“Oh.” Cashel paused, shouting back to the men, “Please give Midnight some oats! He’s had a long night.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Cashel hurried away. We entered a dark passage, and thankfully left the smell of horse dung behind. He paused to remove his hat and hang it in an entryway. “My lord?” I teased, as he walked—well, hobbled—past stone walls.
“What?”
“I know what lord is. Lord is important.”
“Well, yes. I am Cashel from Newcastle to them, a noble.”
“Cah-ha-ha,” I crooned. “But they know no more?”
“No more than that.”
Daylight shone through windows in the walls; great big spaces that were covered with a see-through film. I gazed at these windows, wanting to touch, to smell, to see what the film was made of, but I stayed on Cashel’s shoulder.
“Shall we see the duke first?” he whispered.
