Rebel's Cage (Book 4) Read Free Page B

discovered. ‘Know me, Andrew. I
will
come back.’
    Seconds later, he was back within the darkness of the trees, hiding again, the reins between his fingers, waiting, watching the door, hope rising in him again.
    The door opened and a man stepped outside, a frown on his face, a face Robert knew better than his own. Dark red curls shook as Micah turned this way and that, as though he’d heard something and had come out into the cold to investigate. Some other instinct sent his gaze to the ground, to where Robert’s footprints gathered before the stable door. In a flash Micah was inside. A moment later, he emerged, the boy in his arms and words of fear and concern echoed across the clearing before Micah took Andrew to safety inside.
    Safety and warmth. Maitland Manor was a ten minute ride away, where Andrew’s aunt and uncle lived, where Andrew lived. The boy was well-loved, cherished and kept close.
    But still that thread of excitement ran through Robert, touching something inside him he’d never encountered before. So he was still standing there, in the shadows, when Micah opened the door once more. But he didn’t go far. He simply stood there, staring hard into the trees before nodding once.
    ‘Thank you.’
    Robert said nothing, gave no sign that he was there. He waited for Micah to go back inside, then mounted the boy’s horse and rode into the morning with a fine sense of purpose.
    He had a lot of work to do.

1
1370
    The field shimmered in a golden haze of autumn sun and sumptuous cloth. Huge pavilions stretched out to the north and west, rippling in the afternoon breeze: a statement of outrageous wealth and prosperity, and not a little audacity. Pennants of every colour ringed the field, their flapping drowned out by the constant movement of people in the background, cooks roasting whole sides of beef, bakers working a stone-built oven and, behind them, row after row of spit-fires over which fish and fowl were grilled on pikes. To the east, within the shadows of a tidy wood, minstrels and tumblers practised, making ready.
    Osbert’s head ached. His feet hurt and his back tingled with the strain of standing for so long. He should never have made the long ride from Marsay in one day without giving himself some time to recover for this event. Better still, he should have had the courage to stay away altogether.
    But courage had never been his greatest strength.
    At least he was not alone in his suffering. Most of the court was there along with him: the King’s Council, magnates, lords, ladies, priests and his highest ranking Guildesmen. They stood there, in the cleared space between pavilions his Guilde engineers had spent six months creating, circling the long table at which the King sat, all bedecked in their best finery, glittering and glowing with the opulence the King wished to display to the visiting envoy from Mayenne.
    But there was something so wretchedly transparent about the whole thing that made Osbert’s head ache more, gave his stomach a queasy sinking feeling; he knew he wouldn’t eat a mouthful of the feast even now being prepared.
    ‘Would you like some wine, my lord?’
    Osbert refused to look at the priest who stood beside him, whispering to avoid drawing attention to himself. Kenrick sat no more than twenty feet away from them, engrossed in his conversation with the ambassador from Mayenne, almost his entire court watching the exchange. It would not do well to interrupt such a tense moment.
    ‘No,’ Osbert murmured, barely moving. ‘I would not like some wine. I would like to go to my bed, fall asleep and find this was all some sort of sick joke.’
    ‘I would imagine the King would find such an action mildly amusing,’ Godfrey replied. ‘He is indeed well known for his sense of humour.’
    ‘As is your good self,’ Osbert added dryly. Judging his moment, he glanced aside at the tall Archdeacon, recognising the familiar ironic expression on a face he’d grown to know almost too