The Scot's Oath

by Heather Grothaus

  Padraig cautiously raised his arms to shoulder height, and the slip-slip sound of the ribbon between Marta’s fingers sliced the air like swallows over a field.

  She called out a series of seemingly random numbers and then said to him, “Turn ’round, please.” Another series of numbers. Padraig tried not to jump when her plump arms came about his waist from behind, then his hips. But he could not help flinching when her fingertips came between his thighs with a firm prod.

  “Step apart, please.” Slip-slip.

  Marta called out more numbers, and then Padraig noticed her daughter at the bedside, a piece of chalk in her hand over a length of dark, rough fabric. Rynn finished her scribbling and then straightened, coming toward him with a square of the stiff fabric.

  Rynn dropped to her knees before Padraig. “Your boots, please, Master Boyd.”

  Lucan looked around briefly from his papers. “Don’t forget his head. I think he should perhaps be fitted for a helm.”

  Padraig’s brow lowered into a momentary frown, but it only increased the pounding in his head.

  Marta held up a finger with a nod. “Bless you, Sir Lucan.” She came at him again while Padraig was still struggling out of his right boot.

  Rynn pushed the fabric square toward his toes. “Step on, please.”

  As Padraig did, trying to ignore the rags that were the stockings on his feet—more hole than cloth—a screech on the wood floor directly behind him prompted him to turn his head.

  “Master Boyd! Hold still, please,” Rynn chastised from the floor.

  Marta frowned into his face from her new vantage point of standing on a stool, then took hold of his skull with gentle fingers and swiveled his head forward once more. Padraig stood obediently as Rynn’s chalk tickled along the edges of his feet onto the burlap. Marta’s ribbon swooped about his forehead and tightened. He heard the chamber door open and close.

  “Master Boyd wants a trim if he is to have any hope of fitting into a helm, and to avoid being referred to as ‘mistress,’” Marta announced, before the ribbon whispered away from his head and she popped down off the stool.

  Lucan nodded but didn’t raise his head. “Very good. Right away.”

  “Step away, please.” Rynn whisked the tracing from beneath his feet and rose.

  The brisk drafts caused by the women’s coming and going left Padraig standing on the floor in his pathetic stocking feet feeling very unsure. His arms were still slightly akimbo and he wasn’t certain that he should move or not, lest he be politely chastised—or worse, tethered by his aching head—again. He turned slowly, testing his freedom.

  She was standing not six paces from him, her arms laden with cloth draped over her elbow, a tray in her hands. Her rich, brown hair—like a paste of oil and costly spices—was glossy smooth over her ears, her light complexion composed as she regarded him.

  Beryl. She’d come at last.

  Should he bow? Clasp her hand? Before he could decide, his breath left him in a rush as he was pulled backward through the air and his teeth clacked together as his rear connected with a hard stool. An instant later, a cloth was whisked around his chest and tied tightly against his Adam’s apple.

  Beryl’s pink lips crept up, but then she dropped her eyes and rolled her lips inward as she strode forward toward the bed.

  Padraig was trying to force his lips to form something, but his voice seemed stuck in his throat just below the strangling cloth. His hair was yanked from behind with the sharp teeth of a comb, and then the crisp sounds of a chunk of hair being severed sizzled in his ear. Beryl set down the tray on his bed, ignoring him still.

  “Where’ve you been?” he blurted out.

  All sound and movement in the chamber seemed to still. From the corner of his eye, Padraig saw even Montague turn his head from his papers to regard him.

  Fool!

  Beryl straightened slowly and then turned to face him, her expression serene, her hands folded together before her.

  “Good day, Beryl,” she said pointedly, inclining her head just so.

  Padraig glanced around the chamber, his breathing shallow. Marta yanked on a lock of his hair just then, causing him to yelp. He cleared his throat. “Good day, Beryl,” he repeated at last.

  “Good day, Master Boyd,” she replied. “Forgive my tardiness. I had prior obligations to attend to before my facilities were secured to your service.”

  Padraig hesitated. “Nae harm,” he ventured.

  Her mouth quirked, her expression that of one who was not entirely satisfied but willing to accept his offering. The chamber fell back into its pattern of busyness at once, and Padraig released his breath.

  “Good day, Marta, Rynn,” she said to the maids, who seemed to be taking turns cutting at both the length of cloth Rynn had marked with chalk and Padraig’s hair.

  “Beryl.”

  “Mistress.”

  Beryl looked at Padraig pointedly, and he thought he understood—everything at Darlyrede revolved around one’s station.

  Beryl cleared her throat as she turned her gaze toward the seated knight.

  Lucan turned around. “Ah, yes—forgive me. I see the lessons have started. Good day…Beryl, is it?”

  “How kind of you to remember. A good day to you, Sir.”

  “Lessons?” Padraig repeated.

  “Yes, lessons, Master Boyd,” she answered briskly, and then her gray eyes grew round. “What on earth has happened to your head?”

  “’Tis naught,” Padraig scoffed, his ears heating.

  Lucan muttered from the table without raising his head. “Someone dropped a bucket of stones on him. Don’t worry, he’s being fitted for a helm.”

  “I see.” Beryl’s expression was solemn as she held his gaze for a long moment. He saw her chest rise and fall in a sigh before she resumed her practical interrogation. “Marta, have you much longer at the master’s hair?”

  “Just finishing up now, mistress.”

  “Excellent.” She strode across the table and spoke quietly to two young men stacking wood near the hearth. When she returned across the floor, the men followed her, bearing a small table and the other chair.

  They positioned the furniture before Padraig just as Marta whisked the cloth from around his shoulders.

  Beryl transferred the tray to the tabletop and then shook out a snowy linen. “I’ve brought your midday meal,” she announced.

  “Good.” Padraig was starving. He reached for the domed cover.

  “Ah,” she said sharply, with a sideways look.

  Padraig froze, his hand hovering over the filigreed handle. “Thank you?”

  “This,” she said, ignoring his thanks and draping the linen over her palm with the delicate, pinched fingers of her other hand, “is a napkin.”

  Padraig didn’t wish to frown at the lass, but…“I ken what a napkin is.”

  She stepped around the table toward him, and in a moment Padraig was enveloped by her light, floral scent. “When you sit down to dine, you place it here”—she held it lightly against his shoulder, where Lucan had worn his that morning—“or here.” Now she draped it over his left forearm. Padraig’s skin broke out in gooseflesh, and he was glad of his sleeves, which hid her effect on him.

  She straightened and looked at him expectantly.

  Padraig reached out and took the napkin and attempted to jauntily toss it over his shoulder as he’d remembered the knight doing. The thing went flying behind him entirely and landed on the floor.

  Beryl retrieved it and offered it to him once more, without a word or even a look of reproach.

  Padraig kept firm hold of the corner this time, and although he didn’t think the cloth was positioned so artfully, Beryl obviously approved for she moved closer to the table and picked up a brass bowl filled with what appeared to be water.

  “Depend
ing on the household at which you are dining, you may be considered equal in status to the host or beneath him.”

  Padraig felt a frown coming on, but he didn’t argue with her, wishing to hear her continue to speak in her clipped, accented voice.

  “If you are a guest of a greater lord, you will cleanse your hands upon entering the hall, before you are seated,” she said. “However, in your own chamber, you are the master, and so a washing basin will be brought to you.” She stepped fully to his side and offered the bowl.

  Padraig reached out to take it.

  Beryl pulled it away. “Ah. You dip your fingers into it.” She held it forth once more.

  Padraig wiggled his fingers in the water and then lifted them out.

  “Now, dry them.”

  He moved to wipe his hands on his pants.

  “With your napkin, Master Boyd.”

  Padraig complied, his lips set together firmly. Idiot.

  “Very good.” Beryl set the bowl aside and moved around the table to seat herself in the chair opposite Padraig. She placed a napkin over her arm and then lifted the dome of the tray.

  There was a modest feast laid before him: a wide dish of pottage, a round of bread, a small bowl of dried apples and walnuts, and boiled eggs. It looked and smelled delicious.

  But Padraig did not reach for anything, instead raising his gaze to Beryl, who watched him closely. A small smile played about her lips—she was pleased with his caution.

  “Those seated shall rise as the host enters, and then again when the host or his chamberlain or priest say grace,” Beryl said, and looked about the chamber, her lips parted as if to call for assistance.

  “In this chamber,” Padraig reminded her, “I am the master. And so should it nae be me what says the grace?”

  Beryl looked unconvinced for only a moment; then she steeled her expression once more and rose from her seat.

  Padraig stood and cleared his throat. “Thanks be to Thee, O Lord Jesus Christ, for all the blessings Thou hast given us; for all the sufferings and shame Thou didst endure for us. Have mercy upon us, O most merciful Redeemer, that we may know these Thy blessings and use them to Thine glory. For Thine own sake, amen.”

  “Amen,” Beryl said, and her eyes held clear pleasure.

  “I might nae be a fancy lord,” Padraig advised her as he sat, “but I’m nae savage. Me da said the grace over every meal.” He gave a proud nod.

  Beryl seemed to float gracefully down to her seat while her lips curved. “A fine grace it was, Master Boyd. Perhaps you will yet surprise the both of us with things your father has taught you.”

  Padraig was so fascinated by her refined beauty that he spoke without thinking. “If it will make you smile, I’ll resolve to surprise you each day.”

  Beryl blinked, and her expression softened for only a moment before she was back to business. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now, we must study the use of the eating knife. Helm or nay, you will be expected to take meals in the great hall with the rest of the hold, starting tonight.”

  * * * *

  Iris stood, along with the rest of the hold, as Lady Hargrave entered the hall on her husband’s arm. She wondered briefly at the seat left empty to the right of the lord’s before she sat and felt the fluttering brush of Caris’s hand on her sleeve. She looked up.

  “How do you fare, my dear?” the lady whispered discreetly. Her eyes were keen, full of compassion.

  Iris smiled. “I am well, my lady.”

  “That savage has not overworked you, has he?” she pressed, although she had by all accounts turned her attention to arranging her napkin. “I shall put a halt to it at once, if so, and I care not for what he should tell the king. You look tired.”

  Iris took her cue from the woman, draping her own napkin over her arm. “Nothing so taxing beyond a lesson of manners, milady.” She tried not to think about the way Padraig Boyd had seemed to watch her every move, much in the same way that Satin was keen on prey in the shadows. But the look in his eyes hadn’t been malicious—only…fascinated, perhaps. It had made Iris feel self-conscious and more than a little flattered. “Although I’ll admit, it has been a long day.”

  “Like teaching a hound to recite, I should imagine,” Lady Caris breathed, her mouth barely moving as the seated crowd stirred. “We’ll talk later.”

  Padraig Boyd stood framed in the corridor entrance, Lucan at his side. It seemed as though the motley company of servants grudgingly given into his service were gathered in the passage at his back. Lucan made a motion as if to step into the hall, but the slightest raising of Boyd’s hand stopped him. Everyone waited.

  Iris looked out of the corner of her eye at Hargrave, who seemed to be enjoying the palpable indecision of those seated between him and the Scot.

  Should they rise as he entered? Padraig Boyd, remembering his earlier lesson with Iris, seemed to think so. Iris felt a rising tension in her middle at the challenge that was being played out.

  “You’re late,” Hargrave called out flatly as the chaplain appeared near the lord’s table. “The blessing of the food is about to be said.”

  Iris realized in that moment Padraig Boyd’s strategy and bit the inside of her cheek in annoyance. He played a dangerous game, and Iris had unwittingly lent him the pawns.

  “Then I’m nae ’tall late, am I?” Boyd challenged.

  Father Kettering cleared his throat. “Let us pray.”

  Hargrave grudgingly gained his feet.

  The hall followed suit.

  Padraig Boyd, without even a hint of triumph on his face, gave a shallow bow toward Hargrave and then strode toward the open table placed conspicuously along the wall nearest the corridor and standing apart from the other trestles, with only two chairs to its side. His servants dispersed at once to the common tables in the center, leaving Lucan standing alone.

  Iris glanced again at Hargrave and saw the red in his cheeks deepen, even as he motioned to the chaplain.

  “Heavenly Father, we thank Thee that in Thy great mercy…”

  A long moment later, it seemed, the shuffling of feet and stools grew loud as the people once more sat, and servers began circulating about the chamber with the platters. Lucan now made his way toward the lord’s table and gave a bow.

  “Good evening, Lord Hargrave. Where would you have me sit?”

  “Ah, Sir Lucan,” Hargrave said, picking up his chalice. He spoke in a voice too low for most of those seated at the common tables to hear, but Iris understood each clipped word. “Since it is yet unclear to me what you hope to gain through this little aided rebellion in my home, I thought perhaps the choice would be better left up to you.” He motioned with the cup toward the empty chair at his side. “As always, there is a place for you at my table. Or”—here he paused pointedly—“there seems to be an excess of space available in the area reserved for our Scottish occupier. You may choose the location you think best serves you. Although, from all appearances, Master Boyd’s side might be a dangerous location to one’s person. Then again, perhaps he only stumbled and fell.” He took a sip.

  Iris daren’t look up, but her heart pounded. Hargrave was calling on Lucan to declare a side, as if giving him one final opportunity to repent of what Hargrave must surely see as a betrayal. Should Lucan choose the seat at Hargrave’s side, he would be indebted to the man; if he chose to sit at Padraig Boyd’s table, it would be a clear signal that Lucan was determined to aid the Scotsman in his coup.

  “My lord, you mistake my intent,” Lucan protested. “I am here only as an envoy to the king. My sole purpose is to ensure that his commands are heeded.”

  Hargrave was silent for an awkward pair of moments while Lucan remained standing before him, pretending to decide over the dishes placed before him. “I mistake nothing, Lucan,” he said distractedly. “As I see it, you can carry out the king’s commands just as
well from either table. It shouldn’t be so troublesome a choice. Choose, and stop disrupting the meal.”

  Hargrave knew exactly what he was doing, Iris thought. She only hoped that Lucan did as well. She looked up at him through her lashes.

  “Very well, my lord,” he said calmly, his face as composed as ever. “I thank you for your courtesy.” He gave a slight bow and then turned away from the table, and Iris could see all eyes in the hall watching him surreptitiously.

  They had heard more than Iris had suspected.

  Lucan walked to the nearest common table. “May I join you?” he asked the man seated next to the empty end of the bench.

  The man’s eyes widened and he said nothing, only stood from his bench while staring at the knight. The others seated at the table quickly gained their feet.

  “My thanks,” Lucan said, and sat as easily as if it were the high table in the king’s house. He reached inside his gambeson and withdrew a black silken kerchief, tossing it over his shoulder before helping himself to the pitcher in the center of the table.

  Iris let a shaky exhalation pass through her nose, then her gaze was drawn reflexively to where Padraig Boyd sat alone.

  He was staring at her openly again, and she felt her attention caught by his eyes just as suddenly and firmly as a skirt hem on a thorn bush. He was still in the same clothes, yes, but with his hair freshly trimmed and the napkin on his shoulder, his unique, solitary presence behind the table didn’t seem at all out of place. He seemed to belong there, with the stone wall behind him a perfect foil—a large man, a handsome man, a quiet man.

  He frowned suddenly at her.

  “Where’s the finger bowl?” he demanded to the chamber at large.

  Iris winced.

  Perhaps not a quiet man, after all.

  Chapter 7

  Padraig was glad to be back in his chamber after the evening meal. The hour of sitting on display alone at his table while his head pounded and all eyes in the hall constantly flicked in his direction had worn on him. Well, all eyes save Beryl’s. She looked as though she’d been carved from ivory, the way she sat so perfect and erect, her expression never deviating from its composed peace. Her hand lifted food to her mouth smoothly, rhythmically; Padraig fancied he could almost detect a pattern in her meal: food, food, food, napkin, cup.