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“Absolutely not! It is far too dangerous. It is nearly dark and you have traveled all day. You are tired.”

“Tired! Do you think that I should be able to rest for one moment knowing that you are walking into a trap that has been laid for you?" Her eyes were Do you think that I came all the way from London to warn you of Townley’s schemes just so that I could sit here alone wringing my hands, like some... some medieval maiden? Gabriel West, you just apologized for not listening to me—and now you are doing it again!"

She had a point. She reached for the bell. “I can be dressed in my riding habit in five minutes. So you have two choices. You can waste more time arguing, or you can let me come with you.”

“Wait. Medieval maiden? Where did that come from?”

“Never mind!”

“Of all the…” But… hadn’t he already admitted to himself that not listening to her had been the cause of a great deal of grief? He took a deep breath. “Very well. But if we encounter any trouble at all, a groom will accompany you back to the house. And that is final.”

West clapped his hat onto his head and swung into the saddle. Bray, leading his own horse out of the stables, looked startled to see Pomona already mounted. “Your grace? The road is, er… not…”

“Lady March is a skilled horsewoman.”

They rode in procession out through the gatehouse passage. Torches had been lit in the iron holders and cast harsh shadows over the ancient stones. He had a strange feeling of foreboding. Was this how the dukes of March who’d gone before him had felt, when they’d ridden out to battle all those centuries ago?

Except that events tonight wouldn’t come to violence, he told himself. No matter what had happened at Manchester, cooler heads were bound to prevail now. This was modern England, after all.

He glanced at Pomona. Her pert profile was lit at odd, disconcerting angles by the bobbing lanterns carried by the grooms and stableboys who’d come with them, and her expression was tense. Yet for some reason, she’d chosen to wear the most frivolous riding hat he’d ever seen her wear—barely more than a cap, with fluttering pink ribbons whose color was drained by the darkness.

He wished that he’d kissed her. Or embraced her. Or simply told her how happy and relieved he was to see her. Well, as soon as this matter was resolved, he would tell her everything that had been weighing on his heart these past months.

They crossed the ridge of the hills. The new moon hadn't yet risen, so the night was almost eerily dark. “Your grace?” Bray had come up beside him. His voice was low. “Do you hear that?”

A strange clamoring was carrying through the night air. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the village. West urged his horse forward again. The others followed. He didn’t have to tell them to stay close as the road curved down around the spur of the hill.

As they passed the cottages that lay on the village’s outskirts, the clamor of angry voices grew louder. He heard an ominous ring of metal and what sounded like a shouted order. Something was happening. Something bad. He drew next to Pomona. “You must go back. The groom will take you. Bray and I will manage this.”

Her eyes—impossible to read in the darkness—met his. “No.”

“Pomona.”

She kicked her horse into a trot.

“Pomona!”

Cursing under his breath, he followed her around the bend in the main road, and found his way blocked by a crowd of villagers. They were gathered in front of the village’s only public house and inn—the Wheat Sheaf. As soon as he turned the corner, the noise resolved into a chant: “Give him up! Give him up!”

Several soldiers were standing guard in front of the inn, their backs against the wall, their hands nervously on their rifles. Where was Pomona? She ought to be clearly visible on horseback, but he couldn't see her anywhere. More villagers seemed to be arriving from every direction. Miners carried torches, which lent the scene an air of threat and made his horse skittish. The crowd surged forward, pulling him with it as he fought to keep his horse under control.

“Give him up! Give him up!” The chanting had become a wall of sound that filled the street between the buildings. The soldiers—exchanging uneasy glances and shifting from foot to foot—seemed ready to flee. But an officer on horseback barked an order across the crowd and they straightened again.

The only thing that he could do now was to tell everyone to go home at once. The longer his tenants stayed here, the more likely it was that someone would do something that would give the soldiers an excuse to make more arrests. And then the situation really would spiral out of control. If he could stop that from happening, afterwards he could negotiate with the colonel for Ewan’s release.

The glare of torchlight half blinded him. “Pomona?” But he doubted that she could hear him. He could hear nothing over the angry chanting.

“Give him up! Give him up! Give him up!” He must defuse this situation before it really did turn into a riot.

He turned his horse to face the crowd, raised a hand above his head and rose up in his stirrups so as to be seen. “People! Good people! I must ask you all to”—

Nobody heard him. His horse, unnerved by a nearby torch, danced sideways. Pain shot from his bad knee as it collapsed beneath him and he fell back into his saddle.

At the same moment someone punched him hard in the shoulder, almost knocking him off his horse. He blinked. What the devil? Who could have...? He looked around in confusion. The blow had made his arm hurt a good deal. He clapped his other hand to the spot, hoping to take the sting out of it. It was wet. He stared at his fingers. In the inconsistent torchlight he could see that they were covered in something black and shiny. Blood.

But… why would he be bleeding? His brain struggled to find a logical connection between these events. “Pomona? Pomona!” But he couldn’t see her anywhere.

“Your grace.” The young assistant groom seized West’s horse’s bridle. “Your grace! Your arm!”