He was already wearing his traveling jerkin and breeches, which were now so filthy as to mask the fine quality of the fabric, so he would blend in well enough with the castle servants. His hat was too elaborate, so he rooted through the saddlebag for the coif he usually wore beneath his helm, and pulled it over his head. It hung down beyond his ears, disguising his hair. No one would know him, except his own men and Diana, none of whom he planned to approach. If he were careful, he thought he could remain unseen, and find out what was really going on at Kirkby Keep. He pulled open the door, walked out and closed it behind him with deep satisfaction. He was in a narrow corridor with stairs leading up. He ascended until he reached a door. He opened it only a crack, and with the darkness of a winter’s evening, he could see nothing but the meager glow from the occasional torch. A light layer of snow covered the ground. The air smelled so cold and fresh after the coal-tinged air of the cell, that he inhaled deeply and with gratitude.
