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 replied in his usual jovial manner.
“I’m pleased to meet you, too, my lord. Now, if you’ll be so good as to carry on into the yard, the head groom will tell you where you may stable your horse and put your, um, conveyance.”
“What about our quarters?” Uncle Fergus asked.
“There’ll be someone in the ward to direct you,” Martleby replied.
“Excellent!” Uncle Fergus exclaimed as he got back on the cart.
He lifted the reins and clucked his tongue, and the cart rumbled over the cobblestones into the inner yard. Once inside, the noise was overwhelming, worse than the celebrations of May Day and a market combined. There had to be a hundred people there, some still in their wagons, others mounted and more already on the ground. Servants dashed between the people and vehicles, and various soldiers milled about in small groups. Drivers shouted at each other as they tried to maneuver the wagons that held not just guests, but their considerable baggage, too.
Thank heavens trying to organize this crowd wasn’t her responsibility, Riona thought. For once, she could just sit and wait to be told what to do, instead of having to figure out how to do it.
On the other hand, it was frustrating, too. Forming a line to speak to the man in charge would be one solution to some of the confusion. Setting servants to direct the drivers toward the stables would have been another. Assigning one servant to eachguest, to see to their baggage and accommodation, would have lessened the chaos, too.
It took Uncle Fergus a while, but eventually he managed to get their horse and cart off to one side, away from the more crowded center. The odors coming out of the building closest to them told Riona they must be beside the kitchen.
“Now, Riona, which one of these fine gentlemen do you suppose is Sir Nicholas?” Uncle Fergus asked, scratching his beard as he surveyed the yard.
“I have no idea,” she answered, her gaze going from one richly attired man to another. None of them looked like her idea of a hardened mercenary.
Uncle Fergus nodded at a haughty man of mature years, mounted on a gray horse. “What about him?”
“How old is Sir Nicholas?”
“Aye, you’re right. That fellow’s not young enough. Maybe that one there?” Uncle Fergus gestured at a man who was certainly young, dressed in bright yellow damask and mounted upon a white horse with very elaborate accoutrements of silver, like his master’s spurs.
“He doesn’t look the sort to have ever been a soldier,” Riona warily replied.
Frowning with concentration, Uncle Fergus nodded. “Aye. That one wouldn’t want to muss his clothes and fighting’s a bloody, sweaty, messy business. Maybe him?”
Riona followed his pointing finger to a man standing in the middle of the yard surrounded by several well-dressed men and a few soldiers who all seemed to be asking questions at the same time. He was dark haired, but not exactly young, and he appeared distinctly harried as he gestured at the stables as if in answer to their queries. “I think he must be the head groom,” she said.
“I think you’re right,” Uncle Fergus agreed as he started to get down off their wagon. “And since he’s the fellow I’m supposed to see about stabling our horse and putting our cart somewhere, I’d best go speak to him. I’ll try to find out about our quarters, too, while I’m at it. Stay here, Riona, till I get back. And keep an eye out for our host. I’m sure he’s here somewhere, greeting his guests.”
Riona wasn’t so sure about that, although Sir Nicholas would be guilty of a breach of good manners if he wasn’t. But since she had nothing else to do anyway, she nodded and waved a little farewell as Uncle Fergus set off through the crowd.
Wondering how long he was likely to be, and what Sir Nicholas was really like—for she didn’t doubt Uncle Fergus’s description was overly favorable—she turned her attention back to the people in the courtyard.
Several servants were unloading the wagons and taking chests and bundles into a large building on the other side of the yard that looked like a barracks, save for the narrow arched windows. Perhaps they were family apartments and servants’ chambers.
Beside that was another long building, which she guessed was the hall.
In addition to the kitchen, there were stables and other buildings that were probably storehouses of some sort, and an armory. She suspected there were more buildings that she couldn’t see to accommodate the garrison.
Maybe Sir Nicholas was looking out of one of the windows in the second floor of the apartments, watching them, smugly pleased to see all the people who’d come, and exulting in their urge to have one of their family meet his approval.
