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“The servants have been informed, Anne. That struttin’ viscount already left for London just after mass, so ye need have no fears about him.”

“I slept through mass?” Elizabeth said in shock.

“I thought it best not to disturb ye. I told Master Milburn that you were feelin’ ill.”

Elizabeth nodded her thanks. “Bannaster’s steward seems like a man difficult to fool. He wasn’t suspicious?”

“He was far too busy seein’ his master off,” Adalia said. “You let us help ye bear the burden, Anne. Royden, God rest his soul, would want ye safe.”

Thinking again of her dead steward made Elizabeth’s eyes sting with tears. But as far as she’d been able to tell, the poor man had died just as Bannaster had said—his heart had given out, in front of many witnesses in the great hall. But just because Bannaster hadn’t been proved a murderer, didn’t mean that he wouldn’t stoop to such a heinous crime should someone interfere with his plans.

A young maidservant entered the kitchen at a run and slid to a stop. “The new steward is callin’ for Anne, Mistress Adalia.” The girl glanced fearfully at Elizabeth, then away. “Two travelers have been brought in. They were attacked on the road nearby.”

“Did he say why he needed me?” Elizabeth demanded.

The girl shook her head.

“You’ll want to strip the sound of command from your voice, Anne,” Adalia warned.

Elizabeth nodded. “Prepare a meal to break Lady Elizabeth’s fast. I will return to collect it shortly.”

The entire kitchen staff gave her fearful looks as she approached the entrance to the great hall. Yesterday she had skirted the room but once or twice, while her servants had been informed of her new identity. But now their loyalty would be put to the test. She said a brief prayer that no one would be punished should her masquerade be discovered.

She stepped out into the great hall, and as usual, the soaring chamber gave her a sense of awe, a feeling of being part of destiny. Stained glass windows were cut high into the walls. A massive hearth taller than a man filled one wall, and two staircases leading up to private chambers framed the hearth.

Two strangers lay on pallets before the fire. Elizabeth hesitantly walked forward. The new steward was standing above one of the men, questioning him.

“And what is your name?” Milburn asked.

“Sir John Gravesend,” the man said in a deep voice, rasping with pain.

Elizabeth could not quite see his face. Though curious, she was reluctant to press forward until the steward told her what he wanted of her.

“I am Master Milburn, steward of Castle Alderley.”

He said it as if it had always been so, Elizabeth thought bitterly.

“And your companion—what is his name?” Milburn asked.

“Philip Sutterly, my clerk.”

“And why do you have need of a clerk?”

“I am trained as a bailiff, sir, although I am traveling to obtain a new position.”

“And you were attacked on the road?”

“Five men jumped on us from the trees. They took all my coin, and left us beaten. It is only through providence that we were able to make our way here. My leg feels broken.”

All the while Sir John spoke, Elizabeth had the strangest need to see his face. She took several steps forward and stood behind the soldiers who had brought the wounded men in. A makeshift crutch cut from a tree branch lay discarded beside the pallet. She could see Sir John’s body from this new position, though not his face. He was a large man, with the broad shoulders of a knight that his title proclaimed for him. His hands were fisted, white-knuckled with strain. Elizabeth barely stopped herself from ordering Milburn to end the interrogation and see to the man’s injuries. She bit her lip, unused to keeping silent, and concentrated on moving to a more advantageous position. For some reason, she had to see Sir John’s face.

When it was revealed, he was looking up at Milburn, his brow furrowed in a grimace of pain. Sir John’s hair, cut at his mid-neck, was light brown in color. He had the blunt, well-formed face of a man in his prime, marred by a scar from his right temple down to his jaw. It was an old wound, well healed, and rather than make him look fearsome, it gave him a dangerous air. He could not be called handsome, but well formed and masculine. Bruises mottled his face, dried blood led from a cut on his lip, and swelling had begun to distort his profile.

This man was a bailiff, a mere overseer of a lord’s manor? It was not unheard of for a knight to hold such a position, but why did he not have his own land?

And what color were his eyes?

When Elizabeth realized the ridiculous path her thoughts were traveling, she silently scolded herself. There were more important things than the appearance of a stranger, one only temporarily passing through Alderley.