The Baron summoned both Geoffrey and me to the study after supper. The long campaign table had disappeared beneath maps.
Northampton.
Supply routes through the Midlands.
Small weighted stones marked troop positions while ribbons in different colors tracked alliances currently shifting faster than the weather.
I stood beside Geoffrey at the edge of the table studying the latest reports while the Baron read aloud from a dispatch near candlelight.
“The northern companies are pulling west,” Geoffrey said.
“No,” I answered automatically. “They only want the Crown to think they are.”
Both men looked at me.
I reached across the map before second-guessing myself and touched the road near Leicester.
“If they truly intended withdrawal, they would abandon the river crossing here.” My finger moved farther south. “Instead they reinforced it.”
The Baron went still.
Geoffrey watched me with that same unnerving focus he brought to strategy discussions and battlefield reports.
“The supply caravans,” Geoffrey said slowly.
“They’re bait,” I answered. “Or protection for something larger moving behind them.”
The Baron looked back down at the reports.
“Well,” he said dryly, “it appears I’ve accidentally acquired a war council.”
I smiled faintly.
Geoffrey didn’t, because he was still looking at me.
The Baron gathered several dispatches together with deliberate slowness.
“I require wine,” he announced finally.
“You already have wine,” Geoffrey said.
“I require different wine.”
And with that he walked out of the study carrying two parchments.
Silence settled behind him. Rain tapped softly against the windows. Candles flickered gold across the maps between us.
I became aware, suddenly and catastrophically, that Geoffrey and I were standing very close together. His hand rested near mine atop the campaign table. Neither of us moved away.
“You see things other people miss,” Geoffrey said quietly.
I looked down at the maps.
“I keep waiting for history to snap back into place.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
The question lingered softly between us.