SIXTEEN
Day dawned, and no one was dead. Except the dozen sheep they'd slaughtered to feed the Albans.
Portia dressed and made her way down the ladder.
"Wait, my lady. We must go with you."
Portia remembered just how many Albans were outside, and decided to do as Grieve said. Cowal and Damhan blocked the doors to the kitchen and outside, anyway. Or they did, until a nod from Grieve had them leading the way out into the yard.
Swallowing, Portia followed.
There were no horses here now, but that meant room for more men. Men who stared with longing and awe.
"That's the girl?"
"Prince Malcolm's bride?"
"Wish I had a wife so pretty."
"Beautiful, isn't she?"
"Wonder why the king doesn't want her himself."
Portia allowed herself a tiny smile at their admiration. It almost soothed
