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man. Perhaps at that point she could
discern some hint of her parent's actual purpose in holding the
Whitsuntide festival.
    Royce leaned forward, one elbow on the table,
to speak to Braedon. At the same time Braedon also bent forward,
facing Royce.
    Catherine glanced up at their movements. She
was perfectly positioned to intercept the intense look that passed
between the two of them. She sat absolutely still, not breathing,
not wanting to draw their attention to her. Their words were
trivial, something about the upcoming melee and Braedon's intention
to take part in it. Their eyes bespoke a different tale. There was
a peculiar air of caution about each man. They gave Catherine the
impression that every word they uttered conveyed a double meaning,
which she was unable to translate, but which they understood
perfectly. When Royce's gaze shifted to Phelan and Eustace, who
were sitting at the far end of the high table, it seemed to
Catherine as if Braedon was very carefully not looking in
the same direction as Royce.
    “My lord, did you hear what I said just now?”
The lady who was sitting at Royce's right hand sounded distinctly
peevish.
    “Lady Edith, my apologies for seeming to
ignore you. I do most humbly beg your pardon.” Royce turned to her
and the tense mood of the moment vanished as if it had never
existed.
    Catherine was left staring at Braedon while
questions raced through her mind. Who was he, really? Why was he at
Wortham? Why did he counter any question she asked of him with a
query of his own instead of an answer? If he ever did choose to
answer her, could she believe what he said?
    A nasty suspicion began to rear itself in her
thoughts. The only explanation she could imagine for Braedon's
reticence lay in her father's secret work for King Henry. It was
possible that Braedon was a spy. If she had guessed aright, then
another problem immediately presented itself to her worried mind.
Was Braedon King Henry's man and, therefore, a friend to Royce of
Wortham, or was he a dangerous foe?
     
    Once the eating was finished a group of
musicians began to play and some of the younger guests organized a
dance. Catherine was invited to join the caracol but excused
herself, saying she must see to certain household duties. In truth,
she had no heart for dancing, not when she was becoming more
certain by the moment that there were hidden undercurrents swirling
amongst her father's guests. Always before Royce had kept his
secret work for the king separate from his life at Wortham. She
found it difficult to believe he would invite criminals and spies
into his home, but she was compelled to face the possibility that
he had done exactly that.
    “The stakes must be incredibly high,” she
murmured to herself. “He would not risk his people, or me, without
just cause. Even so, I intend to discover exactly what schemes are
afoot so I can be prepared to help him if his plans go awry.”
    She dismissed the stirring of conscience that
warned her against allowing curiosity to lead her into mischief.
Instead, she excused the devious actions she was about to undertake
by promising herself she would immediately tell her father anything
of importance she might learn.
    Catherine glanced around the great hall. So
far as she could tell, all of the guests were still present, either
sitting at the tables talking, or dancing. She left the great hall,
pausing in the entry hall for a moment to speak with William, the
captain of the guard. As soon as William excused himself to join
the revelry, Catherine hurried up the curving stone stairs that led
from the entry directly to the upper levels, where the guest rooms
were.
    She knew she would not have time to search
all of the rooms during her first excursion, so she selected the
two chambers which she thought were most likely to contain evidence
to shed light on the mystery that was perplexing her beyond all
tolerance.
    She came first to the chamber assigned to
Phelan and Eustace. The door was