The Key Page 6

Iliana thought if she had to hear Lady Muireall's name and how she used to run this keep one more time, she might very well kill herself. She had heard a great deal on Lady Agnes as well. Lady Muireall was apparently Lord Angus's deceased wife. Lady Agnes was his mother. It seemed both women had been paragons of perfection. All she had heard the morning through was Lady Muireall this and Lady Agnes; or Black Agnes, as they tended to call her, that.

  Lady Muireall had insisted the rushes be changed regularly in the future. Lady Muireall had whitewashed the walls every spring. Lady Muireall had thrown herself before her husband, taking an arrow and saving Laird Dunbar's life by sacrificing her own. Black Agnes had kept the keep arights, raised seven children, and held off the English for six months while her husband was away.

  It was pretty obvious to Iliana that her new people did not think she lived up to her predecessors' standards. Not that anyone had refused any orders she had given. Not openly, at least. They had simply listened to what she had to say, then told her how Lady Muireall had done it and set about doing it that way. A couple of times she had nearly spat that if they were so versed on how the manor should be kept, why had they let it go to such ruin? But she had managed to restrain herself. So far.

  "'Tis starting to shape up."

  Iliana glanced around at her maid's attempt to cheer her. The old rushes had been removed and the floor swept; then the women had set to work scrubbing the stone slabs clean of the years of filth they bore, while she and Ebba saw to the removal of the tapestries and wall hangings so that the walls could be washed. She was almost sorry now that she had set her sights on whitewashing. 'Twas not that the walls did not need it, but one glance at the family shield and all the tapestries on the walls was enough to tell her that every single item in the room needed a good scrubbing.

  Including the trestle tables and benches, she thought with a grimace as she shifted on her seat and her skirt showed some reluctance to move with her. No doubt she'd sat in a puddle of something or other, she thought with disgust and was grateful she had worn a plain, old, and frayed gown today. Still, she made a mental note to herself that, no matter whether the floor was finished today or not, she must attend to scrubbing the benches at least. She was unwilling to see another of her fine gowns ruined here.

  Sighing and glancing around the room again, she considered all that must still be done. By the looks of it, the floor beneath the rushes had not been cleaned since Lady Muireall's death, some twenty years ago. Once the rushes had been cleared away it was to reveal a multitude of clumps of various descriptions on the floor. Iliana did not even wish to guess at the source of the majority of them, but they were hard--almost petrified. They were also difficult to remove. That much had been obvious as she had watched the women work. There had been three of them scrubbing the floor for the better part of the morning. There would have been four had Giorsal seen her way clear to lending her own effort, but apparently her position here was merely to direct others. Not wishing to start a row on her first day at Dunbar, Iliana had said nothing about the woman's lack of labor. But she intended to talk to Lord Angus and find out the woman's exact position. She would also ask if it was possible to attain some more help. With only the three women working, even after the better part of the morning, not even a quarter of the floor had managed to get scrubbed. And the nooning meal was fast approaching.

  "Come," Ebba murmured, when her mistress sighed yet again. "'Tis not so bad. This room is starting to smell better at least."

  That was true enough, but 'twas due only to the removal of the rushes. There was still a great deal to do. She had to see to finishing the floor, whitewashing the walls, cleaning the wall hangings. By her estimate, 'twould take them at least three days to finish this room alone. Only then would she feel she could turn her attention to the bedchambers. That thought did not please her much. She was not used to living in such squalor and the bedchamber was full of just as much filth as the great hall.

  Moving to the nearest of the buckets the women had left behind, Iliana knelt on the floor and retrieved a cloth. She dunked it in the bucket, wrung it out, then began to scrub.

  "Nay, my lady!" Ebba gasped, hurrying to her side. "I shall do that. Why do you not take a walk and get a breath of fresh air?"

  Iliana shook her head. "There is too much to do. Fetch a cloth and help me."

  Chapter Five

  "Gor!"

  Quitting her prolonged perusal of the petrified cheese and stale bread that the cook had produced for lunch, Iliana raised her head slowly at that exclamation.

  Duncan's sister, Seonaid, was standing just inside the keep doors, her eyes, and those of her constant companions, Allistair and Aelfread, wide as they gaped at the changes made in the great hall. They were late, the last to enter for the nooning meal, yet oddly, the first to even seem to notice what Iliana and her crew had accomplished over the last three days. At least they were the first to bother to comment on it, aside from Angus.

  Iliana had not seen her sister-in-law since she had left the bedchamber with the others on the morning after the wedding. Three days ago. Seonaid and her two cohorts had disappeared the morning after the wedding and not returned since. Off hunting had been Laird Angus's guess when Iliana had commented on it.

  "What goes on here?" Seonaid asked in a hushed murmur as she and her cousins made room for themselves at the table.

  "They be acleanin' the hall."

  Iliana stiffened at the derision her husband put into those words.

  "Cleanin'?" Seonaid said the word as if she had never heard it afore. Iliana was not impressed. Neither was Angus, she realized when he turned to scowl at her.

  "Aye, acleanin'. Iliana and the women have been workin' themselves to the bone for nigh on three days now. The same amount o' time ye've been lollygaggin' about the woods." He paused to let that sink in, then added, "'Twould not hurt fer ye to stick about to learn a thing or two on the matter. Yer betrothed'll not be pleased to have a wife so ignorant o' such an' the like."

  "Wife!" Seonaid snorted as she reached for some ale. "Ye ken well enough I shall never be that, Da."

  "I ken no such thing."

  There was a sudden silence down the length of the main table, everyone turning to peer at the drama taking place.

  "What mean ye by that?" she asked suspiciously.

  Laird Angus chewed grimly at the stale cheese in his mouth, then swallowed before answering. "It is arranged. Laird Rolfe has persuaded me. We hashed it out the morning after the wedding. He left ere noon on that day to fetch the reluctant groom back."

  "What? But I thought--" Her voice failed her. She had obviously expected a different outcome to her father's talk with Lord Rolfe. Seonaid looked as if she had been punched.

  Oddly enough, so did Duncan, Iliana noted curiously. Her husband was as aware as the rest of them as to when Lord Rolfe and the bishop had departed. All she could think was that he had not spoken with his father since his leaving to learn the outcome of their discussions. But then, how could he have? she thought dryly. He was never here long enough to talk to anyone. He was out of the keep first thing in the morning and returned only long enough to eat his meals during the day. At night he crept in late enough that most people were asleep when he entered.

  "Ye heard me," was the old man's calm response. "Yer wastin' away here and I've a mind to see that that stops. Ye were born to have bairns. 'Tis time we saw some from ye."

  "Ye would have me marry that--that...Englishman?" She said the word as if it was the worst of insults.

  "I would see ye married."

  Iliana held her breath in the hush that followed but was still unprepared for her sudden lunge to her feet. Seonaid deliberately tipped the trestle table over as she rose, sending pewter tankards and pitchers clanging loudly to the stone floor. "Well I'll not marry the bastard!" she yelled furiously over the din, then whirled on her heel and raced from the room.

  Silence descended on the hall again, then Duncan got slowly to his feet, givi
ng Iliana an accusing glare as he did. As if Seonaid's upset were somehow her fault, she thought with dismay as he turned and took the path the woman had taken.

  Heaving a long sigh as Aelfread and Allistair rose and followed their cousins, Angus stood to straighten the table. After collecting the fallen mugs with the help of the other men, he sank back onto his seat beside Iliana, waiting patiently for Giorsal to hurry to the kitchen and back with a fresh pitcher of ale.

  "I apologize fer me daughter," he sighed as he refreshed first her tankard, then his own. "She believed herself likely to remain a maid forever. No without reason, mind ye."

  Iliana nodded silently, unsure what to say.

  "I allowed 'er much freedom as she grew up," he continued. "In truth, 'twas not that I gave 'er freedom so much as I neglected to bother to take 'er in hand. I fear I have neglected much over the years. At any rate, she is poorly prepared for this marriage and would benefit greatly from any wee help ye could give her in learning to be a real lady."

  Iliana stilled as she realized that he was asking her to tutor his daughter in womanly pursuits. The idea was more than daunting. She had seen enough of the girl to know that Seonaid was not simply lacking such skills but completely bereft of them.

  "When is the wedding to be?" she asked worriedly.

  "Soon as the man can be fetched back here. A month, mayhap."

  "A month?" The words came out on a squeak and Iliana raised her tankard abruptly to her lips for a sip that turned into a gulp that downed half the liquid in her tankard. When she lowered the mug it was to find Angus Dunbar eyeing her with one brow cocked.

  "Ye've a fair thirst there, lass. 'Tis said our alewife makes the finest ale in Scotland. I daresay ye'd be agreein' with that?"

  "Aye, 'tis fine ale," she murmured, forcing a smile. Then her gaze fell to the floor and she added under her breath, "'Tis a shame the same cannot be said for the cook's fare."

  Angus followed her gaze and nodded wryly. "'Tis true the cook has let things slip a might over the years. His da was cook here when Lady Muireall, me late wife, was alive. She kept him on his toes, she did. But after her passing..." He shrugged. "We all let things slide." He was silent for a moment, his thoughts far away, presumably with his dead wife, then jerked himself out of it and glanced at her. "Mayhap ye could do something to encourage him to improve his offerings?"

  "Aye, mayhap I can," Iliana said firmly, rising to her feet. "In fact, if you will excuse me, I think I will have a word with him right now." Turning, she marched determinedly toward the kitchens.

  "I have never had complaints afore. The laird seems well pleased with me work."

  "He is the one who asked me to speak with you," Iliana told the man solemnly.

  The cook's only response was to glare at her from beneath his bushy brows and spit on the floor at her feet, barely missing the hem of her gown.

  Iliana forced herself to count to ten, an effort to control her temper as she considered how to deal with the man. She had known as she had suffered through the stale bread and watery stews that he had served for meals over the last three days that she would have to do something about him eventually but had put him on her list of priorities between cleaning the great hall and whitewashing it. Well, other than a few of the wall hangings, which she could clean on nights in front of the fire, the great hall was done. The floors had been scrubbed clean, and the trestle table and benches were pristine. She had even seen to scrubbing away the smoke and soot on the wall around the fireplace. Now 'twas well past time she dealt with the cook.

  He was short, with hair as black as soot, and a body that resembled a barrel. The man was round everywhere. Even his cheeks were chubby and florid. Iliana could only think that he either ate better fare than he served everyone else, or his palate was less discerning. He certainly lacked in respect and courtesy when it came to his new English lady. He had been uncooperative as the devil since she had entered the kitchen to speak with him. First, he would not even do her the courtesy of stopping what he was doing to hear her out, and second, he kept spitting on the floor by her skirts as she spoke. 'Twas a most disgusting habit. Especially in the kitchen while preparing food, she decided, staring down at the foamy gobs on the floor.

  "Fine," she said at last. "If 'tis too much trouble for you to discuss your duties, I shall find someone else to perform them." She had a bare glimpse of the dismay on his face, then turned to leave the room.

  "'Ere now! Ye canna be doin' that! I've done this job all me life, and me father afore me. Ye canna be replacin' me!"

  She had his attention at last, it seemed. Pausing at the door, Iliana turned back, feigned surprise on her face. "Certainly I can, Mr. Dunbar."

  "Cummin," he muttered resentfully. "Elgin Cummin. Me mother was a Dunbar. Me da married her after he came here to cook."

  "Well, Elgin Cummin, yer laird has given me a free hand in putting my new home to rights." Not exactly true, but this was no time to quibble, she thought, her gaze moving grimly over the others in the room now as well, in warning. The kitchen help and a handful of servants, including Giorsal, all stilled under her look. "That means I may release or retain whomever I wish." Her gaze slid back to the cook. "Including you. I had not intended to do so when I entered, but if you will not even discuss the matter with me, I see no alternative but to replace you."

  "I'll discuss it with ye. Discussin' is good." There was a desperate look about the man now. Iliana was not terribly surprised. Being head cook carried a certain amount of prestige and a lot of benefits with it. Besides, the man would have been trained in it and little else. Iliana's only concern now was how rigorous that training might or might not have been.

  "Can you cook?" The question was blunt and to the point, puffing up the cook's chest with ruffled pride.

  "Aye. Me da was the best cook in all Scotland. Lady Muireall said so, and he trained me in all he kenned."

  "Did he teach you to serve stale bread and dry, hard cheese to your laird?"

  His chest deflated somewhat, shame upon his face now. "Nay."

  "Hmm." Iliana eyed him solemnly. "Then I will not expect it again. What did you plan for sup tonight?" She had already spied the contents of the cauldron simmering over the fire. It looked to be a repeat of the stew that had been served every night since her arrival: a rather thin and tasteless gruel.

  The cook's gaze moved to the cauldron, worry puckering his brow, then he peered at her helplessly. "We have no spices."

  Her brows rose at that. "None at all?"

  "Nay. Laird Angus did not replace his wife as chatelaine on her death."

  Iliana was not surprised at this news; she had come to that conclusion herself by the state of things. "Is there not even an herb garden?"

  "Lady Muireall used to have one, but it went to rot and ruin when she died."

  "I see." Iliana shifted where she stood, her mind working over a solution to the problem. She would have to have a look at the garden at once. 'Twas June. Spices would have to be planted soon if she would gain anything from them. Spices were too expensive for her to purchase those that they could grow themselves. Still, some would have to be purchased. "When does the spiceman come around?"

  "He doesn't. He stopped acomin' years ago. Laird Angus was never around to purchase from him."

  She was frowning over that when Giorsal piped up, "He passed by here this morn. I heard one of the men reportin' it to the laird. He crossed our land on the way to Innes."

  "Innes?"

  "The McInnes holdins. They be our neighbors," the cook explained, worry on his face. "He will not be around fer months again after this trip. He has a wide circuit to make and only passes this way four times a year. I canna make tasty fare if I have no spices."

  Her eyebrows rose slightly at his anxiety. It seemed he had taken her at her word and now feared losing his position unless he could supply tasty fare at mealtime. Iliana could not blame him for bland food when he had no spices, but she would not accept stale or leftover meals.
She was about to tell him that, then changed her mind. Let him think her a tough taskmaster. Fear was a great inducement. After she had seen what he was capable of, she would tell him he would never be taken to task for such things.

  Turning, she headed for the door. "I shall ask Laird Angus to send someone after the man. Mayhap we can lure him back here for some commerce."

  Unfortunately, Angus was not around when she went out to the bailey to search for him. Her gaze moved reluctantly to her husband, who stood talking to the stablemaster. They had been fighting a war of wills for the last three days. It consisted mostly of ignoring each other. She did not look forward to approaching him now, but they desperately needed spices.

  Sighing resolutely, she moved toward him. "Husband?" She saw him stiffen; then he turned slowly to peer at her, his face expressionless. Iliana shifted uncomfortably but forced herself to continue. "I...is your father about?"

  Duncan had seen his wife come out into the bailey and feared she might approach him. A problem, that. He had no idea how to deal with the wench. She was refusing him his rights as husband, had told him he stank, and was now running willy-nilly over his home, changing and cleaning everything. What was a man to do with a wife like that?

  If this was a normal problem, he would most likely have taken it to his father for a pearl or two of wisdom, but in this case he could not. He would be damned if he would let anyone, even his father, know the humiliating fact that he had yet to bed his wife.

  As for explaining the contraption she wore, that was a nightmare he wished not even to consider. Besides, his father seemed quite taken with the wench. He certainly seemed pleased that she was setting her hand to running the keep. That outcome was bewildering to Duncan, who had been a mere five years old when his mother had died. Too young to recall what Dunbar had been like in her day. All he knew was that the way it had been the day his bride had arrived was the way it had been for as long as he could recall. It had been good enough for everyone else but was not good enough for his wife, and quite suddenly appeared not good enough for his father either. It was as if his wife had bewitched the man. She had made him smile. And somehow, her very presence had made him decide that Seonaid should marry her Englishman, the same man he had spent both of their lives villifying and calling "Sassenach scum!"