Ranald's lips twitched, trying to stifle his chuckles. Raik felt ever more the fool.
"Dinna be addle-brained, cousin," he snapped. "Warin lied. I saw her lurking on the wall walk when I rode down the hill and approached the drawbridge. She was in no sickbed."
"As little regard as ye have for the lady, I dinna see why her avoiding ye would matter?" Ranald tilted his head.
"'Twas rude. And de Burgh was hiding something. Every time I approached his solar, that beast Freki growled from within. I knew she was there. The servants regaled me with tales of how the beast stayed at her side and didna allow anyone but Warin within a hand's touch of their lady."
"Ah, then she did not wish to see ye. Why did ye not simply return after ye gave the baron Catalin's message?"
"I was not leaving until I found the lass whose hair smelled of lilies. Did ye know Seton has women aplenty?" His fingers raked through hair matted by his helmet. "Every time my nose came close enough to sniff a woman's face, my back prickled. I know someone watched me."
He stopped when Ranald near doubled over in laughter. Broccin was as equally amused, judging by the way he slapped his son on the back and guffawed loudly. Raik widened his stance and glowered at them. This was a serious quest he had undertaken, not some whim.
"How else am I going to find the woman?"
"Dinna tell me ye sniffed after every woman in the keep?" Broccin near gurgled. "'Twas a wonder Warin didna lock ye in the dungeons for nosing after his women like a hound smelling a bitch's arse!"
"Huh. Old Maud near severed my head with her sharp looks. And I know Lady Letia was watching. I could feel her like she was touching me."
"Ah ha. By yer temper, I take it ye did not get to sniff out which one of de Burgh's women was yer mystery lover?" Ranald's face twitched with the need to keep it composed. His dark eyes danced with mirth.
"Nay. And I couldn't even tup a lass with Maud popping out of the shadows, from behind curtains or lurking in the stairwells. One look at her and the lass I was hot to swive turned tail and ran." He took a deep breath and let it out in a great huff. "I near stuck my cock in snow to keep it from bursting."
He wished he'd clamped his teeth on his tongue when he heard the laughter that statement caused. When he noted a handful of strange knights wearing the king's livery drinking at a corner table, his temper changed to curiosity.
He frowned and motioned with his head toward them. "Why are they here?"
"'Tis good ye returned. They arrived this morn. King Stephen summons ye to court. They would say no more than that ye would be gone 'til spring."
o0o
True to the knight's word, on the tenth day of April, Raik rode as if the hounds of Hell slavered to feast on his arse. He couldn't get away from the king's court fast enough to suit him. What was it with Normans? The rooms were so crowded you jostled someone if you moved without checking behind you.
Not that bumping buttocks was bad if the other body part happened to belong to one of the court's beauties. 'Twas not so pleasant when he felt a hard shaft nudge his arse instead. He'd snarled and swung around, ready to blacken some perfumed fool's eyes.
So many people piled into a shuttered room should have no need of a lit fireplace. Huh! Even Lucifer would have felt at home with the heat.
He listened to men laughing and talking as they rode behind him, heard their saddles creaking and harnesses jingling, yet he still could not believe they were there. What would Ranald say when he saw sixty men in Symon de Mortimer's livery following him? If he thought Raik's attire too colorful, wait until he saw these men. At least, he knew now where he inherited his preference for bright colors.
The thought brought a smile to his lips.
As Storm pounded up to the drawbridge, he noted the guards atop Hunter's wall walk had taken their bows from their shoulders and had a quiver of arrows within easy reach of their fingertips. He shouted up to a knight who stood with his hands on his hips, his legs widespread, staring down at him.
"Ho, there! 'Tis no need for alarm. They come with me," he shouted.
"Raik? Shite, man. I thought 'twas an army of flowers come to tempt Hunter's bees! We near shot yer petals off."
"Pfft! Ye are too used to Ranald's monkish black," he yelled back.
The portcullis raised and they rode through. He looked back and saw the scowls of his men, until they noted the Hunter black and gray livery.
One thing for truth, his men would stand out.
Ranald met him at the entrance to the great hall. His dark eyes scanned Raik from head to toe. He nodded. Seeing the bruise on his forehead, he looked pointedly at it and waited.
"Low doorways."
"Ah. Took ye too long to duck?" Ranald took his arm and led him toward the high table.
"Aye. They claim low openings keep the heat from escaping."
"Sounds likely. Come, ye have a lot of tellin' to do. I saw the men with ye and guessed something of great import has occurred."
"I met my father."
Ranald stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes widened. He looked around then changed his direction to the stairwell leading up to his chambers.
"I think 'tis best we discuss yer travels where 'tis a bit more private."
Ranald took the stairs three steps at a time, holding his scabbard so it wouldn't scrape against the stone walls. Their boots made such a clamor they didn't try to speak. As they entered the solar, Ranald's lips lifted in a bright smile.
A brisk breeze blew through a window opening, cooling the spacious room. Raik took in a deep breath and sighed with pleasure, enjoying the sharp contrast to the hot English rooms with their fireplaces and closed shutters.
"What is it?"
"Air. Do ye ken the English are afeared fresh air will cause them to fall ill? And they dinna dunk themselves in streams, either. I grew weary of smelling perfume soaked clothing."
"Aye. The English are not hardy." Ranald poured red wine from a pewter carafe setting in the window opening.
The goblet felt delightfully cold to Raik's fingers as he took a sip.
"Tell me. For what reason were ye asked to the English court?"
"My father wanted to meet me."
"Hm. I wonder why he has waited so long? Does he have no other sons?"
"I asked the king why now, after all these years, the man was even interested in me." He rubbed his chin, then around to the back of his neck. "I believe the king has heard tales of my eyes seeing what sometimes a man wishes to hide. He would never meet my gaze for longer than ye can count to ten."
"Well, man. Dinna keep it a secret. Who is yer sire?"
"Symon de Mortimer. Stephen told me a little about him afore he called him in. He said de Mortimer was an honest man who fell in love too late. His own father had already sworn him to the alliance with the d'Aunay's of York. I have two half-brothers. Always into one mischief after another. They prefer spending their time in Normandy, though they have lands and estates in England."
"What is he like?"
"Very suspicious. He refused to believe that mother had kept her secret all these years. And he demanded proof that I was his son."
"Proof? How could ye give proof of such a thing?"
"Oh, I could, all right. He demanded I drop my breeches and display my arse to him and the king!"
"What?"
Ranald's shout startled a cat sleeping on a fur rug onto all four feet. It arched its back and its hair stood on end. The cat yowled in fright and scrambled up a nearby tapestry.
"Foolish creature," Ranald muttered as he carefully plucked the cat's claws from the threads before it ruined his wife's work. He came back and anchored the cat on his lap, petting it until it calmed.
"Tell me. For what reason did he insist on seeing yer arse?"
"Ye know that mark on my left hip? It seems 'tis proof that I am his get. He claims every male for three generations has carried it."
"Did ye...?"
Raik huffed. "Bare my arse? We were not alone,
ye know. 'Twas a small crowd of men. Women, too."
"I'm thinking ye did."
"Aye. But I wasna pleased about it." Raik smirked at him. "I deemed if I had to prove I was his son, then de Mortimer must do the same for me.
Ranald's laughter spat wine he had just taken into his mouth.
"Nay. Ye didna!"
"Aye. Did too. Stood there with my arms crossed. Refused to speak until he proved himself. The man's as arrogant as Lucifer. Gave me some satisfaction when Stephen told him 'twas only fair."
Chuckles burst from Raik at the memory. "Did ye know a Norman's arse is white as a fish's belly? I dinna think their bodies have ever seen the light of day."
"Thankfully, I have been spared the sight. Did he admire my handiwork where that arrow caught ye?"
"Aye. Wanted to know if I was slow escapin' a lass's father." Raik sat forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging between his outspread legs. "Once he had seen my birdie, he demanded details about near every day of my life. I must have answered hundreds of questions."
"I ken that. He had much to catch up on." His fingers stroked the cat's head, then down its back all the way to the end of its fluffy tail. Contented purrs hummed from its chest.
"Aye. He said he wanted to claim me as his natural son at a dinner the next evening. He did, too."
"That must have caused a stir."
"Ye dinna know the half of it. When de Mortimer declared I was his natural child, our old rival Julian threw his wine goblet against the wall."
"That was not well done."
"Hah! Then King Stephen rose and said he was planning to give me lands of my own..."
"Lucifer's horns, cousin! Why didna ye tell me that news earlier?"
"How earlier? I have just told ye who sired me." Raik frowned. "If ye would stop breaking in on the telling, ye'd know by now. To get back to my story, Julian was so enraged he swept a platter of roasted pork to the floor on his right. The flying meat coated Lady Hadder's delightful breasts in green mint sauce." Raik wriggled his brows and leered. "Tasty."
"Watch yer back, Raik. Do ye remember the year old king Henry recognized his illegitimate son Reginald? Made him Earl of Cornwall?"
"Aye. And Julian asked for his own title and he refused? He tried to kill the new Earl of Cornwall in jealousy. The fool. As if that would endear him to Henry."
Ranald nodded. "I dinna blame Henry for refusing to acknowledge him. Julian's eagle-like nose and full lips in no way looked like either the king's or his mistress, Emma of Westnor Tower. Henry declared the widow oft took a brawny archer to her bed. 'Twas likely Julian was his get."
"'Tis no wonder King Stephen refuses to grant him lands. He is always at war, trying to wrest an estate from its rightful owners. The king had him removed from the banquet hall. The next morn, 'twas rumored he sent him to the Welsh borders."
"Afore ye left, did Stephen make more mention of land for ye?"
"Aye. He hinted some baron here in Northumbria was not long for this world."
The door began to open, but Ranald did not cease to speak. Catalin was the only person who would dare to interrupt him in his solar when the door latch was down. Ranald smiled his welcome to her.
"Humpf. I can think of no men old enough to be near death. Most are fifty years and less. That hardly qualifies them for one foot in the grave," he said to Raik.
"One foot in the grave?" Catalin came over to kiss his scarred cheek and smiled at Raik. "What mischief have you been about, Raik?"
He snorted and tried to look injured. "Why do ye always think I am in trouble?"
"Oh? You wonder why? Mayhap because you are the only man I know that got an arrow in his, um, nether cheek? The only one an irate father chased through the orchard with a hoe. Did I not hear you were naked at the time?" She grinned at him and continued, "And do not forget, you were abducted while thieving cows." His bruised forehead caught her attention. "Did you forget to duck when an angry lass threw a pitcher at you?"
"Ah, my sweet, 'twas nothing of the like. He, for once, wasna into mischief."
It took but a short time for Ranald to tell Catalin of Raik's news. When she learned he might one day be one of their neighbors in Northumbria, her face brightened. But after she congratulated Raik, Ranald read worry in the little furrow between her brows. What thought had caused it? She fretted about someone. Something.
Warin de Burgh's face flashed in his mind. He did not speak of it. But his wife's expression answered his thoughts. Warin was the only Norman whose demise would cause such sadness to darken her eyes. And to his knowledge, Warin was the only man who was even slightly unhealthy.
o0o
When night fell, and Ranald and Catalin retired to their sleeping chamber, tears welled in her eyes. She got down on her knees before her clothing chest and tossed garments around like a red squirrel searching for a place to store his winter's food. Finally, she found what she sought. Instead of coming to him right away, she put it under her knees until she had folded and replaced everything back in the trunk. She rocked backward, retrieved a message and hurried over to him.
"Letia put this inside the package Raik brought from Seton."
She handed it to him and stood, wringing her hands, waiting. When he was finished reading, he patted his lap and she crawled onto it. Putting his arms around her, he nuzzled her hair seeking to comfort her.
"I thought ye would be pleased yer friend is to have a bairn of her own."
"I am. Letia will be a wonderful mother. And she should have a keep full of children."
She straightened in his arms and cupped her hands around his face.
"She told me the bairn will be born in June."
"June? Hmm. Nine months from..."
"Aye. When Raik told us about his phantom lover leaving the scent of lilies on his pillow, I suspected she might be Letia."
"I thought the same. But I didna believe it likely she would do such a thing. Did ye not tell me afore that she and Warin shared a bed? Would he not note when she was missing from his side?"
"He would have. They have tried to have a child these past years, but it has never happened. It is too much of a chance she would be breeding now. Too strange that Warin's seed would have taken root during the time when Raik was closeted at Seton."
Snuggling her head back against his shoulder, she spoke her worries. Her soft breath against his neck distracted his thinking. When she wriggled, his ever-ready cock sprang to attention like a youngling reaching for a fruit pasty on a too-high table.
"She near told me 'twas him by asking I not make it public knowledge." She sat upright and clutched his shoulders. "Oh, heavenly saints! The king means to give Raik Seton. What will become of Letia?"
Ranald snuffled his nose amongst the hair at her temple. "Mmm, violets and lavender," her murmured. "Raik's dislike of Letia kept him an arms length from her. If he had been near enough to her, he would have known she favored lilies. Stephen has long been Warin's friend. He will not turn his widow out to find her own way. Raik will only have Seton if he marries Letia."
"Oh, saints! Ranald?"
"Um?" He was busy nibbling on her ear and thinking how her skin was as sweet as honey.
"How will we keep this secret from Raik?"
He stopped nibbling long enough to whisper in her ear.
"By not telling him."
o0o
A sennight later, steady rain had slowed to a heavy drizzle over Hunter Castle. The practice field was nearly a sloppy bog. Squires trained under a warrior's watchful eyes, and knights battled knights. They slammed their boots firmly on the ground, splashing mud in all directions.
Swords screeched against swords, sending sparks flying while battle hammers and maces clashed against shields. Men growled and shouted wicked obscenities while the squires' voices, shrill one moment then manly the next, sought to imitate them with their own sinful cursing. Safely on the outside of the rail fence, hunting dogs barked happily as if the men performed tricks by their orde
rs.
The noise was as deafening and as violent as thunder roaring and lightning striking a giant rowan tree, crashing it to the ground.
The knights honed their skills and shared their knowledge of surprising feints to bring their swords within killing range of their opponent. Now and again, a man's foot slid from beneath him. Ranald, forced to scrabble for balance, came down on his left knee as his right foot sought firm ground.
He raised his shield to shove his opponent's blade aside then sprang upright and attacked. He thrust and slashed with his sword, backing the man ruthlessly toward a muddy puddle, where one shove with his shield sent the warrior sprawling on his back. He laughed as heartily as Ranald when Ranald grasped his hand and near drug him slithering and sliding from the mud.
Raik charged across the back bailey, his face red with anger. His nose twitched at the rancid odor of dog shite, horse dung and warriors' piss and sweat. Arriving at the rail fence, he halted long enough to kick it then vaulted over it.
"Lucifer's shriveled ballocks!"
His furious shout rose above the din. Ranald ceased laughing and turned a startled gaze to his cousin. He cuffed his opponent's shoulder, thanking him for a lively bout then sheathed his sword.
"What has ye in such a temper, cousin?"
Ranald studied Raik's face and motioned toward the stand of trees at the far left side of the field. Bales of hay gave the men a place to settle their arses as they caught their breath. Most times, lasses who stole away from their duties perched there, confident their taskmasters couldn't see them.
Today, two young women sat with their elbows on their knees and chins propped on one hand while their other grasped heavy shawls around their heads. They had stolen away from the cookhouse, for their food-stained clothing gave them away. Both ogled a half-naked knight, his face tilted up to catch rain in his mouth and his arms spread out to the side. Mud trailed down the muscles of his heaving chest as he caught his breath. The women barely turned on hearing men approach.
"'Tis best ye turned yer lusty thoughts back to cookin' the noon meal."
Looking up and seeing Raik, they thought 'twas he who spoke. They nudged each other and giggled, until Ranald's damaged face came into view. Though he was as muddy as anyone on the field, when they recognized their master, their eyes flew wide. As they scrabbled to their feet, their arms flapped like hens trying to avoid an amorous rooster. They bobbed their head at Ranald and ran toward the keep.
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