“Ere now, what’s this?” one of the soldiers asked, his accent revealing his Saxon heritage as he eyed them suspiciously. “Wot’s in the wagon?”
Riona wasn’t impressed by the man’s insolence. They should be addressed with more respect, no matter how they were dressed, or the state of their cart and horse.
“Our baggage,” she answered shortly. “Now if you’ll be so good as to move out of the way—”
“I don’t take orders from the likes o’ you,” the soldier retorted. He ran another scornful gaze over them, his sandy brows furrowing. “Who do ya think you’re foolin’?” He turned to his fellow soldier. “’Ere, Rafe, they must think we’re bumpkins or sommat.”
Uncle Fergus’s hand went to the dirk in his belt. “What are these louts saying, Riona?” he asked.
While he’d learned Norman French, Uncle Fergus had never troubled himself to learn the language of the Sassenach. He’d always left it to Riona to deal with merchants or traders from the south.
The last thing Riona wanted was a confrontation between her uncle and these likely well-trained and probably vicious soldiers. Uncle Fergus had been a fine fighter in his day, but that was long ago.
“Leave this to me, Uncle,” she said as she climbed down from the cart. “I’ll speak to them and make sure they understand who they’re talking to.”
The thin guard gestured at the cart with his spear. “You’ve come wi’ somethin’ to sell, I’ll wager, and likely aiming to cheat. Well, whatever it is, his lordship ain’t buying.” Still using his spear as if it were an extension of his hand, he pointed down the road. “Turn around and go back to the bog you come from.”
Riona tried to keep a rein on her temper as she marched up to them. “This is Fergus Mac Gordon Mac Darbudh, Thane of Glencleith,” she declared as she stopped in front of the soldier and shoved his spear aside.
“Oh, this man in the skirt’s a thane, is he?” the guard replied with a smirk. “Thane of the Bog of Bogworth, I think. And who’re you? His daughter? Or his…something else?”
Riona’s lip curled with disgust and she drew herself up to her full height. “He’s my uncle. I am Lady Riona of Glencleith, and you will let us pass, or I’ll tell your overlord of your insolence.”
The stocky man’s eyes widened. “You’re a lady, are you?”
A look of sudden comprehension came to his beady black eyes and he grinned as he nudged his companion. “Look ’ere, Harry. She says she’s a lady—come to marry Sir Nicholas, no doubt.” He tilted back his head and called up to the soldiers on the wall walk. “Did ya hear that? She thinks she’s got a chance for Sir Nicholas!”
As they burst out laughing, Riona turned on her heel—and discovered Uncle Fergus right behind her.
“That’s it,” he declared, reaching for his dirk. “I don’t know what they’re saying, but I’m sure it’s rude. I’m going to teach these Sassenach some manners.”
She put her hand on his arm to prevent him from drawing his weapon. “Don’t bother, Uncle. They’re not worth the trouble. Come on, let’s go meet their master.”
Uncle Fergus hesitated and for a moment she feared he would indeed try to fight the more heavily armed and younger soldiers. But then, to her relief, he nodded. “All right,” he grudgingly agreed. “He’s more important than these worthless louts.”
Wondering how they were going to get inside the castle, Riona walked back to the wagon and climbed onto the seat. As Uncle Fergus joined her, she looked at the two soldiers, who were still standing at the gates, smirking and laughing, and got an idea.
She raised the reins and briskly slapped the horse’s back, not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to startle. With an indignant whinny, the mare broke into a run. Just as startled, Uncle Fergus gave a yelp and grabbed on to the seat.
“Out of the way!” she shouted to the soldiers.
One shoved the other into the moat, then fell after him, their mail jingling as they rolled down to the bottom.
Serves you right, she thought as their horse slowed to an anxious trot once they were through the gatehouse and into the open space of the inner ward. She glanced back, fearing the men at the gates or on the walk would give chase. She heard someone shout to let them go and leave them for Sir Nicholas to deal with.
Not the most comforting of thoughts, but at least she hadn’t let the soldiers send them away like unwelcome beggars.
“Oh, my beauty, they’ll be remembering you!” Uncle Fergus exclaimed as he started to laugh.
She wasn’t sure that was a good thing. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Charging them like a warrior queen wasn’t very ladylike.”
Uncle Fergus patted her on the knee. “They were rude and insolent, and it’s not as if you hurt them. When you’re Sir Nicholas’s wife, you can have them sent away.”
If this was the sort of fellow the lord of Dunkeathe commanded, she certainly didn’t want to be the lady of Dunkeathe. Indeed, it was all she could do not to ask to go home right now. This fortress was too enormous, too intimidating, too Norman by far.
They reached the second imposing gate. Through it she could see the courtyard—and a mass of wagons, servants, horses and soldiers. The noise they made was like waves on the shore, rising and falling, punctuated by the occasional neigh or a brusque order.
Riona steeled herself for another confrontation with insolent Sassenach, but this time there was just a single man standing beside the entrance. He was of middle years, Riona guessed, and definitely not a Scot, for he wore the dress of a Norman and had his light brown hair cut in that peculiar style they favored, as if someone had set a bowl on their head. He was holding a wax tablet and a stylus, so she assumed he must be some kind of clerk.
“The kitchen’s to the left of the hall,” the man said when Uncle Fergus pulled the horse to a halt.
Maybe he wasn’t a Norman, after all, for he spoke Gaelic very well.
“That’s good to know if I get hungry,” Uncle Fergus replied, clearly trying to control his temper. “I’m Fergus Mac Gordon Mac Darbudh, thane of Glencleith, and this is Lady Riona, my niece. We’ve heard about Sir Nicholas’s quest for a bride.”
The man’s eyes betrayed his surprise, but he quickly recovered. “I see. Have you some proof of your title?”
This was something Riona hadn’t foreseen. She was envisioning an ignominious retreat past those Saxon guards when Uncle Fergus said, “If it’s proof you need, I have the king’s charter. I’m guessing a royal document with the king’s seal will be good enough for you?”
Riona stared at him with surprise. He hadn’t said anything to her about bringing the charter; nevertheless, she was relieved to be spared any more embarrassment.
“Aye, it will be,” the man said as Uncle Fergus climbed down from the cart.
He rummaged through the worn leather pouch that held his clothes. “Ah, here it is,” he said as he pulled out a parchment scroll and unrolled it. “Sealed and signed by Alexander himself.”
The man examined it a moment, and Riona realized she was holding her breath.
“Everything seems to be in order,” the man said. He handed back the parchment to Uncle Fergus, who rolled it up again, and wrote their names on his tablet. “Welcome to Castle Dunkeathe, my lord, my lady. I am Robert Martleby, Sir Nicholas’s steward.”
“Delighted to meet you, Martleby,” Uncle Fergus