tender. She savored it with all the delicacy of one who really relished her food, forgetting their surroundings in the moment of pleasure and failing to see the appreciative glimmer in her companion’s eyes as he watched her.

“Good?” he inquired, his voice so low it increased the sense of their complete intimacy in the thronged and noisy yard. He licked his fingers and then, with a little frown of concentration, rubbed the pad of his thumb over Portia’s lips and chin, where there was a smear of meat juice. The skin of his thumb was roughened, and her mouth tingled beneath the firm pliancy of his touch. For a fleeting instant his palm cupped her cheek and she could feel the swordsman’s calluses against her own delicate skin. The fine hairs on her nape lifted, a current of tension jolted her belly, then his hand dropped from her face. She watched, mesmerized, as he deliberately licked his thumb again, before sheathing his dagger and replacing his glove.

Slowly the world stopped spinning and she struggled to renew her grasp on reality. “What do you want here?” she demanded yet again.

“Oh, I am, how does the bard put it…? ‘A snapper up of unconsidered trifles,’ ” he replied with a nonchalant gesture that seemed to encompass the entire scene.

“You’re spying?”

“If you choose to put it that way,” he agreed.

“But Lord Granville will have you hanged!” She had a sudden vivid image of Granville’s soldiers descending upon them in this quiet corner. One man, even one as powerful as this one, would be helpless. They’d beat him to a bloody pulp before… She’d seen hangings. She knew what a body looked like swinging from a gibbet, the head at an unnatural angle, tongue protruding, face blue, eyes popping… She felt queasy and the meat she’d just eaten with such relish felt like greasy lead in her belly.

“Granville will have to discover me first.” Rufus’s eyes traced her face, where the freckles stood out against her pallor with the intensity of her expression. “What is it?” he asked involuntarily, seeing the horror in her slanted green eyes. “You look as if you’ve seen the devil.”

“Perhaps I have,” she said, snapping back to herself. “The devil as Rufus Decatur. Don’t you realize that all I have to do is raise my little finger and Lord Granville’s men will fall on you like flies on a carcass?”

“But you’re not about to betray me, are you, Mistress Worth?” He moved his arm and the folds of his cloak caught around her again, so that she was somehow drawn closer to his body.

This strange and disturbing proximity made her feel implicated in his presence in the heart of enemy territory. She struggled to banish the feeling, demanding, “Why would I not?”

“Oh, several reasons,” he said with a tiny smile. “For one, I don’t believe you have it in you to condemn a man to death.”

“I could condemn a Decatur,” she snapped, wishing she could move away, but the wall was at her back, his body like a shield in front of her, the cloak and the buttress separating her from the rest of the world, isolating her in this intimate seclusion. “You forget, I’m a Granville, Lord Rothbury.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t forget that. Nevertheless…” His smile deepened and she saw the little creases around his eyes, white against the weather-bronzed complexion. “Nevertheless, we have something in common, you and I,” he said softly. “I don’t belong here, but neither, my sweet, do you.”

It was such a startling truth, Portia simply stared at him.

Rufus chuckled. “Cat got your tongue?” He caught her chin on one finger and with a swift movement bent and kissed her mouth. “To seal a bargain between outcasts,” he said, straightening. As he did so, he allowed the cloak to fall away from her and stepped back from the buttress, opening a door onto the world again.

The loss of isolation, the returning sense of space, was so sudden, Portia felt momentarily dizzy. Her head was whirling. She could no more make sense of what had just happened than she could have read Chinese.

Rufus glanced around and said casually, “Is that Granville’s daughter? The girl in the blue cloak?”

The question broke whatever charm had kept Portia in thrall. With a flash of panic she remembered who this man was. A deadly enemy, a lethal menace to the welfare of any Granville. “Why do you wish to know?” Her voice sounded croaky and she cleared her throat.

“A matter of interest.”

“What possible interest could Olivia be to you?” Portia moved as if she could somehow block Decatur’s view of Olivia, although she knew it was futile.

“Not much,” he returned with a careless shrug. “Granville’s girl children don’t hold much interest. If and when he sires a son, that would be different.” He shrugged again. “Farewell, Mistress Worth.”

Abruptly he turned from her and shuffled off through the throng, his homespun cloak hunched over his bent and deformed back… the veritable incarnation of a frail old peasant.

Portia stood still amid the raucous merrymaking, trying to find herself again. She was adrift in a maelstrom of confusion from which she understood only one thing. She’d been manipulated. Rufus Decatur had twisted her emotions, piqued her senses, and laughed at her as he’d done so. He’d treated her with the careless familiarity of a man who knew he could twist any woman around his little finger. And she’d allowed him to do it. She had enough experience of the way men trifled with women to have known what was happening, and yet she’d allowed Rufus Decatur to make mock of her.

Furious with herself and with Decatur, she made her way to Olivia, her eyes ablaze. At this moment she would happily have betrayed Rufus Decatur, but the old man in the homespun cloak was nowhere to be seen.

The square room on the ground floor of Rufus’s cottage was brightly lit and warm from the great logs blazing in the hearth. It was a welcome haven after the three-hour ride back from Castle Granville, the last hour under a steady snowfall that had left men and horses white-coated, ghostly figures in the white-shot darkness.

“Who’s looking after the boys?” Will inquired, shaking snow off his cloak inside the cottage doorway.

“They’re with Silas tonight… at least I hope they are,” Rufus added, closing the door behind him. “It’s where they’re supposed to be.” He went through into the scullery at the rear of the room to fetch a pitcher of mead.

Will chuckled, divesting himself of his dripping outer garments. “Someone’ll have an eye out for them.”

“Aye.” Rufus filled two tankards with mead and handed one to his cousin. He was not concerned about his sons’ whereabouts. They’d be somewhere in the encampment under someone’s eye. They ate at whatever table happened to be closest when they were hungry, and rolled themselves into balls of sleep wherever they happened to fall. It was a somewhat haphazard method of growing up, but Rufus couldn’t see that it was doing them any harm.

“Drink, and we’ll sup in the mess in a while.” Rufus raised his tankard in a toast. Will saw that his cousin’s expression was now reflective, somber even, and he prepared himself to hear what Rufus had gleaned during his sojourn to Castle Granville.

Rufus stood before the fire, one booted foot on the fender. Melted snow puddled on the clean-swept floor, but he didn’t seem to notice it. “Granville and his cronies are setting up a collection for Parliament,” he said tersely, carrying his tankard to his mouth.

“Where from?”

“Across the county. Charter, Fairoaks, and Preston have a long reach.”

“They’ve joined with Granville?” Will’s eyes widened as he absorbed the implications of this.

“Aye. They’ll be plundering York, Nottingham, Bradford, and Leeds in the name of Parliament. They’ll know exactly whom to call upon, exactly who can be turned in their favor.”

Rufus refilled his tankard and gestured to the pitcher, inviting Will to help himself. His mouth was a thin line, almost invisible within his beard, and his voice was without expression. “Fairoaks was talking of gathering church plate… chalices and suchlike. They’ll get quite a pretty haul, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Will felt his shoulders stiffen in apprehension. He didn’t like the way Rufus was talking; all the humor, the daredevil amusement had left him, and both voice and countenance were as hard as agate. Rufus was going somewhere with this account of his discoveries, and Will couldn’t guess where. But it was not a happy destination, that much he knew.

“Burghers’ wives will give up their jewels; merchants will yield silver plate, pewter, gold, anything that can be melted down or sold. And Granville’s going to be collecting lead and iron for bullets and cannon.”

The blue eyes were ciphers as they rested on Will’s face. “And where else do you think Granville’s going to be looking for revenue, Will?”

Will swallowed uneasily under the pitiless gaze. He was expected to come up with an answer, but he couldn’t think what would be the correct response.

Rufus drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece, his short, well-shaped nails clicking against the wood, waiting for Will to catch up. After a moment’s silence, he prompted softly, “Presumably, Granviile will contribute from his own resources too.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” Will said, frowning as he wrestled to find the answer that would satisfy his cousin. “He’s raised his own militia, and that’ll cost a pretty penny. And if he’s establishing his own armory…”

“Yes, I would imagine Cato is intending to make free with any source of revenue he can lay hands on,” Rufus said, and his voice now would have corroded alchemist’s gold.

Will stared at him as the implication slowly became clear. “You… you think he’ll use Rothbury?”

Rufus’s eyes were fixed on a point above Will’s head, but even so the younger man shivered at the deadly venomous spark flickering across the cold blue surface.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Rufus said in the same corrosive tone. “Why wouldn’t he?” He moved abruptly toward the table, swinging one booted foot, and a stool skittered across the flagged floor to fall on its side against the wall. “Cato Granviile holds the stewardship of the Rothbury estates. Why wouldn’t he use their revenues to support his own cause?”

Will rarely saw his cousin’s almost legendary temper, because Rufus had learned many years ago to keep it well under control. But he sensed now that Rufus was very close to the brink, and Will understood why.

“He holds the stewardship for the crown,” he suggested tentatively. “Surely he couldn’t divert such revenues to use against the crown.”

“Why not?” Rufus demanded. “The man’s a cheat, a liar, a traitor. He’s broken his oath of fealty to his sovereign. What possible moral code do you think he has? Don’t be naive!” He paced the room, and the walls seemed to close in on Will as his cousin’s powerful presence and enraged spirit filled the space until it seemed it couldn’t possibly contain him.

Suddenly Rufus slammed his clenched fist against the wall and a shelf of crockery above shivered, setting pewter and stoneware rattling against each other. Will, for all that he knew that he personally was safe from any explosion, began to wish he could slip from the room unnoticed.

“I will not permit it,” Rufus said, and his voice was now as quiet and as venomous as an adder’s sting. “That cur will not divert Rothbury revenues for his own purposes. I will have those for the king. And when he’s gathered his treasure, then I will have that too. I will have every piece of silver, every golden guinea, every jewel, every lead bullet and steel pike that he collects. I will have them for the king.”

Will didn’t know whether he should respond. His cousin didn’t seem to be speaking directly to him; this soft, vicious promise was a personal one. But Will couldn’t help himself. Into the ensuing silence, he said hesitantly, “How?”

Rufus came back to the table, and his eyes now were alight, the terrifying tension of his contained rage gone from his powerful frame. “I’ve a plan as nasty and as devious as Cato Granville himself, Will.” He picked up his tankard and drained it, before hooking a finger into the handle of a stone jar and hefting it from the shelf, holding it against his shoulder as he drew the cork with strong white teeth.

“Are you man enough for this, Will?” He gestured with the jar, his voice teasing, but Will had the feeling that the question applied to more than his ability to drink the powerful Scottish spirit made from malted barley that could put a strong man under the table within an hour.

He pushed his tankard forward and Rufus filled it halfway. “You’ll need a few more years under your belt before you can take much more than that, lad,” he said, perching on the edge of the table, taking a deep swallow from the jar before putting it beside him. “Right, what could Cato Granville have that he would value above all else?” A bushy red eyebrow lifted.

Will took a cautious sip of the spirit. “I don’t know. How could anyone know?”

“He has a daughter,” Rufus murmured in an almost musing tone. “Indeed, I believe he has three daughters… He has a beautiful wife…?” He regarded Will with the same lifted eyebrow.

Will was beginning to feel befuddled, but he didn’t think the condition could be entirely ascribed to the drink. Rufus seemed to be talking in riddles. He kept silent, regarding his cousin warily.

Rufus picked up the jar again. “It’s simple enough, lad. Cato will yield Rothbury revenues to me in exchange for his oldest daughter.” He tilted it to his mouth while Will stared aghast, Rufus’s plan finally making sense.

“A hostage… you would hold the girl for ransom, as a hostage.”

“Precisely.” Rufus set down the jar and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “In exchange for Rothbury-for the revenues of my rightful inheritance. His father betrayed mine for those revenues, and now I will bargain for their return with a coin he will not be able to refuse. They are mine, Will,” he said with soft savagery. “Mine. And I will not endure that they be used by a Granville sewer rat.”

Will gulped at the contents of his tankard and choked violently, doubling over as his eyes and nose streamed and the fire scorched his gullet. Rufus thumped him on the back with controlled vigor. “Small sips, Will, small sips,” he advised, and the intensity had left his voice, which was once more light and amused.

Will looked up through his fiery tears. “How are you going to do this?”

“I’m not sure yet, but it’ll come to me. Now, get you to supper. I’ve a deal of thinking to do.”

Will left his cousin alone with his thoughts and the stone jug. Rufus built up the fire and sat beside it. The spirit infused his body with warmth and relaxation but did nothing to tamp down the surging rage in his mind. Of all the injustices done the house of Rothbury, the hardest to bear was that the marquis of Granville had been given in perpetuity the stewardship of the confiscated Rothbury estates.

And now this, the final humiliation. That Rothbury revenues should be used to support Granville’s allegiance in this civil strife.

Rufus drank steadily and deliberately as the fire in the hearth died down, and with it his fury. Cold commitment, clear planning took its place. And when he finally cast aside the almost empty jug and made his way up the stairs to his solitary bed, he had a plan as perfectly formed in his mind as it was possible for it to be. He had learned quite a few useful facts during his brief-and surprisingly entertaining-visit to Castle Granville.