Lord of Dunkeathe. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ