LORD OF DUNKEATHE

by Margaret Moore

  Perhaps the rumours of Sir Nicholas's prowess in battle and tournaments weren't exaggerations, after all. If he came from the humble beginnings her uncle claimed he did, he certainly had achieved a great deal, if one measured success by wealth and this fortress alone.

  "We're not the only ones who came in answer to the news of his search for a bride," Uncle Fergus noted, nodding at the other carts and wagons already on the road ahead of them.

  Several of these vehicles were richly decorated and accompanied by guards. Other men, cloaked and riding beautiful horses decked in colourful accoutrements, rode with them, and Riona assumed these were noblemen. More wagons held casks of what was likely wine or ale, and baskets or sacks of foodstuffs— enough to feed a multitude by the looks of it.

  Just how many women was Sir Nicholas expecting?

  Riona tried not to think about that, or compare those people and their wagons to her uncle's rickety cart and their old gray horse. She wouldn't worry about her dress, or her uncle's Scots attire.

  "King Alexander must have been very pleased with Sir Nicholas's service," she said as they approached the mighty gatehouse.

  "Aye, I heard he was vital in putting down the last rebellion," Uncle Fergus replied. "And he's bonny to look at, so they say," he

  reminded her with a wink. "Brawand rich ant/handsome—that's rare."

  At the gatehouse, two armed soldiers stepped into the road, blocking the way. Both wore chain mail with black tunics over top, and carried spears as well as swords sheathed at their waist. Several soldiers patrolled the wall walk above, as if Sir Nicholas was expecting to be under siege at any moment.

  Yet the times were peaceful enough, and it would take a large army, much determination and a lot of effort to capture this castle . Riona couldn't think of any Scot who had such a force at his disposal, or who'd willingly rebel against Alexander now, for to move against the Norman would be a move against the man who'd rewarded him, too. Perhaps this show of force was just that—a show, intended to illustrate to all and sundry the might and power of the lord of Dunkeathe.

  "Ere now, what's this?" one of the soldiers asked, his accent revealing his Saxon heritage as he eyed them suspiciously. "Wot's in the wagon?"

  Riona wasn't impressed by the man's insolence. They should be addressed with more respect, no matter how they were dressed, or the state of their cart and horse.

  "Our baggage," she answered shortly. "Now if you'll be so good as to move out of the way—"

  "I don't take orders from the likes o' you," the soldier retorted. He ran another scornful gaze over them, his sandy brows furrowing. "Who do ya think you're foolin'?" He turned to his fellow soldier. "'Ere, Rafe, they must think we're bumpkins or sommat."

  Uncle Fergus's hand went to the dirk in his belt. "What are these louts saying, Riona?" he asked.

  While he'd learned Norman French, Uncle Fergus had never troubled himself to learn the language of the Sassenach. He'd always left it to Riona to deal with merchants or traders from the south.

  The last thing Riona wanted was a confrontation between her uncle and these likely well-trained and probably vicious soldiers. Uncle Fergus had been a fine fighter in his day, but that was long ago.

  "Leave this to me, Uncle," she said as she climbed down from the cart. "I'll speak to them and make sure they understand who they're talking to."

  The thin guard gestured at the cart with his spear. "You've come wi' somethin' to sell, I'll wager, and likely aiming to cheat. Well, whatever it is, his lordship ain't buying." Still using his spear as if it were an extension of his hand, he pointed down the road. "Turn around and go back to the bog you come from."

  Riona tried to keep a rein on her temper as she marched up to them. "This is Fergus Mac Gordon Mac Darbudh, Thane of Glencleith," she declared as she stopped in front of the soldier and shoved his spear aside.

  "Oh, this man in the skirt's a thane, is he?" the guard replied with a smirk. "Thane of the Bog of Bogworth, I think. And who're you? His daughter? Or his.. .something else?"

  Riona's lip curled with disgust and she drew herself up to her full height. "He's my uncle. I am Lady Riona of Glencleith, and you will let us pass, or I'll tell your overlord of your insolence."

  The stocky man's eyes widened. "You're a lady, are you?"

  A look of sudden comprehension came to his beady black eyes and he grinned as he nudged his companion. "Look 'ere, Harry. She says she's a lady—come to marry Sir Nicholas, no doubt." He tilted back his head and called up to the soldiers on the wall walk. "Did ya hear that? She thinks she's got a chance for Sir Nicholas!"

  As they burst out laughing, Riona turned on her heel—and discovered Uncle Fergus right behind her.

  "That's it," he declared, reaching for his dirk. "I don't know what they're saying, but I'm sure it's rude. I'm going to teach these Sassenach some manners."

  She put her hand on his arm to prevent him from drawing his weapon. "Don't bother, Uncle. They're not worth the trouble. Come on, let's go meet their master."

  Uncle Fergus hesitated and for a moment she feared he would indeed try to fight the more heavily armed and younger soldiers. But then, to her relief, he nodded. "All right," he grudgingly agreed. "He's more important than these worthless louts."

  Wondering how they were going to get inside the castle , Riona walked back to the wagon and climbed onto the seat. As Uncle Fergus joined her, she looked at the two soldiers, who were still standing at the gates, smirking and laughing, and got an idea.

  She raised the reins and briskly slapped the horse's back, not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to startle. With an indignant whinny, the mare broke into a run. Just as startled, Uncle Fergus gave a yelp and grabbed on to the seat.

  "Out of the way!" she shouted to the soldiers.

  One shoved the other into the moat, then fell after him, their mail jingling as they rolled down to the bottom.

  Serves you right, she thought as their horse slowed to an anxious trot once they were through the gatehouse and into the open space of the inner ward. She glanced back, fearing the men at the gates or on the walk would give chase. She heard someone shout to let them go and leave them for Sir Nicholas to deal with.

  Not the most comforting of thoughts, but at least she hadn't let the soldiers send them away like unwelcome beggars.

  "Oh, my beauty, they'll be remembering you!" Uncle Fergus exclaimed as he started to laugh.

  She wasn't sure that was a good thing. "I shouldn't have lost my temper. Charging them like a warrior queen wasn't very ladylike."

  Uncle Fergus patted her on the knee. "They were rude and insolent, and it's not as if you hurt them. When you're Sir Nicholas's wife, you can have them sent away."

  If this was the sort of fellow the lord of Dunkeathe commanded, she certainly didn't want to be the lady of Dunkeathe. Indeed, it was all she could do not to ask to go home right now. This fortress was too enormous, too intimidating, too Norman by far.

  They reached the second imposing gate. Through it she could see the courtyard—and a mass of wagons, servants, horses and soldiers. The noise they made was like waves on the shore, rising and falling, punctuated by the occasional neigh or a brusque order.

  Riona steeled herself for another confrontation with insolent Sassenach, but this time there was just a single man standing beside the entrance. He was of middle years, Riona guessed, and definitely not a Scot, for he wore the dress of a Norman and had his light brown hair cut in that peculiar style they favoured , as if

  someone had set a bowl on their head. He was holding a wax tablet and a stylus, so she assumed he must be some kind of clerk.

  "The kitchen's to the left of the hall," the man said when Uncle Fergus pulled the horse to a halt.

  Maybe he wasn't a Norman, after all, for he spoke Gaelic very well.

  "That's good to know if I get hungry," Uncle Fergus replied, clearly trying to control his temper. "I'm Fergus Mac Gordon Mac Darbudh, thane of Glencleith, and this is Lady Riona, my n
iece. We've heard about Sir Nicholas's quest for a bride."

  The man's eyes betrayed his surprise, but he quickly recovered. "I see. Have you some proof of your title?"

  This was something Riona hadn't foreseen. She was envisioning an ignominious retreat past those Saxon guards when Uncle Fergus said, "If it's proof you need, I have the king's charter. I'm guessing a royal document with the king's seal will be good enough for you?"

  Riona stared at him with surprise. He hadn't said anything to her about bringing the charter; nevertheless, she was relieved to be spared any more embarrassment.

  "Aye, it will be," the man said as Uncle Fergus climbed down from the cart.

  He rummaged through the worn leather pouch that held his clothes. "Ah, here it is," he said as he pulled out a parchment scroll and unrolled it. "Sealed and signed by Alexander himself."

  The man examined it a moment, and Riona realized she was holding her breath.

  "Everything seems to be in order," the man said. He handed back the parchment to Uncle Fergus, who rolled it up again, and wrote their names on his tablet. "Welcome to Castle Dunkeathe, my lord, my lady. I am Robert Martleby, Sir Nicholas's steward."

  "Delighted to meet you, Martleby," Uncle Fergus replied in his usual jovial manner.

  "I'm pleased to meet you, too, my lord. Now, if you'll be so good as to carry on into the yard, the head groom will tell you where you may stable your horse and put your, um, conveyance."

  "What about our quarters?" Uncle Fergus asked.

  "There'll be someone in the ward to direct you," Martleby replied.

  "Excellent!" Uncle Fergus exclaimed as he got back on the cart.

  He lifted the reins and clucked his tongue, and the cart rumbled over the cobblestones into the inner yard. Once inside, the noise was overwhelming, worse than the celebrations of May Day and a market combined. There had to be a hundred people there, some

  still in their wagons, others mounted and more already on the ground. Servants dashed between the people and vehicles, and various soldiers milled about in small groups. Drivers shouted at each other as they tried to manoeuver the wagons that held not just guests, but their considerable baggage, too.

  Thank heavens trying to organize this crowd wasn't her responsibility, Riona thought. For once, she could just sit and wait to be told what to do, instead of having to figure out how to do it.

  On the other hand, it was frustrating, too. Forming a line to speak to the man in charge would be one solution to some of the confusion. Setting servants to direct the drivers toward the stables would have been another. Assigning one servant to each guest, to see to their baggage and accommodation, would have lessened the chaos, too.

  It took Uncle Fergus a while, but eventually he managed to get their horse and cart off to one side, away from the more crowded center. The odours coming out of the building closest to them told Riona they must be beside the kitchen.

  "Now, Riona, which one of these fine gentlemen do you suppose is Sir Nicholas?" Uncle Fergus asked, scratching his beard as he surveyed the yard.

  "I have no idea," she answered, her gaze going from one richly attired man to another. None of them looked like her idea of a hardened mercenary.

  Uncle Fergus nodded at a haughty man of mature years, mounted on a gray horse. "What about him?"

  "How old is Sir Nicholas?"

  "Aye, you're right. That fellow's not young enough. Maybe that one there?" Uncle Fergus gestured at a man who was certainly young, dressed in bright yellow damask and mounted upon a white horse with very elaborate accoutrements of silver, like his master's spurs.

  "He doesn't look the sort to have ever been a soldier," Riona warily replied.

  Frowning with concentration, Uncle Fergus nodded. "Aye. That one wouldn't want to muss his clothes and fighting's a bloody, sweaty, messy business. Maybe him?"

  Riona followed his pointing finger to a man standing in the middle of the yard surrounded by several well-dressed men and a few soldiers who all seemed to be asking questions at the same time. He was dark haired, but not exactly young, and he appeared distincdy harried as he gestured at the stables as if in answer to their queries. "I think he must be the head groom," she said.

  "I think you're right," Uncle Fergus agreed as he started to get down off their wagon. "And since he's the fellow I'm supposed to see about stabling our horse and putting our cart somewhere, I'd best go speak to him. I'll try to find out about our quarters, too, while I'm at it. Stay here, Riona, till I get back. And keep an eye

  out for our host. I'm sure he's here somewhere, greeting his guests."

  Riona wasn't so sure about that, although Sir Nicholas would be guilty of a breach of good manners if he wasn't. But since she had nothing else to do anyway, she nodded and waved a little farewell as Uncle Fergus set off through the crowd.

  Wondering how long he was likely to be, and what Sir Nicholas was really like—for she didn't doubt Uncle Fergus's description was overly favour able—she turned her attention back to the people in the courtyard.

  Several servants were unloading the wagons and taking chests and bundles into a large building on the other side of the yard that looked like a barracks, save for the narrow arched windows. Perhaps they were family apartments and servants' chambers.

  Beside that was another long building, which she guessed was the hall.

  In addition to the kitchen, there were stables and other buildings that were probably storehouses of some sort, and an armoury . She suspected there were more buildings that she couldn't see to accommodate the garrison.

  Maybe Sir Nicholas was looking out of one of the windows in the second floor of the apartments, watching them, smugly pleased to see all the people who'd come, and exulting in their urge to have one of their family meet his approval.

  Maybe he was in his solar, trying to figure out how he was going to pay for the food necessary to feed this multitude, and where they were going to stay. Imagining a brawny, not overly intelligent ex-soldier worriedly scratching his head and puzzling over food was amusing, but not very likely. Sir Nicholas was obviously rich, as this castle attested, so he would surely not be concerned with such mundane matters.

  Perhaps he'd gone out hunting, getting away from the hustle and bustle until all was settled . Then he could return in a flurry of hoofbeats, weapons, hawks and a swirling cloak, like a great hero coming home.

  Well, there'd be at least one person in Castle Dunkeathe who wouldn't react with awe and delight, she thought, even if she did have to admit to a certain curiosity to see the man who could create all this fuss and bother over a potential marriage. Maybe he was quite a prize, given the number of people here.

  She wondered which lady might win him. That one, just disembarking from her blue wagon? If she proved to be younger than she was, she'd be surprised. The brown-haired one walking into the hall? She, too, was finely attired, but she certainly couldn't be called graceful. And Riona could hear her giggling all the way across the yard.

  Perhaps that very young, very pretty, dark-haired young woman wearing a lovely blue velvet cloak trimmed with red fox fur seated on a palfrey. Although she was as expensively attired as any and mounted on a very fine horse, she looked lost and lonely and more

  than a little frightened. She also didn't look much more than sixteen.

  The poor thing probably didn't want to be here, either. Feeling sympathetic, Riona gave the girl a friendly smile when she looked Riona's way.

  The girl's eyes widened with surprise. Still smiling, Riona shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, "I don't know what I'm doing here, either."

  The girl returned her smile, until the young man in yellow damask approached her and commanded her attention. He helped her dismount and then they went into the hall.

  When they were gone, Riona idly surveyed the wagons and people left in the yard. She noticed a man she hadn't seen before leaning against the stable wall, watching the activity in the courtyard, just as she was.

  He couldn't b
e a nobleman, for he wore only a leather jerkin without a shirt beneath, exposing his broad chest and arms. The rest of his clothing was likewise simple and nondescript—brown woollen breeches, a wide belt with bronze buckle, scuffed leather boots. It was obvious from the way his breeches clung to his thighs that more than his arms were muscular, and his lean, dark features proclaimed him a mature man in his most powerful prime.

  He must be a soldier off duty waiting for an order, or the person issuing them. He might even be a Scot, for although he wore the

  dress of men from the south, his dark brown hair hung to his shoulders—a far cry from the style favoured by the Normans.

  In his watchful stillness, he reminded her of a cat. She'd known a feline to sit outside a mouse hole, unmoving, unflinching, for an entire morning waiting for the mouse to show itself. She didn't doubt this man could wait with the same sort of patience for his prey. Sir Nicholas must pay his soldiers well, for surely a warrior of that sort didn't come cheaply.

  One of the maidservants, a pretty woman with a mole on her breast, hurried past. The man glanced her way, which wasn't surprising. What was surprising was the way the pretty servant reacted. Instead of smiling flirtatiously, as she had with several other men, both noble and servants, she became wary, perhaps even frightened. She quickened her already brisk pace and hurried past Riona.

  The man's gaze followed the servant—until it met Riona's.

  It was like being pinned to the ground and studied at leisure. Never had she been subjected to such intense scrutiny, from anyone. Never had she been so taken aback and flustered by a man's look.

  She immediately averted her eyes. Yet in the next instant, she regretted her trepidation and commanded herself not to be so silly. Why shouldn't she meet his gaze squarely? It wasn't as if she were a servant or hireling that he had any power over.

  So she boldly raised her eyes to return his steadfast gaze, determined to keep looking at him until he looked away. Their gazes met, and held.