Dryden's Bride. Margo Maguire
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did that was so wrong, Siân disgraced herself time and time again, invoking Owen’s wrath with every mistake.
Owen had made a fine place for himself as Keeper of the King’s Wardrobe. Now, with King Henry dead, Queen Catherine relied heavily upon Owen for his support and counsel. He could not have a stupid and clumsy sister about. Her incompetence would naturally cast aspersions on him.
Siân leaned back, pulled the sticky cloth of her ale-soaked bodice away from her breast and let the misty rain fall, cleansing her skin of the spilled drink, and her heart of the oppressive thoughts that plagued her. The air was chill, and Siân knew she should return to the castle, but she could not bring herself to confront the ridiculing faces of those who had witnessed yet another ignominious episode in the life of Siân verch Marudedd.
But then, why not?
She would hold her head proudly erect as she walked through the great hall, as she always did, and ignore the sly looks and rude whisperings behind finely manicured, aristocratic hands. She’d lived through enough true horrors in Wales that this, her most recent mishap and Owen’s embarrassingly public censure, hardly rated her notice. So what if she’d spilled her cup of ale? Was everyone in England so infernally perfect, with nary a spill or a speck of dirt anywhere that they could not understand and accept a few small imperfections?
Wiping her tears, Siân got herself to her feet, only to be startled by the earl of Alldale, who’d come upon her without making a sound.
He said nothing, but stood formidably, with his arms crossed over his chest, as if awaiting her explanation for being there.
Siân, having already worked herself up into a defiant, peevish mood, raised her chin. “If you’ve come to laugh at my lack of grace, my lord—” she started to push past him “—rest assured that I am well aware of my shortcomings. I’ve—”
“Look!” Hugh grabbed her elbow and gently guided her back against the rock where she’d sat moments ago, crying. Their presence was concealed as he turned her to look toward the movement he’d noticed in the distance behind her. “Men are gathering in the mist.”
Siân peered down the shoreline, and forgot her own small troubles instantly. Directly north of them, were men leading their horses to the water. They did not appear to be Clairmont people. “They’re wearing plaid,” she said in hushed tones. “We’ve heard that Scottish raiders have been attacking the town and stealing livestock!”
Hugh knew that Richard Bradley had met his death leading Clairmont’s defense against just such Scottish marauders. “Would you estimate…” he asked “…about thirty of them over there?”
Siân peered into the mist. “Yes,” she said, realizing that he didn’t trust his own sight. “But there are more, with wagons—still making way down the hillside.”
Hugh shot his gaze abruptly to the northward hills and realized Siân was correct about the others. He hadn’t noticed them before. She had a keen eye, even with her sight obscured by tears. Looking down into her guileless face, Hugh gave a fleeting thought as to what had made her weep, and resisted the urge to touch her face, to wipe the tears from her flushed skin.
His spine stiffened with the odd notion. She could find her comfort from her brother, or from one of the courtly ladies back at the castle. Siân Tudor certainly had no need of his kind words, even if he knew any. “We’ll need to get back to Clairmont and alert the men,” Hugh said as he took Siân’s elbow and drew her back to the footpath.
“They seem very well equipped, My Lord,” Siân said. “This will be devastating to Clairmont.”
“Not if we’re prepared,” Hugh replied gravely.
They hurried through the light rain, running through the town and up to the castle. Both Siân and Hugh were soaked through when they reached Clairmont’s outer bailey. “Go and get those wet clothes off,” Hugh ordered her.
“I’m coming with you,” she said defiantly.
Unwilling to waste time arguing, Hugh proceeded to the great hall, where Lady Marguerite and many of her noble guests were gathered around talking, laughing and watching a pair of jugglers, while the queen’s musicians continued to play their festive music.
Hugh spotted Nicholas Becker, standing with Lady Marguerite, and he made his way toward the handsome pair, thinking that Nick was a much more suitable swain than he was.
“Hugh!” Nicholas exclaimed. He glanced at Siân, who stood a little behind Hugh. “You’re soaked!”
Ignoring his friend’s words, Hugh spoke urgently. “There are Scotsmen gathering at the lakeshore beneath the northern hills, preparing for attack,” he said. “The knights need to ready themselves for battle.”
Marguerite blanched white and started to sway. Nicholas was closest, and caught her before she fell, then swept her up off her feet, causing a stir among the guests in the hall. “Sir George will know the chain of command,” he said, “best consult him.” Then he turned and carried the lady out of the hall and up the main stairs.
Hugh’s appearance with Siân in the hall had caused more than a minor disturbance, so they did not have to go looking for Lady Marguerite’s steward. Sir George quickly found Hugh amid the revelers who had stopped their amusements and were already questioning him. Hugh spoke of the developing threat near the lake, and the crowd in the hall quickly dispersed—the noble-women fled to areas of safety, the knights headed for the barracks to arm themselves.
Hugh and Sir George went down to rouse the troops, then headed for the armory where Hugh began issuing orders as he put on his armor.
“Send runners into town to rouse the people,” he said as a young squire helped him to fit his jack over his hauberk. Sleeves and pauncer were added, then sword and dagger.
“But, my lord—”
“Have all able-bodied men remain in the town, but send everyone else up here,” Hugh ordered. “Have the people round up their livestock and herd their animals inside the castle walls. Stress the importance of speed and stealth.”
“But, my lord,” Sir George protested, “we must have a plan. We cannot just—”
“This is the plan, Sir George,” Hugh said. “What did Lord Richard do when faced with an enemy attack?”
“We were never forewarned before, so the earl always met the enemy face-to-face,” the old squire said, “head-to-head on the field of battle.”
“It’s time for a new tack,” Hugh said with authority. He had assumed leadership for lack of another to do so. “We’ll protect the townspeople as best we can by removing them to the castle. Ah, Nicholas,” he said, taking note of his friend’s appearance in the barracks.
Nicholas was stunned by the sight that greeted him. Hugh had shown little interest in anything, his lengthy malaise certainly due to the tortures he’d withstood at Windermere Castle. Yet here he stood now, as formidable as he’d ever been, arming himself for battle and issuing orders as if he’d never lost an eye, a finger, a toe…Never been chained to a wall and forced to witness the atrocities committed against a defenseless old crone.
“Don’t gape, Nick,” Hugh said as he picked up his quiver of arrows. “Arm yourself.”
And as Nicholas began putting on his armor, it crossed his mind that it was unfortunate they hadn’t found a war in which to involve themselves before this.
“Is it possible the Scots know that Queen Catherine is here with young Henry?” Hugh asked Sir George, his astute mind quickly calculating all possibilities, and surprising Nicholas yet again.
“It is doubtful, my lord,” the aging knight replied pensively. “Her Majesty has been here less than a week—not nearly enough time for the Scots to muster a force of fighters such as you have described.”
Hugh let the matter rest, although he was far from satisfied that Sir George was correct.