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“Wine, please.”
Her companion murmured to a servant who Roselyn assumed must be stationed behind them and she listened to the gentle splashing as her goblet was filled. Roselyn stretched out her hand to locate the vessel, then took a tentative sip. The rich flavour exploded on her tongue.
“This is very good, my lord.”
“Yes, so I am told though I prefer a good ale myself. Or a decent whisky. Please, eat.”
Roselyn picked up a piece of meat and chewed on it. The swan, she surmised. Despite her hunger though she could not enjoy the meal until she knew more of the fate of those she awaited so eagerly.
“My lord, have the travellers from Etal been sighted yet?”
“Nay, they have not.”
“But—”
“I would have hoped to see them here by now. I have given instructions that a party will leave here at first light to search the route they would be expected to take. If there is news, we shall discover it soon enough I daresay. There is nothing tae be done tonight, so I suggest ye enjoy this fine repast and put them from your mind for now. If ye must chatter, perhaps ye might like to tell me what quarrel ye have with my private staircase.”
He was right, she knew that. Roselyn set aside her concerns for a while and concentrated instead on explaining her fears regarding falling down the narrow, winding staircases so prevalent in keeps such as this.
“Ye must be restricted in your movements, I suspect, if ye canna manage stairs.”
“At Kelso the Reverend Mother was kind enough to arrange for a handrail to be installed on the main curved staircase so I could go up and down well enough. The main stairs at Etal are—were—straight and quite wide so I could use them safely enough. I should be relieved, I suppose, as I do not believe my brother would have been sensitive to my needs in the matter.”
“Aye, I daresay ye’re right there. Is something amiss with the sturgeon?”
“No, my lord. It is delicious.”
“Then perhaps ye might manage to eat a few bites rather than poking at it as though ye expect it to up and swim off at any moment.”
She nodded and returned her attention to the food on the trencher but still Roselyn struggled to properly appreciate the delicate flavours and rich textures of the food before her. She nibbled at the fine fare, complimenting the skill of her friend Elspeth whilst doing little justice to the products of it. She lifted a particularly succulent morsel of suckling pig to her lips then thought better of it and lowered her hand.
“Oooh, what was that?” The tidbit was snatched from between her fingers before she could fathom what was happening.
Blair chuckled. “Ah, the hounds have taken a fancy to ye, my lady. Or at least, to the food ye seem intent on pushing around our trencher.” He swung around in his chair “Archie, chase these greedy mongrels off, will ye?”
Roselyn placed her now empty fingers back in her lap, and was surprised at the warm, wet sensation which assailed her senses.
“Oh, it is licking me.” She turned her hand and the rough tongue scraped her palm. “I believe I must taste of fine pork.”
“Aye, no doubt. Have no fear though, Freya is gentle enough.”
“Freya? That is her name?” Roselyn brought her other hand around and found the huge head now wedged in her lap. She fondled the hound’s ears, noting the rough and rather long coat. “I have always loved dogs. Horses too, though I am not permitted to ride any more. This is a large animal, I believe?”
“Aye, Freya is a wolfhound, though not a particularly useful one as I recall.” The laird sounded amused. “She suffered a broken hind leg as a pup so has not the speed needed for hunting. She bears fine litters though, so has earned her place in our hall.”
“I believe she likes me.” The dog continued to rest her massive head across Roselyn’s thighs and submitted to a gentle ear-tugging.
“Freya likes everyone,” observed her host dryly. “She is sweet-natured enough if a trifle over-fond of the hearth. Is she bothering you, my lady?”
“No, not at all. May she stay here?”
“If you like,” granted the laird, “but please dinna feed her all our finest morsels. She has bother enough stirring herself without putting on more fat.”
“She feels perfectly lean enough to me, sir,” countered Roselyn. “I believe that Freya and I shall be friends.”
Roselyn was correct. The wolfhound remained at her side during the rest of the meal, and even tried to follow her and the laird back up to his solar when the feasting was over. The McGregor was having none of that.
“Archie, hang onto this hound, will ye. I’ll not be sharin’ my bed wi’ a bloody dog.” He escorted Roselyn back out into the public lobby and up the main stairs. Once back in his solar he saw her safe into her chamber then offered to summon Meggie to help her undress.
