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see what there is to learn.”
    Siward looked down at her feet and muttered a horrified curse. “Lady, you must not—”
    “We are here to save Carrisford,” she said grimly. “My feet are not so bad, and the sooner I am easy in my mind about approaching FitzRoger for aid, the sooner I will be able to put aside this disguise.”
    They started to circle the crowded courtyard, keeping close to the wall where they were less likely to be trampled by a destrier or knocked flying by a hurrying servant. Even so, they had to stop and start to allow for the constant coming and going from the storage rooms in the wall.
    Imogen began to take heart. She noted the overall good humor of the busy throng. There were curses and shouts to get out of the way, but generally people made way and jokes were as common as insults. A slight change in the cacophony alerted her and she looked over to the whipping post. It was empty, no sign of the punished or the punisher. Thank God for that.
    A smell caught her attention and cramped her belly. Baking bread. Her stomach growled with the reminder that there had been nothing except water and that swig of ale for over twenty-four hours. No wonder her spirit was so weak.
    “Can we ask for some?” she whispered, scarce able to believe how desperately she wanted even a crust.
    “No harm in asking.” Siward made his way to the bakehouse door. Imogen peeped in after him and saw the baker and his men, stripped down to loincloths in the intense heat as they shoveled loaves in and out of the stone ovens.
    “Any scraps for poor folks?” Siward whined.
    The baker looked up and nodded curtly. A young boy picked up a loaf which had fallen into the dirt and tossed it to them. Siward caught it and called a blessing as they escaped into the cool of the bailey. As they pushed their way toward a quiet corner, Imogen felt something wrong. She yelped and grabbed the base of her slipping paunch. The bandages were loosening.
    A middle-aged woman was beside her in an instant. “A pain?” she asked. “Are you due yet?”
    Imogen shook her head desperately. “No. Not for weeks.”
    “Thought not. Probably just kicked you funny. Where’re you from, dear?”
    Imogen was having to keep hold of her weighted paunch to stop it sagging and she looked frantically at Siward to answer.
    He acted the selfish man and took a large bite out of the fresh loaf, making Imogen’s mouth water. Then he mumbled, “Tatridge.” It was a village on the border of Carrisford, Warbrick and Cleeve land.
    “No wonder you’re on the road then, things being as they are—” The woman broke off and cocked her head. Doubtless one of the many shouts had been directed at her. “Have to go. Just find a place to sit, dear.” She bustled off.
    Siward immediately passed the loaf to Imogen and she took a huge bite. It was delicious; still warm from the oven. The slight grittiness of earth didn’t bother her at all. “The winding cloths are coming loose,” she mumbled with a full mouth.
    “Why not let it go?” he asked. “It’s served its purpose.”
    Imogen shook her head as she swallowed. She hadn’t told Siward her full plan for her guise of pregnancy. He’d have a fit at the thought of the Lady of Carrisford appearing to be with child while without husband. “Enough people have seen me like this,” she said. “If we want to leave without speaking to FitzRoger, we’d best not attract attention.” With great willpower she passed the rest of the loaf back, but he shook his head.
    “You have it. I’ve had enough.”
    He was doubtless lying, but Imogen found she couldn’t continue the protest and settled to enjoying the last of the loaf.
    “I must say that grabbing at yourself looked very real,” said Siward. “I half expected you to drop a babe at any moment. But you’d best not go around clutching yourself or we’ll have the midwife hovering. Move back in this corner and I’ll see what I can do.”
    Imogen squeezed into a