It was the last thing Maire heard as numbing darkness claimed her, mercifully silencing the uproarious laughter that rang all around.
“What do you mean, visitors?” As Duncan dismounted heavily, his gaze grim as he surveyed the unexpected commotion in the torchlit bailey, his balding steward Faustis wrung his hands.
“Important visitors, my lord! They’re in the great hall—have been for an hour. And they’ve already eaten everything the cooks prepared, a full carcass of salted beef, half a pig, eight legs of mutton, and still they clamor for more!”
Duncan wasn’t surprised, one dark glance at the horses filling the stable—leaving barely room for those of his own men—telling him the entourage that had descended upon his household was indeed large. Destriers, pack animals, a magnificent dappled gray gelding that any man would consider a prize, though a sidesaddle of finely polished leather was propped upon a nearby stall—
“Sidesaddle…” Intuition gripping his gut, Duncan looked back at Faustis to find the squat little man counting aloud on his plump fingers and shaking his head.
“And twelve casks of wine, my lord, twelve in an hour! Heaven help us, we’ll be drained dry at this rate—”
“Faustis, God’s teeth, enough! Who are my damned visitors?”
His outburst clearly rattling the man, Duncan almost regretted his harsh tone when sweat broke out upon Faustis’s jutting brow.
“She said… I-I mean, they said I mustn’t tell you, my lord. It’s a surprise.”
“A surprise.”
“Y-yes, my lord.”
For a moment Duncan couldn’t say another word for the tightness in his jaw. Only Gerard coming up beside him and casting him a quizzical look, prodded Duncan once more to speak to Faustis. “So whoever is in the hall eating my food and drinking my wine—”
“Ten knights, my lord, twenty-six men-at-arms, maidservants, a band of minstrels—”
“Ah, so my surprise visitors brought their own players. Jugglers? Acrobats?”
When Faustis gave a weak nod, stammering something about a dwarf court jester, too, Duncan had heard enough. Swearing under his breath, he didn’t wait for Gerard or his other knights but strode across the castle courtyard, his bone weariness forgotten, the marauding Irish rebels he and his men had chased half the length of Meath pushed from his mind as well, at least for now. He swept off his mailed coif, the drunken carnival in the great hall something he was compelled at once to see.
God’s teeth, were some days fashioned simply to plague him?
First word had come that a farming settlement had been attacked, may Walter de Lacy’s men rot in hell. He imagined the tenants who worked those fields—and the poor woman who’d lost her daughter—had exhausted themselves abusing the three Norman corpses he’d left hanging from that tree. Then a rider from his westernmost castle had brought news of Irish rebels stealing cattle, and now surprise visitors…
Duncan scowled to himself as the revelry grew louder and more boisterous; a stranger to Longford Castle would have no difficulty finding the great hall for the noise. And considering it was so late, dusk long hours ago, no wonder the servants had a haggard look about them, especially the ones bearing more steaming platters of food from the kitchen.
But what caught his eye were the two Irish serving wenches huddled near the great arched entrance to the hall, one of them clearly much distressed and weeping. Duncan came up so suddenly behind them that both young women gasped and spun around, their faces stunned and pale in the torchlight.
“Are you ill?” he demanded, cursing the need to speak so loudly for the raucous laughter echoing from the hall when one serving wench, a comely redhead, again burst into tears. Her plump companion hastily threw her arm around the smaller woman’s shoulders, her voice shaky yet indignant.
“Not ill, lord. The wee thing’s terrified, she is. One of your guests, forgive me for speaking so boldly, has demanded she come to his bed this night! And she’s a new bride, a fine husband—one of your own blacksmiths, lord, waiting for her at home in the village—”
“Go to your husband, then. Now.”
The young woman didn’t hesitate, murmuring a hoarse thanks as she fled past Duncan and disappeared down the steps to the kitchen. The other wench picked up an empty wine jug and made to leave too, but not before casting Duncan a weary yet grateful smile. Yet he scarcely noticed it, his jaw clenched tight as he entered the hall.
“Duncan!”
The beautiful blond woman hastening from the high table in a flutter of sapphire silk made his gut knot all the harder, his suspicion proving correct. As the carousing continued around him unabated, minstrels playing their lutes feverishly, servants scurrying to keep cups and trenchers full while drunken knights grabbed and pawed at any hapless female and kicked at the hunting dogs fighting for scraps, Duncan found himself enveloped in a perfumed embrace of jasmine and musk.
“Oh, Duncan, how delightful! I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever arrive!”
She immediately stepped back smiling to sweep her gaze over him from head to toe, which allowed Duncan to assess his half sister as well. Older than him by eight years, Adele de Londres nonetheless carried her thirty-six winters well, bearing the face and form of a woman a decade younger. She was lovely. There was no denying it. Perhaps one of the fairest women in Britain. But what the devil was she doing in Ireland?
“You haven’t changed at all in two years, Duncan. Still as handsome as ever, no—more so! But I suppose power does that to a man, yes?”
Tensing at the sudden brittle glint in her blue eyes, Duncan gave a slight nod. “I’ve done well, thanks to King John—”
“Well? One of the largest estates in Meath, three castles, countless manors? Why, you put the rest of the family to shame, dear brother. Who would have ever thought—ah, but I always knew you were destined for great things, glorious things! And when I heard just how well you were doing, I decided to come and see for myself.” Adele waved her hand with a flourish at the sumptuously appointed great hall, her smile brilliant. “Truly, my lord, I haven’t been disappointed.”
Duncan didn’t reply, her words grating upon him as much as her unexpected presence, bitter memories rushing to the fore.
Who would have ever thought… Yes, he could well imagine the profound delight his three half brothers found in the prosperity he had finally attained after long, loyal years of service to King John. He could almost hear them toasting him now, no doubt wishing him an early grave like the one that had claimed his Scots mother—
“Oh, Duncan, must you scowl so? I see that, too, hasn’t changed. And I won’t stand for it, not tonight, not after I’ve traveled all this way to see you. Come and sit with me and tell me everything!”
Again the cloying smell of Adele’s perfume assailed him as she playfully looped her arm through his and urged him toward the high table. But they hadn’t gone far before she slowed her pace, glancing with unabashed interest over her shoulder.
“One of your knights, brother?”
Following her gaze, Duncan felt his ill humor mounting as Gerard de Barry entered the hall with several other men, his longtime comrade in arms surveying the pandemonium with a mix of incredulity and dry amusement.
“Yes, and a friend as well. I take it the men”—Duncan looked with derision upon the drunken sots carousing at the high table—“who accompany you serve your husband?”
“Alas, yes, they did, but I bear heavy news, Duncan. My dear lord husband took ill and died during the winter. I’m a widow these past five months.”
And looking none the worse for her mourning, Duncan thought darkly, if his stunning half sister had grieved at all.
Her marriage to Reginald de Londres had been no love match, but she had rushed headlong into wedding the aging baron for the comforts his wealth could bring her and doubtless the sexual freedom his failing eyesight could afford her. It had been rumored long before Duncan had come to Ireland that she had not once slept with the old fool,
substituting her maidservants instead while she enjoyed the attentions of many lovers. But if she thought the man who was as close to him as a brother…
“No condolences, Duncan?”
Adele wasn’t looking at him but at Gerard, her airy comment clearly no more than an afterthought and not worthy of an answer as she stared boldly at the handsome, russet-haired knight.
“Gerard de Barry has spoken for a maid, Adele. She comes from Sussex to marry him in two months’ time.”
“Really? How wonderful for him.”
“So he has often said. I’ve not seen a man more in love.”
She caught Duncan’s gaze, and he swore he saw more than a hint of feminine challenge in those disarming blue eyes before she gave him an archly appraising look. “And what of you? Have you decided upon a wife yet?”
His jaw tightening, Duncan shook his head, which made her squeeze his arm in a poor attempt at sympathy.
“So I thought. You know, brother, mourning for a woman long dead won’t give you heirs to protect so grand an estate. How many years has it been since Gisele…?”
“Six.” Glad that they had come to the high table, Duncan disengaged his arm. “It’s late, Adele, and the day has been a taxing one—”
“Oh, Duncan, surely you’re not thinking of retiring so soon! And if I’ve distressed you—dear heavens, I promise I won’t mention her name again. Yet it only proves further that a wife is just what you need, and I insist you allow me to help. If we can’t find a young woman of suitable rank among our kind here in Ireland, we could always send a messenger to London and request that the Court arrange—”
“By the blood of God, woman, is that why you’ve come to Meath?”
His roar silencing the bedlam in the hall, Duncan felt all eyes suddenly upon him, minstrels, servants, and drunken knights alike staring in surprise. But his own men didn’t appear unduly concerned, Gerard calmly sampling a cup of wine, while Adele seemed less than startled, though two bright spots of color had touched her cheeks.
“Indeed, Duncan, I see your temper remains in high form. Perhaps it would be best if we talked tomorrow…after you’ve had a chance to rest. As you said, your day was a taxing one. I only hope you find the night passes more pleasantly…”
She didn’t say more, a cryptic smile upon her generously curved lips, but turned to rejoin her knights at the high table. Yet Duncan caught her arm, firmly drawing her back to face him.
“One thing, Adele. If your retainers are indeed under your command, given Reginald’s demise, then warn them well that I’ll not have my serving women suffer any abuse during your short visit. Have your own maidservants see to their lusty amusements, not mine. Are we understood?”
Just as firmly easing her arm from his grasp, Adele gave a regal nod. “Of course, brother. We are simply guests here, for however long our stay. Not marauders. Oh, and as for your own lusty amusements, I’ve met—now, what was her name? Ah, yes, Flanna. Pretty enough for an Irish wench, though I’ve seen prettier. I enjoy some comfort that your longheld grief hasn’t kept you from taking women to your bed. Sleep soundly.”
Again she gave a curious smile, but Duncan didn’t tarry to wonder at its meaning, her words alone a none-too-subtle taunt. That Adele had met his mistress Flanna—damn his sister! She was already sniffing into matters that were none of her concern, and after a stay of only a few hours’ time!
So it appeared, an interminable day that had merely plagued him before now become a blight of epic proportions. Striding past Gerard, he thought to stop and warn him of the beautiful yet voracious fox now in their midst, but a sharp tug at his cloak distracted him.
He spun around yet saw no one, until an amused cackle made him look down. No higher than his knees stood a misshapen little man wearing a bright red cloak and a matching cap, Adele’s court jester, who grinned at him from ear to ear and made a lewd gesture jabbing a stubby finger into a circle formed by his other thumb and forefinger.
“Sweet dreams, Baron. Sweet dreams!”
Before Duncan could utter an oath, the dwarf scuttled away and took refuge under a nearby table, which was a very good thing. Harboring dark fantasies of throwing Adele’s entire entourage into the moat, the time-honored tradition of hospitality to one’s guests be damned, Duncan was only too glad to leave the hall. That the sanctity of his home had been so shattered was almost more than he could bear.
“My lord! My lord, wait!”
He didn’t wait. Faustis was puffing with exertion as the steward caught up with him at the tower stairs leading to his private apartment.
“My lord, there is something I must tell—”
“Not now, Faustis!”
“But my lord—”
“Not now!” And he meant it, Duncan taking the stone steps three at a time, his fury only mildly abating as the noise from the great hall began to recede. He didn’t stop until he had slammed the door to his bedchamber behind him and thrown the bolt, the quiet which greeted him making him swear with relief.
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Lords of Ireland II Page 151