As mile followed weary mile and darkness turned into the light of day, Marguerite’s thoughts returned again and again to what had happened in the great hall. She was positive the confrontation between David and Henry had been staged, albeit upon the spur of the moment, a part of the subterfuge devised to thwart Warbeck’s bid for the crown. What else could it be? Confirmation would have been comforting, but was not forthcoming. It was not a question she could call out to David as they rode, and his preoccupation with military matters prevented her from approaching him during their brief halts to rest. Once or twice, she saw him kindle a flame from his tinderbox, holding it to a set of parchment sheets taken from a pouch at his side. The glimpse she had gotten suggested a map with notations and figures. Correct or not, she thought he appeared satisfied each time he rolled them up again. Assuming they were embarked on David’s role as an alternate pretender, they must have a base of operations, some stronghold to which they could retreat in reasonable safety.
