forthcoming, it became progressively more difficult to hold their troops’ attention.
By evening, when he wandered through the common room, Gareth overheard too many comments on “the mad ideas of the English” to doubt that the excitement generated by the promised fight against the “heathens” was dissipating.
Resuming his seat beside Emily at their table, he caught his fellow trainers’ eyes. “Whoever’s commanding the cult this time is using his brains. There’s been no sighting of a cultist since we arrived. The locals are starting to believe they don’t really exist-that they’ve moved on, or were from the first a figment of our imaginations.”
Mullins nodded glumly. “I’ll wager that tomorrow we’ll have less than half our numbers today.”
Bister grimaced. “Nothing much we can do until the axe falls, is there?”
Gareth shook his head. “All we can do is hope that, when the attack comes, we’ll have a reasonable enough force to hold off the first wave, so the doubters have time to come running.”
Watson suggested they find a nearby bell, or something similar they could use as a summons.
While the others discussed that, Gareth leaned closer to Emily. Laying a hand over one of hers, he caught her eye when she looked his way. “You mustn’t forget that from the first-in Aden-the cult had you in their sights. They must know of your role in getting the letter to us-you are a target as much as I am.”
She raised her brows. “But I’m not the one carrying the scroll holder. If this is their last chance of stopping it from reaching England, then they’ll be focused on that, not”-she waved her other hand-“side issues.”
He held her gaze. “They won’t see you as a side issue. Taking hostages is a common ploy for them.” He hesitated, then went on, “And I suspect they know that I’ll give anything to save you.”
She turned her hand and gripped his. She searched his eyes, then inclined her head. “I’ll take care.”
They both looked down the table as Dorcas spoke up, pointing out that there had to be a church nearby with a big bell.
While Dorcas and Arnia volunteered to find the priest and recruit him and his bell, Gareth tried to relax, tried to bury the realization of how much Emily meant to him-the insidious knowledge of how very vulnerable he was over her.
Fear for himself was something he’d learned to live with. Fear for her…was something else again.
In the kitchen of the deserted chateau, where his combined troops had gathered for the evening meal, at the head of the main table, Uncle rose to his feet. He waited for all heads to turn his way, for silence to fall. Then he raised his arms and smiled. “My sons-the time has come. Tomorrow will be our day.”
Eagerness glowed on all the faces. Anticipation had reached fever pitch. Uncle could almost taste it.
“Tomorrow, we will triumph-we will act decisively to draw the major and his people into our net. We will draw them here, to this place-into a trap.” He glanced at Akbar, seated to his left. “You, Akbar, will take five others and set a watch on the lane leading here, close to the town. When the major and his followers pass, you will send word to us here.”
Akbar, of course, understood that he was being deliberately distanced from the action-from all chance of glory. He held Uncle’s gaze-Uncle could see in his dark eyes the battle between the impulse to protest and the knowledge that this was a trial of his obedience. Caution won. Impassively, Akbar bowed his head. “As you wish, Uncle.”
Uncle smiled. He turned to the rest of his troops. “Listen well, and I will tell you how we will capture our pigeons.”
The day started calmly, yet Gareth couldn’t shrug off a sense of impending doom.
He was less than impressed when Mullins’s prediction of how many of their ragtag troops would report for duty proved correct. Only a dozen with nothing better to do slouched into the common room, and from their easygoing expressions, they were there for the entertainment rather than with any expectation of seeing action.
As the skies had cleared, Bister and Mooktu took most of the group-ten youthful lads plus Jimmy-into the large yard at the side of the inn, and tested their defenses when attacked with long knives. Each lad had a pitchfork, shovel, or staff. Gareth meanwhile trained the two who had some skill with their swords.
After setting them sparring, he stood and watched, calling out comments and corrections, stepping in every now and then to demonstrate a thrust or parry.
He was watching critically when Emily appeared by his side.
She glanced over the yard. “Not many today.” She met his eyes as he briefly glanced her way. “Perhaps nothing will happen. They might have decided to make a stand in Dover.”
“It’s possible.” He grimaced. “But unlikely. Have Dorcas and Arnia returned?”
“Yes. They said the priest would be happy to ring the bell should there be any need. Apparently, that’s the recognized signal if there’s any emergency in this part of town.”
Gareth nodded vaguely, then stepped forward to correct a wobbly thrust.
When he stepped back, Emily murmured, “I’ll leave you to your training.”
Eyes locked on the would-be swordsmen, Gareth nodded.
Smiling, Emily stepped back. She stood for a moment observing the group Mooktu and Bister were working with, then spent another moment studying the onlookers-mostly old men and young girls-lining the pavement along the street side of the yard. There were far fewer than the first day, but clearly, people knew their party was still at the auberge.
Rather than push through the line of old men to reach the front door, she turned and headed down the side of the auberge for the back door to the common room. Located just around the corner, it gave onto the rear stable yard.
