by Lynsay Sands
Iliana had paid little attention to the people in the bailey as she had crossed it. Now she shifted, craning her neck to peer about, and immediately began to worry at her lip as she saw that they appeared in need of a good cleaning and some attention. Their clothes were worn and stained, their hair shaggy and unkempt, and most of their faces dirty. As for the bailey and the keep itself, both were in sore need of repair.
"Lady Wildwood."
Iliana turned at that bluff greeting, unaware that she was still frowning as she met the gaze of her future father-in-law.
Startled by her expression, the older man reached back to grab his son's shoulder. "Help 'er down, Duncan," he ordered, giving his son a shove forward that sent him stumbling into the side of her mare.
Iliana peered wide-eyed at the grimy hands that were now raised in her general direction, then glanced to their owner's dirt-streaked face and red-eyed, squinting state. Swallowing unhappily, she reluctantly released her reins and slid off her mount. He caught her easily and set her gently on the ground, and Iliana swiftly stepped away from him, unable to keep her nose from wrinkling at the heavy, stale scent of ale, spirits, and sweat that wafted from him.
Despite his squinting, Duncan evidently caught her action, for he raised an arm to sniff at himself, then shrugged. He smelled fine to himself, though she smelled finer. There was the scent of wildflowers about her.
"My lords." Iliana dropped a curtsy, then hesitated and peered toward the bishop for help. She felt quite out of her depth in this situation, and she had no idea what to say or do. This was the man she was to marry. A veritable stranger...who stank.
"Mayhap we should move indoors, Angus," the bishop suggested gently. "It has been a long journey and refreshments would not go amiss."
"Oh, aye. This way, lass." Suddenly remembering his somewhat rusty manners, Angus Dunbar took Iliana's arm and turned to lead her up the stairs to the keep, leaving the others to follow.
The older man's legs were a fair sight longer than hers. She had to grab up the hem of her skirt and nearly run to keep up with him. By the time they reached the top step, she was panting slightly from the effort.
Taking in her breathless state, Angus frowned at her worriedly. "Frail," he muttered to himself with a sad shake of the head.
Iliana caught the word but had little time to worry over it as he opened the door of Dunbar keep and her attention was turned to what was to be her new home. If she had hoped that the inside would show more promise than the outside, she had been sorely mistaken. 'Twas an old building. A set of stairs to her right led up to a second floor where a narrow walkway had three doors leading off of it. Bed chambers, she guessed, turning to survey the great hall. It took up most of the main floor and was a large, dark cave with arrow slits for windows that were too high up for the feeble beams of light they allowed inside to penetrate the gloom in the room. If not for the fire roaring in a large fireplace against the far wall, she doubted she would have been able to see anything.
Which might not have been a bad thing, she thought with dismay, taking it all in. The floor was covered with filthy rushes, the walls were marked and smoke stained, the tapestries that graced them showed the effects of age and neglect, and the trestle tables and benches looked as if they were quite ready to give up the ghost. Iliana was almost afraid to sit on them, and not just because they appeared about to shatter under the least weight, but because they were also stained and splattered with grease and bits of food.
She was appalled. Wildwood, her childhood home, had been run efficiently and well. One could almost eat off the tabletop there. The floors no longer sported rushes, but several rugs that were warmer in winter and softer underfoot. Iliana had never seen the likes of this place and did not know whether to burst into tears or turn and flee. She simply could not live like this, could not manage amid such filth.
"Some ale?" Oblivious of her thoughts, the laird of Dunbar ushered her to the table and pushed her down onto one of those frightful benches. He then reached for a pitcher, straightened, saw that she had risen to her feet again, and frowned slightly as he pushed her back onto the seat with his free hand. "Rest, lass. Ye've had a long trip."
She watched, horrified, as he grabbed a nearby tankard, emptied the dregs of ale that still remained in it out onto the floor, then grabbed up a pitcher, only to scowl. "'Tis empty. Oh, aye, I er..."
The man's gaze slid enigmatically to his son, who scowled; then Angus started to turn toward the kitchen, only to pause and frown as he saw that Iliana had stood once again. Grunting, he pushed her back down onto the bench before bellowing toward the kitchen door, "Giorsal! Bring me more ale, wench!"
Turning back, he saw that Iliana had risen once more and his scowl deepened. "Yer rather like a rabbit, are ye no, lass? I press ye down and ye pop right back up. Settle yerself," he instructed not unkindly and pressed her back onto the bench before his gaze slid over her head.
He began a storm of twitching and nodding then. Iliana began to think the poor man was suffering a fit, until she glanced over her shoulder and saw his son standing behind her, squinting at the signals his father was giving him.
Growing impatient, the elder Dunbar finally snapped, "Set yerself beside her, lad. Woo her a bit."
"Woo her?" Duncan was taken aback. "We are getting wed, Da. Not acourtin'."
Angus Dunbar rolled his eyes at that, then peered at Bishop Wykeham as if for commiseration. "The young today, eh, Bishop?" He shook his head, then his attention was caught by a gray-haired woman who entered the room from what Iliana suspected were the kitchens. "Ah, good. Refreshments." Taking the pitcher from her, he handed the empty one over, then turned to pour the liquid into the tankard he had decided would be Iliana's. Filling it to the brim, he set it before her, then moved on to first empty, then fill, tankards for the bishop and Lord Rolfe.
Iliana lifted the tankard she had been given toward her mouth, only to pause and stare down into the murky drink doubtfully. There appeared to be something foreign floating on the top of the liquid. It was a bug of some sort.
"What be bothering ye? Do ye no care fer ale?"
Iliana glanced at her betrothed. He was still squinting, but it seemed he could make out enough to know that she was not drinking the ale his father had poured her.
"Nay, there is--I am not thirsty just now," she lied faintly, unwilling to offend.
"Ah well." Taking the tankard, he lifted it to his mouth.
"Oh! But--" Iliana began in dismay, but it was too late. He downed almost the entire tankard in one swallow.... And the bug with it, she saw as he rested the now empty tankard back upon the table between them.
"'Tis no sense it agoin' to waste," he murmured cheerfully, flashing her a brief smile before wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
Iliana stared at him wide-eyed. For one brief moment when he had smiled, his emerald eyes sparkling with good humor, her husband-to-be had taken on the look of an entirely different man. He had looked quite handsome for a moment, despite the grime and soot on his face and whatever else was staining it just now. Of course, he had ruined that at once by wiping his mouth on his sleeve and bringing her attention to the fact that the fine, white fabric was hopelessly stained from such repeated actions. Among others.
"My lady?"
Sighing, Iliana tore her eyes away from Duncan to peer questioningly at her maid.
"Your skirt." The woman gestured and Iliana stood again, twisting her head to peer over one shoulder at the skirt of her gown. There were stains, smudges, and crumbs of food on it just from sitting. There was also a great wet spot on it. Apparently, the bench had not been wholly dry when she had been forced to sit there. From the scent wafting up to her she guessed she had sat in a puddle of ale.
Frowning, she began brushing at it fretfully. Care for clothing had been hammered into her from a very early age. Clothing was often expensive and difficult to replace so far from the city tailors and dressmakers. That being the case, she had never been allowed to run o
r roll about on the ground with the other children at Wildwood. She had ever been expected to be a little lady and always act with decorum. Her mother would have been appalled at the state of her gown just now.
Ebba knelt to try to aid in removing the marks on her skirt, but it quickly became obvious that it was an impossible task. The skirt was ruined, Iliana realized with dismay.
"Aye. There's no time like the present."
Angus Dunbar's words caught Iliana's attention, dragging it away from her skirt and to the conversation Lord Rolfe and the bishop were holding with him.
"'Tis true," Rolfe murmured now. "The sooner we get this business finished, the sooner we can move on to tending to Lady Seonaid's problem."
Turning sharply toward his son, Laird Angus glared at him meaningfully until Duncan sighed and murmured, "Me father does not agree that ye go to Sherwell and force 'is hand. He fears the man may agree to the marriage takin' place."
Rolfe's eyebrows rose. "But I thought marriage was what you were hoping to achieve for Lady Seonaid?"
"Not to that stinkin' sack o' manure English whelp!" Angus snapped furiously.
"I see." Rolfe frowned over that, then shook his head helplessly. "I--" he began, only to pause when the bishop leaned forward to murmur something in his ear. Nodding his head with relief, the younger man then turned back to his host and forced a smile. "Mayhap we should leave this worry for now. Once we've tended to Lady Iliana and your son, we can discuss what to do about Lady Seonaid and Lord Sherwell."
There was a moment of tense silence, then Angus nodded grimly. "Aye. I'll inform the men and send one out to fetch Seonaid."
"Fetch her? Is she not here?"
"Nay. She's gone ahuntin'. She'll not have gone far. 'Twill take no time at all to find her. We can begin the ceremony when she returns."
Brushing her maid's efforts away, Iliana hurried anxiously to Lord Rolfe's side as Angus Dunbar headed for the doors of the keep.
"My lords!" Her gaze slid toward her would-be husband. He sat where she had left him, but was turned toward them, obviously listening to the conversation. Beseeching the king's emissaries, she hissed, "I do not think I can go through with this."
"Praise the Lord," Ebba murmured behind her.
Lord Rolfe was a little less moved. Expression blank, he shook his head. "Go through--?"
"Have you not looked about you?" she asked with bewilderment. "How could you expect me to live here? How could you expect me to marry him?" She gestured toward the man seated at the table. "He smells. This whole place smells. They are drunken louts. They reek of spirits. It fair oozes from their very flesh."
Rolfe took a look about, appearing to notice for the first time the frayed edges that seemed to grace every strip of material in the place, from Duncan's less-than-pristine clothes to the stained tapestries on the walls. A glance down showed him bones and gristle mixed in with the rushes on the floor, along with several other things she did not care to identify. "Well...aye, 'tis a bit messy," he agreed slowly.
"Messy? 'Tis a pigsty, and these people are pigs!"
"Mayhap it just needs a woman's touch, Lady Iliana," the bishop began, but Iliana was not in a mood to be soothed.
"My dear lord bishop, the touch of ten thousand women could not set this keep to rights. These people are barbarians and I will not stay here. Look at my gown from simply sitting on that bench. 'Tis ruined! 'Tis simply impossible. I will not marry him."
There was silence for a moment as Lord Rolfe and the bishop exchanged helpless glances, then the younger man sighed. "What of your mother?"
Iliana stiffened. A vivid image of her mother's bruised and tear-streaked face filled her mind and she sagged unhappily, beaten. She had no choice. She was in dire straits. She needed a strong husband, far from Wildwood, who could keep her safe from her stepfather. 'Twas the only way to free her mother from the troubles that had descended on them with her father's death.
"Is there no one else?" she asked dismally.
The bishop's expression was sympathetic. "I fear not, my lady. No one so far north. Besides, the claim has already been made to Greenweld that this contract was arranged by your father ere his death. 'Twas in the letter bearing the king's seal. We could not claim another betrothal now."
"No, of course not," she agreed miserably, then sighed. "I suppose I really have no choice then?"
"I fear not," Lord Rolfe agreed gently. "The contract was signed by both Lord Dunbar and the king. 'Tis done."
Chapter Two
"You look lovely."
Iliana peered unhappily at her maid as the woman continued fussing over her veil and gown. Lord Rolfe and the bishop had suggested she go upstairs and prepare for the wedding. She supposed it was their way of giving her time alone to face her fate.
It was a stunning blow.... And just one in a seemingly neverending series of late. The first had come a little more than two months ago with the news that her beloved father, Abod Wildwood, was dead. The second had been the form in which the news reached them. Those sad tidings had come in the person of Lord Greenweld, an ambitious baron who shared a border with their property. He had delivered the news with little more sympathy than he had shown while beating Iliana's mother. The beating had been to force her to sign her name to the marriage decree he had brought with him. The effort had succeeded, though Iliana had since learned that it wasn't the beating itself that had worked, but Greenweld's threats against Iliana if her mother did not comply.
Out riding at the time, Iliana had returned just as the mock ceremony had ended. Before she had even really grasped the fact that they had guests, her mother had flown into her arms, nearly knocking her over as she blurted out the news. Iliana had still been trying to unravel the meaning of the words pouring from her mother's swollen lips when Greenweld had torn the women apart and had Iliana removed from her childhood home.
Her mother's cries had rung in her ears as Iliana had been bound, tossed unceremoniously into the back of a cart, and taken away like a common thief. Confused and in shock, she had found herself transported to Greenweld castle, two long hours ride from Wildwood. For three days she had lain in a guarded room and grieved the loss of her father. Refusing food or drink, she had simply lain upon the bed, sobbing. On the fourth day, however, she had awoken angry, her eyes filled with the image of her mother's battered beauty and tear-filled eyes. Then she had begun to plan.
Escape was the only answer. To escape her guards at Greenweld, sneak back to collect her mother from Wildwood, and flee to their nearest relatives.
How naive she had been. How greatly she had underestimated her enemy, she realized now. He had removed her to Greenweld castle, far and away from everyone and everything she had ever known, to ensure Lady Wildwood's cooperation while he'd seen to exerting his power over the people of Wildwood. And he'd been determined to keep her there.
Time after time, Iliana had tried to escape and time after time she had been caught, restrained, and finally beaten and locked in the tower. Then the baron himself had arrived, announcing that she was to be married.
A bath had been brought to her, the first she had been allowed since her imprisonment, and he had sent her a fresh gown. Then Ebba had led her below and she had been introduced to Lord Rolfe and Bishop Wykeham, who were purportedly to escort her to Scotland and see her married. Iliana had been skeptical. She'd left Greenweld castle determined to make her escape the first chance she got...until they had made camp that night and Lord Rolfe and the bishop had spoken with her.
Iliana's mother had been a friend and favorite of Queen Anne's. Depending upon that friendship and the king's affection for his deceased wife, Lady Wildwood had written a letter and slipped it out with a servant to be carried to court. The letter had informed him of the dire straits in which she'd found herself, as well as the news that Greenweld was also attempting to arrange a marriage between Iliana and one of several powerful nobles known to be less than supportive of Richard's reign.
The king had di
spatched Rolfe and the bishop at once, sending them first to Scotland to make the deal with Dunbar, then to Wildwood. They had been told to appear surprised at Lady Wildwood's remarriage, since Greenweld had not yet informed the king of it. They were also to tell Greenweld that a marriage contract had already been drawn up for Iliana by her father; that Lord Wildwood and the laird of Dunbar had arranged it during the expedition in Ireland just before his death, and the king himself had witnessed it. Upon realizing that her father could no longer see to the completion of the contract himself, the king had sent Lord Rolfe and the bishop to tend to it. He had supplied them with a letter to that effect, addressed to Lady Wildwood.
Faced with this claim, Greenweld had had little choice but to give Iliana up.
When she had asked why the king had arranged the marriage to a Scot, and not someone closer to home, Rolfe had explained that Richard wished her to be as far away as possible for now. He intended on aiding her mother, but could not do so as long as Iliana was within Greenweld's reach. The baron had separated her from her mother for the express purpose of insuring Lady Wildwood would cooperate with him and not attempt to annul the marriage. The older woman had been informed that, should she do anything of the sort, Iliana would pay the price. Married and living in Scotland, she would be safe from that possibility and Greenweld would have less leverge against her mother. She would be free to seek an annulment with the king's assistance.
Iliana had relaxed at that news, sure that all would be well. Soon after she was safely married in Scotland, her mother would be removed from her contemptible marriage, and Greenweld would be dealt with.
Now Iliana realized what a fool she had been. She had never once considered what sort of man the king had chosen to husband her, merely trusting him to see to her best interests. But if Duncan Dunbar was his idea of a suitable husband, then the king had very poor taste. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed dispiritedly. 'Twas a shame she had not realized that ere giving up her chance at escape. But she had not. She had been more than satisfied to allow the king to see to everything. She had actually been relieved to place her future, her happiness, her very life--and her mother's as well--in the hands of these men. More the fool, she. It was obvious that by doing so, she had lost any chance at happiness. She could only hope her mother would be able to gain her freedom through this sacrifice.
