Lord of Dunkeathe. Margaret Moore
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good as to carry on into the yard, the head groom will tell you where you may stable your horse and put your, um, conveyance.”
“What about our quarters?” Uncle Fergus asked.
“There’ll be someone in the ward to direct you,” Martleby replied.
“Excellent!” Uncle Fergus exclaimed as he got back on the cart.
He lifted the reins and clucked his tongue, and the cart rumbled over the cobblestones into the inner yard. Once inside, the noise was overwhelming, worse than the celebrations of May Day and a market combined. There had to be a hundred people there, some still in their wagons, others mounted and more already on the ground. Servants dashed between the people and vehicles, and various soldiers milled about in small groups. Drivers shouted at each other as they tried to maneuver the wagons that held not just guests, but their considerable baggage, too.
Thank heavens trying to organize this crowd wasn’t her responsibility, Riona thought. For once, she could just sit and wait to be told what to do, instead of having to figure out how to do it.
On the other hand, it was frustrating, too. Forming a line to speak to the man in charge would be one solution to some of the confusion. Setting servants to direct the drivers toward the stables would have been another. Assigning one servant to each guest, to see to their baggage and accommodation, would have lessened the chaos, too.
It took Uncle Fergus a while, but eventually he managed to get their horse and cart off to one side, away from the more crowded center. The odors coming out of the building closest to them told Riona they must be beside the kitchen.
“Now, Riona, which one of these fine gentlemen do you suppose is Sir Nicholas?” Uncle Fergus asked, scratching his beard as he surveyed the yard.
“I have no idea,” she answered, her gaze going from one richly attired man to another. None of them looked like her idea of a hardened mercenary.
Uncle Fergus nodded at a haughty man of mature years, mounted on a gray horse. “What about him?”
“How old is Sir Nicholas?”
“Aye, you’re right. That fellow’s not young enough. Maybe that one there?” Uncle Fergus gestured at a man who was certainly young, dressed in bright yellow damask and mounted upon a white horse with very elaborate accoutrements of silver, like his master’s spurs.
“He doesn’t look the sort to have ever been a soldier,” Riona warily replied.
Frowning with concentration, Uncle Fergus nodded. “Aye. That one wouldn’t want to muss his clothes and fighting’s a bloody, sweaty, messy business. Maybe him?”
Riona followed his pointing finger to a man standing in the middle of the yard surrounded by several well-dressed men and a few soldiers who all seemed to be asking questions at the same time. He was dark haired, but not exactly young, and he appeared distinctly harried as he gestured at the stables as if in answer to their queries. “I think he must be the head groom,” she said.
“I think you’re right,” Uncle Fergus agreed as he started to get down off their wagon. “And since he’s the fellow I’m supposed to see about stabling our horse and putting our cart somewhere, I’d best go speak to him. I’ll try to find out about our quarters, too, while I’m at it. Stay here, Riona, till I get back. And keep an eye out for our host. I’m sure he’s here somewhere, greeting his guests.”
Riona wasn’t so sure about that, although Sir Nicholas would be guilty of a breach of good manners if he wasn’t. But since she had nothing else to do anyway, she nodded and waved a little farewell as Uncle Fergus set off through the crowd.
Wondering how long he was likely to be, and what Sir Nicholas was really like—for she didn’t doubt Uncle Fergus’s description was overly favorable—she turned her attention back to the people in the courtyard.
Several servants were unloading the wagons and taking chests and bundles into a large building on the other side of the yard that looked like a barracks, save for the narrow arched windows. Perhaps they were family apartments and servants’ chambers.
Beside that was another long building, which she guessed was the hall.
In addition to the kitchen, there were stables and other buildings that were probably storehouses of some sort, and an armory. She suspected there were more buildings that she couldn’t see to accommodate the garrison.
Maybe Sir Nicholas was looking out of one of the windows in the second floor of the apartments, watching them, smugly pleased to see all the people who’d come, and exulting in their urge to have one of their family meet his approval.
Maybe he was in his solar, trying to figure out how he was going to pay for the food necessary to feed this multitude, and where they were going to stay. Imagining a brawny, not overly intelligent ex-soldier worriedly scratching his head and puzzling over food was amusing, but not very likely. Sir Nicholas was obviously rich, as this castle attested, so he would surely not be concerned with such mundane matters.
Perhaps he’d gone out hunting, getting away from the hustle and bustle until all was settled. Then he could return in a flurry of hoofbeats, weapons, hawks and a swirling cloak, like a great hero coming home.
Well, there’d be at least one person in Castle Dunkeathe who wouldn’t react with awe and delight, she thought, even if she did have to admit to a certain curiosity to see the man who could create all this fuss and bother over a potential marriage. Maybe he was quite a prize, given the number of people here.
She wondered which lady might win him. That one, just disembarking from her blue wagon? If she proved to be younger than she was, she’d be surprised. The brown-haired one walking into the hall? She, too, was finely attired, but she certainly couldn’t be called graceful. And Riona could hear her giggling all the way across the yard.
Perhaps that very young, very pretty, dark-haired young woman wearing a lovely blue velvet cloak trimmed with red fox fur seated on a palfrey. Although she was as expensively attired as any and mounted on a very fine horse, she looked lost and lonely and more than a little frightened. She also didn’t look much more than sixteen.
The poor thing probably didn’t want to be here, either. Feeling sympathetic, Riona gave the girl a friendly smile when she looked Riona’s way.
The girl’s eyes widened with surprise. Still smiling, Riona shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, “I don’t know what I’m doing here, either.”
The girl returned her smile, until the young man in yellow damask approached her and commanded her attention. He helped her dismount and then they went into the hall.
When they were gone, Riona idly surveyed the wagons and people left in the yard. She noticed a man she hadn’t seen before leaning against the stable wall, watching the activity in the courtyard, just as she was.
He couldn’t be a nobleman, for he wore only a leather jerkin without a shirt beneath, exposing his broad chest and arms. The rest of his clothing was likewise simple and nondescript—brown woolen breeches, a wide belt with bronze buckle, scuffed leather boots. It was obvious from the way his breeches clung to his thighs that more than his arms were muscular, and his lean, dark features proclaimed him a mature man in his most powerful prime.
He must be a soldier off duty waiting for an order, or the person issuing them. He might even be a Scot, for although he wore the dress of men from the south, his dark brown hair hung to his shoulders—a far cry from the style favored by the Normans.
In his watchful stillness, he reminded her of a cat. She’d known a feline to sit outside a mouse hole, unmoving, unflinching, for an entire morning waiting for the mouse to show itself. She didn’t doubt this man could wait with the same sort of patience for his prey. Sir Nicholas must pay his soldiers well, for surely a warrior of that sort didn’t come cheaply.
One of the maidservants, a pretty woman with a mole on her breast, hurried past. The man glanced her way, which wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was the way the pretty servant reacted.