The man’s jowls quivered, his nostrils flared.
“What say you”—Lucan called out from behind Padraig—“Booger, is it?”
“It’s Cletus,” he said at last, through clenched teeth. His chin lifted again. “Chamberlain is the more proper title.”
“Cletus,” Lucan said airily, and Padraig could hear the scratching of Montague’s quill as he muttered, “Chambermaid to Master Boyd.” He paused. “There. I am sorry, but Master Boyd doesn’t know better at this point, and so chambermaid it is. It has a certain quality to it, though, I must say.”
The man’s face was nearly violet now.
“You’re dismissed,” Padraig said quietly.
Cletus’s chest heaved for a moment, but then he jerked his shoulders to the left, ducking through the doorway and from the chamber.
Padraig turned in a slow circle, meeting everyone’s gaze who stared openly at him. “Anyone else care to air a grievance? I will hear you.” He had turned almost full circle when Searrach caught his eye. He stopped.
Her lips parted and her tongue sneaked out to dampen them, her dark eyes sultry. “I’d hoped to be chosen as the lord’s maid,” she protested quietly and took Padraig’s measure down to his boots.
He cleared his throat. “I’m certain his…knightship will find you a fitting place.”
Her lips curved in a smile.
Padraig turned his back to the woman and made his way to his seat once more while his ears burned. He ignored Lucan’s squinting, quizzical glance as he sat down.
Knightship?
“Very well,” Lucan said at last, rescuing Padraig with a return to his gruff, businesslike tone. “One at a time; state your name and your regular duty in the hold.”
* * * *
It was over in less than an hour, and the common room of the soldiers was emptied save for Padraig and Lucan. Padraig leaned his elbows on the table as if he’d spent all day fighting the waves of the North Sea to the mainland. He was already exhausted.
But, at his side, Lucan rose briskly, his demeanor that of one who had just awoken from a refreshing nap. “I’ve some business to take care of for the next hour. How might you occupy yourself until then?”
“I’m nae child, Lucan.”
“From your earlier behavior in the hall, I remain unconvinced.”
Padraig’s brows lowered. “Hargrave needed to understand that he canna coo me. It was one wee request—I left the rest of it to the pair of you.”
Lucan sighed. “Aye, Padraig, it was but one request. But it was the maid of Lady Hargrave. Do you not think that was perhaps pressing it a bit much?”
Padraig shrugged, not wanting to admit to the man that he had done little but think of the woman’s lovely face since she’d been thrown at his feet upon his arrival.
“She didna come, any matter, did she?” he said, trying to squeeze the petulance from his tone.
“She did not,” Lucan agreed curtly. “And although it might sting your pride, it is perhaps fortuitous that she has been this once disobedient.”
“Surely she doesna appease the woman’s every whim.”
“That very thing describes the whole of her duty,” Lucan said, and he sounded none the happier for it.
Padraig sniffed. “Thinks herself too good for the likes of me.”
Lucan paused for a moment, then looked at Padraig squarely. “At this point, and you must believe me, she is most certainly too good for you.”
“I thought you were for me?”
“I am,” Lucan insisted dryly. Then a sound from the doorway drew his attention. “Ah, Rolf,” he said as the steward entered. “Excellent timing, as usual. Would you be free to show Master Boyd about the grounds?”
“Certainly, Sir Lucan. In fact I had intended to suggest Master Boyd might appreciate a tour of the various industries Darlyrede employs within her walls.”
“Och, I’ve a keeper?” Padraig lamented. “Jesus, Lucan, what’s an hour? The ignorant Scot shallna drown himself in a privy.”
Lucan cocked his head. “Padraig. You are a stranger here, in more ways than one, surrounded by very dangerous enemies. I’m trying to keep you alive until you have learned to recognize the hazards—and allies—for yourself. They are where and whom you might least suspect.”
Padraig paused for a moment, weighing his response. Who else in the world could he trust? At last he stood from the stool and nodded.
“Verra well.” He looked to Rolf expectantly.
Rolf cocked his head. “This way, Master Boyd.”
* * * *
Beryl paced her small chamber floor, wringing her hands. Her pages were still scattered on her narrow cot, the ink still drying, but she found she could not sit still with her thoughts.
He’ll take you from me, too.
What had Lady Hargrave meant? The other servants rumored to have gone missing from the household over the years?
Or Cordelia? Euphemia?
You do things without my knowledge. I know it.
Beryl shuddered at the thinly veiled implications the lady had dared in the hall. There had been no one else close enough to hear the accusations save herself, and for that very reason, Beryl knew the stakes had only gone up for her. Hargrave would surely put her under closer watch now. It was unlikely she could glean any useful information about his movements without placing herself directly within his dangerous reach, and then it might be impossible to extract herself. She was already risking so much…
A pair of raps fell upon her door, causing her breath to freeze in her chest. Everyone in the hall had likely thought her to have followed the other servants chosen for the Scots’ camp when she left, and so whoever knocked could only be one who knew she had not been present at the muster.
As if in answer, another quick pair of raps fell, followed by a single knock. Two, two, one. The old signal from the abbey. She could put him off no longer, for either of their sakes.
She walked to the door and placed her mouth near the seam of wall. “Who is it?” she called quietly.
“You bloody well know who it is, Beryl.”
She slid the bolt and opened the door, allowing Lucan Montague to slip inside.
