Iliana had paid little attention to the people in the bailey as she had crossed it. Now she shifted, craning her neck to peer about, and immediately began to worry at her lip as she saw that they appeared in need of a good cleaning and some attention. Their clothes were worn and stained, their hair shaggy and unkempt, and most of their faces dirty. As for the bailey and the keep itself, both were in sore need of repair.
"Lady Wildwood."
Iliana turned at that bluff greeting, unaware that she was still frowning as she met the gaze of her future father-in-law.
Startled by her expression, the older man reached back to grab his son's shoulder. "Help 'er down, Duncan," he ordered, giving his son a shove forward that sent him stumbling into the side of her mare.
Iliana peered wide-eyed at the grimy hands that were now raised in her general direction, then glanced to their owner's dirt-streaked face and red-eyed, squinting state. Swallowing unhappily, she reluctantly released her reins and slid off her mount. He caught her easily and set her gently on the ground, and Iliana swiftly stepped away from him, unable to keep her nose from wrinkling at the heavy, stale scent of ale, spirits, and sweat that wafted from him.
Despite his squinting, Duncan evidently caught her action, for he raised an arm to sniff at himself, then shrugged. He smelled fine to himself, though she smelled finer. There was the scent of wildflowers about her.
"My lords." Iliana dropped a curtsy, then hesitated and peered toward the bishop for help. She felt quite out of her depth in this situation, and she had no idea what to say or do. This was the man she was to marry. A veritable stranger...who stank.
"Mayhap we should move indoors, Angus," the bishop suggested gently. "It has been a long journey and refreshments would not go amiss."
"Oh, aye. This way, lass." Suddenly remembering his somewhat rusty manners, Angus Dunbar took Iliana's arm and turned to lead her up the stairs to the keep, leaving the others to follow.
The older man's legs were a fair sight longer than hers. She had to grab up the hem of her skirt and nearly run to keep up with him. By the time they reached the top step, she was panting slightly from the effort.
Taking in her breathless state, Angus frowned at her worriedly. "Frail," he muttered to himself with a sad shake of the head.
Iliana caught the word but had little time to worry over it as he opened the door of Dunbar keep and her attention was turned to what was to be her new home. If she had hoped that the inside would show more promise than the outside, she had been sorely mistaken. 'Twas an old building. A set of stairs to her right led up to a second floor where a narrow walkway had three doors leading off of it. Bed chambers, she guessed, turning to survey the great hall. It took up most of the main floor and was a large, dark cave with arrow slits for windows that were too high up for the feeble beams of light they allowed inside to penetrate the gloom in the room. If not for the fire roaring in a large fireplace against the far wall, she doubted she would have been able to see anything.
Which might not have been a bad thing, she thought with dismay, taking it all in. The floor was covered with filthy rushes, the walls were marked and smoke stained, the tapestries that graced them showed the effects of age and neglect, and the trestle tables and benches looked as if they were quite ready to give up the ghost. Iliana was almost afraid to sit on them, and not just because they appeared about to shatter under the least weight, but because they were also stained and splattered with grease and bits of food.
She was appalled. Wildwood, her childhood home, had been run efficiently and well. One could almost eat off the tabletop there. The floors no longer sported rushes, but several rugs that were warmer in winter and softer underfoot. Iliana had never seen the likes of this place and did not know whether to burst into tears or turn and flee. She simply could not live like this, could not manage amid such filth.
"Some ale?" Oblivious of her thoughts, the laird of Dunbar ushered her to the table and pushed her down onto one of those frightful benches. He then reached for a pitcher, straightened, saw that she had risen to her feet again, and frowned slightly as he pushed her back onto the seat with his free hand. "Rest, lass. Ye've had a long trip."
She watched, horrified, as he grabbed a nearby tankard, emptied the dregs of ale that still remained in it out onto the floor, then grabbed up a pitcher, only to scowl. "'Tis empty. Oh, aye, I er..."
The man's gaze slid enigmatically to his son, who scowled; then Angus started to turn toward the kitchen, only to pause and frown as he saw that Iliana had stood once again. Grunting, he pushed her back down onto the bench before bellowing toward the kitchen door, "Giorsal! Bring me more ale, wench!"
Turning back, he saw that Iliana had risen once more and his scowl deepened. "Yer rather like a rabbit, are ye no, lass? I press ye down and ye pop right back up. Settle yerself," he instructed not unkindly and pressed her back onto the bench before his gaze slid over her head.
He began a storm of twitching and nodding then. Iliana began to think the poor man was suffering a fit, until she glanced over her shoulder and saw his son standing behind her, squinting at the signals his father was giving him.
Growing impatient, the elder Dunbar finally snapped, "Set yerself beside her, lad. Woo her a bit."
"Woo her?" Duncan was taken aback. "We are getting wed, Da. Not acourtin'."
Angus Dunbar rolled his eyes at that, then peered at Bishop Wykeham as if for commiseration. "The young today, eh, Bishop?" He shook his head, then his attention was caught by a gray-haired woman who entered the room from what Iliana suspected were the kitchens. "Ah, good. Refreshments." Taking the pitcher from her, he handed the empty one over, then turned to pour the liquid into the tankard he had decided would be Iliana's. Filling it to the brim, he set it before her, then moved on to first empty, then fill, tankards for the bishop and Lord Rolfe.
Iliana lifted the tankard she had been given toward her mouth, only to pause and stare down into the murky drink doubtfully. There appeared to be something foreign floating on the top of the liquid. It was a bug of some sort.
"What be bothering ye? Do ye no care fer ale?"
Iliana glanced at her betrothed. He was still squinting, but it seemed he could make out enough to know that she was not drinking the ale his father had poured her.
"Nay, there is--I am not thirsty just now," she lied faintly, unwilling to offend.
"Ah well." Taking the tankard, he lifted it to his mouth.
"Oh! But--" Iliana began in dismay, but it was too late. He downed almost the entire tankard in one swallow.... And the bug with it, she saw as he rested the now empty tankard back upon the table between them.
"'Tis no sense it agoin' to waste," he murmured cheerfully, flashing her a brief smile before wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
Iliana stared at him wide-eyed. For one brief moment when he had smiled, his emerald eyes sparkling with good humor, her husband-to-be had taken on the look of an entirely different man. He had looked quite handsome for a moment, despite the grime and soot on his face and whatever else was staining it just now. Of course, he had ruined that at once by wiping his mouth on his sleeve and bringing her attention to the fact that the fine, white fabric was hopelessly stained from such repeated actions. Among others.
"My lady?"
Sighing, Iliana tore her eyes away from Duncan to peer questioningly at her maid.
"Your skirt." The woman gestured and Iliana stood again, twisting her head to peer over one shoulder at the skirt of her gown. There were stains, smudges, and crumbs of food on it just from sitting. There was also a great wet spot on it. Apparently, the bench had not been wholly dry when she had been forced to sit there. From the scent wafting up to her she guessed she had sat in a puddle of ale.
Frowning, she began brushing at it fretfully. Care for clothing had been hammered into her from a very early age. Clothing was often expensive and difficult to replace so far from the city tailors and dressmakers. That being the case, she had never been allowed to run o
r roll about on the ground with the other children at Wildwood. She had ever been expected to be a little lady and always act with decorum. Her mother would have been appalled at the state of her gown just now.
Ebba knelt to try to aid in removing the marks on her skirt, but it quickly became obvious that it was an impossible task. The skirt was ruined, Iliana realized with dismay.
"Aye. There's no time like the present."
Angus Dunbar's words caught Iliana's attention, dragging it away from her skirt and to the conversation Lord Rolfe and the bishop were holding with him.
"'Tis true," Rolfe murmured now. "The sooner we get this business finished, the sooner we can move on to tending to Lady Seonaid's problem."
Turning sharply toward his son, Laird Angus glared at him meaningfully until Duncan sighed and murmured, "Me father does not agree that ye go to Sherwell and force 'is hand. He fears the man may agree to the marriage takin' place."