The laird stepped beside her and investigated the plants for himself. “Are all of them this dry?” He touched the roots with his fingertips.
“Aye.” She tried to keep her countenance from revealing the depth of her distress. She looked into his silver eyes. “I maun plant them right away. Please, show me the spot in the garden where they might grow.”
Laird Kenneth peered west, in the direction where she supposed the flower garden was planted. He shrugged. “That is for the gardener to decide.” He returned his attention to her face. “You and Norman can meet tomorrow morning and make your plans then.”
“Nay, my laird.” Then, realizing she was out of order, Fayre gave a curtsy so low that she feared she might tumble. “I beg yer greatest indulgence, my laird, but my task canna wait. I maun plant the roses tonight, even in the dark.”
Otherwise, they will surely die. Then Father will be thrown in the dungeon, where he will surely die. What will I do then?
She looked up in time to see Laird Kenneth’s eyebrows shoot up. “Indeed,” he said, “I promised that you would have water for the roses as soon as we arrived here. I shall keep my word.” He nodded toward the squire.
“Yes, my laird,” he responded. “I shall summon Norman right away.”
Relieved, Fayre stood upright.
“Perhaps you shall have some fortification as you wait,” the laird suggested.
“I offer tae ye my greatest gratitude, my laird.” Fayre forced her sense to overrule the rumblings of her belly. “But I canna. I maun plant these bushes as soon as I can.”
“Then at least allow me to accompany you to the garden.”
The laird’s generosity surprised her, but she accepted his offer willingly. Fayre had never ventured more than three miles from her own little cottage. She couldn’t remember a night she didn’t sleep in her own bed. Humble though it was, her home offered comfort in its familiarity and warmth in its love. Fayre did not yet know whom, if anyone, she could trust in her new surroundings. Of those she had met, Laird Kenneth had shown himself the most compassionate thus far. She was willing to stay near to him as long as he was amenable.
Laird Kenneth took a lantern from one of the servants and led Fayre to the garden. As she expected, it was located in the courtyard behind the kitchen. Yet she didn’t expect the garden to be so grand.
He chuckled.
“What do ye find so amusing?” she asked.
“Your eyes,” he answered. “They are so wide they nearly constitute your entire countenance.”
She bowed her head in shyness. “I–I just have never seen such, such … glory.”
“Indeed?” He chuckled, then his face turned thoughtful as he surveyed his surroundings. His eyes took on a light that suggested he was seeing his garden for the first time, although Fayre knew full well that couldn’t be. “I suppose you have not.” He turned a kind gaze toward her. “This bailey garden is rather modest, in actuality. This is nothing in comparison to the king’s.”
Fayre gasped in wonder. “Then he maun have many gardeners.”
“Aye. Many more than I.”
“Will I be expected tae help tend the rest of the garden?”
“Nay. Norman is quite proud of his work. Do not be surprised if he resists your encroachment. I must caution you. He has worked here, alone, for many years. Those who help him are all men, so he is unaccustomed to working alongside women. Do not expect to be welcomed.” He sent her a smile of assurance. “Do not fear. He is harmless enough.”
Fayre nodded. She was all too aware that her position as a serf woman caused many men to look upon her as little more than a beast. If a man was rough and uncouth, he might not think twice about taking advantage of her tenuous standing. Her spirit calmed as she determined not to call attention to herself. “I shall try not tae be the source of any trouble.”
To her amazement, Laird Kenneth took her chin in his thumb and forefinger and lifted her face so that her gaze met his. The gentleness in his touch astounded and delighted her. “How can one such as yourself instigate any trouble? Nay, such a prospect would be impossible.”
She let out a little gasp, then an uncertain laugh escaped her lips. For the first time, she gained a glimmer of understanding as to what her friends meant when they tried to tell her about marriage.
Marriage? What am I thinking? Never.
No laird would marry her. No, she was here to coax life into the rosebushes so that the laird could find favor with the king. Or with a lady. Or perhaps both. The thought left her unhappy.
“Ah, here comes Norman now.” The laird took his fingers away from her chin, leaving Fayre feeling even more unhappiness than before. With the other hand, he lifted his lantern to greet a wizened old man whom Fayre surmised was the gardener.
If the man noticed the laird’s quick motion, he made no indication. He bowed.
“My laird. Why summon me tae the garden after fall of night?”
“I know this is an unusual request, but the matter is of the utmost urgency.” The laird held the rosebushes up for the gardener to inspect. “You see, these must be planted with the greatest of haste.”
Norman rubbed his chin, which was decorated with dark but scraggly hairs. “Fine roses, they are. Such color!” He leaned closer to study the plants. After a moment, he shook his head. “They’re dry, they are. Even though I’ll be fetchin’ water right away, they will never survive.”
Fayre’s intake of breath was louder this time. She clamped her hand over her mouth. “Please. Do not say that.”
Norman took in her plain brown frock and decided he could address her without fear of reprimand. “And who might ye be?”
“She is Fayre. She is here to grow these roses upon my orders. You are to treat her with the utmost respect and see to it that the rest of the servants do the same.”
“Aye, my laird.” Norman touched one of the fading blooms. “I can see why you desire such a flower. I have never seen such a color.”
“Nor have I until today,” Laird Kenneth agreed. “You must give Fayre the best spot in the garden to assure that at least one of these bushes survives.”
“But—”
“I care not how long the planting takes or even if you must uproot other bushes to make room for these. You are to assist Fayre in any way possible.”
“Aye, my laird.” His obedient words denied his sour expression. Fayre almost felt sorry for him.
“Likewise, I will assist ye in any way I can,” Fayre told him.
“Humph.” He twisted his mouth into a doubting line. “Come on with you. I think I know a good spot ye can have. I had planned the row for some of my best roses, but I can see that is not to be.”
“Thank ye.”
“Don’t bother to thank me. Any favor ye get from me, ye owe tae my master.”
As she helped Norman dig, Fayre wished he could find a way to be congenial. Laird Kenneth was right; the gardener was a wee bit grumpy. She decided that her best course of action was to ignore him. For that matter, perhaps her best course of action would be to make herself as invisible as possible. The less trouble she caused, the more likely she would survive her stay at the castle.
Heavenly Father, please grant my roses life so that my father and I might also live.
An image of the expectant woman whose husband lay sick in bed came to mind. She realized how self-centered her prayers had become ever since she had been taken upon Laird Kenneth’s horse that day.
Lord, heal the ones who are sick. Protect those in this house, so that they might be spared from any sickness. Especially the plague.
She shuddered at the thought of anyone close to her being stricken with such a deadly disease that had already taken so many lives.
“Cold?” Norman asked.
“Cold?” She snapped back into the present. “Nay. I am nae cold.”
“Then why do ye shiver?”
“Just praying.”
“I never shiver when I pray.” Norman shook hi
s head as he tamped dirt around the roots of one of the bushes. “Who can understand a woman?”
Fayre thought better than to challenge Norman. As long as she was expected to work with him, she saw no need in angering him. He was already grumpy enough. Yet underneath his gruff exterior, she could see his love for the garden. Perhaps he was a gentle soul in his way.
As soon as the roses were planted and Norman had bid her an unenthusiastic good night, Fayre exhaled, letting out pent-up emotions of uncertainty, fear, and exhaustion. She didn’t care whether her quarters were as magnificent as the laird’s or a stall shared with Dazzle. All she wanted was to lay her weary body in a horizontal position and fall into a deep slumber.
Eager to reach this goal, she ambled to the back door and entered the palace through the kitchen. Not even the smell of the night’s dinner, long since served but its delicious aromas still filling the air, enticed her to ask for sustenance. She hadn’t been at the castle long enough to know the cook from the chamber maid, so she addressed the first person she eyed, a portly woman who looked as tired as Fayre felt.
“May I be shown tae my quarters?”
The woman folded her arms, cocked her head, and inspected Fayre. “So, would ye be the lassie that my laird brought home with him?”
“Aye.”
Her gray eyebrows rose so high that new wrinkles were temporarily added to her forehead. “I can see why.”
Fayre felt color rise to her cheeks as she squirmed.
“He’ll be seein’ ye now.”
“Seein’ me?”
The woman nodded toward a younger version of herself who was entering the kitchen, apparently having finished some task unknown to Fayre. “She’s here.”
“Good.” The servant motioned for Fayre to follow her.
Fayre didn’t bother to look at her clothing. She knew the dust needed to be shaken from it and that her face was surely smudged with dirt. She rubbed her fingers together in a vain attempt to whisk away a few particles of soil. “But I am in no condition tae enter a fine room, much less tae see the laird. Might I take a moment tae refresh myself? Can you nae show me tae my quarters first?”
The maid shook her head. “He wants tae see ye right away. Follow me.”
The kitchen door led to a narrow and dark passage. After they passed through, the servant opened a door that led into a large hallway. Fayre stared upward at the arched ceiling that loomed high above her. The passageway was so wide that she and four other women could have stretched out their arms and touched fingertips and still not made contact with the opposite walls.
“I have ne’er seen such,” Fayre noted.
“It don’t seem so wonderful when ye’re the one that’s got tae scrub the floors and do the dustin’,” the maid observed.
Fayre peered at the walls. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t.”
The maid paused in front of a massive wooden door. “Here we are. The laird awaits.”
Fayre swallowed. Even though she had been with him all day, the prospect of seeing him again left her anxious. The maid’s expression offered neither sympathy nor compassion as she announced Fayre to the laird.
Fayre could see she had no choice. She had to face him.
What did he want?
The laird was standing when she entered, a gesture she didn’t expect from one of such elevated rank. She marveled at how she had seen him treat others with kindness, even serfs. But then, Laird Kenneth was well regarded in the land. She had heard talk of his fine countenance and fine form. Light hair was exposed, forming longish waves that made him appear young and carefree. Aye, and his silver eyes! She watched them reflect the nearby flames. The flickering light made his eyes glisten even more than they had in the sunshine earlier that day. Softened features suggested his mood was relaxed. Perhaps he was as tired as she. What would it be like to be a lady, to sit by the fire with Laird Kenneth after a long day and to touch his cheek, comforting him?
Is my mind unsound tae think such a thing?
She shook the thought from her head and curtsied.
The wooden chairs in front of the fire looked appealing, but he didn’t offer her a seat. Fayre hoped that meant the visit would be brief. A wooden table by one of the chairs held a mug along with a plate that was empty save a chicken bone.
“I trust all is well and that Norman showed you a good and proper place for your roses?”
“Aye, my laird.”
“And you have had your sustenance?”
“Nay, my laird.”
“What? No sustenance?” The edge of anger that entered his voice unawares left her taken aback. This was a man who could be brought to ire in an instant. Fayre realized that if the laird were to do battle, he was sure to emerge victorious.
“Food was offered, my laird. I declined.”
“Do you mean to say that nothing in the kitchen tempted you to eat? Surely my cooks could prepare something to your liking.”
“I am quite certain any food in yer home is much finer than anything tae which I am accustomed. The midday meal was evidence of that. I am too tired tae eat at present, if I may be permitted tae say so. I am sure I shall regain my appetite tomorrow.”
“I know you must be exhausted from such a day. I would not have summoned you here if it were not important. I surmise your expectations are to be treated as a servant while you are here.”
“I–I dinna ken what my expectations are, sir.”
He chuckled. “I suppose not. So much has happened today. I want you to know that as long as you remain here, you will be treated as a special guest.”
Fayre felt her mouth drop open. A guest!
“Tomorrow morning the seamstress shall set upon sewing you a decent frock.”
Fayre looked down upon her garment. The brown wool was plain, but no plainer than any other serf’s. And it was clean. Well, as clean as it could be considering she had been on a horse all day. She swiped at the loose soil that had penetrated the cloth on the two spots where she had knelt in the garden to plant her roses.
“There is no need for that,” Laird Kenneth interrupted.
She stopped. Perhaps he didn’t want her to dirty the floor. For the first time, she noticed the stones were covered by a runner woven in a fine botanical pattern of threads in hues of red, purple, and gold, colors that could only be afforded by the rich. She looked up long enough to apologize. “Forgive me, my laird.” She returned her stare to the floor and added, “But I am nae deserving of such honor.”
“That is for me to decide.” His voice conveyed a request rather than a command. “Brona—that is the seamstress—shall meet you in your chamber tomorrow morning.”
When Fayre awoke the next day in a strange bed, her stomach felt as though it were leaping into her throat. Where was she?
Just as quickly, she exhaled and placed her right hand at the base of her throat. “Kennerith Castle.”
She studied the room. In the light of day it proved larger than the entire hut she shared with her father. Tapestries depicting festivals and celebrations of lairds and ladies adorned the walls. And the fine fabric under which she lay! She had never dared try to barter with merchants to purchase soft material dyed in rich hues. Fayre imagined them throwing their heads back and laughing with unbridled mirth at the thought that someone as inconsequential as she would dare think she could own such luxury. The fine things in life were reserved for royalty and gentry. Still, she wished she were back in her humble dwelling all the same.
She heard a knock on the door. Before she could answer, a servant she had never seen entered. Somehow the servant managed to balance a tray loaded with food while opening the door at once. Fayre leapt out of bed and rushed to assist her.
“There’s no need tae help me. I’m here to serve ye. At least, that’s what I ha’e been told.” She surveyed Fayre with beady eyes and sniffed through her hooked nose as though she smelled an odor. She set the tray on the small, oval-shaped table beside the bed. “I’m Murdag, your ladies’ mai
d.”
A ladies’ maid! Fayre had never fantasized that she should enjoy the services of a ladies’ maid—ever. Judging from the way Murdag frowned as she scrutinized her, the servant was none too happy with her new mistress.
Not knowing what else to do, Fayre resolved to be friendly. She caressed the sleeve of her lightweight night shift. “So ye are the one who left this for me?”
She nodded.
“Thank ye.” Fayre smiled.
Murdag turned away and regarded Fayre’s brown clothing. The garment was neatly folded and left on the bed. “Ye won’t be putting that thing back on, are ye?”
“I most certainly am.” Fayre’s voice reflected her indignation. “My duty here is tae work in the garden. I am aware that Laird Kenneth will be sending the seamstress this morning, but I canna imagine that I would tend tae my roses wearing a fine frock.” When Murdag didn’t answer Fayre’s logic, she continued. “And I know Brona will nae possibly sew a garment in a matter of minutes. I maun wear something while she works on my new clothing.”
“As ye wish. Is there anything else, or may I leave you tae your breakfast?”
“Ye may go. Thank you.” The words felt and sounded strange falling from her own lips, unaccustomed as she was to giving anyone permission to do anything.
Fayre shivered as she watched Murdag exit. She wasn’t sure which of them was the more unfortunate: Murdag, for being forced to serve a woman below her own station, or herself, for being looked down upon by her maid.
Despite her hunger, Fayre didn’t want to greet Brona in her nightclothes. She donned the simple frock that shouted her lack of position. As she slipped the rough woolen garment over her shoulders, she felt defiant. Why should she be ashamed of who she was? God had known her since she was formed in her mother’s womb. He had put her exactly where He wanted her to be, for His own purpose.
The door creaked.
Fayre controlled the urge to display her ill mood.
Why didn’t the seamstress knock?
She looked in the direction of her visitor and gasped.
“Sir Ulf? What are you doing here?”
British Brides Collection Page 41
