CHAPTER TEN
A SE’ENNIGHT LATER, Riona sat beside Eleanor in the sunlight shining through one of the hall windows. It was a warm July day, with only a hint of rain in the air. Eleanor embroidered a band to attach to the hem of the lovely scarlet gown she owned. Riona could sew, but her skills were of a more practical sort, suitable for mending and hemming. She didn’t know complicated embroidery stitches, and wouldn’t have been able to afford the materials even if she did. Nevertheless, she was more than pleased to sit beside Eleanor and help her by threading needles or cutting the bits of brightly colored wool as her friend worked at her frame. They could talk quietly, and Eleanor was teaching her some of the stitches, too.
Across the hall, Joscelind, Lavinia and Priscilla were likewise together, whispering and occasionally casting their eyes about the hall. Lady Joscelind paid no heed to Riona, and Riona ignored her just as completely. The other two ladies seemed to have thrown their lot in with the beauty, and neither Eleanor nor Riona minded a whit. Audric and Lord Chesleigh were playing chess, the board set on the table on the dais. Uncle Fergus and Fredella were somewhere in the castle, and Percival had gone to the village again, along with D’Anglevoix.
Percival had been diligently avoiding Riona. What exactly their host had said to him was a mystery, but it was not one either she, Eleanor, Uncle Fergus or Fredella cared to probe too deeply. They were content that it was so, and while Riona believed Eleanor could yet be Sir Nicholas’s choice, Uncle Fergus was full of plans and schemes to free her from her cousin. Unfortunately, the law was the law, and Eleanor, who could read, had seen the documents binding her to her cousin’s care. It seemed there was little they could do—legally. Yesterday, Riona had spent considerable time trying to convince Uncle Fergus that an abduction would cause more trouble than it would solve. At last, thank God, he’d conceded the point. Barely.
As for the man responsible for all this scheming, Riona had no idea where Sir Nicholas was at present. He rarely lingered in the hall, except when the evening meal was over. During the day, he personally oversaw the training of his men. Sometimes he rode with patrols around his estate, looking for outlaws or others who might cause trouble. Every morning, he spent time with his steward, going over accounts and other business. He was a very busy overlord, and he certainly couldn’t be called lazy.
Looking up from her embroidery, Eleanor nodded at Lavinia. “She’s not fooling anyone, you know,” she noted with an amused smile. “She can hardly keep her eyes off Audric.”
Riona smiled, too. “He’s not a bad-looking fellow, and he seems quite nice.”
For a Norman, she added inwardly, because as yet, the only truly nice Norman she’d met had been Eleanor. Fredella was born and raised in Lincolnshire, so more Saxon than Norman, and more Dane than Saxon, for the Danes had held that part of England for years upon years.
“Percival thinks Audric’s destined for the church,” Eleanor remarked.
“Audric will never make a priest if he keeps gazing at Lavinia the way he does,” Riona replied, trying not to think of another man who would not have made a good priest.
“Do you suppose Sir Nicholas has noticed their affection?”
“I don’t see how he couldn’t.”
“Yet she’s still here.”
“I’m sure he has what he considers excellent political reasons for that. Perhaps he doesn’t want to risk offending their families or other relatives by asking them to go. My uncle and I are still here, after all, simply to stave off the Scots’ complaints.”
“I don’t think you’re still here just because Sir Nicholas doesn’t want to offend the Scots,” Eleanor replied. “I think he likes you.”
Riona had been dealing with Uncle Fergus’s suggestions long enough that she no longer blushed to hear such talk. “He may not dislike me, but he’ll never marry me—and truly, I won’t be upset if he doesn’t. I don’t think he’s the man for me.”
Unless they were in bed.
She simply had to control these lustful thoughts! And she would. God help her, she would!
Priscilla giggled over something Lady Joscelind said, as she was wont to do, causing both Eleanor and Riona to instinctively cringe.
They weren’t the only ones who reacted that way to Priscilla’s giggles. Riona had never spoken of it to Eleanor, but she was quite sure Nicholas found that giggle aggravating. She’d seen his jaw clench too many times when Priscilla was giggling through dinner to think it was a coincidence. The night Priscilla had sat with him at the high table, Riona had wondered how he’d managed to eat.
“If Sir Nicholas doesn’t want Lavinia and she doesn’t want him, that’s one less woman vying for him,” Eleanor said as she went back to her sewing.
“Did you ever hear why Lady Mary left?”
Eleanor reached for the blue thread. “Fredella heard her maid saying that the earl wanted to go home. He couldn’t stand the weather.”
Riona frowned. For one thing, the July weather had been wonderful—mild, with many sunny days and enough rainy ones to ensure an excellent harvest. For another, she couldn’t help feeling that any snub aimed at Dunkeathe, even to the weather, was somehow a snub of Scotland. “It’s been very pleasant.”
“I think that was just an excuse, too. I suppose Lady Mary thought she had no chance.”
Riona couldn’t disagree with that.
“It’s a pity about Lady Eloise,” Eleanor remarked, knotting and snipping off a sky-blue thread. “I quite liked her.”
“Uncle Fergus told me Sir George didn’t think she’d go through with her threat to leave without him if he didn’t stay away from the wine,” Riona replied as she threaded a needle with some lovely emerald thread that was to represent delicate little vines in the pattern. “He says Sir George went white as snow when he heard she’d done it.”
“I was shocked, too,” Eleanor said as she exchanged her needle with the small remnant of blue thread for the one Riona held out. “I daresay she’s been humiliated too many times. Do you think they’ll come back?”
Riona mused a moment, then shook her head as she reached for another needle. “I don’t think so. It was fairly clear Sir Nicholas didn’t think very highly of Sir George, and there would be little reason for him to marry Sir George’s daughter when he has you and Joscelind to choose from.”
Eleanor’s face turned deep pink as she bent over her sewing, Riona was sorry if she’d embarrassed her friend, but that was the truth, and Eleanor, who was no fool, had to know it. It was becoming more and more obvious that the real competition was between Eleanor and Joscelind.
Not for the first time, Riona wanted to ask Eleanor how she felt about Nicholas and her chances of succeeding, but as always, she couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
Instead, she was about to ask Eleanor what color thread she’d require next when Polly came hurrying in from the kitchen, looking very worried.
She spotted Riona and Eleanor and rushed over to them. “Oh, my lady!” she cried, wringing her hands.
“What is it?” Riona asked, shoving the needle in the sawdust filled cushion and setting it in Eleanor’s lovely sewing box.
“It’s the cook. He’s been in a right foul mood since the guests come, and he’s been taking it out on all the servants. He’s been shouting, and cursing something fierce.”
Riona immediately remembered that first night in the garden, when she heard the cook loudly chastising the servants.
“A body might get used to that, but this morning, he lit into the spit boy with a ladle and the poor lad’s black-and-blue. Won’t you do something?”
“Have you told Sir Nicholas?”
As upset as Riona was to think of a boy being beaten, this household wasn’t her responsibility, and her interference would likely not be welcomed. Yet if Nicholas would put one of his archers in the stocks for two months for killing a dog, surely he’d not approve one of his servants, especially a lad, being beaten.
“God love you, no, my lady!” Polly exclaimed. “Why, I nearly fainted when he called me to his solar that day he give me my dowry. To be sure, he’s not such an ogre as I thought. Still…” She flushed. “Beggin’ your pardon,” she amended before rushing on, “but Alfred said if anybody complained, he’d say they were stealing. To be accused of that before Sir Nicholas—oh, my lady!”
“Can’t you tell Robert, then?”
“He’s gone to the fishing village down the river. Seems Lord Chesleigh’s got a hankering for eels. Besides, Alfred’s good at his job and drives hard bargains with the merchants for the wine and things, so Robert won’t want to lose him.”
“Who else gives orders to the household?”
“Just the cook. Won’t you talk to Alfred, my lady, for our sakes, please?” Polly pleaded. “He might listen to you. Fredella says your uncle says you’ve got a right good way with servants and you’re a lady and all. Something has to be done, or Sir Nicholas is going to have a mutiny in the kitchen!”
However she felt about Sir Nicholas, and no matter what might come of this, Riona couldn’t leave the boy at the mercy of a brute who’d beat him until he was black-and-blue. “I’ll speak to the cook,” she said, rising.
And she’d deal with Sir Nicholas if and when he complained.
“Oh, thank you, my lady!” Polly cried, relieved. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to get Alfred—fat oaf that he is—to see reason! And poor Tom’ll be pleased.”
Riona looked down at Eleanor. “This could be unpleasant, so if you’d rather stay here, I’ll understand.”
Eleanor set aside her sewing and got to her feet. “I’d rather come with you.”
Impressed by her resolve, glad of her company, Riona immediately started for the kitchen, followed by a silent Eleanor.
Polly, however, was the opposite of silent. “We used to have a fine cook,” she said breathlessly as she trotted to keep up with Riona and Eleanor, “but Etienne went home to Normandy, and this one come in his place. He’s a right villain, beggin’ your pardon. He gives an order, then forgets what he said, and gets angry when that ain’t done and we done something else, like we’re supposed to read his mind. Three of the girls just up and left yesterday and won’t come back, even after they heard what his lordship done for me. Said it wasn’t worth it, as long as Alfred was here, and I don’t blame ’em. I’d go, too, except that Sir Nicholas is giving me a dowry.”
As they drew near the kitchen, they could hear the cook cursing and shouting orders through the door.
Riona pushed it open and found herself in an enormous room that was easily the size of her uncle’s hall, manned by what seemed an army of servants. There was a huge open hearth at one end and a large wooden worktable. Ham, leeks and herbs hung from the ceiling.
In the center of the room, waving a ladle, was an enormous, and enormously irate, red-faced, middle-aged, bald man. He wore a very stained apron, and was sweating from the heat—or from the effort of berating the two women standing at the worktable, pies in front of them. The crust had come apart around the rim, and gravy had boiled over and run down the sides.
“Are you blind? Or idiots?” he screamed as other servants huddled together or watched warily as they went about their work.
“How many times did I tell you to cut the crust?” Alfred made slashing motions with his ladle. “Now they’re ruined! Fit only for the pigs!” He grabbed one pie and threw it into the hearth, where it splattered against the back wall.
That’s when Riona saw the boy crouched in the corner near the hearth, his thin arms thrown over his head. His thin, black-and-blue arms.
Quivering with indignant rage, she marched up to the cook and grabbed the ladle out of his chubby fingers. “Lay a hand on that boy, or any servant in this kitchen again, and you’ll be sorry,” she said sternly, throwing the ladle onto the floor. “And quit shouting, if you’d like to be heard. You sound like a spoiled child, or some tavern keeper, not the cook in a lord’s hall.”
The cook folded his fat arms over his prodigious belly and looked down his short nose at her. “And who are you, to be coming into my kitchen and telling me what to do?”
She leaned close to the cook’s sweaty face, ignoring the odor of beef and gravy he gave off. “I am Lady Riona of Glencleith, and I’ve been in charge of my uncle’s household since I was twelve years old—and never, in all that time, have I had to raise my voice and curse the servants.”
“Well, Lady Riona of Whatever-you-said,” he retorted, “I have been a nobleman’s cook for twenty years, and I’ve never had any complaints from my masters.”
“Not yet, anyway. I intend to tell Sir Nicholas what’s been going on here.”
The cook sniffed. “What will he care? He pays me well for my skill, and that’s all that matters.”
Riona smiled slowly, in a way that struck deserved fear into the merchants who tried to cheat her. “You think so?”
“Yes, I do!”
“We’ll just have to see about that,” she snapped as she turned on her heel and gestured for Eleanor. “Come. We’ll go find Sir Nicholas and see who’s right.”
She marched out of the kitchen and into the courtyard. Then she realized she didn’t know where Nicholas was, whether with his soldiers or out on patrol, or in his solar. She came to a frustrated halt, which also gave Eleanor and Polly, who’d hurried out of the kitchen after her, time to catch up.
“If you don’t mind, Riona,” Eleanor said anxiously, “I think I’d rather not be there when you tell Sir Nicholas about his cook.”
Riona nodded her acquiescence. She was sorry Eleanor’s resolution had been so short-lived, but she couldn’t fault the girl for wanting to avoid any conflict within the household of the man she might marry.
As Eleanor headed for the apartments, Polly started to back away. “I should get to, um, the laundry. They always need help there,” she said before she scampered off.
Riona drew in a deep breath. So, she’d have to face Nicholas alone. So be it.
She hurried up to the Saxons on guard at the gate. “Have you seen Sir Nicholas lately?”
“Yes, my lady,” one respectfully replied. “He’s in the inner ward with the rest of the garrison.”
“Thank you.”
Once on the other side of the gates, she listened for the sounds of men training. They were on the far side of the ward, away from the encampment of the soldiers who’d come with the visiting nobles.
Quickening her pace, she hurried on until she rounded a corner and discovered a troop of half-naked soldiers holding wooden swords, fighting in pairs. It was like watching a bizarre sort of dance as the men moved forward and back, swinging their weapons, attacking each other or defending themselves. The sound of wood on wood was like drumbeats, broken by the occasional cry of pain when wood connected with an arm or a leg. They must have been at it for quite some time, for most of the men looked very tired as well as sweaty. Perspiration dripped down their backs and chests and soaked the waist of their breeches.
Walking among them, armed with his plain sword, and stripped to the waist, was Nicholas. He barked out orders, his deep voice carrying easily over the noise of the clashing weapons, his skin glistening in the sunlight as if it was oiled.
Lust—hot, primitive, as powerful as the priests warned—crept into her body and enflamed her from within. It was wrong to stand and watch when the mere sight of him affected her so, but she simply couldn’t take her eyes off the lord of Dunkeathe as he moved. Or when he stopped to issue a command or correction, demonstrating how the blade should move, his muscles rippling with his actions.
She’d never been so stirred by the sight of a half-naked man—but then, he was like no man she’d ever seen. He had not an ounce of fat on his lean torso. His sinewy muscles bespoke hours of hard work, years of training, weeks of fighting. He was no pampered, spoiled, lazy nobleman who’d never worked for his wealth. He was a warrior—built like a warrior, fierce as a warrior, passionate as a warrior home from battle seeking the pleasures of peace.
And then he saw her.
She quickly looked away as she flushed with embarrassment and fought the urge to run away. It was like catching him bathing—or as if he had caught her naked. Only the thought of the poor spit boy kept her there as Nicholas ordered his men to continue, and walked toward her.
Couldn’t he at least put on some more clothes? she thought, feeling determined, but trapped, as he closed the distance between them. “Were you looking for me, my lady?” he asked evenly. “Or did you just want to watch my men at practice?”
“I was looking for you, my lord,” she said, pleased that her voice was calm and steady as she replied. “I’ve come to talk to you about your cook, Alfred.”
Nicholas frowned and crossed his arms, leaning his weight on one leg. “What about Alfred?”
She kept her gaze on his face, away from his body. “You should find another cook.”
His dark brows rose. “You don’t like the food?”
“It’s not that, my lord. It’s the way he treats the kitchen servants. He’s a bully and a tyrant, and he’s been beating the spit boy until he’s covered in bruises. I’ve seen them myself.”
“I see,” Nicholas replied, his tone noncommittal as he turned back to his men and dismissed them. They gratefully hurried over to some buckets of water along the wall and scrambled to drink.
Not sure what he was thinking, she took a different tack. “If something isn’t done to amend the situation, your servants could be driven to an act of desperation in attempt to either make Alfred leave of his own volition, or force you to send him away. They might use rancid meat, for instance, to sicken you and your guests, so that he’s blamed. Or engage in other kinds of sabotage. There are a whole host of ways to get revenge on a cook, my lord.”
“There will be no need for that. I won’t permit the beating of my servants, by anyone,” Nicholas said. “Such treatment inspires anger and hatred and bitter resentment, as I well know. I was beaten every day by the man to whom I was first fostered for training.”
It seemed impossible Sir Nicholas of Dunkeathe had ever been anything but a mature man and the powerful overlord of a castle. Yet once, he had been a mistreated boy, and apparently with no one to help and come to his aid.
His expression hardened, and his voice was cold when he spoke. “Spare yourself any pity you might be feeling for me, my lady. If I’d been taught music and poetry instead, I wouldn’t be in possession of this estate. And I paid Yves Sansouci back for every bruise, every lash, every gash and cut.” He pointed to a small scar on his temple. “The day he gave me this, I broke his arm and nearly crippled him. After that, my brother and I went elsewhere, to train with a better man.”
He picked up a leather jerkin that was lying on the ground nearby.
As he tugged it over his head, she tried not to notice that was the same jerkin he’d been wearing that first day.
The men, having had their fill, started to gather up their garments. They talked among themselves and cast glances at their commander and Riona, as they moved off toward the gates. Even as they left, however, she was well aware there were other soldiers up on the wall walk, watching them.
“The servants should have come to me,” he said, apparently oblivious to the curious looks from the men.
“They didn’t come to you because Alfred threatened to accuse anyone who told you with theft.”
Nicholas frowned. “I require proof before I punish anyone for a crime.”
“I don’t think they know that, my lord.” Neither had she, although once he said it, she believed him. “And you’re…”
“What?” he asked when she hesitated.
Driven to it, she said, “You’re very intimidating. If I were your servant, I’d think twice about coming to you with a complaint, about anything.”
“I am what I am, my lady, and what my life has made me. I cannot change.”
“Not even if it means your own household lives in fear of you? That isn’t commanding their respect, my lord. That’s tyranny and it also leads to anger and resentment.”
“A castle requires discipline, my lady. Or perhaps you’d like me to tuck my soldiers into bed at night and sing them a lullaby? Maybe you’d like me to weave daisy chains for the maidservants? Or declare every second day a holiday?”
“Occasional praise can be as effective as correction.”
He leaned down to grab his sword belt and scabbard that had been beneath the jerkin. “When you are in command of a castle and garrison, I’ll take your advice.”
Worried she’d angered him too much and that he wouldn’t do anything about Alfred, she tried to lessen the tension between them. “You’re right. I don’t know much about commanding a garrison, especially one so large.”
“A man has to protect what is his.”
“I don’t think there would be too many men willing to try to take Dunkeathe from you.”
“Because I have such a large garrison.”
“And because the king gave it to you.”
Although Nicholas’s eyes still burned with indignation, he didn’t sound quite so annoyed. “In spite of that, I know most Scots wish me gone.”
“My uncle doesn’t.”
“Then he’s an exception,” Nicholas replied as he buckled his belt about his waist. He raised an inquisitive brow. “I suppose your uncle adheres to the notion that no Scot would betray another or try to take what is his by force?”
“My uncle certainly thinks the Scots are the finest, most trustworthy people on earth, but we’ve heard of the betrayal of Lachlann Mac Taran, and how it nearly cost your sister her life.”
“And what about you, my lady?” Nicholas asked. “Do you have a similarly high opinion of your people?”
“I think some people are greedy and ambitious and will stop at nothing to get what they want, no matter where they’re born. Fortunately, my uncle’s holding is too small and insignificant and rocky to be of interest to clever, scheming, ambitious men.”
“Do you think I am a clever, scheming, ambitious man?”
She met his gaze squarely. “I believe you’re ambitious, or you wouldn’t have worked so hard for your success. And you aren’t a fool, my lord, or again, you wouldn’t be in possession of this land and this castle. As for scheming, your plan to find a bride seems rather heartless.”
“If I crave wealth and power, Riona,” he grimly replied, “it’s because I know what it is to lack them. If my method of choosing a bride seems cold and calculated, it’s because I can’t marry just to satisfy my desire.”
Why did he have to speak of desire?
“Sir Nicholas!” a voice bellowed, one that Riona had recently heard raised in rage and frustration.
The cook came marching toward them across the ward, his face red, his breathing heavy with the effort.
Wondering what Nicholas was going to do, Riona slid him a wary glance. His face rarely betrayed any hint of what he was thinking, but unless she was very much mistaken, Alfred was about to discover that Nicholas of Dunkeathe had little use for men who beat defenseless boys.
The cook seemed to realize something was amiss, for before he reached them, he pointed at Riona and declared, “My lord, this Scot is filling your head with lies and false accusations. She even threatened me! Who does she think she is, anyway? She’s not in charge of my kitchen.”
“Neither are you,” Nicholas replied, his voice cold and his tone imperious. “I am in charge of Dunkeathe, Alfred, and therefore in charge of the kitchen.”
“But I am in your employ to run your kitchen, my lord,” Alfred protested, his voice now more whining than defiant. “I haven’t failed you in that. And my skills are without question.”
“It isn’t your cooking that’s at issue. I understand you beat the spit boy.”
After another malevolent glance at Riona, Alfred said, “He let the meat burn, my lord. Would you have me excuse him, or pat him on the head and say never mind? I had to beat him to teach him not to do it again, and by God, my lord, he won’t.”
“Or what? You’ll kill him?”
Alfred sucked in his breath and regarded Riona as if she’d unfairly accused him of attempted murder. “I don’t know what she’s been saying, my lord—”
“She told me that you beat the boy. She told me that the rest of the servants aren’t pleased with your governance. She told me I could have serious trouble if something isn’t done.”
Sweat trickled down the sides of the cook’s reddening face. “What does it matter what the servants think, as long as they do their work—and by God, my lord, I see that they do!” Alfred retorted. “What sort of serious trouble is this woman—this Scot—talking about?”
“The sort of trouble I’ve seen many times when a commander isn’t fit to lead.”
“Not fit?” Alfred cried. “ I’m not fit? I tell you, my lord, I’ve been cooking for noblemen since you were nothing more than a poor soldier in the pay of anybody who’d hire you and I won’t be treated like this. Either she goes, or I do!”
As Riona held her breath, Nicholas’s brows lowered. “Since you must be unhappy working for a man who was once nothing more than a poor soldier in the pay of anyone who’d hire him, I’m sure you’d be happier somewhere else.”
The cook gulped and suddenly seemed to realize he’d said far too much, and to the wrong man. “Forgive my hasty words, my lord,” he stammered. “She got me angry, that’s all. You always let me have a free hand to run the kitchen as I see fit, so when she came and tried to take charge—”
“Did you try to take charge of Alfred’s kitchen, my lady?” Nicholas asked as he looked at Riona, and in his dark eyes, she saw a skepticism that told her who he believed.
Her heart singing, she answered him with frank honesty. “I told him to stop beating the spit boy, my lord, and that I was going to tell you what was going on. If that’s taking charge, I did—and I’d do it again.”
Nicholas turned back to the cook. “Alfred, you will leave Dunkeathe immediately.”
“But my lord, surely you don’t mean that!”
“I assure you, I do.”
“With so many noble guests and their servants? Who will supervise those lazy louts in the kitchen?”
“That will be my concern, Alfred, not yours. Collect your things and be gone before sunset. Or would you prefer to spend the next week or two in the stocks alongside Burnley?”
Alfred blanched and backed away. “All right, my lord, I’ll go,” he said, his whole body shaking, “and good riddance to you and your lazy servants and this damned country! I hope you all rot!”
Riona let her breath out slowly as she watched the cook run away as fast as his fat legs could take him.
As Nicholas came to stand beside her, he said, “He’s right about one thing. Now I have no cook and thus no one to supervise my kitchen.”
His expression speculative, he turned to her. “While I appreciate that you acted out of sympathy for the spit boy, I also recall that your uncle claims you are a wonder at the management of a household. Would it be too much to ask that you take command of my kitchen in the interim? I assure you, I’ll have Robert do his utmost to hire another cook as quickly as possible.”
He made that sound like a perfectly reasonable request, and there was flattery and respect in it, too. Happiness bloomed within her, at least for a moment, until certain realities intruded. “I don’t know the sort of dishes Normans like.”
“The servants ought to have learned something from Alfred,” he countered. “All they need is someone to oversee the meals and ensure that there’s enough for everyone to eat, and at the appropriate time—although given that I’m expecting my sister and her family, perhaps you could show them how to prepare a few Scots dishes.”
How could she refuse to oblige him when his proposal sounded so reasonable, and she would have the chance to make something her uncle would like? “Very well, my lord.”
His eyes suddenly seemed to glow, and his lips curved up in a satisfied smile. “Maybe I should even thank you, for it occurs to me that I now have a way to determine which of the ladies remaining are best able to run my household. Each of them will take it in turn, with you to start.”
Riona frowned. “I didn’t complain about your cook so that you could have a contest to find the most competent bride.”
“Yet it gives me that opportunity just the same,” he replied without so much as a hint of shame. “If you’d rather not participate, I suppose Lady Joscelind could take the first—”
“I’ll do it,” Riona said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d best get to the kitchen and see what remains to be done for tonight’s meal.”
As she marched away, determined to show Nicholas, Lady Joscelind and anybody else that if she wasn’t pretty or young or rich or from a powerful family, she wasn’t completely useless, Nicholas went to the buckets by the wall. He found one that wasn’t empty and dumped what was left of the cold water on his head.