“Ah, there ye are, Joan,” a female voice declared. “Are ye hiding? I’ve had several pages looking all over the castle fer ye.”
Och, not now! I’ve a pounding headache and too little sleep fer four nights running. The last thing I need is this annoying hussy.
“Good afternoon, Agnes.” Joan turned slowly and regarded the woman who stood before her with a critical eye. “Why such a fuss finding me? Has something happened?”
At twenty-six, Agnes was but a year older than Joan, but her face and figure looked much younger. She was short and slender, with a pale complexion, deep blue eyes, and bright red hair. Her features were pleasant, but her voice possessed a natural shrillness that grated on the nerves.
The three weeks that she had been in residence at Armstrong Castle had been a trial for Joan. Lady Agnes had come here with the hope of making a match with Joan’s father, Laird Armstrong. Nothing had formally been decided, but the possibility that her widowed sire might in truth take this woman as his new wife was a dilemma Joan preferred not to consider, as the result would have dire consequences for her.
If he had a wife to run his household, what need would he have for Joan? Even more distressing—if he sired a son off this woman, what chance would Joan’s lad have of one day becoming laird of the Armstrong clan?
“Yer father has received a letter from Laird McKenna,” Agnes said. “There appears to be some sort of dispute between the McKennas and the MacPhearsons and yer father has been called upon to negotiate a peaceful end. We need to prepare to host a large gathering of several clans. They arrive in a fortnight.”
We? Damnation! Agnes must be far more confident in her ability to secure a marriage proposal from my father than I thought.
“There is much to be done to prepare fer a visit of that magnitude,” Joan conceded. “But there is plenty of time to see that all is in order.”
A hint of delight rose in Agnes’s eyes. “I have already taken things well in hand,” she declared importantly. “As I knew that was what Laird Armstrong would have expected of me. He was very pleased when I told him.”
“Then why do ye need me?”
Agnes nervously twirled a stray lock of her red hair. “Cook was rather distraught at what he declares is far too little notice to feed such a large number of men. He claims the stores are low and there is scant time to fill them. Ye’ll need to speak with him right away.”
Joan regarded Agnes with mock surprise. “But ye said that ye already have everything well in hand.”
Agnes gave Joan a pained look. “I do. The serving wenches are airing the beds, sweeping the rooms, and washing the linens, so that we can house the lairds and the more important members of their entourage in the castle.
“New chairs are being built fer the dais, so that all who are entitled will have a proper seat at the high table. The garderobes are being cleaned, barrels of wine are being brought up from the cellars, and ale has been ordered from the alehouse.”
“Whiskey?” Joan asked.
Agnes flushed. “We shall require more, along with fresh meat, vegetables, and bread. Cook feared that would prove difficult. Ye’ll need to reassure him ’tis possible.”
Reassure him? Joan smiled inwardly at that absurd notion. Cook was a large, burly man, with enormous biceps and a fondness for drink. No doubt he was well into his cups by this time of day and hardly in the mood to listen to Agnes’s demands.
“Did he chase ye from the kitchen with a cleaving knife?” Joan asked casually. “Or a hot poker?”
“Nay! He wouldn’t dare to treat me with such disrespect.” Though she denied it most vehemently, Agnes’s forehead creased with unease, revealing the truth of the matter.
Joan turned away, resisting the temptation to laugh. To keep the peace she would go to the kitchen, but she was not about to challenge Cook when he was in a drunken state. Instead, she would listen to him grumble and complain and then tell him to do his best.
When he sobered, the pride he took in his work, along with his desire to please the laird, and the clan, would get the job accomplished.
Of course, there was no need to share that bit of information with the overbearing Agnes.
Joan turned away from the window, then carefully made her way down the stone steps. She moved gracefully through the great hall with Agnes following close on her heels.
The kitchen was hot and filled with hazy smoke. Joan took in a deep breath, relishing the delectable smell of roasting venison that permeated the air. Under Cook’s jaundiced eyes, two young lads struggled to turn the spit, which held the large haunch of meat, their faces red and sweating from their efforts.
There were baskets of spring vegetables resting on the stone floor, bits of damp, fragrant soil clinging stubbornly to their roots. Stacks of dirty bowls and a cluster of buckets were strewn next to the vegetables, resting precariously close to the blistering hearth.
Shirtless, Cook stood at a long wooden worktable, cleaver in hand, butchering a pile of rabbits. He glanced up when they entered the kitchen, then lowered his head and continued working. Mindful of the fresh blood dripping from his knife—and the bottle of whiskey at Cook’s elbow—Joan kept a safe distance.
“I regret disturbing yer work, but Lady Agnes seems to think ye cannae manage to feed the McKenna and MacPhearson clans when they arrive,” Joan said, feeling a wicked gleam of satisfaction when she heard Agnes’s gasp of horror.
Cook’s upper lip curled. He hacked the head off another hare, then lifted his chin and stared hard over Joan’s shoulder. She could almost feel Agnes’s knees trembling. “Are ye saying that I cannae do my job, Lady Agnes?”
“Nay! I was merely concerned because ye seemed distressed when I told ye,” Agnes answered.
“Did I?” Cook poured himself a large dram of whiskey, took a long sip, then rested the cup against his hip. “Ye were mistaken.”
The words hung in the smoky air. Out of the corner of her eye, Joan could see Agnes’s lips compress into a thin, tight line. She doubted Agnes had ever encountered a servant like Cook and clearly the woman had no idea how to manage him.
“Perhaps Lady Agnes should take an inventory of the larder?” Joan suggested, knowing full well how possessive Cook was about all aspects of his kitchen.
“She’s welcome to try,” Cook replied. He drained his cup, picked up his cleaver, and resumed his butchering.
Joan turned. “Agnes?”
She could clearly see Agnes’s jaw move as she ground her teeth. “As ye are more familiar with the stores, I think that task should fall to ye,” Agnes muttered.
Joan’s brow lifted. “Truly? Well, if ye insist, then I shall take over from here. Oh, and do be sure to let my father know. As it is what he expects of me, I’m sure he’ll be very pleased.”
Agnes’s back stiffened at hearing her own words being flung back at her. “I was hoping that we could work together. That, above all else, would please the laird.”
“I’ll do the work and ye’ll take the credit?” Joan asked, with a knowing scowl. “Is that what ye had in mind?”
Agnes tossed a fierce glare back at her. “Ye would be wise to show me some respect and deference.”
“Really? Why?”
Agnes drew herself up to her full height, yet the gesture was almost comical, as she was nearly a full head shorter than Joan. “Soon, I shall be chatelaine here and all will be obeying my orders, including ye.”
Joan’s shoulders tensed and she could feel her eye begin to twitch. She shot a dark look over her shoulder at Cook, who shrugged with disinterest.
“Och, have I missed the reading of the banns?” Joan asked, her steady voice reverberating through the thick stone kitchen walls.
There was a muted gasp from one of the kitchen lads, who must have let go of his end of the spit, for it was quickly followed by a yelp of distress from the second lad. Their reaction sent a trickle of triumph through Joan, pleased to confirm that her barb had hit the mark if these young lads unders
tood her.
Agnes’s eyes widened and her mouth formed a circle of astonishment. Joan smiled inwardly. God’s blood, ’tis almost too easy to intimidate her.
“Make no mistake, Agnes,” Joan continued. “Ye aren’t the first female to catch my father’s eye, nor will ye be the last.”
“I’m to be his wife,” Agnes insisted, but her voice lacked its usual conviction.
“That remains to be seen.”
Agnes’s jaw lowered in shock. She started to speak, stuttered, then started shaking with rage. “I’ve tried to befriend ye. To be kind, considerate. But ye make it impossible. Ye’re just as cold and haughty as they say. ’Tis no wonder Laird Fraser rid himself of ye.”
Heat flew up Joan’s cheeks. She hadn’t liked Agnes from the first and her dislike grew stronger every moment she spent in her company. “Ye know nothing of my relationship with Archibald Fraser.”
Agnes blanched, but stood firm. “I know enough.”
Joan favored Agnes with a humorless smile. It seemed ever since Agnes had arrived—invaded, actually—there was precious little peace to be found. The woman needed gossip and intrigue to sustain her and she delighted in searching for both.
Unfortunately, Joan’s unsavory past made her an ideal target. Few could understand why she had run from a young, handsome, accomplished laird like Archibald Fraser, though none questioned his decision to dissolve their marriage.
After Joan had returned home it had taken almost a year for the ugly speculation that had spread through Armstrong Castle like wildfire to die out. Yet with just a few pointed inquiries from Agnes, it had all been easily resurrected.
That alone was cause enough to resent her. But this self-important, all-knowing attitude was the final straw. Joan knew her wisest course of action would be to turn her back and ignore these comments, but she had always had difficulty walking away from an argument. That defiance had cost her dearly in her marriage, resulting in beatings administered by her husband that were so savage she couldn’t walk for days.
“Ye are a small-minded, petty female lacking even the brains God gave a goose,” Joan stated emphatically. “Yer so-called knowledge of my marriage is nothing but idle gossip, lies, and falsehoods. If I thought ye were a person of value or importance in my life, then I’d share the truth with ye, but I’ll not waste my time or breath.”
Agnes’s face turned three shades of red. “I’ll not stand here and be insulted by the likes of ye! Ye’ll regret making an enemy of me,” she promised. “When I am mistress here—and I will be—I shall take great delight in having ye thrown out—along with yer mangy brat.”
Reflexively, Joan’s arm raised to slap the foolish woman, but instead of striking her, Joan clenched her fist tightly and slowly counted to ten. She would not raise a hand against anyone, no matter how much they deserved it.
Agnes spun on her heel and hurried out of the kitchen, nearly tripping over a basket of vegetables on her way. The ensuing silence was broken only by the sound of Cook’s chopping and the hiss of fat and drippings hitting the fire as the venison haunch was once again turned.
“’Tis ill advised to make an enemy out of her,” Cook observed.
Still feeling agitated, Joan wheeled on him. “I know, but the woman would drive a saint to sin.”
“Aye, Lady Agnes is a shrill one.” Still clutching the bloody cleaver tightly in his fist, Cook lifted his arm and gestured expressively. “Her threats dinnae sound like idle ones. Ye’d best have a care.”
Surprised at this rare show of support, Joan nodded gratefully. “Do ye think he will marry her?”
Cook shrugged. “Mayhap. The laird makes no effort to hide his desire fer a son and heir, and fer that, he’ll need a young wife.”
The truth of the words stung. “What about his grandson?” Joan asked. “He would make a fine laird.”
“He’s not an Armstrong; he’s a Fraser,” Cook answered bluntly. “Well, he was until his father disowned him. I dinnae rightly know what the lad is now.”
“He has Armstrong blood,” Joan insisted.
“Aye. Among others. Tainted blood most would say.”
Joan’s hopes fell. Sweet Virgin, there truly was no escaping her mother’s legacy—for herself or her child! Isobel Armstrong had hidden her madness for years, but when it finally emerged, all were shocked and stunned at her actions. Joan, too, was sickened by her mother’s deeds, though she had let no one see her true feelings.
Aye, Isobel had lost her wits and now the clan watched and waited to see if Joan would do the same. She saw how they looked at her, heard what they said about her. Sideways glances of curiosity and pity, mingled with a healthy dose of fear. Remarks made beneath their breath wondering if she carried the same madness as her mother and speculation on the possibility that she was as clever as her mother in hiding it.
They all appeared to be waiting, with an odd mix of anticipation and fear, to witness Joan taking leave of her senses. In order to survive, Joan had hardened herself against the unfairness of it, refusing to be defined by it. She prayed long and hard that her son would be spared the same fate.
’Twas heartbreaking to learn that he might not.
Of course, it hadn’t helped her cause that in order to secure the annulment from her marriage, she had allowed her husband to vilify her. As neither she nor Archibald were too young, too closely related to each other, or already married to someone else, the only way to secure the annulment was by declaring that she was insane at the time of their marriage.
The outrageous lie hurt her pride, but ’twas a small price to escape the horror of being Archibald’s wife. Or so she believed. She had been too desperate at the time to realize this action would have such severe consequences for her son.
Shame-faced, Joan admitted to herself that if it were the only path open to her to escape from Archibald, she would do it again.
“But Callum will be raised here, among the clan,” Joan said, hearing the desperation seeping into her voice. “Surely in time, if he proves himself worthy to lead, they will accept him.”
Cook slowly shook his head. “The clan makes no secret of their wish fer the laird to take another wife and produce a male heir. If he does, they will follow that lad, a true son of their laird.”
Joan sighed with frustration. She always knew it would be an uphill climb to make Callum the Armstrong laird. But she believed that time was on her side. Callum was a young lad, barely two years old. She believed that as he grew, the clan would see that it was Armstrong blood ruling his head and strengthening his heart.
Apparently, this would prove to be harder than she thought. Yet Joan refused to believe it was impossible. There had to be a way to turn the opinion of the clan, to make them realize that Callum would be a capable, skilled leader. A man who could be trusted to act in their best interests.
If not, what would become of her son? The possibilities were almost too frightening to consider.
Turning her mind away from these fearful thoughts, Joan changed the subject, bringing herself back to the more pressing matters at hand. “Shall I take an inventory of the larder and make a list of what will be needed when the clans visit?” she asked.
“The laird willnae be pleased if we let them starve,” Cook said. “Ye’d best take a look.”
Joan straightened her skirt and stepped into the storeroom. With a practiced eye she quickly saw that Cook did indeed have cause for concern. There were barely enough provisions to adequately feed the current inhabitants of the castle for the rest of the week, let alone a large contingent of men.
The barrels of oats and wheat flour were only half full as were the wooden boxes of dried, salted fish. The pots of honey were nearly empty; the few cabbages nestled in a dirty basket looked old and wilted. The only items they seemed to possess in abundance were onions and turnips, two things her father despised.
Joan poked her head out. “I thought the men went hunting yesterday.”
“Aye.” Cook snorted. “Ye
see before ye what they brought me.”
Joan clucked her tongue. “A pitiful showing.”
“I’ll not argue that point with ye, milady.” Finished with the hares, Cook wiped his bloody hands on a none-too-clean cloth. “They said they would go again this morning, but they brought back nothing else.”
Joan frowned. While caring for Callum, she had been forced to neglect some of her regular duties. But it had only been a few days. The storeroom shelves should not be so barren. She would need to discover why. But first, she needed to solve the immediate food problem.
Joan returned to the larder. She removed a small key from the chain on her belt and unlocked the spice chest. The pungent scent stung her nostrils, but she was relieved to see a good selection. A deft hand with the right spice could elevate the most humble dish. Thankfully, Cook possessed one.
“We’ve plenty of rich spices to flavor the food,” Joan said. “That should help. Now let’s decide what we’ll need to get done before the clans arrive.”
Cook nodded. He poured himself another dram of whiskey, reached for a second goblet, poured a generous portion, then handed it to Joan. She hesitated, then accepted it. The liquor went down smoothly, burning her throat and warming her stomach. It made her a bit light headed, but also calmed her agitation.
’Twas only the second time she had drunk such a large amount of the potent liquor, but she suddenly understood why Cook—and other men—could become so fond of it.
Her mood much improved, Joan left the kitchen, confident that they would be prepared to feed everyone. Now all she needed to do was find more kitchen help. Cook disliked having the castle maids working in his kitchen. He claimed they were slow and clumsy, scurrying around him like frightened mice.
Truth be told, the wenches were terrified of his temper. Nay, it would be best to bring in women from the village. Older, confident females who would not be so easily intimidated by a bellowing, half-drunk man, even when he held a bloody cleaver in his hand.
Joan chuckled as she imagined the scene, deciding she would make herself unavailable to play the peacemaker and instead allow Agnes to sort out such matters. That would certainly provide some entertainment.
No Other Highlander Page 3