Lord of Dunkeathe. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

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