Free Traitor's Field by Robert Wilton Page B

Does me good to see you.’ And it did, rather to his surprise. Not a particular friend or a particular memory, but a link with the past who had somehow kept her vitality.
    She was examining his face with interest.
    ‘You’re about to say that you’re surprised I’m still alive, I think. Everyone seems to find it strange.’
    She smiled, then shook her head impulsively; a girl’s gesture. ‘I would never doubt that you would live.’ She smiled again, and glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Some of the young men were asking about the grim stranger standing on the edge of the room. I fired their interest with wild stories of your past.’
    He grunted. Had he had her ever? Not that he could remember. There had always been prettier, wilder, more passionate women to be had, under the floating layers of dresses, behind half-closed doors, after hours.
    ‘I’m grateful for the invitation today.’
    She shrugged. These gatherings would be happening frequently, as this ravaged society herded together for reassurance, for warmth. ‘You’ve come over from Astbury? How is the place these days?’
    ‘Survived well enough. First time I’ve been there for ten years or more.’
    ‘We were sorry to hear about George. You were kin, weren’t you?’
    ‘Through his brother’s wife. You saw much of him here?’
    She considered it for a moment. ‘Occasionally, once the worst years of the fighting were over. It’s hardly an easy journey here, but we’ve little enough society in these parts. He was here a few times in a few years, I suppose. Recently less. He was. . .’ – she hesitated as she strayed into the world of politics and men – ‘increasingly busy, I think – in the King’s service.’
    Shay murmured neutrally. He hadn’t thought to hear of George Astbury here, but would take the insights where he found them.
    ‘And you?’ she said. She went to touch his arm lightly, but hesitated as if suddenly aware of his sheer size, and when her fingers finally brushed his sleeve they came with more charge. ‘Your interests—’
    ‘My own. As always.’
    She nodded, as if this had satisfied her curiosity. ‘George was last here very recently. Probably only a week or so before – before the battle.’ She tried to push the war back beyond the hills. ‘He seemed. . . rather changed.’
    Shay looked round into her face. ‘Changed?’
    ‘He was always rather serious, wasn’t he?’ She smiled. ‘When we were younger I found it almost – almost attractive. But that last time he was more. . . worried.’ Shay was still watching her. ‘Perhaps he was just concerned for the fate of the army. He’d been with them for part of the journey down from Scotland, and. . .’ – she looked up at him hesitantly – ‘I suppose you men can tell when the crisis of a conflict is near.’
    ‘Yes, perhaps that was it. Was he talking about the army?’
    ‘No – no, of course not.’ It would have been as much indecorous as indiscreet. ‘He seemed fretful. Talking of this and that. Pontefract.’
    ‘Pontefract?’
    ‘It’s not that far.’
    ‘I know where it is. Why on earth should he fret about Pontefract?’
    Lady Sarah Saville shrugged, and smiled with a shyness out of place on her fifty years. The affairs of men.
    ‘I once asked him why he was interested, and he said that Pontefract would tell him much.’
    What had Astbury been fussing about?
He was more curious than concerned.
    Her face was closer to his suddenly, and Shay felt the breath of her whisper. ‘If only you’d been able to ask Marmaduke Langdale.’
    ‘Langdale?’
    The voice was an excited murmur; she was a girl again. ‘He was here!’
    Shay glanced quickly around; her behaviour more than her words was going to attract attention. There were two young men – three – several yards away, and they looked down as he saw them. For a distracted moment he wondered whether they would see him as competition for the girl across the room.
    ‘Langdale was here?