Authors: Margaret Moore
As for the man responsible for all this scheming, Riona had no idea where Sir Nicholas was at present. He rarely lingered in the hall, except when the evening meal was over. During the day, he personally oversaw the training of his men. Sometimes he rode with patrols around his estate, looking for oudaws or others who might cause trouble. Every morning, he spent time with his steward, going over accounts and other business. He was a very busy overlord, and he certainly couldn't be called lazy.
Looking up from her embroidery, Eleanor nodded at Lavinia. "She's not fooling anyone, you know," she noted with an amused smile. "She can hardly keep her eyes off Audric."
Riona smiled, too. "He's not a bad-looking fellow, and he seems quite nice."
For a Norman, she added inwardly, because as yet, the only truly nice Norman she'd met had been Eleanor. Fredella was born and raised in Lincolnshire, so more Saxon than Norman, and more Dane than Saxon, for the Danes had held that part of England for years upon years.
"Percival thinks Audric's destined for the church," Eleanor remarked.
" Audric will never make a priest if he keeps gazing at Lavinia the way he does," Riona replied, trying not to think of another man who would not have made a good priest.
"Do you suppose Sir Nicholas has noticed their affection?"
"I don't see how he couldn't."
"Yet she's still here."
"I'm sure he has what he considers excellent political reasons for that. Perhaps he doesn't want to risk offending their families or other relatives by asking them to go. My uncle and I are still here, after all, simply to stave off the Scots' complaints."
"I don't think you're still here just because Sir Nicholas doesn't want to offend the Scots," Eleanor replied. "I think he likes you."
Riona had been dealing with Uncle Fergus's suggestions long enough that she no longer blushed to hear such talk. "He may not
dislike me, but he'll never marry me—and truly, I won't be upset if he doesn't. I don't think he's the man for me."
Unless they were in bed.
She simply had to control these lustful thoughts! And she would. God help her, she would!
Priscilla giggled over something Lady Joscelind said, as she was wont to do, causing both Eleanor and Riona to
instinctively
cringe.
They weren't the only ones who reacted that way to Priscilla's giggles. Riona had never spoken of it to Eleanor, but she was quite sure Nicholas found that giggle aggravating. She'd seen his jaw clench too many times when Priscilla was giggling through dinner to think it was a coincidence. The night Priscilla had sat with him at the high table, Riona had wondered how he'd managed to eat.
"If Sir Nicholas doesn't want Lavinia and she doesn't want him, that's one less woman vying for him," Eleanor said as she went back to her sewing.
"Did you ever hear why Lady Mary left?"
Eleanor reached for the blue thread. "Fredella heard her maid saying that the earl wanted to go home. He couldn't stand the weather."
Riona frowned. For one thing, the July weather had been wonderful—mild, with many sunny days and enough rainy ones to ensure an excellent harvest. For another, she couldn't help feeling that any snub aimed at Dunkeathe, even to the weather, was somehow a snub of Scotland. "It's been very pleasant."
"I think that was just an excuse, too. I suppose Lady
Mary
thought she had no chance."
Riona couldn't disagree with that.
"It's a pity about Lady Eloise," Eleanor remarked, knotting and snipping off a sky-blue thread. "I quite liked her."
"Uncle Fergus told me Sir George didn't think she'd go through with her threat to leave without him if he didn't stay away from the wine," Riona replied as she threaded a needle with some lovely emerald thread that was to represent delicate
little
vines in the pattern. "He says Sir George went white as snow when he heard she'd done it."
"I was shocked, too," Eleanor said as she exchanged her needle with the small remnant of blue thread for the one Riona held out. "I daresay she's been humiliated too many times. Do you think they'll come back?"
Riona mused a moment, then shook her head as she reached for another needle. "I don't think so. It was fairly clear Sir Nicholas didn't think very highly of Sir George, and there would be little
reason for him to marry Sir George's daughter when he has you and Joscelind to choose from."
Eleanor's face turned deep pink as she bent over her sewing, Riona was sorry if she'd embarrassed her friend, but that was the truth, and Eleanor, who was no fool, had to know it. It was becoming more and more obvious that the real competition was between Eleanor and Joscelind.
Not for the first
time
, Riona wanted to ask Eleanor how she felt about Nicholas and her chances of succeeding, but as always, she couldn't bring herself to say the words.
Instead, she was about to ask Eleanor what color thread she'd require next when Polly came hurrying in from the kitchen, looking very worried.
She spotted Riona and Eleanor and rushed over to them. "Oh, my lady!" she cried, wringing her hands.
"What is it?" Riona asked, shoving the needle in the sawdust filled cushion and setting it in Eleanor's lovely sewing box.
"It's the cook. He's been in a right foul mood since the guests come, and he's been taking it out on all the servants. He's been shouting, and cursing something fierce."
Riona immediately remembered that first night in the garden, when she heard the cook loudly chastising the servants.
"A body might get used to that, but this morning, he lit into the spit boy with a ladle and the poor lad's black-and-blue. Won't you do something?"
"Have you told Sir Nicholas?"
As upset as Riona was to think of a boy being beaten, this household wasn't her responsibility, and her interference would likely not be welcomed. Yet if Nicholas would put one of his archers in the stocks for two months for killing a dog, surely he'd not approve one of his servants, especially a lad, being beaten.
"God love you, no, my lady!" Polly exclaimed. "Why, I nearly fainted when he called me to his solar that day he give me my dowry. To be sure, he's not such an ogre as I thought. Still..." She flushed. "Beggin' your pardon," she amended before rushing on, "but Alfred said if anybody complained, he'd say they were stealing. To be accused of that before Sir Nicholas—oh, my lady!"
"Can't you tell Robert, then?"
"He's gone to the fishing
village
down the river. Seems Lord Chesleigh's got a hankering for eels. Besides, Alfred's good at his job and drives hard bargains with the merchants for the wine and things, so Robert won't want to lose him."
"Who else gives orders to the household?"
"Just the cook. Won't you talk to Alfred, my lady, for our sakes, please?" Polly pleaded. "He might listen to you. Fredella
says your uncle says you've got a right good way with servants and you're a lady and all. Something has to be done, or Sir Nicholas is going to have a mudny in the kitchen!"
However she felt about Sir Nicholas, and no matter what might come of this, Riona couldn't leave the boy at the mercy of a brute who'd beat him until he was black-and-blue. "I'll speak to the cook," she said, rising.
And she'd deal with Sir Nicholas if and when he complained.
"Oh, thank you, my lady!" Polly cried, relieved. "I'm sure you'll find a way to get Alfred—fat oaf that he is—to see reason! And poor Tom'll be pleased."
Riona looked down at Eleanor. "This could be unpleasant, so if you'd rather stay here, I'll understand."
Eleanor set aside her sewing and got to her feet. "I'd rather come with you."
Impressed by her resolve, glad of her company, Riona immediately started for the kitchen, followed by a silent Eleanor.
Polly, however, was the opposite of silent. "We used to have a fine cook," she said breathlessly as she trotted to keep up with Riona and Eleanor, "but Etienne went home to Normandy, and this one come in his place. He's a right villain, beggin' your pardon. He gives an order, then forgets what he said, and gets angry when that ain't done and we done something else, like we're supposed to
read his mind. Three of the girls just up and left yesterday and won't come back, even after they heard what his lordship done for me. Said it wasn't worth it, as long as Alfred was here, and I don't blame 'em. I'd go, too, except that Sir Nicholas is giving me a dowry."
As they drew near the kitchen, they could hear the cook cursing and shouting orders through the door.
Riona pushed it open and found herself in an enormous room that was easily the size of her uncle's hall, manned by what seemed an army of servants. There was a huge open hearth at one end and a large wooden worktable. Ham, leeks and herbs hung from the ceiling.
In the center of the room, waving a ladle, was an enormous, and enormously irate, red-faced, middle-aged, bald man. He wore a very stained apron, and was sweating from the heat—or from the effort of berating the two women standing at the worktable, pies in front of them. The crust had come apart around the rim, and gravy had boiled over and run down the sides.
"Are you blind? Or idiots?" he screamed as other servants huddled together or watched warily as they went about their work.
"How many times did I tell you to cut the crust?" Alfred made slashing motions with his ladle. "Now they're ruined! Fit only for the pigs!" He grabbed one pie and threw it into the hearth, where it splattered against the back wall.
That's when Riona saw the boy crouched in the comer near the hearth, his thin arms thrown over his head. His thin, black-and-blue arms.
Quivering with indignant rage, she marched up to the cook and grabbed the ladle out of his chubby fingers. "Lay a hand on that boy, or any servant in this kitchen again, and you'll be sorry," she said sternly, throwing the ladle onto the floor. "And quit shoudng, if you'd like to be heard. You sound like a spoiled child, or some tavern keeper, not the cook in a lord's hall."
The cook folded his fat arms over his prodigious belly and looked down his short nose at her. "And who are you, to be coming into my kitchen and telling me what to do?"
She leaned close to the cook's sweaty face, ignoring the
odour
of beef and gravy he gave off. "I am Lady Riona of Glencleith, and I've been in charge of my uncle's household since I was twelve years old—and never, in all that time, have I had to raise my voice and curse the servants."
"Well, Lady Riona of Whatever-you-said," he retorted, "I have been a nobleman's cook for twenty years, and I've never had any complaints from my masters."
"Not yet, anyway. I intend to tell Sir Nicholas what's been going on here."
The cook sniffed. "What will he care? He pays me well for my skill, and that's all that matters."
Riona smiled slowly, in a way that struck deserved fear into the merchants who tried to cheat her. "You think so?"
"Yes, I do!"
"We'll just have to see about that," she snapped as she turned on her heel and gestured for Eleanor. "Come. We'll go find Sir Nicholas and see who's right."
She marched out of the kitchen and into the courtyard. Then she realized she didn't know where Nicholas was, whether with his soldiers or out on patrol, or in his solar. She came to a frustrated halt, which also gave Eleanor and Polly, who'd hurried out of the kitchen after her, time to catch up.
"If you don't mind, Riona," Eleanor said anxiously, "I think I'd rather not be there when you tell Sir Nicholas about his cook."
Riona nodded her acquiescence. She was sorry Eleanor's resolution had been so short-lived, but she couldn't fault the girl for wanting to avoid any conflict within the household of the man she might marry.
As Eleanor headed for the apartments, Polly started to back away. "I should get to, um, the laundry. They always need help there," she said before she scampered off.
Riona drew in a deep breath. So, she'd have to face Nicholas alone. So be it.
She hurried up to the Saxons on guard at the gate. "Have you seen Sir Nicholas lately?"
"Yes, my lady," one respectfully replied. "He's in the inner ward with the rest of the garrison."
"Thank you."
Once on the other side of the gates, she listened for the sounds of men training. They were on the far side of the ward, away from the encampment of the soldiers who'd come with the visiting nobles.
Quickening her pace, she hurried on until she rounded a corner and discovered a troop of half-naked soldiers holding wooden swords, fighting in pairs. It was like watching a bizarre sort of dance as the men moved forward and back, swinging their weapons, attacking each other or defending themselves. The sound of wood on wood was like drumbeats, broken by the occasional cry of pain when wood connected with an arm or a leg. They must have been at it for quite some time, for most of the men looked very tired as well as sweaty. Perspiration dripped down their backs and chests and soaked the waist of their breeches.
Walking among them, armed with his plain sword, and stripped to the waist, was Nicholas. He barked out orders, his deep voice carrying easily over the noise of the clashing weapons, his skin glistening in the sunlight as if it was oiled.