Unfortunately, it seemed as if every bird or animal had somehow gotten word of their approach and fled.
Perhaps it was the noise from the back of the group. Mounted on one of Dunkeathe's mares, Fergus Mac Gordon was regaling the servants with the tale of a hunting mishap involving a dog, a dirk and a boot. Say what one would about the boisterous Scot, he was entertaining, and he'd been entertaining the men at the back of their party ever since they'd left the castle.
"Joscelind's maternal grandmother was the daughter of the Duke of Bridgewater," Lord Chesleigh droned on, "and therefore related by blood to the king himself."
"On the wrong side of the blanket," Sir Percival interjected, apparently as tired of Lord Chesleigh's recitation as Nicholas.
They'd been cooped up inside Dunkeathe by rain and fog for the past three days. When this day dawned clear, Nicholas had immediately proposed a hunt. That wasn't his favour ite pastime— his youth having given him little time to indulge in sport and he still couldn't quite shake the notion that he had more important things to do—yet he was as eager to ride out of Dunkeathe as the rest of the men who had quickly accepted his invitation. His female guests, led by Lady Joscelind, declined because the ground was too muddy.
He wasn't sorry. It was wearying trying to be pleasant to all the ladies without making any one of them think they were too far in his favour .
Lady Riona had already left the hall when he'd proposed the hunt, and he could guess why. She didn't want to be anywhere near him—which was just as well, because he couldn't afford to be anywhere near her, either. Bedding a thane's niece, no matter how tempting, and with no promise of marriage, would surely cause a great deal of animosity among the Scots. Therefore, he intended to avoid her as much as possible. He would have sent her home the day after that memorable kiss, except that it might cause grumbling among the Scots, too.
"Wasn't Lady Joscelind's grandmother the duke's dairymaid, Lord Chesleigh?" Sir Percival inquired.
Lord Chesleigh frowned and twisted in his saddle to regard Sir Percival with a cold and angry eye. "William the Conqueror was a bastard, which proves that blood will show itself."
"Oh, indeed, it will," Percival said with a mocking smile. "Fortunately, my family carries no such taint."
"Would you insult my family?" demanded Lord Chesleigh.
"Not your entire family," Percival retorted as his steed pranced nervously. "Just your wife's mother."
Nicholas nudged his gelding between them before challenges could be issued. "Gentlemen, please. I'll make my choice, as difficult as it's going to be, based on the lady's own merits."
"Here, here!" Sir George piped up, wiping his lips with the back of his gloved hand, having just taken another gulp from the wineskin he'd brought. "If it's merit you want, my lord, you couldn't do better than Eloise. She's a good girl, she is. Not the most lively you'll ever meet, but who'd want a lively wife? That way leads to trouble." He made a sodden wink. "Take it from me. A lively woman may be entertaining at night, but in the day, it's quarrel, quarrel, quarrel."
Thinking of one bold, lively woman, Nicholas was inclined to think that the nights might provide ample compensation . That kiss
He commanded himself not to think about that kiss.
"Yes, the apple rarely falls far from the tree," Lord Chesleigh remarked, speaking quietly so that Sir George wouldn't hear. "I understand Sir George's arguments with his wife were legendary."
"I certainly wouldn't want an argumentative wife," Nicholas agreed. "I require peace in my household."
"Of course you do," Lord Chesleigh said. "After your years of combat, you wish to enjoy your well-earned prosperity. And I'm sure you won't want to be troubled by any domestic strife. Joscelind is well able to run a household, my lord. She'll keep a dght rein on your servants, and your purse strings, too."
"He makes it sound like a man wants a second steward for a wife," Percival declared behind them. "Can you see Sir Nicholas asking his wife for money?" He changed to a mocking, high- pitched tone. "Please, my dear, may I have a few pennies for a drink with my friends?"
"He doesn't want a girl barely out of the nursery, either," Lord Chesleigh said through clenched teeth. "He surely requires a woman who can manage the household without having to ask about every little thing."
"I suppose that would be the one advantage to marrying an older woman," Percival said, his voice full of venom, and as if Lady Joscelind was a crone instead of a woman who, granted, was somewhat older than most when they wed.
Lady Riona was even older than Joscelind, Nicholas guessed, yet he couldn't think of her as "old." As for being competent, everything he'd seen in Dunkeathe since her arrival told him she surely would be. The servants were always pleasant, yet deferential , when they served her, and hurried to do anything she asked of them. He'd overheard that maidservant with the mole on her breast whose name he could never remember tell another about some suggestions Lady Riona made regarding the storing of the linens, and it was clear both maidservants were impressed. Even some of the Saxon guards, not normally the most mannerly of men, bowed and touched their spears to their helmets in salute when she passed by.
"Speaking as a man, I prefer youth and beauty in a bride," Sir Percival declared. "Wisdom will come soon enough."
"Some never achieve that state," Lord Chesleigh growled, staring straight ahead.
"Is that comment a reference to me?" Percival demanded.
Maybe suggesting this hunt had been a bad idea. At least in the hall, the men could amuse themselves with chess or games of chance, and there were the ladies to keep them on their best behaviour.
A horn sounded.
Twice.
"A stag!" Percival cried, digging his spurred heels into his horse's sides.
Whether he enjoyed hunting or not, the prospect of a chase set Nicholas's blood pumping furiously and as Percival's horse leapt into a gallop, Nicholas spurred his own.
When they reached the beaters, the men excitedly pointed toward a dip in the ground of a bracken-filled meadow. "That way, my lord!" they shouted over the barking and baying of the hounds who were charging toward the edge of the depression. "He's in the gully! He's a big 'un!"
The stag leaped into view. It fairly flew over the open and rocky ground, the hounds blurs of brown and black as they gave chase toward a rocky valley.
The valley narrowed and ended in a sheer rock wall, where a little fall fed a spring. The stag, cornered, turned to face the hounds and the men who came after, led by Nicholas and Percival.
The well-trained dogs didn't attack, but stopped where they were, growling and crouching, some crawling on their bellies in excited anticipation while they awaited another whistle from the huntsmen.
Majestic, powerful and trapped, the stag stood motionless save for the quivering of its flanks. Nicholas knew it would fight to the death, using its great antiers as weapons, yet death would be its
ultimate end. The dogs and men were too many, and the stag had no escape.
What sport was there in this? It was like slaughtering unarmed men, something he had always refused to do, no matter who commanded him.
What did any of these noblemen know of being cornered, trapped by circumstances so that all you could do was stand and fight, or die? Had any of them ever known true fear? Had any of them ever smelled the stench of terror that fills a man's nostrils as he waits upon a battlefield?
Had any one of them ever known hunger or thirst, or deprivation? He doubted it, and he doubted their female relatives had, either.
Not that he wanted to think of women suffering, but how could such women ever understand him and the fears that haunted him in the small hours of the night, when he awoke from dreams of battie, and sleep was lost to him? They wouldn't be able to comprehend the dread that what he had achieved could be taken away, and not just by death. It could be revoked with the stroke of one man's quill—the king's signature on a piece of parchment. And then he'd be as he was before: a penniless soldier
with only a noble name and his father's sword to call his own.
As the huntsman gave the signal for the dogs to attack, Nicholas turned his mount away. He would go back to Dunkeathe and leave the others to deal with their prize.
Riding back through the excited mob, he didn't see Fergus Mac Gordon among the men or servants.
Perhaps the fellow had decided to return to Dunkeathe. Maybe he was already safely in the hall, drinking his host's wine and loudly praising his brown-haired niece, whom Percival would no doubt consider too old to be a bride.
The Scot hadn't seemed all that competent on his borrowed horse. Maybe when the call had sounded and the chase had begun, he'd been unable to keep up with rest.
Or perhaps something worse had happened. It could be that he'd fallen from his horse and was lying injured on the ground.
Or dead upon the bracken.
CHAPTER SIX
NICHOLAS IMMEDIATELY kicked his horse into a trot and rode back toward Dunkeathe. He dreaded finding a horse limping, its reins dangling, near a broken, bloody body.
He was about halfway home when he heard a familiar voice call out, "My lord!"
Relieved, he pulled his horse to a halt, to see Fergus Mac Gordon quite well and waving at him, standing in a farmer's yard beside a stone enclosure. Beside him, a peasant shifted his feet uneasily. The mare from Dunkeathe, tied to a tree beside the stone cottage, contentedly munched grass as if it had been there for some time.
Nicholas rode toward them, scattering several flapping, clucking chickens and one very indignant goose as he entered the yard.
"You've got to look at this lamb!" Mac Gordon cried when Nicholas dismounted. "I've never seen such fine fleece!"
It was only then that Nicholas realized the man was cradling a lamb as another might a child. Penned nearby, an ewe watched and bleated.
The peasant, a young man with messy brown hair and wearing simple homespuns, quickly tugged his forelock and stepped out of the way when Nicholas reached them.
"Feel that," Mac Gordon said, holding out the little white animal which didn't struggle at all, as if it felt quite safe where it was.
Nicholas dutifully ran his hand over the lamb's back.
"Nay, not like that," Mac Gordon laughingly chided. With his free hand, and not pulling on it hard enough to cause any pain, the Scot took a handful of the fleece. "Grab it."
Nicholas did as he was told. The fleece was soft, which wasn't unexpected, but otherwise, he didn't notice anything remarkable.
Mac Gordon gave him a beaming smile and fondled the head of the lamb as if it was a puppy. "Have you ever felt anything like that, eh?"
Nicholas still wasn't sure why the man was so excited. But then, what did he know of sheep? What did he care, except that his share of the sale of the wool brought him income, and their meat fed him and his household? "It's fleece," he said with a shrug.
"Wheest, man!" Mac Gordon cried, turning and letting the lamb loose in the pen. The little animal trotted over to its mother and immediately began to drink.
"That lamb's fleece is thicker than any fleece I've ever felt, and hardly a brisde in it," Mac Gordon declared. He grinned at the peasant. "Thomas here knows what he's got, if his master doesn't. That fleece'll make some fine wool. And it's not just the fleece— look at the haunches on him, too! Now that's what I call mutton!"
The Scot clapped his hand on the peasant's shoulders, as if they were the best of friends. "Sheep like this don't come by accident. This clever fellow's been doing some breeding, haven't you, Thomas?"
Thomas's face reddened, and reddened more when Nicholas addressed him in the tone he usually used with foot soldiers. "Is this true, Thomas?"
"Come, man, admit your genius!" the Scot exclaimed. "For genius it is and no mistake."
"Aye, my lord, I've been trying," Thomas said quietly, not looking Nicholas in the eye. "I let the sheep loose on the hills, like always, but I was careful to keep the ewes and rams I thought had better fleece and more meat."
"And there's more like it, he says," Fergus Mac Gordon said. "If that's so, you've got something more precious than gold or silver, my lord, for once metal's out of the ground, it's gone. Sheep like this will keep you rich for years."
Nicholas looked at the lamb again. Could it really be so important? And if it was, could that be the answer to his financial woes?
Perhaps eventually, but not this year. Lambs weren't shorn.
"What would you say to letting me bring some of my ewes here for breeding, eh?" Mac Gordon asked.
Nicholas thought of his nearly empty coffers. "You would have to pay for that."
And so might others—a source of income he'd never anticipated.
The little man's face fell. "How much?"
"My steward and I will have to discuss that." Nicholas glanced at Thomas, who nervously shifted his feet. "Thomas would levy it, and a portion would come to me as a tithe."
Thomas looked as if he'd just won a tournament.
"I'm sure Thomas will be reasonable," he added.
"Oh, yes, my lord, yes!" the young man cried. "Very reasonable."
Mac Gordon's face lit up again. "Then it's a bargain, and I'll tell my son when I go back home. He'll be keen to come when he
hears about these animals. A fine eye for wool, he has, like his father," the Scot finished with a laugh.
"Perhaps on our way back to Dunkeathe, we can talk more about sheep," Nicholas said to the smiling Mac Gordon.
"I'd be delighted, my lord. Anything you want to know about fleece and wool—" He smacked himself on the chest. "I'm your man."
"Obviously you know a good deal more about them than I do," Nicholas admitted.
"Well, I'd wager you could teach me a thing or two about defending a castle," Mac Gordon answered as they strolled back to their horses.
Nicholas nodded as he looked around the farmyard. It was neat and well tended. This Thomas was clearly a conscientious fellow, as well as clever. Yet no woman or children had appeared in the door of the cottage, and he saw no sign of their presence.
After swinging into the saddle, he rode over to Thomas, who was still standing by the fence. "Do you live here alone, Thomas?"
"Aye, my lord, since my father died in January."
Nicholas had a vague memory of Robert mentioning taking a ram as a heriot from a shepherd. "Was a ram the heriot?"
"Aye, my lord. The sire of some of these lambs, he was."
"I shall see that it's returned to you, so that you can breed more of these excellent sheep."
"Thank you, my lord," the young man said, bowing.
"You can expect a visit from Robert Martleby in the next few days."
"Yes, my lord."
"You'll also go to all the other farms on my estate and select the sheep that you think are particularly fine. These will be added to your flock, as well, and I shall make you the head shepherd of Dunkeathe."
Thomas looked as if he might swoon, but gladly so. "Th-thank you, my lord," he stammered. "Thank you very much!"
"I believe in rewarding those who serve me well, Thomas. Remember that," he said as he turned his horse toward the gate.
Fergus Mac Gordon was just getting settled in his saddle. It was quite clear the man rarely rode a horse, or hadn't in some time— another sign of his poverty, if Nicholas needed it.
"Farewell, Thomas."
The farmer bowed so low, his forehead nearly touched the ground. "Farewell, my lord."
After the Scot managed to get his horse under control, he came alongside Nicholas.
"So, my lord," Fergus said, beaming, "what else do you want to know about sheep?"
"OH, ISN'T THAT PRETTY!" Eleanor cried as she caught sight of some fabric in a tradesman's stall.
Riona smiled, as pleased as Eleanor to be out of the castle on this fine day after being forced to keep to the hall and her chamber by the rain and fog, as well as the dread of encountering Sir Nicholas. She had no idea what he might do or say if she did, and
she didn't want to find out.
Fortunately, he'd kept his distance since that morning in the chapel. Even more fortunately, Eleanor never wanted to talk about their host, probably because both of them were ostensibly here for the same reason—to try to become his bride.
She joined Eleanor in examining the lovely, soft dark green wool interwoven with a bright red. At home she rarely had time for such activity. Most of her dealings with merchants were for practical necessities, like food or drink. "Nobody weaves as well as a Scot," she said proudly.
"If this is an example of Scots craftsmanship, I agree," Eleanor replied. "I hope Percival will let me buy it."
"Is your mistress going to purchase anything today?" the merchant asked Riona in Gaelic, smiling but uncertain.
Since she and Eleanor had been speaking French, it was no wonder he was confused, and if he thought she was Eleanor's maidservant, what else could she expect, given the difference in their clothing?
Riona genially replied in Gaelic. "We think your fabric is wonderful. The lady hopes her cousin will purchase it for her."
The tradesman's face fell slightly, but he kept smiling. "Oh, aye? And who might her cousin be?"
"Sir Percival de Surlepont. If an extremely well-dressed young nobleman comes to you looking for this plaid, that will be Sir Percival."
"He's the bonny fellow in bright green sarcenet who went hunting this morning?"
"Aye, that's him."
"Oh, Riona, look at this, too!" Eleanor exclaimed. "I've never seen such a lovely deep blue. How does he do it?"
Riona turned again to the merchant. "She likes the blue fabric, too. She wants to know how you get such a fine color."
The merchant's smile became genuine, and his eyes sparkled with a craftsman's pride. "Ach, you'll have me tell all my secrets?"
"Only if you care to share."
"Well, for the sake of your bright eyes and the lady's beauty," he said, giving her a wink. "Welsh blackberries."
"Ah, Welsh blackberries?"
He nodded. "They're the best for that dark blue."
"I'll remember that."
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