Читать книгу Lord of Dunkeathe - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 8

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 woolen 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 colorful tapestry hung behind it, and more decorated the walls. The rushes beneath her feet released the odor 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 odors 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 duties.

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, colorful 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 mention 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 imperious, 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 favor 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.”

Lady Joscelind smirked. “So you belong to that comical fellow, do you? Well, go tend to him, then.”

“My lady, do you not know who I am?” Riona asked, her voice low and firm and full of contempt.

Lady Joscelind’s smooth white brow furrowed with annoyance. “I neither know, nor care.”

“You should.”

Lady Joscelind’s cheeks turned pink, but her haughty demeanor didn’t alter. “Whoever you are, you hussy, I am Lady Joscelind, the daughter of Lord Chesleigh, and you had best remember that.”

“I am Lady Riona of Glencleith.”

“Lady Riona?” the beauty scoffed, running a scornful gaze over Riona’s garments. “I don’t believe it. You’re nothing but a servant.”

“Whether you believe it or not,” Riona replied, “Sir Nicholas and his steward know that it’s true.”

Lady Joscelind’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, yet when she spoke, she was still scornful and dismissive. “If you are who you claim to be, I assume you’ve come here to meet Sir Nicholas. You think you stand a chance of impressing him?”

“As it happens, my lady, I’ve already met him. And so have you, although you didn’t know it.” Riona smiled without mirth. “I don’t think you made a very favorable impression.”

Lady Joscelind’s jaw dropped, then indignantly snapped shut. “I should think I’d remember being introduced to Sir Nicholas.”

“I didn’t say you’d been introduced. I said you’d met him.”

Riona spotted Uncle Fergus coming toward her with Fredella in tow. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I should join my uncle, whose family have been thanes and chieftains here since before the Normans existed.”

She started to leave, then turned back. “Oh, and I’ll remind you that Sir Nicholas holds this land by the grace of Alexander of Scotland, not Henry of England, so if there’s a court he and his wife should attend, it’s that of Scotland. That’s provided he even picks you, of course,” she finished with another smile that suggested she found that highly doubtful.

Then, she swept away from the Norman ladies, leaving Lady Joscelind to wonder how and where she’d met the lord of Dunkeathe.

Riona wished they hadn’t come here. She wished Uncle Fergus had never heard of Sir Nicholas’s plans to find himself a wife. Most of all, she wished the king had never invited the Normans to Scotland at all, or paid mercenaries to serve him, even if rebellion and rival claims to the throne were part and parcel of the history of her land.

When she reached Uncle Fergus, who seemed completely unaware that anything untoward had happened, he pulled Fredella forward. “Riona, my beauty, this is Fredella.”

Fredella’s smile was nearly as jovial as Uncle Fergus’s. “I’m delighted to meet you, my lady, and I’m sure Eleanor will be, too,” she said. “My mistress is a shy girl, but she’ll want to be introduced to you.”

“We’d be delighted to meet her, too, wouldn’t we, Riona?” Uncle Fergus answered for her.

Remembering the smiles she’d exchanged with the younger woman, Riona had hope Lady Eleanor wouldn’t prove to be another Lady Joscelind. “Aye, I’d be happy to meet her.”

“Not now, though,” Fredella whispered with a worried frown as she drew them both away to the side of the hall.

“Why wait? She’s here and so are we,” Uncle Fergus said, not bothering to lower his voice.

“Because Sir Percival’s with her. He, um, doesn’t think much of the Scots, I’m afraid,” Fredella replied, her plump cheeks coloring.

Uncle Fergus glowered at Sir Percival. “Doesn’t like Scots, eh? Because we don’t fuss with our hair and spend more on a tunic than many a poor family earns in a year?”

“Neither Eleanor nor I share his prejudice,” Fredella hastily assured him. “My own mother was a Scot, you see.”

Uncle Fergus stopped glaring at the Norman and gave her a smile. “Was she now?”

“Yes, from Lochbarr.”

“A fine place, that,” Uncle Fergus said, his anger lessening. “And the Mac Tarans are a fine clan.” He gave Riona a significant look. “That’s the clan Sir Nicholas’s sister married into.”

“Oh, you’ve heard of them, have you?” Fredella asked.

“I don’t think there are many Scots who haven’t,” Uncle Fergus replied. “A fine group of fighters always come out of Lochbarr.”

“Eleanor’s often longed to go there, to see the things I’ve talked about,” Fredella said, “but that Percival wouldn’t let her. She’s hardly been able to see anyone, either. To keep her pure, he says, as if she had no virtue or modesty to speak of. She’s been raised better than that, I can tell you, by me and her dear sainted mother.”

“She’s an orphan?” Riona asked.

“Since she was ten. That’s when that Percival got the charge of her. If you ask me, he’s got more love for those ridiculous boots of his than he does for his cousin. He’s just waiting for somebody rich to offer to take her off his hands. He makes me want to spit!”

“Poor bairn,” Uncle Fergus murmured.

Riona shared his sympathy. She could imagine how her life might have been had her kindly uncle not taken her in. Yet in a way, she also envied Lady Eleanor, who had at least known her mother. Riona had no memory of hers, who had died in childbirth, or her father, who had died of a fever a short time later.

A sudden stir near the steps leading from the hall to the apartments made Riona turn. The mighty lord of Dunkeathe strode toward the dais. Now he was finely dressed in a black, thigh-length tunic and breeches and polished boots. His hair was still the same, though—long and waving to his shoulders, like her countrymen—and he still had the same angular handsome features, and those eyes that seemed more hawk than human. Yet in those clothes, with the attention of everyone in the hall upon him, he looked more like a prince than a soldier. How could she ever have assumed he was anything but a noble lord? The only common thing about him was the sword hilt sticking out of the scabbard attached to his belt. It was exceptionally plain, just a bronze crossbar wrapped with leather, as any foot soldier might possess.

She looked to Lord Chesleigh and his daughter, to see if they recognized him. The Norman nobleman was staring at Sir Nicholas as if he was seeing an apparition; his daughter’s face was bright red, and although she lowered her head, Riona saw enough to know that she was flushed not from shame, but with indignant anger.

That didn’t bode well for a match between the lady and the lord of Dunkeathe, unless Lord Chesleigh and his daughter thought him worthy enough to overlook what had happened in the courtyard.

Sir Nicholas came to a halt in the center of the raised platform, in front of the high table. “My lords and ladies, knights and gentlemen, welcome to Dunkeathe. I am both flattered and delighted to see so many of you here.” He made what was, she assumed, supposed to be a smile. “I especially welcome the young ladies, although there are so many of such beauty, grace and accomplishments, I am overwhelmed.”

Riona didn’t believe that for a moment.

Sir Nicholas turned to his steward, who was standing at the left side of the dais, a wax tablet in his hands. “If you would begin, Robert.”

The man consulted what was obviously a list. “My lord, may I present the Duke of Ansley and his sister, Lady Elizabeth.”

A man of middle years, with a sizable belly and attired in a long blue robe, hurried forward, leading a lady likewise plump, wearing a gown in an unflattering shade of burgundy. Sir Nicholas bowed, as did the nobleman, while the lady made her obeisance.

There were no smiles exchanged, and the lady was clearly nervous.

The steward proceeded to introduce all the ladies and their relatives one by one. The woman who’d been less impressed with Lady Joscelind was Lady Lavinia, the second cousin of the Duc D’Anglevoix, who had the longest, most arched nose Riona had ever seen. He also seemed a bit put out, darting annoyed glances at the steward and the man who’d just been introduced. Clearly D’Anglevoix felt he should have been called first.

The round-eyed Lady Priscilla, who came next, giggled the entire time she stood before Sir Nicholas, and the young man beside her looked as if he’d gladly gag her as he led her away. The Earl of Eglinburg, who likewise hadn’t missed many meals, strode forward so quickly, his daughter, Lady Mary, had to run to keep up with him, for she was short while he was tall.

Sir George, he of the bulbous red nose and swaying gait, slurred a greeting and nearly fell over when he bowed. His daughter, Lady Eloise, who was neither pretty nor plain, looked understandably and completely mortified, while Sir Nicholas’s expression didn’t change a bit.

Lady Isabelle blushed bright red when she was introduced, no doubt not just because of the inscrutable visage of their host, but also because her guardian, Sir James, tripped on her silk gown as he led her forward. Next to be called, the Comte D’Ortelieu looked as if he considered this whole exercise rather beneath him, while his daughter, Lady Catherine, turned as white as her gown and seemed about to swoon at any moment.

None of them, it seemed, recognized Sir Nicholas from the courtyard.

Then Robert Martleby summoned Lord Chesleigh and his beautiful daughter. His expression haughty, Lord Chesleigh strode forth, escorting Lady Joscelind. For a moment, Riona thought he might chastise his host. Instead, the man bowed and said in a hearty voice that was only slightly condemning, “My lord, this is a very great pleasure, but you should have declared yourself in the courtyard.”

That caused a bit of a flutter among the other guests.

“He was in the courtyard?” Uncle Fergus loudly whispered. “Where? I didn’t see him.”

Maybe her uncle hadn’t met Sir Nicholas after all. “By the stable. He wasn’t dressed like that.”

Uncle Fergus chuckled. “Clever man, to watch the ladies before they knew who he was, to see how they really are.”

Riona’s gaze darted back to the man on the dais. Was that why he’d done that?

“I should have enlightened you, but I was not properly attired to receive my noble guests,” Sir Nicholas replied, “and I couldn’t refuse the request of so graceful and beautiful a lady.”

Riona was somewhat amazed Lady Joscelind didn’t clutch her father’s arm to steady herself when the lord of Dunkeathe addressed her in that deep, seductive voice.

As for Sir Nicholas’s excuse, Riona could more easily believe Uncle Fergus’s explanation. She suspected there were very few things that could embarrass a man like Sir Nicholas, and she was sure his clothing wouldn’t be one of them.

Any offense clearly forgiven, Lord Chesleigh smiled with genial bonhomie. “Nonetheless, my lord, you must accept my apologies for any inadvertent offense.”

Sir Nicholas’s next words, spoken with no real contrition, convinced Riona there was indeed another motive for his behavior. “As you must accept mine for not introducing myself.”

Lord Chesleigh fairly beamed as he reached for his daughter’s hand and drew her forward. “May I present my daughter, Joscelind.”

She made a deep obeisance and when she rose, presented a charmingly flustered countenance. “I also beg your pardon, my lord.”

“Think no more about it, I beg you, and please, consider Dunkeathe your home while you’re here.”

If ever a man could make a woman swoon with his voice alone…

“And a very fine fortress it is,” Lord Chesleigh said. “I commend you, my lord.”

Sir Nicholas gave him another very small smile, and a brief bow. “Thank you.” Then he glanced at his steward.

Lord Chesleigh and Lady Joscelind took the hint and moved away.

After a quick look around the hall to see if there were any other ladies waiting to be introduced, Uncle Fergus started forward. “Come on, Riona, our turn next.”

She had no desire to parade in front of all these people and be presented to a Norman lord like a fish on a platter. Unfortunately, Uncle Fergus was already hurrying forward, so unless she wanted him to call out for her to hurry up, she had no choice but to follow. As she did, she reminded herself that if she had no wealth, fine clothes or beauty, she still had much to be proud of. Her uncle and cousin loved her, she was as noble as anyone here and she had one considerable advantage they lacked.

She was a Scot.

“Fergus Mac Gordon, Thane of Glencleith,” the steward announced. “And his niece, the Lady Riona.”

“Ach, we’ve already met!” Uncle Fergus cried, grinning at the lord of Dunkeathe as if they were boon companions.

They had met! When? Where? Why hadn’t he told her?

As her uncle looked at her and gave her a wink, she had her answer. He thought he’d been helping and kept this for a surprise.

In spite of his kindhearted motive, she wanted to groan with dismay, especially when Sir Nicholas’s expression didn’t alter, and snickers and disapproving murmurs reached her ears.

“As if anybody would want to marry her,” Lord Chesleigh said behind her.

His scornful words lit her pride and roused her anger. Who was this Lord Chesleigh to speak so arrogantly? These men and their mute relatives were all here like beggars at this man’s whim.

She would show them what Scots were made of, and that they were the equal of any here, including their host. She didn’t care what any of them thought of her, even Sir Nicholas, with his grim face and arrogant method of finding a wife.

So she gave Sir Nicholas a bright smile and said, in Gaelic and in a voice loud enough to carry to the far reaches of the hall, “Good evening, my lord. Don’t you look different in your fine clothes. I might never have recognized you, except for the hair.”

Surprise flared in Sir Nicholas’s dark eyes and there were more incredulous whispers behind her. They were all surely wondering what she was saying.

Let them wonder.

“My uncle didn’t tell me you’d met, but I should have expected it. He’s a very friendly fellow.”

“Yes, he is,” the nobleman replied, clearly recovered from his surprise—and in unexpectedly good Gaelic.

That took her aback, but she tried not to show it. He was the one who was supposed to be thrown off guard. “I didn’t realize you spoke our language so well, my lord,” she lied, for she hadn’t expected him to speak it at all. “I’m most impressed.”

“I suspect there’s a great deal about me you don’t know.”

God help her, that voice of his was like temptation incarnate, and his gaze was so steady, she felt as if he was staring into her very soul, looking for the truth.

But she wasn’t about to let him intimidate her here anymore than she had in the courtyard when she thought he was just a soldier. “I daresay you’re right. I can only guess why you were skulking about the courtyard this morning instead of greeting your arriving guests.”

His eyes narrowed very slightly. “I wasn’t skulking.”

“Whatever you were doing, I’m sure you had your reasons,” she replied, telling him with her tone and eyes that she didn’t believe his reasons would be sufficient for her.

His steward coughed.

She knew an attempt to interrupt when she heard it, and she’d said enough to show them all that she was proud of her heritage and the country that bred her. “Come, Uncle,” she said, slipping her arm through his. “Let’s leave Sir Nicholas to his other noble guests.”

As they walked away through the crowd of muttering Normans, Uncle Fergus laughed softly. “He fooled everyone except my clever girl. You showed him some Scots spirit, too. He’s got to be impressed.”

Riona didn’t care if Sir Nicholas was impressed or not, or what he thought about her. She couldn’t imagine living in this place among the Normans and their Saxon soldiers, and certainly not with him.