AT THE COURT
Conn tapped his foot on the carpet below him, pretending not to notice that it was woven of Oriental silk and would cost as much as a guardsman might earn in five years, maybe longer.
They can keep their fancy rugs. It's my time I'm wasting here. And that's more precious to me.
He sighed, knowing he was being tiresome, but not being able to stop it. He chafed at being made to wait.
“And Lord Gowan is here, with a petition to the king...”
Conn rolled his eyes, feeling himself start to run out of patience. Barons, earls, and knights all passed in ahead of him and he chafed at being so blatantly ignored.
I might be from the fells of the North, but I'm a thane's son.
It ought to count for something. Sickened as he was by the fact that titled men rode horses past beggars in the streets, he was still glad of the minor advantage his gave him. Or should have, were these folk not blatantly ignoring him.
“...and Sir Bosworth, here to present a claim in a dispute...”
“Excuse me,” Conn said urgently to the official who stood at the door, presiding over the anteroom. “I have a claim of dispute too! And I've waited ages!”
The man gave him a withering look. “Order of precedence, young sir,” he said firmly.
“Precedence be hanged!” Conn whispered hotly.
The man glared at him. “I'll have you know, young man, that I am an officer of the law! A...”
He trailed off as a trumpet blast cut across the chamber, stilling them all instantly.
“Make way for the king! His royal highness, the king of Scotland.”
“Kneel!” the official whispered to Conn. Conn, glancing around briskly, noted that he and the official were the only people not getting to their knees. He hastened to comply and they both fell, suddenly, as if pole-axed.
“Make way for His Royal Highness!”
As the procession neared him, Conn looked up in awe. The king walked at the head, resplendent in a fur-lined cloak, the body of it deep red velvet. He wore a fine wool tunic, a doublet of cloth-of-gold. Behind him followed a long train of nobles, bright in velvets of green, ocher, and blue. He shook his head, astonished.
That's the king of Scotland! I just saw him. What would Leona think?
He bit back a smile. Where Leona was now, she was probably meeting all sorts of the nobility: knights, earls, barons. She would probably be scantily impressed by his sighting of the King of Scotland!
As it was, it only lasted about five seconds.
He grinned ruefully to himself, shaking his head. The procession had passed already, the last train of officials walking briskly past. The man who knelt beside him shot him a look.
“What're you smiling for?” he asked crossly.
“Nothing, sir,” Conn assured him, biting back the grin which crossed his face. “Nothing at all.”
His wry humor in the situation slowly dissipated. In truth, there was little to smile about – he was here, stuck in cold, wet Edinburgh, with a claim his father needed signed, conferring the ownership of a tract of land on their Northern border to him over their neighbor, Thane of Gorline. He sighed. He had seen a king, though.
I wish Leona was here.
It would make even this tiresome duty to his father worthwhile. If, at the end of his journey, he could return and see Leona at the castle, waiting for him.
I'd give anything for that.
He waited until the official procession had passed, and then stood, dusting the knees of his trews where he had knelt on the dusty flagging of the room.
“Well, then,” the official said. “Lord Dennehue will go in first, and then you,” he said, fixing Conn with a baneful glance.
Conn grinned, shrugging easily. That suits me.
He waited while the lord who went in ahead of him had some vigorous dispute, and then he himself was going in. He drew in a deep breath as the official let him past at last.
Hurray! I'll never have to see him again, nor stand here to wait.
The feeling of relief and elation followed him into the small, cramped office.
“Name?” an arid voice hailed him.
“Conn McNeil,” Conn said hastily.
“Business?” the tired voice asked.
Conn, adjusting his eyes to the comparative gloom of the office, saw a priest behind the oak-wood desk, his face wearing a tired, perpetually-bored expression. “I'm here for a dispute, Father,” he said quickly. “A land claim.”
“A wondrous change,” the priest said sarcastically, glancing skyward a moment as if to pray for strength. “Well, let's see it then.”
Conn, surprised at the offhandedness of the command, reached into the oilskin satchel in which he had carefully transported the document from Dunkeld to the capital, and withdrew it. It was marked with his father's seal, and that of their neighbor. All it needed was to be authenticated.
“Well, then,” the man said tiredly. “I can verify that it's genuine and official. I suppose that's what you want from me.”
“Yes, sir,” Conn said hastily. “If you could sign it and seal it for me? It would be appreciated.”
“That's what I was about to do, son,” the priest grumbled. “Well, where are the old things, eh?” He rummaged on the desk, finding a vast bronze-cast seal, which he proceeded to hold in one hand while his right reached for a bar of wax and the lamp.
“There...we...are,” he said slowly, as he waited for the wax to drip and settle, then pressed the seal. “All done.”
He signed it with a flourish, strewed sand on the ink to let it dry faster, then blew off the sand and lifted it, handing it to Conn with a lofty gesture of his hand. He wore the ring of a bishop, Conn noticed numbly.
“That's that?” he asked, hearing his voice come out squeakier than intended. He couldn't believe the waiting was done. And such a speedy process! It was amazing.
“Well, that's all I have to do, son,” the priest said patiently. “Getting the fellows named on that charter to agree to my ratification is your mission. Not mine, for which I thank Heaven. Farewell, son.”
Conn inclined his head, a halting bow. “Farewell, Father.”
He backed out of the door hastily, almost flattening the official who stood before it, staff in hand.
“That's the way out,” the man said frostily.
“Thank you, sir.” Conn thanked the man and walked briskly to the door, rushing to it as if pursued by rioters.
Out in the street, he drew in a long, shuddering breath.
“It's over,” he said, feeling suddenly lighter. The long arduous journey, with the pressing worry that perhaps something would go wrong, and the charter be disputed, was finished. He had done it.
Well, that's a relief.
He grinned and walked off quickly, leaving the bulk of the palace behind him.
He rode off as soon as he had found the stable and claimed his horse, turning back once to glance at the squat, resilient bulk of the castle where it stood, brooding, on the hill behind him.
He followed the winding road down into the town, intending to find an inn or hostel somewhere where he could find a meal.
Then after, I'll settle some accommodation and plan my return.
It had been a brief stay – five days on the road, slogging through mud and summer-rainstorms, then a day here. He'd stay another day, perhaps visit the market if he'd time – then return tomorrow for the five days' ride home again.
As he rode through the narrowed, cobbled streets he passed goldsmiths' shops and merchant's shops and places selling fine cloth and riband. He shook his head. If he was riding home with hope of seeing Leona, he would beggar himself in this place.
She would love that, he thought, looking at a fine green velvet, a sheen like winter lochs on the surface, silvery and subtle.
This is the sort of place Leona would love. The city life, the nobles, the richness.
He knew Leona loved beautiful things: jewelry, food, clothing. Buildings and furnishings. All the things in her life were the more appreciated for having some added beauty to them.
I sometimes wonder what she sees in me.
He grinned at the thought, glancing at himself in the reflection from a thick glass windowpane as he stood on the steps of the Red Flag Inn.
So named, he presumed, because of the crimson pennant, faintly smoke-stained, that decorated the thatched roof, though the place seemed clean, well-appointed and well-equipped.
“Good afternoon,” he addressed the innkeeper's wife politely. “I'd like lunch, please.”
“Take a seat in the taproom, son. We're serving stew and ale.”
Conn smiled, happy to take advantage of a familiar fare. He took a seat on the bench she indicated and watched the group around him.
Merchants discussed trade at one table, distinguished by their fine apparel. Two clerks sat at another, brown robes contrasting sharply with the vibrant hues the traders wore. Two carpenters or shoemakers – Conn had no idea which – occupied another table, gesturing as they demonstrated some method, talking loudly.
The whole world comes in here, it seems.
Conn found himself listening with one ear to the conversation around him, seeing if he could distinguish any languages other than the two he knew: Lowland Scots and Gaelic. He thought he heard a word he recognized.
“Bon. Je va...”
I go.
The men at the table just on his left, two wealthy merchants clad in velvet, were French.
Conn listened in as they spoke, eager for any connection to Leona. He knew she was in France, and somehow the presence of these men made a link for him, as if he could reach her there.
I wonder what she is doing now? Where she is? he thought eagerly.
Listening to the words, he tried to conjure up imaginings of her surroundings. They would be sumptuous, he was sure, well-suited to her tastes.
If only I was a merchant, he thought distantly. I would at least be able to provide fine stuff for wearing, fine jewelry and furniture.
He closed his eyes, letting himself imagine Leona dressed in finery, walking by his side. How everyone in Edinburgh would look at his refined, graceful wife. He felt a flush of pride.
Thoughts of Leona made his whole body tight with longing. He finished his meal distractedly and headed to the front of the inn to arrange accommodation and pay for it.
He passed over some coins, grateful as he did so for the fact that the brigands had not managed to divest him thereof. The thought made him shudder, remembering the instant when the dagger came at him and he thought he might die.
The memory brought with it the fresh resolve to see Leona once again, and soon. France was not that far away. If she did not return soon, perhaps he could travel there to visit her.
The possibility existed. That would be enough for him. It had to be. He thanked the innkeeper for her time and headed up the stairs to fall onto the bed, relaxed in dreamless sleep.