“I don’t want my guests to think I’m poor, or inhospitable.”
“Of course not, my lord. Yet I must point out that we’ve taken quite a gamble spending so much and now—”
“I took the gamble, Robert. Not you.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Anything more?”
Robert shifted and toyed with the edge of the rolled parchment he held. “Unfortunately, my lord, while no one has complained about the food or the wine, there have been some murmurings of discontent among the nobles.”
“What about?” Nicholas demanded, thinking of the amount of money he was spending to keep the aristocrats housed, fed and entertained. “If it’s the weather, surely they can’t expect me to do anything about that.”
“No, my lord, not the weather.” Robert cleared his throat again and didn’t meet Nicholas’s steady gaze. “There are questions being asked about the Scot and his niece.”
“What sort of questions?” Nicholas asked, wondering if anyone had guessed that he had feelings for Riona.
“Well, my lord, they wonder why they’re still here. It’s quite clear that they are not wealthy, or influential.”
“Tell them what I told you—they are the only Scots who came and I won’t have other Scots claim I was too proud to entertain the notion of marrying one of their countrywomen, even if no other arrived. My guests should understand I dare not upset the Scots. They all live in fear that one day, the Saxons or the Welsh might rebel. You can also tell my noble Norman guests that Fergus Mac Gordon has some very interesting ideas about livestock that I want to hear.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No, my lord.”
Nicholas returned to looking out the window. Sir George came reeling out of the hall. He stopped by the nearest wall and, throwing back his head, relieved himself.
“The wine,” Nicholas muttered.
Robert, on the threshold, hesitated and turned back. “My lord?”
“Save what you can on the wine. Use the best only at meals. At other times, cheaper will do, especially if it’s for Sir George. I don’t think he’ll notice, or care.”
Robert smiled. “No, my lord, I don’t believe he will.”
Sir Percival, in a tunic of bilious green and light blue in a combination that seemed designed to dazzle the eye and boggle the mind, arrived on the threshold of the solar. The steward bowed as he passed him on the way out, while Percival sauntered into the room as if it were his own.
Nicholas wanted to strike him down on the spot. Only the knowledge that he might decide to marry the fellow’s cousin kept his temper under control.
“You wanted to speak to me, my lord? About Eleanor, I hope?”
“Yes, I did.”
The man’s expression changed. He was trying to look as if he wasn’t worried, but Nicholas had spent years among warriors of both bravery and bravado, and he didn’t doubt that beneath those fine clothes, Percival was sweating.
Good. He wouldn’t ask the man to sit, or offer him any wine, either.
“It has come to my attention, Percival,” he said, slowly circling the well-dressed, perfumed young man, “that you have made some improper advances.”
Percival colored, yet he smiled as if this was some kind of merry jest. “I fear there’s been a terrible mistake.”
“And you’ve been the one making it.”
“What did she—?” Percival began, then he caught himself and tried to smile again. “What have you heard, my lord?”
“Enough.”
