Conquering William (6 page)

“Perhaps if we spoke with the bailiff.” Alice’s soft voice broke in. “I am sure Gord has some ideas on what we can do.”

“Right you are, my lady.” Cook nodded and took herself and her carving knife back to the mutton. “Up north we get along without taking charity.”

William applied himself to the meal Cook set before him. The stringy mutton caught in his teeth. The robust ale Cook unearthed helped ease the mutton down his gullet in a sharp bite of barley.

“Sir William.” A thin, balding man slunk into the kitchen. He tugged at the ends of his neat tunic. “I am Gord, the bailiff. Walter said you asked for me.”

“Took your time getting here.” Cook slammed a platter of age-spotted apples onto the table. “Sir William did not fancy his pottage.”

The throb behind William’s eyes grew into a sharp ache, nearly as distracting as the steady pain in his ass. Men did not run keeps, become tangled in the small details of putting food on the table. Dear God, next he would find himself with a needle in his hand. “I am given to understand there are some challenges in keeping the castle supplied?”

“Challenges?” Cook hacked at a wheel of cheese. “Tight asses is the only challenge around here.”

“Cook.” Alice’s voice carried a thin tone of steel. “That will do.”

Cook wilted. “Beg your pardon, Lady Alice. No offense intended, but I’m a cook. Both my mam and dad were cooks before me, and they be turning in their graves to see the swill I serve here at Tarnwych. Turning, I tell you.”

Alice opened her mouth to speak and William squeezed her hand to silence her. If you gave people enough time and silence, they would fill it with the truth.

“I have my pride.” Tears welled in Cook’s eyes. “Bitten my tongue all these years, swallowed my pride because nobody else would come and cook for this keep. Not with nothing to serve but yesterday’s dog scraps and a handful of salt.”

“I did not know.” Alice’s cheeks had gone quite pink. She picked at the table with her fingernail.

Another question around his bride, because Alice should have known. As much as William would like to acquit her of all blame, as a woman grown, the responsibility of Tarnwych fell to her. If matters were this bad in the kitchen, it augured badly for how the overall demesne fared. One problem at a time. The mutton helped ease some of his ire. “Tell me, Gord, how matters stand today at Tarnwych.”

William’s sat through Gord’s endless recitation and battled the growing fidgets. God, he wished he had not asked now, just eaten his mutton and gone about his day. However, he had asked and received his answer, and now he could not ignore the reality.

Leaving him and Gord in the kitchen, Alice slipped away several long hours later for prayers. To give Gord his due, the man knew the state of the keep in excruciating detail. Normally he gave his reports to Sister who—judging by the hints Gord dropped—barely took the time to listen.

With winter coming, William could hardly credit the state of the stores. They might not starve, but Tarnwych offered cold, dismal comfort through the snow-bound months.

Endless winter months, miserly fare, and freezing cold sat like a thorn in his ass. The deep cold of the north was enough for a body to tolerate. With harvest done for this year, he could supplement the table through hunting. The women might forage for some late nuts and tubers, but all the fruit from the extensive orchards had wasted. Gord reckoned the villagers had taken it, because it had not made its way into ciders, preserves, or been dried to provide variety to the keep meals when the hard freeze set in.

As a second son, William had not received instruction like Roger on the tasks of a liege lord. Yet, even he knew more than Alice. Frustrated by her lack of ability as chatelaine, in fairness he could see where lay the blame, and a future reckoning loomed.

“Sir William.” Gord gathered his markers and tally sticks and tucked them into a sacking bag. He closed the ties with a double knot. “If I might offer a suggestion?”

Indeed, he needed all the help he could get. “Feel free, Gord.”

Gord adjusted the folds on his bag. “I realize we are not on good terms with the…um…Scots.”

“Aye.” William restrained his desire to snap at the man. “This is generally the case when two kings are at war.” Deep red flooded Gord’s cheeks, and William felt the worst sort of lout. “I beg your pardon, Gord. Please continue.”

“Well, we do things a mite different here in the north.” Gord tied the bag to his belt, and smoothed it against his leg. “It does not seem to make much sense for neighbors to starve to death because our kings cannot see eye to eye.”

Loyal to the king, perhaps not, but sensible, definitely. William motioned the man to continue.

“In lean times, I have been known to approach Aonghas the Red for help.”

“Aonghas the Red?” Pictures of great, hairy Gingers cavorted through William’s imagination.

“Verily.” Gord shifted, but straightened his shoulders. “In exchange for the odd bushel and crate here and there, Aonghas helps himself to our animals.”

“How many animals?”

“Umm…all of them.”

Every muscle in William tightened in protest. Father did not tolerate poachers on Anglesea land. Then again, the well-provided-for Anglesea folk had no need to pilfer his father’s herds. But Gord hinted at more than a bit of opportunistic poaching. The bedamned Scott swarmed onto his land and stole the food from his table. “You mean he tosses us a bit of grain and steals our livestock?”

Gord adjusted his belt, then glanced up. “Would we call it stealing?”

“Aye, we would.” William fixed Gord with a stare and drove the point home.

“He does send us some provisions to get us through the winter.” Gord’s voice grew softer and softer as William stared him down.

“Do you have a tally of what the thieving swine has taken?”

“Nay.” Gord spoke rather too quickly, and then reddened to his hairline. “I judged it better to not keep too careful a tally.”

“Indeed.” William stepped closer to the man. “Or you might have to send our men to retrieve our losses.”

Gord paled and stepped back. “The men…do not fight.”

William must have misheard Gord. Men-at-arms fought. A keep succored men-at-arms for that primary purpose. “They do not hunt much, and they do not fight. What do they do then?”

“Umm.” Gord took his time adjusting his cuffs. “They collect rents and our portion from the village. They guard, at times. Once, last winter they went hunting.” He cleared his throat. “Only they did not have much luck.”

“I imagine not.” William scrubbed his hands through his hair. He should never have left his bed this morning. “Because your bloody neighbor has been replenishing his table from our lands.”

Gord opened his mouth to argue.

“Do not.” William stepped around him, done with this conversation for now. The list of inadequacies at Tarnwych grew with every conversation he attempted. “I am going to see the men. I presume they are in the barracks?”

“Of course, my lord.” Gord frowned. “Where else would they be?”

Here at Tarnwych, William wouldn’t hazard a guess. Swinging from the battlements perhaps.

He strode through the hall and took a grim, narrow staircase down to the bailey, encountering a few serving wenches on his way. Fornication? His earlier conversation came back to him and he shook his head. A keep rose or fell on unity between its residents. Tarnwych presented like a ripe peach for any ambitious young knight with no land and some men behind him.

He dodged the heavier puddles littering the inner bailey, but mud still sucked at his boots. Perhaps if the men swept the bailey instead of hiding their fornicating selves away, a pair of his boots might survive Tarnwych.

Built against the inner curtain wall, William mistook the barracks for animal pens at first and retraced his steps. Two men perched on upended crates, casting dice onto a makeshift table.

They stared at him.

“Good morrow.” Sir Arthur would have thumped their heads together, but William preferred the polite approach at first.

The bigger of the two jerked his chin in response and hauled his bulk to his feet. Belly flesh pressed through the lacings of his tunic like a string of pasty sausages. Clearly, the men had found another way to supplement Cook’s meals.

“Call up the men,” William said.

“Eh?” The seated man rose. As fat as his friend, if a little shorter, and bald as a babe. These men hunted all right, only they kept the fruits of their labors to themselves. He had to wonder what else they kept, but that would save for another day.

“Call. Up. The. Men.” William stepped closer. The reek of stale sweat and unwashed flesh had him fighting to hold his ground. “I need a hunting party and the strongest escort you can put together.”

The men exchanged glances.

“I will call Dunstan,” Sausage Belly said. He turned and bellowed into the darkened maw of the doorway. “Dunstan. Lady Alice’s new man is here, wants to call up the men.”

“Sir William.” William held his breath and pressed his boot toes to Sausage Belly’s. “I am named Sir William. You may call me my lord. What should I call you?”

“Rufus,” he said, and took a wary step back.

“And you?” William turned to his companion.

“That be Brown Aylard.” An absolute bear of a man spoke from the doorway. Tall and wide, his shoulders brushed the doorframe on either side.

“Dunstan?” Dunstan wore the invisible mantle of power about his large shoulders. Rufus and Aylard shifted closer to him as Dunstan stepped into the bailey.

“Aye.” Dunstan cracked his huge knuckles. A shock of dark hair tangled atop his wide head like a bird’s nest. His sharp brown gaze swept William from boots to brows, cunning and assessing.

William let him look. Tarnwych could house only one lord. If Dunstan thought he filled the lord’s boots, William would make it his special task to re-advise him. “Call up the men.”

“May I ask why…my lord?” William tensed at the subtle taunt behind the words. Ending his morning in a brawl through the mud with a man-mountain made him weary to his bones.

“We hunt for the table.”

“Ain’t no game.” Dunstan crossed trunk-like arms across his chest.

“Really?” William softened the air with the sting of derision. “Not one deer, boar or even rabbit in the entire demesne.”

Either Rufus or Aylard snickered, but William locked his gaze on Dunstan.

Flat eyes glowered back at him. Dunstan turned and yelled a string of names into the barracks.

From the speed with which the men appeared, they must have huddled just out of sight and listened.

William’s heart sank. Tarnwych’s men, filthy as pigs and clad in a motley collection of tunics and assorted bits of armor.

Only Dunstan wore the full hauberk over his tunic. “Get some horses and find something for the table.”

“You will join the keep at meals,” William said.

Rufus peered at him from behind Dunstan’s shoulder. “We do not eat in the hall.”

“You do now.” William let his gaze meet each man in turn. “Clean yourselves up before you present yourselves at the hall.” He let that sink in. “And now my escort.”

“Where are we going?” Dunstan shifted his weight to one hip.

“To visit Aonghas the Red.”

Aylard sucked in a breath, and a flicker of surprise crossed Dunstan’s blunt features.

“Make sure the men understand we cause no trouble, but prepare ourselves to meet it if it comes.” William spun on his heel and tramped across the muddy ground separating the barracks from the stable. He held scant hope for the horses. At least he had brought his own horseflesh from Anglesea. Tarnwych would need more than his two destriers, however, if they planned to present an adequate mounted party. Sweet Jesu, like a hungry whore, Tarnwych would snatch up every shilling of the wealth he brought to this marriage. Sir Ivo had made himself a good bargain with this match.

Entering the stables, William got the first glimmer of hope from his miserable day. The horses were a swaybacked, raddled lot, to be sure, but whoever oversaw the stables kept them clean and the stable swept and tidy.

“Sir William.” A short, wiry man almost bent double with age emerged from the gloom. “Are you needing your horse?”

“Shortly.” Most of the stalls lay empty, but clean and clear of straw as if they stood ready for new occupants. He turned to the oldster. “Are you the stable master?”

“Aye.” The man nodded his white head. “I be Gresby and I also keeps the hounds. Not that we have many of those. Sister do not care for dogs.”

How to keep a fair head about a woman when every mention of her name meant a worsening of his day? “Indeed. How many horses do we have?”

“Eight, and your two.”

God’s, ever-loving, balls. Ten horses. Ten! “Why so few?”

“Sister—”

“Never mind.” William would start hacking heads off shoulders if he heard one more thing about Sister Sunshine this day. “I will send to my brother by marriage for more.” And bloody Gregory has best not rip the ass out the goose when he charged William for some of his precious nags.

Gresby nodded. He rubbed his gnarled hands together. “More steeds would be good. Perhaps some good breeding stock?”

“Aye. We can also bring a couple of sound bitches and some dogs with the horses.”

Thus far, the easiest solution he’d delivered. He strode out the stables. Cedric had a hard ride for Anglesea ahead of him, after he informed Alice her husband was about to pay a friendly visit to Aonghas the Red.

* * * *

Alice pulled the sides of her traveling cloak tighter about herself. Serviceable and hardy, it kept the worst of the evening chill off as she waited beside the horses for William to join them. She had rehearsed her argument in her chamber, and now she stood ready.

Cedric had given her the message that William left this night to meet with Aonghas the Red, or Canny Aonghas as he was also known. After the kitchens, she needed to do something to redeem herself. Exactly how had matters come to such a sorry pass? And how had she not noticed before now? Given this morning, she could not, in all good conscience, allow her new husband to journey to The Crags without her. Like a spider, Aonghas waited in his sumptuous manor for the juicy southern fly to drift into his web. Father refused to deal with Aonghas, as did most of the border barons, but Alice rather enjoyed him. His sharp brain and dry wit made any visit with him entertaining. Also, he called her a “pretty wee bird” and nobody but Aonghas had ever called her pretty.