Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] (24 page)

“This castle will be a good deal tidier before Carrick arrives,” the countess informed him. “Your men will have to see to it if no one else is here to do so.”

His jaw set, and Meg was sure he was about to tell Isabel that housekeeping was no concern of his. But when the countess fixed him with her haughtiest gaze, daring him to flout her wishes, he nodded and said, “I beg you will excuse me at once then, my lady. Clearly, there is much to do.”

“He is right in saying we have much to do,” the countess said when he had gone. “And I tell you, Meg, I hope his men can tidy things without a great deal of direction, because in troth, I haven’t the barest notion what to tell them.”

“Do you not, madam?”

“I know when things are not to my liking. But at home my steward sees to all. Indeed, someone else always does, so I had no notion that my lord had neither steward nor housekeeper here to command. Do you know about such things?”

“Me mistress kens all about such, aye,” Sym said proudly.

Looking at Amalie, who grimaced and shook her head, Meg chuckled. “We met with just such a challenge less than a month ago at Raven’s Law,” she said. “But my sister and I grew up in different circumstances from yours, Isabel. Our mother thought her daughters should know nearly as much about any task as their stewards or housekeepers might.”

Isabel sighed. “My mother knew no more than I do.”

“We will help you, and gladly. Doubtless your ladies will, too,” Meg added, casting a doubtful glance at the two women, standing silently some distance away. “It will seem odd, though, to be ordering men-at-arms to clean out cesspits.”

“First they must muck out this stable we stand in,” Isabel said, glowering at the mess in the upper hall and, in particular, at four dogs gnawing bones underneath and near the high table. “I want all the dogs put outside, and before we start, I want to know that my lord’s cook can provide us with a decent supper.”

“I’ll see to getting them dogs out, me lady,” Sym said, heading for the dais.

“Mayhap we should first find someone willing to show us where everything is,” Meg suggested. “Talking to the cook will be easier if we can find the kitchen.”

Douglas and his mounted army of knights and retainers, having departed from Newcastle on Sunday afternoon, spent that night in the hills to the north.

On Monday, they continued slowly northward, because the earl hoped Hotspur would follow. With no sign of him by late afternoon, they pitched camp Monday night on high ground near Ponteland, where no enemy could catch them unaware.

Douglas sent men to see how far the Bishop of Durham’s forces had to go to join Hotspur. He wanted to keep a close eye on them, because armies provided by such wealthy religious houses, even in Scotland, tended to be very well equipped.

Wat had only his own men-at-arms and Neb’s lot to look after, so they soon had tents up and fires begun for their supper. As the sun began to drop in the west, his thoughts turned first to Buccleuch, who would rejoin them the next day in the Wansbeck valley with the foot forces.

Thoughts of his father soon turned to thoughts of the Hall and Raven’s Law. He was surprised to feel himself stir as he pictured Meg in their bedchamber.

He had completely stopped thinking of her as Margaret.

Not only did Amalie never call her so, but although he had thought the name suited her because of her calm demeanor and her dignity, that woman had not been the one who had cast ale in his face. The lass who had done that showed the same passion in her anger that she had shown in his bed.

Meg suited that lass better, although he was rapidly coming to like and appreciate both personalities more than he had thought he ever could.

It occurred to him as he watched the sun edge nearer the hilltops that he had never before sat silently amid his men, enjoying such warming thoughts.

Jenny had often stirred his emotions. She could make him laugh, and she could ignite his fury. But Jenny at her best or worst had never stirred him as Meg could with a single word or a look.

At first, he had thought that his still-smoldering fury at what her father had done was fueling the anger he felt toward her. But Meg was as much a victim in the forced marriage as he was, and he frequently reminded himself that he was more at fault for it than she was. So, the logical conclusion was that the emotions he felt when he was with her stemmed directly and solely from their private relationship.

The business with Neb’s lads had shown him the truth of that. He had thought his reaction to learning that she had taken them home had been pure fury. He knew now that it had been fear—nay, deep terror that she might suffer harm.

Even so, it had not taken her long to stir his temper again and by nothing more than pressing him to heed her thoughts and opinions.

He liked to think he was a fair man, but his behavior—seen in retrospect—had been anything but fair. Instead, he had ripped up at her, exposing yet another fear—and aye, that, too, might have been terror—that she expected to rule their household and everyone in it as her mother did at Elishaw.

He shuddered, recalling the result. The lass had been right to throw ale in his face for flinging that accusation at her. His discovery then that Lady Murray had saved him and his lads from Murray’s damned hanging tree made him wince even now. What sort of gratitude had he shown for that?

He saw Tam and Gibbie walking up the hill toward him. Fires dotted the landscape, and someone hummed a tune in the dusky light as the sun dipped behind the western hilltops. With Buccleuch’s force guarding the way ahead, their own well-disciplined guards posted, and men watching from more distant points for movement from the south and west, it looked as if they’d enjoy a peaceful night.

Meg spent the first two hours after arriving at Hermitage in a flurry of activity, because the captain of the guard sent them a veritable army of men to help.

She and Sym located not only the kitchen but also a narrow service stairway in its thick wall that led to a small, iron-fortified postern door on the back side of the gate tower. Like the main entrance, the postern door opened onto a steep timber stairway that defenders could burn quickly if the castle came under attack.

The service stairs in the wall continued from the halls to the upper floors.

The kitchen seemed clean enough and the cook unfazed by the notion of serving them a proper supper, so she left Sym to help him and returned to the others.

Assigning Amalie and one of the countess’s women to oversee work in the lower hall, Meg encouraged Isabel’s offer to supervise the tidying of her lord husband’s chamber on the third level and to sleep there herself.

“I’ll take Averil with me,” Isabel said in a low tone, indicating the elder of her two women. “Faith, but I dared bring no one else, for Averil and Nancy were the only ones I knew would not weep and wail about coming here. And that was before I saw how truly barbaric this castle is. Averil has been with me since long before I married Jamie, so she will keep a still tongue in her head. But she will insist on helping me whilst I attend to Jamie’s room.”

“Of course she will, and should,” Meg said. “As for what my husband or yours will have to say to us for allowing you to condescend to such chores—”

“You don’t know Jamie,” Isabel said with another of her merry laughs. “He doesn’t mind doing anything he believes needs doing and cannot imagine why anyone else should. Of course, if someone were to tell him a cesspit needed mucking out, he would never think the person meant him to do it.”

Meg laughed then, too. “Husbands have a knack for thinking other people should cheerfully do the things they refuse to do themselves.”

The hours flew by in clouds of dust and rotten straw. Meg had no idea what the men had done about the cesspits, but when she used the garderobe off the north end of the upper hall, it did not smell as bad as when they had arrived.

By suppertime, she yearned for a hot bath, but men were still strewing fresh rushes in the upper hall and two lads were setting the high table. Although they did so under Sym’s stern dictatorship, she was reluctant to leave until she could be sure no one needed further supervision. Moreover, she had no proper bedchamber, only a small, narrow cell with two cots above the earl’s bedchamber to share with Amalie.

Telling herself that it would be good to sleep so far from the pits, and to be glad it was summer so she and Amalie would not freeze there, she made do at last with a pitcher of water that Sym fetched her, a basin, and a ragged cloth.

Then, in a fresh gown, her guardian shadow in attendance, she went back downstairs. At the upper-hall landing, she met the countess and Amalie coming up.

“Oh, my dear, such a nice surprise!” Isabel exclaimed. “They found Giles practicing with his lute in the chapel, and he is awaiting us now. I remembered that Amalie was still in the kitchen, and we were just going up to fetch you.”

They entered the hall together, and Meg inhaled the scent of fresh rushes, noting that they adequately covered fouler odors. A small fire burning on the great hearth helped, too. The high table was set properly for their supper, and other than serving lads, the men who had been there earlier had vanished to the lower regions.

Only one man remained, staring down into the fire with a lute in his right hand and his face turned away from them.

Hearing them, he turned just as the countess said, “Giles, I’ve brought two dear friends to meet you.”

Meg stared in shock, not at an unknown minstrel but at her beloved brother Tom. Hearing Amalie’s gasp, she quickly touched her sister’s arm in warning.

What Tom could be doing here, using the name Giles Gilpin, Meg could not imagine. But if he was staying in the Douglas’s household under a name not his own, this was no time to mention the fact.

He approached them with his usual charming smile. But Meg noted tension as well, which told her he feared that one of his sisters might unmask him.

She was tempted, because she liked and respected Isabel and because her own husband and thus Meg herself owed duty to both the earl and the countess. But she could not betray her brother—not before learning why he was at Hermitage.

Isabel was still talking, but while Meg had been staring in shock at Tom, she had missed whatever the countess had said. She fought now to catch up.

“. . . and Averil and Nancy are with me, of course,” Isabel said. “They will be down shortly, but you already know them, Giles. These two ladies will be new to you. So make your bow, and I will present you.”

Pausing only to take a breath while he obeyed, she said, “Lady Margaret, Lady Amalie, this is Giles Gilpin, the wonderful minstrel I have mentioned to you. Only wait until you hear his music. Quite astonishing! Giles, you will want to have your supper before you entertain us, so go at once and tell the cook to feed you.”

“Thank you, madam,” he said, making her another bow. Turning to a point midway between Meg and Amalie, he made one more and said, “My ladies.”

In passing them, as he reached a point where Meg could see him but Isabel could not, he winked. It irritated Meg so that she wanted to shake him, but she could not do so and had to act as if nothing unusual had occurred.

The countess’s ladies soon joined them, and three gillies served them as they ate a supper that, at best, was mediocre. No one complained.

Sym waited on Meg, having cast a threatening glance at the first gillie to approach her, stopping him in his tracks and thus deterring the others, as well.

“Louts, the lot o’ them,” he muttered disapprovingly as the third one turned away. “I’ll see to ye, m’self.”

That was the best moment of the meal as far as Meg was concerned.

To be sure, the entertainment was better than the food. If anything, Tom’s skills had improved. He sang several ballads, two of which were comical enough to make all the ladies laugh. His voice was pure and as smooth as honey. Moreover, even to a sister’s critical eye, he was a handsome young man.

But Meg hoped he did not expect her to let his charade pass without comment or stricture. Hoping to prevent such an error, she sent him a stern look each time she managed to catch his eye.

“You should not stare so at our minstrel, Meg,” the countess said at last, teasing her. “I doubt Wat Scott is one to tolerate a flirtatious wife.”

Startled, Meg exclaimed, “Oh, no, madam, I wasn’t! I . . . I was just listening to his music. I can certainly agree with your opinion of his talent.”

Looking contrite, Isabel said, “I should not have said that to you. Giles is admirably skilled, is he not?”

Meg agreed but took care after that not to appear overly interested in the minstrel. She knew that although Isabel might think no more about the matter, her ladies would be keeping an eye on the two of them now.

No opportunity afforded itself to speak privately with him before the ladies retired for the night.

Amalie had not spoken other than to murmur polite responses to the lads serving them or to someone who addressed a remark directly to her. However, the moment they were safely inside the tiny chamber they shared and had shut the door, she exclaimed, “What is Tom doing here?”

“Mercy, I don’t know the reason any more than you do,” Meg said, recalling that she had used all the water in the pitcher earlier and taking the empty vessel from the washstand. “I can contrive a meeting with him tomorrow to find out, but until then we shall just have to be patient. I’ll ask Sym to fill this for us if he is nearby.”

“Of course he is nearby,” Amalie said. “He is your devoted slave, my dear.”

Meg shook her head but opened the door to find Sym just outside. Handing him the pitcher, she asked him to refill it. As he began to turn away, she put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him and pulling the door to behind her.

He looked at her warily.

“Sym, you have overheard many things today that you must not repeat to anyone,” she said quietly. “I know you are not a prattler, and I don’t like to sound harsh. But much of what you heard today concerns the countess, so—”

“Ye needna tell me, m’lady, ’cause our Dod said if he ever hears me speaking o’ things that be none o’ me business, he’ll skelp me till me wagging tongue falls out. He’d do it, too, Dod would,” he added, nodding earnestly.