Lord of Dunkeathe. Margaret Moore
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Lady Joscelind’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, yet when she spoke, she was still scornful and dismissive. “If you are who you claim to be, I assume you’ve come here to meet Sir Nicholas. You think you stand a chance of impressing him?”
“As it happens, my lady, I’ve already met him. And so have you, although you didn’t know it.” Riona smiled without mirth. “I don’t think you made a very favorable impression.”
Lady Joscelind’s jaw dropped, then indignantly snapped shut. “I should think I’d remember being introduced to Sir Nicholas.”
“I didn’t say you’d been introduced. I said you’d met him.”
Riona spotted Uncle Fergus coming toward her with Fredella in tow. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I should join my uncle, whose family have been thanes and chieftains here since before the Normans existed.”
She started to leave, then turned back. “Oh, and I’ll remind you that Sir Nicholas holds this land by the grace of Alexander of Scotland, not Henry of England, so if there’s a court he and his wife should attend, it’s that of Scotland. That’s provided he even picks you, of course,” she finished with another smile that suggested she found that highly doubtful.
Then, she swept away from the Norman ladies, leaving Lady Joscelind to wonder how and where she’d met the lord of Dunkeathe.
Riona wished they hadn’t come here. She wished Uncle Fergus had never heard of Sir Nicholas’s plans to find himself a wife. Most of all, she wished the king had never invited the Normans to Scotland at all, or paid mercenaries to serve him, even if rebellion and rival claims to the throne were part and parcel of the history of her land.
When she reached Uncle Fergus, who seemed completely unaware that anything untoward had happened, he pulled Fredella forward. “Riona, my beauty, this is Fredella.”
Fredella’s smile was nearly as jovial as Uncle Fergus’s. “I’m delighted to meet you, my lady, and I’m sure Eleanor will be, too,” she said. “My mistress is a shy girl, but she’ll want to be introduced to you.”
“We’d be delighted to meet her, too, wouldn’t we, Riona?” Uncle Fergus answered for her.
Remembering the smiles she’d exchanged with the younger woman, Riona had hope Lady Eleanor wouldn’t prove to be another Lady Joscelind. “Aye, I’d be happy to meet her.”
“Not now, though,” Fredella whispered with a worried frown as she drew them both away to the side of the hall.
“Why wait? She’s here and so are we,” Uncle Fergus said, not bothering to lower his voice.
“Because Sir Percival’s with her. He, um, doesn’t think much of the Scots, I’m afraid,” Fredella replied, her plump cheeks coloring.
Uncle Fergus glowered at Sir Percival. “Doesn’t like Scots, eh? Because we don’t fuss with our hair and spend more on a tunic than many a poor family earns in a year?”
“Neither Eleanor nor I share his prejudice,” Fredella hastily assured him. “My own mother was a Scot, you see.”
Uncle Fergus stopped glaring at the Norman and gave her a smile. “Was she now?”
“Yes, from Lochbarr.”
“A fine place, that,” Uncle Fergus said, his anger lessening. “And the Mac Tarans are a fine clan.” He gave Riona a significant look. “That’s the clan Sir Nicholas’s sister married into.”
“Oh, you’ve heard of them, have you?” Fredella asked.
“I don’t think there are many Scots who haven’t,” Uncle Fergus replied. “A fine group of fighters always come out of Lochbarr.”
“Eleanor’s often longed to go there, to see the things I’ve talked about,” Fredella said, “but that Percival wouldn’t let her. She’s hardly been able to see anyone, either. To keep her pure, he says, as if she had no virtue or modesty to speak of. She’s been raised better than that, I can tell you, by me and her dear sainted mother.”
“She’s an orphan?” Riona asked.
“Since she was ten. That’s when that Percival got the charge of her. If you ask me, he’s got more love for those ridiculous boots of his than he does for his cousin. He’s just waiting for somebody rich to offer to take her off his hands. He makes me want to spit!”
“Poor bairn,” Uncle Fergus murmured.
Riona shared his sympathy. She could imagine how her life might have been had her kindly uncle not taken her in. Yet in a way, she also envied Lady Eleanor, who had at least known her mother. Riona had no memory of hers, who had died in childbirth, or her father, who had died of a fever a short time later.
A sudden stir near the steps leading from the hall to the apartments made Riona turn. The mighty lord of Dunkeathe strode toward the dais. Now he was finely dressed in a black, thigh-length tunic and breeches and polished boots. His hair was still the same, though—long and waving to his shoulders, like her countrymen—and he still had the same angular handsome features, and those eyes that seemed more hawk than human. Yet in those clothes, with the attention of everyone in the hall upon him, he looked more like a prince than a soldier. How could she ever have assumed he was anything but a noble lord? The only common thing about him was the sword hilt sticking out of the scabbard attached to his belt. It was exceptionally plain, just a bronze crossbar wrapped with leather, as any foot soldier might possess.
She looked to Lord Chesleigh and his daughter, to see if they recognized him. The Norman nobleman was staring at Sir Nicholas as if he was seeing an apparition; his daughter’s face was bright red, and although she lowered her head, Riona saw enough to know that she was flushed not from shame, but with indignant anger.
That didn’t bode well for a match between the lady and the lord of Dunkeathe, unless Lord Chesleigh and his daughter thought him worthy enough to overlook what had happened in the courtyard.
Sir Nicholas came to a halt in the center of the raised platform, in front of the high table. “My lords and ladies, knights and gentlemen, welcome to Dunkeathe. I am both flattered and delighted to see so many of you here.” He made what was, she assumed, supposed to be a smile. “I especially welcome the young ladies, although there are so many of such beauty, grace and accomplishments, I am overwhelmed.”
Riona didn’t believe that for a moment.
Sir Nicholas turned to his steward, who was standing at the left side of the dais, a wax tablet in his hands. “If you would begin, Robert.”
The man consulted what was obviously a list. “My lord, may I present the Duke of Ansley and his sister, Lady Elizabeth.”
A man of middle years, with a sizable belly and attired in a long blue robe, hurried forward, leading a lady likewise plump, wearing a gown in an unflattering shade of burgundy. Sir Nicholas bowed, as did the nobleman, while the lady made her obeisance.
There were no smiles exchanged, and the lady was clearly nervous.
The steward proceeded to introduce all the ladies and their relatives one by one. The woman who’d been less impressed with Lady Joscelind was Lady Lavinia, the second cousin of the Duc D’Anglevoix, who had the longest, most arched nose Riona had ever seen. He also seemed a bit put out, darting annoyed glances at the steward and the man who’d just been introduced. Clearly D’Anglevoix felt he should have been called first.
The round-eyed Lady Priscilla, who came next, giggled the entire time she stood before Sir Nicholas, and the young man beside her looked as if he’d gladly gag her as he led her away. The Earl of Eglinburg, who likewise hadn’t missed many meals, strode forward so quickly, his daughter, Lady Mary, had to run to keep up with him, for she was short while he was tall.
Sir George, he of the bulbous red nose and swaying gait, slurred a greeting and nearly fell over when he bowed. His daughter, Lady Eloise, who was neither