THIRTEEN
If there was one good thing about the threat of war, it was that Portia's archery skills improved. The finger guards Rudolf had given her clung like a second skin even as they protected her, while she loosed arrow after arrow at a target so full of holes it resembled cork instead of wood.
"Portia."
Portia lowered her bow. "Yes, Father?"
"I have some men you must meet."
Sighing, she unstrung her bow, knowing she would have no more time for practice if they had guests.
Sure enough, the hall seemed full of men – young, loud and dressed in their best armour. Lords' sons, she guessed. Now, more than ever, she ached with loss at Rudolf's leaving. He would have greeted the men and deflected their acquisitive stares. Without him, she had the distinct impression they regarded her l
