He noticed the maidservant was still standing by the cart. "I take it you personally didn't invite him to join us here?"
"Absolutely not, my lord!"
"Then it's not your fault."
"I'll inform him at once that he cannot remain here, my lord."
"I didn't say he had to leave. He's still the only noble Scot to come, and I don't think it would be wise to do anything that might cause him to depart before I make my final choice. The ties of blood and family go deep in this country. He may be of little importance, but he might have relatives who are, and they could stand against me if he feels insulted."
"I haven't heard that he has any relatives who might cause us trouble, my lord."
"The ties between clans are complicated. I can't remember half the clans my sister's related to now. It would be better to take no chances, so I should at least make it appear that I'm considering his niece."
Suddenly, the stocky Scot came rushing into the courtyard and headed straight for the maidservant.
"Riona!" he called out, waving. She waved back and hurried toward him eagerly.
God's rood, was that young woman the thane's niece? That woman he'd been tiying not to imagine in his bed?
"So, here you are, brother. I should have guessed you'd be holed up here instead of talking to the bevy of beauties who've come to vie for your hand."
Nicholas briefly closed his eyes and prayed for patience before he turned around.
His younger brother strolled into the room and threw himself into Nicholas's chair and put his feet on the table. Like his brother, Henry was strong and well-muscled, a warrior in his prime, and now he sat smiling smugly as if he had not a care in the world.
Which was quite probably true.
"You may leave us, Robert," Nicholas said, subduing his envy of the brother who'd never shared his struggles.
"Yes, you may leave me to bid farewell to my brother," Henry said with a wave of his hand, "although I must say, Nicholas, I'm rather tempted to stay a few more days. I had no idea your net would gather such a fine catch. Mind you, that one with the giggle..." He shuddered and shook his head. "Not quite what I'd want to wake up to every morning."
"I didn't think you cared who you woke up with as long as you'd enjoyed yourself the night before."
Henry laughed. "Well, I'd care if she was my wife, which is why you won't find me sending out word that I'm in the market for a bride, with all and sundry welcome to come and vie for my hand.
Really, brother, you make it sound like you're nothing more than a stallion ready for breeding."
Nicholas took two long paces and swiped his brother's feet from the table. "Keep your muddy boots on the floor."
Henry regarded him with annoyance. "Pardon me for not realizing you were getting so fastidious in your old age."
"That table cost more than I made the first six months of my service with the Due D'Aubreay. You may be able to forget when we were poor, but I don't."
"I don't forget."
"Good."
Henry got to his feet. "So I do understand why you want a rich wife from a well-connected family." His temper, so easily roused, was dying down, as it always did. Eventually. "God's blood, so do I. It's the method I question, Nicholas."
Nicholas poured himself some wine from the silver carafe. "I see nothing wrong with having women come to me, instead of running all over the countryside trying to find a bride."
"I suppose it does make it easier—but wouldn't it be cheaper to go to them?"
It certainly would, but Nicholas didn't want anyone to realize he had financial troubles, not even Henry. "It's not the expense." He poured wine in another goblet and handed it to his brother. "I don't want to be long from my estate."
Henry took a drink and looked over the rim of the goblet at Nicholas. "If this were my estate, I'd get away as often as I could. The weather alone—"
"I don't mind the rain, especially when I have a castle in which to dry off," Nicholas replied as he sat in his chair.
"That does make a difference, I suppose," Henry said, leaning back against the table. "But there's the Scots to deal with. They're stubborn and coarse, the lot of them."
"That's what Marianne said before she married one of them," Nicholas noted. "Our sister seems quite happy now."
Henry sniffed and took another drink of Nicholas's fine wine. "She's a woman, and we both know women are slaves to their hearts. Would you marry a Scot?"
"I'd certainly consider a Scot if she had a large dowry and was from an important family."
"I really think you would at that."
Nicholas's temper flared. "I do live in their country, and it was a Scot who gave me this estate."
Henry put the goblet down on the large table. "You'd better be careful, or you might wind up more Scots than Norman, like Marianne. You've already let your hair grow long, the way they do."
"It saves time," Nicholas replied. "However, I doubt I'll ever be mistaken for a Scot, whoever I marry, and as for our sister, she seems content, and I'm happy to have her husband for an ally. I need all the allies I can get in this country."
Henry, who wore his hair in the Norman fashion, took a long drink, then wiped his lips. "Surely the woman herself should count for something."
"Naturally," Nicholas said as he set down his goblet. "She'll have to be able to run a household without pestering me about expenses or petty squabbles among the servants."
"You must want her to be pretty," Henry said. "Or do you intend never to see her by daylight? Or candlelight? Or torchlight?"
"Of course I don't want to marry some old hag. But as long as she's not repulsive, her looks are immaterial to me."
Henry didn't hide his scepticism . "You used to be more discerning. In fact, you used to be quite fussy in that regard. Considering this is a woman you'll have to make love to several times if you're to have heirs, I'm surprised to hear you claim otherwise."
"All I wanted from a whore was to slake my lust. This is different."
" Exactly ," Henry cried triumphantly , "because presumably, she'll also be the mother of your children. You don't want a bunch of ugly brats, do you?"
"I want my sons to be courageous, honour able men, and my daughters honour able, demure women—as their mother should be. What they look like is less important."
"We'll see how serious you are about your future wife's appearance when you make your choice," Henry said as he pushed himself away from the table. "Now give me your hand. It's time I was on my way if I'm to reach Dunbardee before nightfall."
Nicholas rose and clasped his brother by the forearm. "Safe journey, Henry."
"If I hear anything of significance at court, I'll send word," Henry replied. "I do know what you did for me, Nicholas, and I won't forget. Anything I can do to help you, I will."
Nicholas regarded him with surprise, taken aback by this unexpected expression of sincere gratitude.
Henry sauntered to the door. "Farewell, brother." He paused on the threshold and gave Nicholas a sarcastic smirk. "Whatever you do, don't sell yourself short."
The warmth engendered by Henry's words of appreciation fled.
"I'm not selling myself."
Henry replied with aggravating condescension. "Of course you are, just as the women will be. But there's no need to lose your temper, brother. That's the way of the world. Goodbye, and good luck."
AFTER HENRY had left him, Nicholas again went to the window, hands clasped behind his back. The sun was past midday. Henry would have to ride swiftly if he was to reach Dunbardee. He'd enjoy that. Henry was young and he'd always been reckless— because he could afford to be. He hadn't had to pay for their sister's time in the convent. He hadn't had to ensure that his brother had the best training and arms, while he managed with whatever he could afford after their needs were met. Henry had never slept in stables to save the cost of a night's lodging at an inn, or gone without food.
Henry hadn't been the one to promise their dying mother
he would always look after his brother and sister, a vow he'd willingly made and done his best to keep.
Henry didn't know that as the years of struggle had passed, Nicholas had vowed to do everything he could to rise in the world, to a place where he'd be rich and respected, safe and secure, where no one could take anything away from him, or threaten him or his family.
With that in mind, he'd trained and fought and won this estate by dint of his skill at arms alone, without the benefit of noble patronage or connections.
Yet even so, that wasn't enough to rest and be content, not in this world. To hold it, he needed a rich wife from a powerful family.
And, by God, he'd get one.
CHAPTER THREE
JOINING HER UNCLE, Riona came out of the chamber made over to her use while they were in Dunkeathe. Together they were going to the hall to enjoy the special feast in celebration of St. John the Baptist's Day and, so Uncle Fergus said, to welcome all the guests in fine Norman style.
Since their two small rooms were farthest from the hall, it made more sense to leave the building by the guarded outer door than go along the upper corridor. Riona suspected their rooms were really intended for the body servants of the household or the guests and had been pressed into service because so many had come to Dunkeathe.
The size and location didn't trouble her a bit. The chambers were more than large enough for herself and Uncle Fergus, and they had the additional virtue of privacy. At home, she shared a teach with several other women of the household; here, since she had no maid, she had the chamber to herself. Tonight, she wouldn't have to listen to Maeve snore, or hear Aelean get up to use the chamber pot. She wouldn't be bothered by Seas and Sile whispering for what seemed an age before they fell asleep. Tonight, she would be blissfully alone, in welcome silence.
"I wonder what they'll feed us," Uncle Fergus mused as they strolled through the courtyard. "I've heard the Normans drown everything in spicy sauces."
"I'm sure there'll be something we'll like," Riona assured him as she linked her arm though his.
The air carried a whiff of smoke from the bonfires being kindled in the village to celebrate Midsummer's Day.
"Aye, I suppose," her uncle replied. He slid her a wry glance. "I'm also wondering what you'll think of Sir Nicholas."
Riona tried not to betray any reaction at all, but she couldn't subdue a blush. "He's probably a very impressive soldier."
"Oh, aye, he's very impressive. A fine fellow."
Uncle Fergus looked particularly pleased, as if he were contemplating a great secret. Her suspicions aroused, she immediately asked, "Did you meet him?"
And If so, what did Sir Nicholas say to you?
Instead of answering her question, Uncle Fergus ran a studious gaze over her simple dark green woollen dress. "I should have bought you a new gown."
"This is more than good enough," she said, smoothing down the gown with her hand. "I'd feel uncomfortable in silk or damask or brocade. Did you meet Sir Nicholas earlier?"
"Something smells good," Uncle Fergus noted as he pushed open the doors of the hall and ushered her inside, still not answering her question.
Which was momentarily forgotten when Riona entered the magnificent, and crowded, hall. It was easily sixty feet long and thirty feet wide, with a raised dais at the farthest end and pillars down its length to support the high roof. Wide beams rested on corbels carved to resemble the heads of various animals. A long table covered in white linen stood on the dais, along with carved chairs. A colourful tapestry hung behind it, and more decorated the walls. The rushes beneath her feet released the odour of rosemary and fleabane.
More than finely dressed nobles filled the room and created the noise. Here, as in the courtyard, what seemed a bevy of servants hurried through the hall, some still setting up tables and covering them with linen, others lighting torches. Hounds wandered about, snuffling at the rushes and looking around expectantly, often in the direction of a door that led to the kitchen, for wonderful odours wafted to her from that direction.
More than once the servants collided, argued and cast annoyed looks at their fellows. A few of the younger servants appeared utterly confused, and had to be pointedly reminded about what they were to do.
There was no woman who seemed to be in any position of authority here, only the steward they'd met at the gate. Standing in the corner near the dais, he looked harried and rather lost. Obviously he wasn't prepared for this responsibility, or maybe he was overwhelmed by the number of guests.
She could have told him that the tables should have been set up much earlier, with the linens to come shortly before the meal was served. More specific directions would help bring better order to the rest of the activity, and the younger servants should only be entrusted with the most basic of dudes.
She wondered how well the kitchen servants were organized, until it occurred to her that none of this was her concern. She was a guest here, like all the other nobles.
Suddenly, everyone simultaneously stopped talking and moving, and turned to look at her and Uncle Fergus. Disappointment flickered across their faces and was soon replaced by scorn and derision.
"I suppose they were expecting Sir Nicholas," Uncle Fergus remarked. He didn't seem to notice that people were looking at them as if they were spattered with mud. Or dung. "I don't see him here, but there's Fredella."
He smiled at a woman dressed in a plain gown of dark blue wool, with a simple leather girdle about her ample waist, and a square of linen on her head. Her garments, as well as her friendly face, suggested to Riona that she wasn't a lady, but perhaps a
servant of one of them. Either that, or they weren't the only poor nobles who'd come to Dunkeathe.
Whoever she was, it was like Uncle Fergus to make friends with anyone and everyone, rich or poor, peasant or noble—another reason she loved him.
"She's the servant of Lady Eleanor, the cousin of Sir Percival de Surlepont," Uncle Fergus explained, nodding at a man on the other side of the hall. "He's that overdressed puppy we saw in the courtyard and that's Lady Eleanor beside him."
Riona instantly recognized the young man who'd been wearing yellow damask. Lady Eleanor was the pretty girl who'd seemed so unhappy. She didn't look any happier standing beside her cousin in the hall, attired in a gown of deep red cendal trimmed with gold, like the circlet on her dark brown hair. Sir Percival had changed into a tunic of peacock blue, trimmed with brilliant green, and he had a large gold chain around his neck. His boots alone—leather dyed scarlet and embossed with gold and silver—would likely pay for her uncle's wine for a year.
All the nobles were similarly dressed in sumptuous, colourful and expensive garments, embroidered with lovely threads of bright colors. The quality and number of materials was mind-boggling, and as for the cost, Riona could probably feed their entire household for half a year on what it cost for a single gown one of these ladies wore, not to mendon the gold and silver and costly gems they wore on their fingers or around their necks.
"If you'll excuse me, Riona, I'll go say hello to Fredella. She was very helpful to me when I was looking for the fellow in charge of the quarters."
Uncle Fergus didn't wait for Riona to agree, but bustled off toward the older woman. Since she couldn't call him back without attracting more unwelcome attention, Riona moved to the side of the hall and surveyed the gathered nobles.
Across the chamber, Lord Chesleigh, in a long black tunic, held forth about the rising cost of wine to a small group of noblemen. One of his listeners had a very bulbous red nose and he swayed so much that Riona suspected he'd been into the wine already. A younger man, not so brilliantly attired, hovered on the edge of another group as if he were too shy to join it, yet didn't want to leave. A lady in that small gathering kept glancing at him as if she wasn't sure if he should go or stay, either.
"What can Sir Nicholas be thinking, letting that fat little Scot stay?" a haughty and unfortunately familiar female voice drawled nearby, so loud and imperi
ous, Riona couldn't ignore it. "I wouldn't believe it, except that his steward told me it's true."
Lady Joscelind, in gold brocade, with her blond hair covered in a shimmering veil, stood with a small circle of young women several feet closer to the dais, her back to Riona. The one who giggled was among them, and another who looked rather sickly. A third wasn't exactly slender. The last wasn't particular attractive, but she seemed less impressed with the beautiful Lady Joscelind than the others.
"If that's a Scots noble, we'd be doing their peasants a favour ruling their country," Lord Chesleigh's daughter continued, raising her slender hand in a languid, yet graceful, gesture before she let it drop. "And who'd want to stay here anyway? The people are such savages, and the weather! My father tells me it rains nineteen days out of twenty."
It was bad enough the vain creature had disparaged Uncle Fergus. Now she was disparaging Riona's country, too?
Glaring at the beauty, Riona marched toward the little circle.
"But if Sir Nicholas chooses you, you'll have to live in Scotland," the sickly looking young woman simpered, likewise not seeing Riona bear down upon them.
The other women did, and if Lady Joscelind had been less determined to express her opinions, she might have realized something was amiss.
"Only a part of the year," she smugly and obliviously replied. "We'll be spending a great deal of time at court."
"England is welcome to you," Riona snapped as she came to a halt behind her. "We don't want you here."
"Of all the impudence!" Lady Joscelind exclaimed, whirling around in a blaze of silk and thick perfume to meet Riona's glare with one of her own. "How dare you interrupt our conversation?"
She waved her away. "Be about your business, wench, and be glad I don't have you punished for your insolence."
"Oh, aye?" Riona replied, raising her brow as she crossed her arms, ignoring the other women who exchanged shocked or wary glances. "You think you wield such power over me?"
"If I don't, somebody here must, impudent wench."
"I answer to no one here, except Fergus Mac Gordon Mac Darbudh, Thane of Glencleith."
LORD OF DUNKEATHE Page 4
