Lord of Dunkeathe. Margaret Moore
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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.
More than finely dressed nobles filled the room and created the noise. Here, as in the courtyard, what seemed a bevy of servants hurried through the hall, some still setting up tables and covering them with linen, others lighting torches. Hounds wandered about, snuffling at the rushes and looking around expectantly, often in the direction of a door that led to the kitchen, for wonderful odors wafted to her from that direction.
More than once the servants collided, argued and cast annoyed looks at their fellows. A few of the younger servants appeared utterly confused, and had to be pointedly reminded about what they were to do.
There was no woman who seemed to be in any position of authority here, only the steward they’d met at the gate. Standing in the corner near the dais, he looked harried and rather lost. Obviously he wasn’t prepared for this responsibility, or maybe he was overwhelmed by the number of guests.
She could have told him that the tables should have been set up much earlier, with the linens to come shortly before the meal was served. More specific directions would help bring better order to the rest of the activity, and the younger servants should only be entrusted with the most basic of duties.
She wondered how well the kitchen servants were organized, until it occurred to her that none of this was her concern. She was a guest here, like all the other nobles.
Suddenly, everyone simultaneously stopped talking and moving, and turned to look at her and Uncle Fergus. Disappointment flickered across their faces and was soon replaced by scorn and derision.
“I suppose they were expecting Sir Nicholas,” Uncle Fergus remarked. He didn’t seem to notice that people were looking at them as if they were spattered with mud. Or dung. “I don’t see him here, but there’s Fredella.”
He smiled at a woman dressed in a plain gown of dark blue wool, with a simple leather girdle about her ample waist, and a square of linen on her head. Her garments, as well as her friendly face, suggested to Riona that she wasn’t a lady, but perhaps a servant of one of them. Either that, or they weren’t the only poor nobles who’d come to Dunkeathe.
Whoever she was, it was like Uncle Fergus to make friends with anyone and everyone, rich or poor, peasant or noble—another reason she loved him.
“She’s the servant of Lady Eleanor, the cousin of Sir Percival de Surlepont,” Uncle Fergus explained, nodding at a man on the other side of the hall. “He’s that overdressed puppy we saw in the courtyard and that’s Lady Eleanor beside him.”
Riona instantly recognized the young man who’d been wearing yellow damask. Lady Eleanor was the pretty girl who’d seemed so unhappy. She didn’t look any happier standing beside her cousin in the hall, attired in a gown of deep red cendal trimmed with gold, like the circlet on her dark brown hair. Sir Percival had changed into a tunic of peacock blue, trimmed with brilliant green, and he had a large gold chain around his neck. His boots alone—leather dyed scarlet and embossed with gold and silver—would likely pay for her uncle’s wine for a year.
All the nobles were similarly dressed in sumptuous, colorful and expensive garments, embroidered with lovely threads of bright colors. The quality and number of materials was mind-boggling, and as for the cost, Riona could probably feed their entire household for half a year on what it cost for a single gown one of these ladies wore, not to mention the gold and silver and costly gems they wore on their fingers or around their necks.
“If you’ll excuse me, Riona, I’ll go say hello to Fredella. She was very helpful to me when I was looking for the fellow in charge of the quarters.”
Uncle Fergus didn’t wait for Riona to agree, but bustled off toward the older woman. Since she couldn’t call him back without attracting more unwelcome attention, Riona moved to the side of the hall and surveyed the gathered nobles.
Across the chamber, Lord Chesleigh, in a long black tunic, held forth about the rising cost of wine to a small group of noblemen. One of his listeners had a very bulbous red nose and he swayed so much that Riona suspected he’d been into the wine already. A younger man, not so brilliantly attired, hovered on the edge of another group as if he were too shy to join it, yet didn’t want to leave. A lady in that small gathering kept glancing at him as if she wasn’t sure if he should go or stay, either.
“What can Sir Nicholas be thinking, letting that fat little Scot stay?” a haughty and unfortunately familiar female voice drawled nearby, so loud and imperious, Riona couldn’t ignore it. “I wouldn’t believe it, except that his steward told me it’s true.”
Lady Joscelind, in gold brocade, with her blond hair covered in a shimmering veil, stood with a small circle of young women several feet closer to the dais, her back to Riona. The one who giggled was among them, and another who looked rather sickly. A third wasn’t exactly slender. The last wasn’t particular attractive, but she seemed less impressed with the beautiful Lady Joscelind than the others.
“If that’s a Scots noble, we’d be doing their peasants a favor ruling their country,” Lord Chesleigh’s daughter continued, raising her slender hand in a languid, yet graceful, gesture before she let it drop. “And who’d want to stay here anyway? The people are such savages, and the weather! My father tells me it rains nineteen days out of twenty.”
It was bad enough the vain creature had disparaged Uncle Fergus. Now she was disparaging Riona’s country, too?
Glaring at the beauty, Riona marched toward the little circle.
“But if Sir Nicholas chooses you, you’ll have to live in Scotland,” the sickly looking young woman simpered, likewise not seeing Riona bear down upon them.
The other women did, and if Lady Joscelind had been less determined to express her opinions, she might have realized something was amiss.
“Only a part of the year,” she smugly and obliviously replied. “We’ll be spending a great deal of time at court.”
“England is welcome to you,” Riona snapped as she came to a halt behind her. “We don’t want you here.”
“Of all the impudence!” Lady Joscelind exclaimed, whirling around in a blaze of silk and thick perfume to meet Riona’s glare with one of her own. “How dare you interrupt our conversation?” She waved her away. “Be about your business, wench, and be glad I don’t have you punished for your insolence.”
“Oh, aye?” Riona replied, raising her brow as she crossed her arms, ignoring the other women who exchanged shocked or wary glances. “You think you wield such power over me?”
“If I don’t, somebody here must, impudent wench.”
“I answer to no one here, except Fergus Mac Gordon Mac Darbudh, Thane of Glencleith.”
Lady Joscelind smirked. “So you belong to that comical fellow, do you? Well, go tend to him, then.”
“My lady, do you not know who I am?” Riona asked, her voice low and firm and full of contempt.
Lady Joscelind’s smooth white brow furrowed with annoyance. “I neither know, nor care.”
“You should.”
Lady Joscelind’s cheeks turned pink, but her haughty demeanor didn’t alter. “Whoever you are, you hussy, I am Lady Joscelind, the daughter of Lord Chesleigh, and you had best remember that.”
“I am Lady Riona of Glencleith.”
“Lady Riona?” the