Chapter Seven
Henry de Moreville stood upon the curtain wall and watched Teàrlach arrive in the late hours through the main gates. The guards lowered the portcullis behind him. It was dark and the castle slept. For a moment that morn, he had worried that his head guardsman was going to throw a punch at him. Clearly angry, Teàrlach had parted so readily with his five-pound disbursement, the guard was either a fool or smitten.
Interesting. Teàrlach didn’t have a reputation as a fool.
The darkness carried with it a chill. Henry returned inside, passing the spiral stairs that led down to the hall where many of his servants snoozed on pallets. A soldier sat slouched in an unlit corner, guiding Clara’s head up and down upon his lap. It appeared that the wench was administering her famed “kissing.” Moreville ignored it. Clara kept many a man happy, and happy men worked better.
He walked along the open gallery, looking over the darkened hall, at the fresh rushes laid earlier that day, though looking at nothing at all. He had a lot on his mind. And his son was due to arrive in the morning from his latest excursion, no doubt from a trip to York to woo Lady Anna, the woman he was about to find out he would never marry. Ah, such was the life of the peerage. Hopefully, his son was at least wise enough not to sow his seeds and make a babe out of wedlock, like he had done himself with both John and Gertrude. But such was also the way of men, and John was a man now.
Returning to his solar, he closed the door, now certain he would have some uninterrupted privacy. He went to a wooden chest that sat upon a shelf along the far wall and pulled out a key, unlocking it and lifting the lid. He pulled out a missive. The king’s messenger had delivered two messages the other day, though one he had been careful to slip away unnoticed. He slid his thumb under the seal, peeling the unmarked wax off the parchment and setting it aside. Wax could always be melted and reused. Flipping open the letter, he scanned it, pondered it, and reread it. Once satisfied that he understood it, he walked to his hearth where the fire waned and rolled with the wavering of glowing embers, tossed the parchment in, and watched the edges of it curl in on themselves.
Then he turned back to his desk where his coffers sat and unlocked the lid. Within the box was a stack of fifteen coins and a stack of five. He put the fifteen coins into an empty purse and drew the strings, adding it to a second locking chest also filled with bags of coins, leaving the five coins where they were. Then he withdrew Teàrlach’s purse and poured them into the coffer, locking the lid once again. He walked to a shelf housing manuscripts and pulled one down, opening it. Withdrawing his ledger from within the manuscript’s cutout pages, he dipped his quill into the ink, opened the ledger, and made two entries:
£5—Payment for goods, Teàrlach MacGregor
£5—
He left the name of the second deposit blank, blew across the page until the ink was no longer wet, and closed the ledger. Locking his solar, he walked down the corridor, passing his wife’s chamber. Normally, he would seek her bed, but she was likely fast asleep after another day of planning the Latha Bealltainn festival, and his son was due to arrive on the morrow. Best to get his sleep now, for John was sure to cause him a headache when he broke the news about the betrothal.
…
Moreville’s steward arrived at his solar door the following day and knocked.
“Enter,” called Henry.
The door opened. “Your son arrives, my lord, in time for the nooning meal. Do you wish to see him?”
Moreville shook his head. “Tell him to join me at the board. I have happy tidings for him. We’ll discuss it over the fresh venison the kitchens have prepared. I imagine he is famished.”
The steward bowed and quit the room, and Moreville stood, adjusted his coat, and followed the path his steward took into the main hall. If he forced John to discuss the betrothal in front of others, mayhap it would keep his son’s anger in check. Climbing onto the dais, he moved to his seat in the center as John emerged through the main doors. The young man had turned into a proud swordsman. He was taller, too, having surpassed Moreville’s height by the age of eight and ten. Things for any father to be proud of.
Moreville remained standing.
“Father,” John greeted, dipping into a bow before walking around the dais and coming to his seat.
Pricilla came into the hall with Gertrude on her arm. The two were close in age and more like sisters, Henry couldn’t help but think, and both came to their respective seats, Pricilla to Henry’s other side, and Gertrude next to her.
“The steward says you have tidings for me, Father,” John remarked, tucking into the board beside Henry.
“Indeed, but first, where did your most recent exploits take you?” Moreville asked, also sitting.
“York. I’ve been visiting Lady Anna, and I have news for you as well. May I proceed first?”
Moreville felt a prickle of unease settle in his stomach. If what he sensed his son was about to tell him was what he thought it was, being fresh off the horse from the castle of the lady he favored, then he knew an exchange of harsh words was inevitable.
“Please, do tell,” Moreville gestured, regarding his bastard son begotten on a peasant woman three years his senior when he’d been a lad himself. The lass had given him his first experience swiving. His own father, John’s grandfather, hadn’t allowed his grandson to be recognized, and it wasn’t until the old man had died from a poor heart that Henry had brought John, at the age of six, to his estate and placed him in the succession.
“I’ve asked Lady Anna to marry me. I approached her father and her cousin, Will Scarlet, too, and both agreed that if she wished it, a betrothal could proceed, so long as they have a contract with you. This is what I want, Father. I’d like you to draft a contract. I know she isn’t your choice for me, but I will be the one marrying her and think my opinion should be a priority.”
Moreville set down his knife with a cut of venison on it and leaned back. Dammit. Yes, harsh words were about to ring out. John was stubborn. Moreville rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling. John set down his own knife, too, the set of his jaw growing stern as if he readied for an exchange.
“Are you not going to say anything? Or are you about to tell me how Anna ‘offers you nothing politically’? I’ve heard it all before, Father,” he remarked sarcastically.
“No, I’m about to tell you you’re already betrothed, and that King William has given his blessing—”
“To Anna?” John asked hopefully.
“No. To Lady Madeline Crawford,” Moreville stated. “She brings with her a fattened dowry and I want it. The news has already been announced to the lady. This is a much better suit—”
“For you,” snarled John, shoving to his feet. “Not for me, and I’m the one you sentenced to this, this farce without my consent. While I was away? Aren’t you the sly businessman…”
The hall fell silent.
“You’ll maintain your respect,” Henry said, rising to his feet, his brow dark.
“Or what?” John retorted.
“It’s my job to secure your marriage. I care not if you like Madeline. You’re not marrying her because you like her. But you are marrying her and that’s final. The king approves of my arrangement, seeing I’m already the girl’s warden, and you get quite the wealthy start in life as your own lord with the money and land parcel she carries to marriage. I’ll build you mistress’s quarters, if it will placate you. I’ve been saving to see a home refurbished for you. A grand home, on a parcel of land I intend to gift you.”
“I want none of it!” John exploded. “Why have any of it when I have to share it with someone I don’t want? Madeline? Really? She’s as daft as a door latch!” He stormed off the dais, heading toward the stairs leading to the bedchambers. “I won’t do it!”
“You haven’t a choice!” Henry thundered.
“I’m leaving, Father! This is shite! I’m returning to York immediately!”
“You’ll be back in time to marry her or so help me I’ll disinherit you!” threatened Moreville.
John froze in the archway, turning back over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t,” he fumed.
“Don’t tempt me, lad. You’ll fulfill your duty in marriage, or you go it alone from this moment forward,” said Moreville, sensing he had the upper hand again.
John shook his head, scoffing. “You made me a bastard, but right now, you act the bastard more than I ever could. What game do you play at?”
The question wasn’t meant to be answered as John spun and quit the hall. Henry turned and noticed Pricilla and Gertrude shocked, staring wide-eyed at him. And then he noticed his head guardsman at the end of the board, watching the direction in which John had exited. Lord, but how could a man as large as Teàrlach MacGregor create such a small presence? He hadn’t even noticed the man enter the hall.
…
Teàrlach watched John storm away, then glanced back at Moreville. So John was just as displeased to marry Madeline as she was to marry him. He didn’t feel like eating another bite but resumed his meal with no indication that his stomach roiled at the mere thought of Madeline and John on their wedding night. That and he had slept so poorly upon his arrival back to Glengarnock at the thought of all the horrible things that might befall Madeline alone in her tower, his head was splitting, as if he had drunk too much the night before.
He nodded to Duncan who sat beneath him at the first table, indicating they should finish up and return to the yard. The men were to be marched to the outer fields to exercise their skills against the quintains upon horseback, and it would take some minutes to account for everyone and organize their march. He glanced back at Moreville, aware that the man watched him, though treating it like it mattered naught. Gertrude then followed her father’s stare, and her gaze settled upon Teàrlach. A hateful glare furrowed her face.
Apparently, the girl hadn’t forgiven him. Pity. He chuckled inwardly. Not really, actually.
Henry de Moreville tugged out the hem of his coat with a huff, straightening it, and sat down again. He resumed eating in such a measured rhythm it was clear to Teàrlach that the man was pissed. He returned to his own unappetizing trencher and finished eating. He began to push back his chair to rise, when Lady Pricilla arrived at his side.
He stood and nodded to her, and turned to leave, when she stopped him.
“Ah, Sir MacGregor, may I address you for one moment?”
He furrowed his brow at her request, English, but nodded politely. “Aye, my lady. What can I do for you?”
She smiled, her dark hair pulled back into an intricate braid and her brown eyes gazing up at him, darker than his. “I’m sorry to delay you, but as you know, it’s a task of Lord Moreville’s wife to plan the May Day Fair in Montgrynan.” He gave her a nod of understanding, and she continued. “I’ve been tallying up the staff who will be attending, which is almost everyone, except for you. Will you be attending the Montgrynan Fair?”
Hell no. He was taking Madeline in the opposite direction. “I planned to go to Kilbirnie,” he said.
“Kilbirnie?” she replied. “Any particular reason you would go to Lord Barclay’s fair instead of your own?”
“A lass,” he replied.
“I see,” Lady Pricilla acknowledged, comprehension dawning. “I’ll make note that you won’t be traveling with us. My thanks, sire.”
She gave him a polite nod and walked away with Gertrude, who lingered by the doorway. He ignored them putting their heads together to gossip and left the hall, exiting onto the steps, and marched down into the bailey where Duncan was working to assemble the men. Tomorrow was the Lord’s day. They needed to get on with their work for the afternoon. Then, all he had to do was make it two more days without driving himself into a state of unrest over Madeline: alone in Dungarnock like a sitting duck, waiting for a hunter’s arrow.