Margaret Moore - Lord of Dunkeathe

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.”