Hers to Desire. Margaret Moore
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standing, her hands on the driver’s shoulders as if she were some sort of Amazon, urging him to hurry, while the beleaguered driver flicked his switch with a desperation Ranulf could well appreciate.
“Oh, my poor lamb!” Maloren cried when she spied Bea. “What’s happened? I could kill those two soldiers who came back without you. Winded horses, indeed! What’s that blackguard doing here? Why is your cloak muddy? Has that Satan’s spawn laid a hand on you? I warned you not to ride off!”
God help him, Bea and Maloren. He’d rather have the plague.
Bea slid him a reproachful look, as if she’d somehow guessed what he was thinking. “At least you won’t have to ride in the cart with her,” she said under her breath. “She’ll be chiding me all the way to Penterwell.”
For a moment, Ranulf was tempted to rescind his order.
But only for a moment. Otherwise, Bea would be riding beside him all the way to the castle, and that was surely something best avoided.
AS MALOREN STOOD beside Beatrice in the entrance to the hall of Penterwell, she threw up her hands in disgust. “By the holy Mother and all the angels, I wouldn’t keep pigs in this place!”
Beatrice silently agreed with her servant’s assessment. This was much worse that she’d expected, and her expectations had not been high. Indeed, she’d never seen such an ill-kept hall, with torn and smoke- darkened tapestries and scarred, battered tables bearing evidence of past meals. If the tables had been wiped at all, she doubted the rag had been clean, or even wet. The lord’s chair on the dais, a massive thing, had no cushion and looked more like an instrument of torture. The fire in the central hearth smoked and smoldered as if the wood used to make it had been left in the rain for a week.
She shuddered to imagine what the kitchen and bedchambers must be like. Mice in the pantry, no doubt, and bugs in the beds. No wonder Ranulf had written that letter to Merrick, and no wonder he’d muttered something about seeing to the horses and baggage instead of coming with them to the hall. Yet there was no need for him to be ashamed. He was the castellan, not the chatelaine, and a man couldn’t be expected to run a household.
She’d also seen why he’d asked Merrick to send masons. The outer wall, and there was only one, was crumbling at one corner, and parts of the wall walk had already fallen away. Planks had been put in the gaps, but wood could catch fire if attackers used flaming arrows, and wet wood was as slick as ice in the rain.
The castle itself wasn’t overly large, and the inner buildings consisted of the hall, where most of the soldiers and male servants must sleep, with family apartments and quarters for female servants above; the stables; the kitchen; a keep with a dungeon below, no doubt; and various storage buildings made of wood or stone. The yard itself was cobbled and relatively free of clutter or anything that might cause overcrowding or other danger.
“Gah! Just look at this rubbish,” Maloren muttered, kicking at the rushes on the floor. “Been here for months, these have, or I was born yesterday. No fleabane either, by the smell of it. We’ll be scratching bites within a day. And there’s bones in it. Rats, too, no doubt. We can’t stay here. We should turn around and go back to Tregellas. It’s only raining a little, nothing to speak of.”
Beatrice silently sent up another prayer for patience. Maloren had complained only moments ago that she was going to be soaked to the skin walking from the cart to the hall. “It’s raining too hard, and it’s too late in the day to start back. You wouldn’t want to be benighted on the moor or in a wood, would you?”
Maloren’s immediate response was a sniff, and then to point at the water dripping through a hole in the slate roof. “We’ll be drowned in our beds—if we’re not too busy slapping at fleas and Lord knows what else.”
Beatrice spied some women huddling in what appeared to be the corridor to the kitchen. Because of their simple homespun attire, she guessed they must be servants. They were less slovenly than the state of the hall would have led her to expect, so perhaps it was merely lack of leadership that explained the mess here, not an unwillingness to work. If she were staying here, she wouldn’t accuse the servants of being lazy. She would simply assume they wanted to do their work and tell them…
She was here for at least this one night. Why not do what Constance and Merrick had sent her to do, even for that short time? She could surely make a bit of difference, and what did it matter if Ranulf wasn’t cooperative? She had a duty to fulfill, and she could try to achieve as much as possible before she was sent away.
Determined to do just that, she started toward the wary women. It would be better if Ranulf introduced her to the household, but since he wasn’t here, she would simply introduce herself.
And she would not feel grateful that not one of these women was pretty.
She smiled kindly and spoke gently, as if they were a group of nervous horses. “Good day. I am Lady Beatrice, the cousin of Lady Constance, the lady of Tregellas. I’ve come to visit Sir Ranulf and help set his household to rights since he has no wife or female relative to do it for him.”
The women exchanged guarded looks. None of them ventured a word or smiled in return.
Beatrice gestured for the one who looked the youngest and least frightened to come forward. “What’s your name?”
“Tecca, my lady,” she murmured in reply.
“Thank you, Tecca. Who is the most senior of the maidservants here?”
“Eseld, my lady.”
She looked over the women. “And which one of you is Eseld?”
“She isn’t here, my lady,” Tecca said quietly.
“Where is she?”
“Don’t know, my lady.”
Beatrice was quite certain Tecca did know, and so did the other servants who were likewise avoiding looking directly at her. However, this wasn’t the time to press the point. What mattered now was what had brought her here in the first place. “Well, when you do see her, tell her to come to me. Lady Constance has charged me with ensuring that Sir Ranulf is as comfortably accommodated as a man of his rank deserves to be, and I intend to see that happens. First, though, I would like one of you to take my servant, Maloren, to the kitchen. She will be in charge of the evening meal today.”
Behind her, Maloren muttered, “I don’t know how I’m expected to have anything decent on the table. The food’s probably full of maggots.”
“Maggots?” a rough male voice cried from behind the serving women. “Who accuses me of having maggots in my food?”
A man nearly as wide as he was tall pushed his way through the serving women. He wore an apron liberally spattered with grease and his sleeves were rolled up to display fleshy arms. One eye squinted and he was missing a front tooth. His plump fingers were covered with tiny scars; he was also completely bald.
In spite of his unappealing appearance and rude manner, Beatrice gave him a smile, too. “Am I to assume that you’re the cook?”
“Aye, and the best one in Cornwall,” the man boasted. “Sir Ranulf can have no cause to complain about the food.”
Beatrice decided this was not the time to discuss that, so she gave him a rather empty smile. “When will the evening meal be served?”
“When it’s ready.”
No wonder this place was in such a condition, if this servant thought he could speak to her like that.
Beatrice drew herself up and straightened her shoulders, then regarded him with the contempt his insolence deserved. “You are the cook in Sir Ranulf’s household. I am the cousin of his overlord’s wife. When I ask you a question, you will give me a proper answer, or you will no longer be the cook here. Do you understand me?”
The man glanced about him uncertainly while all the other servants stared at their feet.
The