Claire Delacroix (33 page)

I could not guess whether William believed me or not.

“My regrets, my lady.” He bowed again and offered the merest smile. “Know that I would have attended the funeral mass, had I been aware of when and where it was held. Merlyn was an exceptional man.”

“My apologies in turn, Sir William.” I softened ever so slightly. “I was not sufficiently familiar with my husband’s acquaintances in this land to ensure that all were summoned. I took refuge in the comfort of family.”

He smiled then, a chilly smile that did little to ease his harsh features. “Still you do not know who was responsible for this vile deed?”

“No, I do not. Do you?”

He inhaled sharply at my audacity. “Would you believe me, my lady Ysabella, if I swore that I would find Merlyn’s killer?”

There was no accusation in his tone, no chastisement for whatever suspicion I felt toward him or any other. He had assessed my situation and appreciated that it was not a good one.

“I dare not trust any man until my husband’s assailant is brought to justice, sir.”

He smiled more broadly. “No one can fault another for showing caution in the wake of danger.”

I was uncertain what to make of his change in manner.

A fleeting frown touched his brow when I said nothing and his tone altered once again, becoming cautious. “You spoke of family. Did you and Merlyn have children?”

“Sadly, no. My younger brother will be heir to Ravensmuir.”

“How young?”

“He has seen four summers.”

The older man was clearly discontent with this news. “A dangerous time for children.”

“What is that to mean?”

William met my gaze steadily. “That a young heir oft does not survive to gain his legacy. Childhood is fraught with accidents.”

My blood chilled. I was suddenly very glad that Tynan was not present to meet these flint-hearted men.

“Is Merlyn’s brother, Gawain, in residence at Ravensmuir?”

“No longer,” I declared and took Mavella’s hand. “My sister lingers to console me in my grief.”

“How gracious.” William bowed over her hand. He reached to scratch the dog’s ears but the hound snarled at him.

I shrugged, thinking what meat I continued to give the beast was well invested. “I apologize but the hound is somewhat protective.” I rubbed the creature’s chin and it licked my fingers, its gaze never straying from William.

“I suggest you let no other soul feed it, my lady, for the loyalty of a hound fed by one’s own hand is the only loyalty that is never in doubt.”

“Did you come to warn me, Sir William?”

His expression turned secretive and he looked back at his men. “Among other matters.”

Before I could ask what he meant, the clarion call of another herald sounded over the moor. We looked down the road as one, and the Earl of March’s party came into sight, just as richly adorned as this party but somewhat less numerous.

“George Dunbar, the Earl of March,” muttered William.

“Yes, he sent word of his pending arrival.”

“Did he?” William donned his gloves once more.

“Ravensmuir’s stable is at your disposal, sir, though I must apologize for the lack of ostler and squires at Ravensmuir. We have kept a minimal household here, given our infrequent visits. I hope there is sufficient fodder for so many steeds.”

William nodded brusquely. “I am certain that all shall be suitable.”

I was less certain, but continued all the same. “I should appreciate some allowance made for the party of the Earl of March in the stables. I would not have my hospitality slighted, though I leave such details to be arranged between men.”

“As is most proper.” William lifted a hand to his party, granting me a grin so wicked that I was surprised. “Though I tell you, my lady, that March can sate himself with my leavings. It is a lesson I delight in teaching him these days.”

When he might have turned away, I called after him. “A moment, Sir William. My husband’s assailant is still at large. You will understand my reluctance to have armed men in my hall when there is a threat against my family and my house.”

I watched him struggle with this, for he knew what I would ask. He understood my reasoning, yet it went against his every grain to cede it to me.

“I would have your blade surrendered to my hand, Sir William, while you linger at my keep. And I would have your pledge that each of your men will leave their weapons of war outside my hall.”

“You know that this is most uncommon.”

I held his gaze stubbornly. “You know that my circumstances are most uncommon, and this situation constrains my hospitality.”

“It is beneath the dignity of a knight to be asked such a thing.”

“I agree that this is a matter better suited to men. Perhaps you and the Earl of March might provide a check each upon the other, to ensure that my will is served in my hall and my family’s safety is secured. I ask this of you, relying upon your reputation as a knight and a man of honor.”

William’s gaze flitted over the ramparts and gates, assessing my keep’s defenses, then he studied me, seeking some weakness.

Resignation crossed his brow and I was relieved. Whether he would protect me from himself, from the Earl of March, or simply deceive me into trusting him, I could not say.

William bowed his head, unbuckled his scabbard and offered the sheathed blade to me. “I cede to you, lady Ysabella, for I too would see Merlyn Lammergeier’s murder avenged.”

I took the blade and gripped the scabbard tightly. “Then, I bid you welcome, Sir William. Welcome to Ravensmuir.”

He bowed then beckoned his party onward. The knights parted to let six wagons that had been arrayed behind the knights pass through their ranks. The wagons were loaded to the point of sagging, I had assumed with bedding and weaponry. As they passed through Ravensmuir’s gates under William’s direction, however, I saw that they were loaded with food and wine.

“God bless him,” Mavella murmured gratefully.

But I was not so quick to invoke such favor for a man whose motives I could not clearly discern. Indeed, I wondered what would be the price of William’s understanding.

* * *

I greeted my next guest, George Dunbar, with his lofty condolences and his comparatively humble retinue. Our new king had chosen - or been compelled to choose - Sir William over him, and it seemed that Sir George did not take the change of stature well. It had been rumored that George’s sister Agnes was to be King David’s new bride - but the roof of Edinburgh keep had fallen in upon David and his men before the nuptial vows could be exchanged.

Before Sir George could secure the advantage he expected to become his own. King Robert had a wife and no need of Agnes, thus the alliance was thwarted.

George was glum, as one might expect, and sighed heavily though without surprise at the news that William had arrived first at Ravensmuir. I had set a precedent he could not deny by claiming William’s blade - George recognized it on sight and, no doubt not wanting to be outdone, was quick to offer his own blade as well.

Calum was among Sir George’s attending knights, and I recalled that he had said his fealty was pledged to Dunbar. He spared me but a slight smile, intent as he was upon easing closer to his liege lord.

Intriguingly, it appeared that Sir George evaded Calum, though only a watchful soul would have noted as much and perhaps my fanciful eye found evidence of something that was not there.

Once we were seated in the hall, I noticed how seldom knights spoke to Calum. It seemed he had few intimates. I recalled Merlyn’s claim that he was unworthy of trust.

But then, relations between men were complicated by matters of alliance and advantage. Perhaps others had had their eye upon Dunkilber and resented that Calum had been granted not only the manor but the glory of besieging it to make his claim. The truth was not of great import, so I put the matter from my thoughts.

There were myriad details, after all, to occupy my attention. Mercifully, there was a great deal of fine wine stored in Ravensmuir’s cellars. There were stores that I had not known I possessed yet were most welcome in this moment. Long contented with ale - though surely not of the caliber of mine - the men fell upon the opened casks with delight.

Praise be to God that there were many more casks.

We ate late, well past midday, for there was much to be arranged and settled before the men could come to the board, and indeed, much haste in the kitchen to even see the board laid. I feared the men would be stone drunk before they had a morsel in their bellies, and that madness would ensue, but the kitchen door opened just as the din rose too loud.

The men were ravenously hungry and they ate heartily, sparing attention for little beyond their trenchers and cups. The hall was filled to bursting for once, and I was glad of both the merry blaze in the fireplace and the space we had to offer.

I sat between two old men, George Dunbar and William Douglas. George was less lean than William, less like a hawk and more like a dumpling. His manner was somewhat morose, as I have said. They were not great friends or even allies, for what few words were exchanged between them were terse. Sir George’s son John sat upon his left, Mavella sat upon William’s right.

I could not eat, even with their blades in my possession. They must have come to wrestle over Ravensmuir and I had to somehow secure my own inheritance. The food was as dust in my mouth.

“I suppose we have both come for the same reason,” George said as he pushed back from the remains of his meal.

“I suspect that we have,” William agreed. He flicked a glance to me. “You do understand, my lady, that Ravensmuir’s succession from Merlyn must be assured and witnessed by your closest neighbors.”

“I know no such thing. Is it not the king who must be privy to such matters?”

“As royal justiciar, I am effectively the king in these parts,” William said icily.

“As a baron of the realm, I provide an insurance upon the authority of the crown’s representative in such matters,” George added with a stony glance to William.

“But I fail to see why Ravensmuir is of such interest.” I dabbed my lips delicately with my napkin. “There is no wealth in the manor itself. There are no fields, no villeins, no tithes.”

“Its location alone is too key to suffer it to fall into the hands of an enemy,” William said. George nodded and they both looked expectantly to me. “To whom do you intend to swear fealty?”

“I must confess that I do not know the tradition of Ravensmuir.” Tradition, we all knew, was the root of the practice of law outside matters of high justice. “My husband never discussed such matters with me.”

“As is proper,” William agreed. “It is not a woman’s place to engage in such arrangements.”

George cleared his throat. “I beg to differ. My own mother defended Dunbar in my father’s absence.”

“
‘Came I early, came I late, there was Agnes at the gate’
,” William said flatly, recounting some verse I did not know. “Your mother’s deeds are well known, George, though your family tends to forget that she would have had no need to defend Dunbar if your father had not treacherously given it to the English king in the first place.”

George colored. “The fact remains that a woman’s valor should not be overlooked.”

“Nor should her inheritance.” William smiled, his expression revealing a fine array of teeth. “Shall we view the proof of your inheritance of Ravensmuir, my lady?”

If there was anything amiss legally, I knew that they would be just as competitive in lodging a complaint against my suzerainty.

If not simply seize the keep as their own.

“Of course.” I laid Merlyn’s box upon the board and retrieved the key hung about my neck. The hall fell silent as I produced the deed to Ravensmuir, its scarlet ribbons and seals hinting at its pedigree.

I learned long ago that there was little to be gained - beyond mockery - in admitting my inability to read. In this company, I could only assume the response would be worse, for these men might take advantage of my uncertainty of my claim, no less my inability to cite proof of what was my own.

I pretended thus to be utterly familiar with the contents of the deed. I passed the beribboned document to George, he who admired the strengths of women, and smiled.

“I entreat you, Sir George, to read this deed aloud, lest there be doubt among the company that I have embellished the text to my own benefit.”

The men harrumphed approval and Sir George began to read. The deed, like most of its kind, detailed the property of Ravensmuir, its boundaries and buildings, and the rights of its suzerain to hold courts for peasants abiding upon its land and to defend the holding from assailants, then enumerated the taxes and tithes that might be collected.

And that was where the resemblance ended.

Sir George frowned at the document, the first hint that all was not as he expected. “I thought Ravensmuir was pledged to you and thence to the king,” he said to William.

William leaned over me to read the text himself. “I thought it sworn to you and thence to the king.”

Both men whistled beneath their breath as they read. Mavella met my gaze with concern. Though I fretted silently, I kept my expression placid, as if I knew the document’s contents well. “I trust all meets with your satisfaction?”

“No, it does not.” William sat back and drained his cup of wine, then thumped the cup on the board.

George cleared his throat and frowned at the document again. “Though it appears that there is little that can be done.”

“The guarantee is in King David’s own hand. I know his script well,” William noted, touching his finger to one of the signatures at the bottom.

George grimaced agreement. I nigh screamed in frustration that it took men so long to ask the most obvious question.

“Well, what does it say?” George’s son John demanded finally.

George read it aloud. “In deepest gratitude for the services rendered by Avery Lammergeier, Ravensmuir is granted without restraint and without duties or payments due to any overlord, including the King of Scotland himself, and is granted to that same Avery and whatsoever heirs he and his heirs should so designate from this day forward. Avery, styled Laird of Ravensmuir by this edict, and his every heir who follows him, owes no fealty, owes no tithe, and owes no allegiance to any beyond the King of Scotland himself. Pronounced this April the fifth, in the year of our lord 1350 by David II, King of Scotland and witnessed by John Randolph, Earl of Moray, Maurice Moray, Earl of Strathearn, Robert Erskine...”