Читать книгу Lord of Dunkeathe - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 6

Glencleith, Scotland, 1240

“PLEASE TALK TO HIM, RIONA,” eighteen-year-old Kenneth Mac Gordon pleaded as he walked beside his older cousin in the small yard of the fortress of Glencleith. “He willna listen to me, but he might to you. Thane or no, we’re poor and he’s got to quit offering food and shelter to every sod who shows up at the gate, or we’ll no’ have two coins to rub together.”

“Aye,” Riona Mac Gordon reluctantly agreed, “but it’ll break his heart if he canna offer the hospitality of his hall.”

The red-haired Kenneth pounded his fist into his palm for emphasis. “Father must face facts. We’re poor and getting poorer. He’s got to stop inviting every stranger he meets for a meal and a night’s lodging.”

“I’ll have a word wi’ him and see if I canna make him understand we need to be more careful,” Riona acquiesced as they reached the gate. Nearby, chickens scratched and pecked in the hard-packed earth near the stables. The wooden stakes that made up the outer wall were falling down in more than one place, and the gate couldn’t have kept out a determined child. “Maybe if I tell him you’ll have naught but some rocky ground and a run-down fortress to inherit, he might listen.”

“You should tell him that there’s nothing left for your dowry, either.”

“I don’t care about a dowry,” Riona answered. “Your father did enough taking me in when I was a wee bairn and treating me like a daughter e’er since. Besides, I’m too old to think about marrying now. I’m long past the first blush of youth, and none have offered that I cared to wed.”

“You’re not too old. That fellow from Arlee didn’t care about your age.”

“That’s because he was fifty if he was a day—and nearly toothless to boot. If that’s the sort I’ll have to choose from, I’ll gladly die a maid.”

“After rising from your sick bed to make sure all’s in hand before you go,” Kenneth noted.

“Somebody has to look after you and your father.”

“Aye, and the rest of the folk in Glencleith. Tell me, how many cottages have you visited in the past fortnight? How many complaints have you heard and dealt with on your own without troubling Father?”

Riona smiled. “I dinna mind. And the women feel better bringing their troubles to me.”

“That’s as may be, but it’s a fine job you do, sparing Father worry—although a little worry might do him some good. Maybe if we told him I’ll have no money and you’ll have no dowry, that’ll finally make him see the light.”

Riona sighed and leaned back against the wooden palisade. It creaked so precariously, she immediately straightened. “How I wish Uncle had plenty of money and a fine estate, that he could live as he would, without a care in the world. It’s no more than he deserves, for a kinder, more generous man doesn’t live. He’d teach these Norman lords about hospitality.”

“Aye, that he would.” Kenneth brushed a lock of his curly hair out of his eyes, then kicked at a stone near his toe. “Some day, Riona, things will be better. I promise.”

“At least our people can be happy knowing you’ll be just as fine a lord as your father, although perhaps a little more practical.”

That brought a smile to Kenneth’s freckled face that still had more lad than man in it. “I hope so. Tell me, do ye think Old Man Mac Dougan’s really as sick as he claims? He’s been dying—or claiming to be—since I can remember.”

“Aye, I do,” Riona replied. “He was that pale, I’m sure he isna well. I tried to get him to leave that drafty cottage of his, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Just took the food and fuel you brought him, is that it?”

“Aye, but I worry about him, there by himself. Maybe I can persuade—”

“Ooooh, there was a fine lass from Killamagroooooo!” a male voice bellowed in song beyond the gates.

They both stiffened, like a hound on the scent.

“There’s Father now,” Kenneth unnecessarily said, for there was only one man in Glencleith who sang so loudly and lustily. “He sounds happy. Very happy.”

Riona didn’t point out that Uncle Fergus usually sounded happy. If he sounded unhappy, that would be cause for surprise.

“Here’s hoping he got a good price for the wool, then,” she said as she opened the gate.

“Here’s hoping he hasn’t brought back half a dozen tinkers or paupers he met along the way,” Kenneth added as he hurried to help her. “I should have gone with him. I would have, if he hadn’t left before I got back from hunting. I half think he did that on purpose.”

In the interest of family harmony, Riona didn’t tell Kenneth he was right. She’d tried to talk Uncle Fergus into waiting for his son’s return, only to have him wave her off and say he’d been dealing in wool since before she was born. That was true, but Riona also suspected he’d been getting cheated since before she was born, too.

“If he’s in a good mood,” Kenneth proposed, “now might be the best time to suggest he be more…or less—”

“I’ll speak to him right away,” Riona replied. Delaying wasn’t going to make her task any easier.

Through their unguarded gate came their ancient nag pulling a cart with tufts of wool clinging to the rickety sides. Uncle Fergus was perched on the seat, his feileadh belted low beneath his ample stomach, his linen shirt half-untucked. Wisps of his shoulder-length iron-gray hair had escaped from the leather thong he used to tie it back. He looked disheveled enough that Riona might have suspected he’d been drinking, except that Uncle Fergus rarely imbibed to excess, and never in the village.

“And I brought her hooooome from Killama-groooo!” he finished with a flourish before beaming down on his son and niece like a triumphant general home from a long and tough campaign.

“Ah, here you are and both together!” he cried, tossing aside the reins and rising. He spread his arms as if he wanted to embrace the whole of the small fortress, walls, stone buildings and all. “Riona, my beauty, I have such news for you!”

In spite of what she had to tell him and her fear about the price he’d gotten for the wool, Riona couldn’t help smiling. She was beautiful only in her uncle’s loving eyes, but his epithet always made her feel as if she might be a little beautiful.

“Such news—and I might have missed it if I’d waited,” he said with a wry look at his son. He turned and started to climb down, almost catching the fabric of his feileadh on the edge of the seat.

With a soft and mild curse, he tugged the fabric down so that it again covered his bare knee.

“Is your back troubling you?” Riona asked anxiously, as both she and Kenneth hurried forward to lend him a hand. “You didn’t help unload the wool, did you?”

“No, no, my beauty,” he assured her. “I let those young lads of Mac Heath do all the work.”

Kenneth shot Riona a disgruntled look. Mac Heath was not known for honest dealings and Riona didn’t doubt that if Kenneth had his way, they’d never speak to Mac Heath, let alone sell any wool to him.

“Why Mac Heath?” Kenneth asked.

“Because he gave me the best price.”

Riona and Kenneth exchanged another glance, only this time, Uncle Fergus intercepted it.

“Now, children,” he chided, although even his criticism was jovial, too. “There’s no need for such looks. I did as you suggested, Kenneth, and asked more than one how much he’d pay. Mac Heath gave the most.”

Riona guessed Mac Heath had done that because his scales were weighted. Before they could say anything more about that, though, Uncle Fergus threw his arms about their shoulders and gave them another expansive smile as he steered them toward the hall.

“Now let me tell you what I heard. It’s wonderful, something that’s going to make all the difference in the world to you, Riona,” he finished with a nod in her direction.

She had no idea what that could possibly be, unless he’d heard of a way to feed a small household for free.

Uncle Fergus dropped his arms as they reached the hall, a low rectangular stone building ten feet by twenty.

“You know of Sir Nicholas of Dunkeathe? The Norman fellow King Alexander gave that huge estate to, the one south of here, as a reward for his service?” Uncle Fergus asked as he led the way over the rush-covered floor to the central hearth where a peat fire burned, even on this relatively mild June day.

“Yes, I’ve heard of him,” Riona replied warily, wondering what on earth that Norman mercenary could have to do with her.

“So have I,” Kenneth said. “He’s as arrogant as they come—which is saying a lot, since he’s a Norman.”

“He’s got some right to be arrogant, if what they say about him is true,” Uncle Fergus replied. “It’s not every man who can start with almost nothing and make his way so far in the world. Aye, and he’s handsome as well as rich, and a friend of the king to boot.”

“So what has he to do with Riona, or she with him?” his son asked with a puzzlement that matched Riona’s.

“She’s going to have a lot to do with him,” Uncle Fergus replied as he threw himself into the one and only chair to grace the interior of the hall. “Word’s gone out that he’s looking for a wife. Any and all who meet the requirements are welcome to attend him at his castle and he’s going to pick a bride from among them. We’re to be there by noon on the day of the feast of St. John the Baptist—Midsummer’s Day. Sir Nicholas wants to make his choice by Lammas.”

“From the twenty-third of June to the first day of August isn’t very long,” Kenneth noted. “Why is Sir Nicholas in such a hurry?”

“Anxious to have a wife to help him run his castle, I don’t doubt. And who better to be his bride than our Riona, eh?”

Riona stared at him, completely dumbfounded. Uncle Fergus thought she ought to marry a Norman? He thought a Norman nobleman would want to marry her? Maybe he had been drinking.

Kenneth looked just as shocked. “You think Riona should marry a Norman?”

“That one, aye, if she can. A woman could do a lot worse.”

Riona found that hard to believe, and so, obviously, did Kenneth. “Even if Riona wanted him,” he said, darting her a look that showed how unlikely that would be, “what about these requirements you mentioned?”

“Oh, they’re not important,” Uncle Fergus declared, waving his hand dismissively. “What’s important is that this rich fellow needs a wife, and Riona deserves a fine husband.”

“Surely he won’t want me,” Riona protested.

Uncle Fergus looked at her as if she’d uttered blasphemy. “Why not?”

She picked the reason that would hurt him, and herself, the least. “He’ll want a Norman bride.”

“Well, he was born a Norman, I grant you,” Uncle Fergus reflected as he rubbed his bearded chin. “But he’s a Scots lord now. Dunkeathe was his reward from Alexander—our king, not the English one. King Alexander’s taken two Norman wives, too, so why shouldn’t a Norman wed a Scot? And didn’t Sir Nicholas change the name of his estate back to Dunkeathe from that ridiculous Norman name, Beauxville or Beauxview or whatever it was?”

“But he was a mercenary, a hardened killer for hire.”

“Aye, he was a fighter, and poor, as well,” Uncle Fergus said. “I can respect a man like that, who’s made something of himself.”

“He’ll no doubt want a wealthy bride.”

“Aye, and we’ve no money for a dowry,” Kenneth added.

Although it was true that they had almost nothing in the way of gold or silver, Riona cringed when she saw the stunned disbelief in her uncle’s blue eyes. “What, there’s nothing?”

“Not much,” Kenneth replied, his resolve slipping into prevarication. “I’ve been trying to warn you—”

“Aye, aye, so you have,” Uncle Fergus said, his brow furrowing. “I didn’t think it was as bad as all that.”

Riona had rarely seen her uncle look so worried, and she hated being a cause of distress to him now. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t—”

“Aye, what does the money or lack of it matter in the end?” Uncle Fergus declared, smiling once again as he interrupted her. “If it was some other woman, it might, but you’re the prize, my beauty, not a bag of coins.”

She tried another reason. “Uncle, I don’t know anything about running a Norman’s household.”

“What’s to know? You’ve been running mine since you were twelve. Besides, from what I hear about Norman women, they’re a poor lot. Spend all their time at embroidery and gossip.”

Not wanting to remind him that the Mac Gordon’s shining glory had dulled in the past one hundred years, Riona refrained from noting that running the household of a minor Scots thane with a small holding was very different from managing that of a Norman overlord with a vast castle and estate. “Most of them must be more industrious. It surely takes a great deal of time and effort to run the household of a lord.”

“They can’t be any better at it than you’ll be,” Uncle Fergus replied confidently. “You’re the most clever girl in Glencleith. Look how fast you learned the Normans’ language.”

“Who’ll look after things here if I’m gone?”

That gave Uncle Fergus a moment’s pause—but only a moment. “The smith’s daughter, Aigneas, will do for a while, until Kenneth finds himself a wife. She’s a bright lass.” His father winked at Kenneth. “I don’t think you’ll mind that, eh, my son?”

As Kenneth blushed, his father addressed Riona. “We’ll have to suffer a bit, it’s true—you’ve spoiled us something fierce, Riona. But that’s a sacrifice we’ll have to make. It’s time we thought of your happiness, not our own. The rest of our people might better appreciate how good you’ve been to them over the years, too.”

In spite of her uncle’s kind and flattering words, Riona had another reason not to go. “Sir Nicholas will want a young bride. I’m too old.”

“You’re no flighty, giggling girl, I’ll grant you—but that’s a point in your favor,” Uncle Fergus replied.

He hoisted himself to his feet. Giving her a woeful half smile, he gently took hold of her shoulders. “Riona, my beauty, it’s past time I quit being so selfish and keeping you here with me. I should have been more encouraging, maybe, to some of those young lads who started to come ’round when you were younger, except there wasn’t a one I thought deserved you. But you should have your own home, with a husband who loves you and children to honor you.”

When she started to protest, Uncle Fergus interrupted her. “There aren’t many I’d consider for you, but this one I would. He’s not a spoiled gentleman who’s never done so much as a hard day’s riding. He’s worked for what he’s got and your sweetness and wisdom will make things smooth between you.

“As for the dowry, or lack of it, it’s love that matters, not money. Once he meets you, he’ll surely fall in love with you. And while we’re poor, our family name is an old and respected one.

“What harm can it do to go meet the man? If you don’t like him, we’ll come straight home again.”

Uncle Fergus spoke so kindly and looked at her with such love, she felt like a brute for not instantly agreeing that she should try to marry Sir Nicholas of Dunkeathe, or do anything else Uncle Fergus asked of her.

Her uncle slid a glance to her cousin. “While we’re at Dunkeathe, you’ll be in charge of Glencleith, Kenneth. It’s about time you had some practice.”

Kenneth’s face lit up with excitement, and Riona realized that between the coming of Aigneas and this chance to lead, all of his former objections were done away with.

She couldn’t fault Kenneth for that. He was young and keen to find his way, and this would indeed be good practice for him. As for Aigneas, Riona wasn’t sure of the depth of Kenneth’s feelings for her, or hers for Kenneth. This might be a way for them to find out how deep their affection went.

His father gave Kenneth a little frown. “Aigneas’ll stay with her father and just come to the hall in the day,” he warned.

Abashed, Kenneth didn’t meet his father’s gaze. “I expected as much,” he mumbled.

“Good. And there’ll be no sweet-talking her into giving you more salt for your dinner. You’d think we were as rich as the king, the way you sprinkle that about.”

As Kenneth frowned, Riona thought of something else. If she went to Dunkeathe with Uncle Fergus, that would mean several days they wouldn’t be in Glencleith, eating their own stores. Her uncle would be someone else’s guest rather than an overly generous host.

“All right, Uncle,” she said. “You’ve convinced me I should at least go and see this paragon of a Norman.”

Uncle Fergus hugged her, fairly beaming. “That’s my beauty! And if he doesn’t pick you, he’s a fool and not worthy of you anyway.”

Riona wasn’t nearly so sure of that, and it might be a little embarrassing for her to find herself being compared to other women and no doubt found lacking, but if going to Dunkeathe made Kenneth and Uncle Fergus happy, and saved them some money, surely she could endure a bit of discomfort.

“WHAT DID I TELL YOU, Riona, eh?” Uncle Fergus cried as their cart came over the ridge of a hill a few days later.

Beyond lay a river valley, and standing to the east of the river was Castle Dunkeathe, a massive feat of masonry and engineering that had to impress anyone who saw it.

Around it, other, much smaller buildings comprised a sizable village, and there were farmsteads along the road leading to it, as well as fields of barley and oats, and meadows for grazing sheep and cows. The hills around the valley were wooded and Riona supposed the overlord and his friends hunted there with their hounds and hawks.

It made quite a contrast to Glencleith, which had some of the poorest, most rock-strewn land in the country.

“Did I no’ say it was quite a fortress?”

“Aye, you did, and aye, it is,” Riona murmured as she studied the huge edifice that had been years in the making.

Two thick stone walls and a dry moat comprised the outer defenses. Towers had been constructed along the walls to watch the road and the river and the hills beyond. The gatehouse was like a small castle itself and dwarfed the wagons passing under the wooden portcullis.

She couldn’t begin to fathom how much stone and mortar it had taken to construct it, or how many men, or the cost. Sir Nicholas must have been paid very well by King Alexander, and with more than the ground this castle stood upon.

He must have an army of servants as well as soldiers and archers, too. There were times it was difficult to keep things running smoothly on her uncle’s small estate, so she could only imagine some of the difficulties the lord of Dunkeathe must encounter. But then, he would have a steward and others to help him.

Perhaps the rumors 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 colorful 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. “Braw and rich and 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 favored, 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 niece. 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 maneuver 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 odors 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 distinctly 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 favorable—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 armory. 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 be 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 woolen 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 favored 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.

He slowly raised one dark brow.

Did he think he was going to make her look away with that unspoken interrogation? Did he think she would give him the victory in this strange little game? Never!

She leisurely arched her own brow.

His other dark brow rose.

Once more, she mirrored his action.

He slowly started to smile.

So did she.

Still keeping his gaze upon her, the man lowered his arms. Then he pushed himself off the wall and sauntered toward her.