Margaret Moore - Lord of Dunkeathe

“That’s what Marianne said before she married one of them,” Nicholas noted. “Our sister seems quite happy now.”

Henry sniffed and took another drink of Nicholas’s fine wine. “She’s a woman, and we both know women are slaves to their hearts. Would you marry a Scot?”

“I’d certainly consider a Scot if she had a large dowry and was from an important family.”

“I really think you would at that.”

Nicholas’s temper flared. “I do live in their country, and it was a Scot who gave me this estate.”

Henry put the goblet down on the large table. “You’d better be careful, or you might wind up more Scots than Norman, like Marianne. You’ve already let your hair grow long, the way they do.”

“It saves time,” Nicholas replied. “However, I doubt I’ll ever be mistaken for a Scot, whoever I marry, and as for our sister, she seems content, and I’m happy to have her husband for an ally. I need all the allies I can get in this country.”

Henry, who wore his hair in the Norman fashion, took a long drink, then wiped his lips. “Surely the woman herself should count for something.”

“Naturally,” Nicholas said as he set down his goblet. “She’ll have to be able to run a household without pestering me about expenses or petty squabbles among the servants.”

“You must want her to be pretty,” Henry said. “Or do you intend never to see her by daylight? Or candlelight? Or torchlight?”

“Of course I don’t want to marry some old hag. But as long as she’s not repulsive, her looks are immaterial to me.”

Henry didn’t hide his skepticism. “You used to be more discerning. In fact, you used to be quite fussy in that regard. Considering this is a woman you’ll have to make love to several times if you’re to have heirs, I’m surprised to hear you claim otherwise.”

“All I wanted from a whore was to slake my lust. This is different.”

“Exactly,” Henry cried triumphantly, “because presumably, she’ll also be the mother of your children. You don’t want a bunch of ugly brats, do you?”

“I want my sons to be courageous, honorable men, and my daughters honorable, demure women—as their mother should be. What they look like is less important.”

“We’ll see how serious you are about your future wife’s appearance when you make your choice,” Henry said as he pushed himself away from the table. “Now give me your hand. It’s time I was on my way if I’m to reach Dunbardee before nightfall.”

Nicholas rose and clasped his brother by the forearm. “Safe journey, Henry.”

“If I hear anything of significance at court, I’ll send word,” Henry replied. “I do know what you did for me, Nicholas, and I won’t forget. Anything I can do to help you, I will.”

Nicholas regarded him with surprise, taken aback by this unexpected expression of sincere gratitude.

Henry sauntered to the door. “Farewell, brother.” He paused on the threshold and gave Nicholas a sarcastic smirk. “Whatever you do, don’t sell yourself short.”

The warmth engendered by Henry’s words of appreciation fled.

“I’m not selling myself.”

Henry replied with aggravating condescension. “Of course you are, just as the women will be. But there’s no need to lose your temper, brother. That’s the way of the world. Goodbye, and good luck.”

AFTER HENRY had left him, Nicholas again went to the window, hands clasped behind his back. The sun was past midday. Henry would have to ride swiftly if he was to reach Dunbardee. He’d enjoy that. Henry was young and he’d always been reckless—because he could afford to be. He hadn’t had to pay for their sister’s time in the convent. He hadn’t had to ensure that his brother had the best training and arms, while he managed with whatever he could afford after their needs were met. Henry had never slept in stables to save the cost of a night’s lodging at an inn, or gone without food.

Henry hadn’t been the one to promise their dying mother he would always look after his brother and sister, a vow he’d willingly made and done his best to keep.

Henry didn’t know that as the years of struggle had passed, Nicholas had vowed to do everything he could to rise in the world, to a place where he’d be rich and respected, safe and secure, where no one could take anything away from him, or threaten him or his family.

With that in mind, he’d trained and fought and won this estate by dint of his skill at arms alone, without the benefit of noble patronage or connections.

Yet even so, that wasn’t enough to rest and be content, not in this world. To hold it, he needed a rich wife from a powerful family.

And, by God, he’d get one.

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.