her father. If he had known he was speaking to Sir Thomas Dugall’s daughter, he would not have dared to suggest she had been left by a lover.
On the other hand, she had never been able to tell what George de Gramercie was thinking.
Nearly at the village, she pushed through some underbrush and stepped onto the main road. She quickly untucked her skirt and surveyed the muddy road, smiling when she saw the hoofprints. Demon had passed this way recently, making his way for home after throwing her.
She never should have taken it into her head to try to catch sight of Sir George de Gramercie before he arrived at Dugall Castle, or at least not with Demon, who hated the wet. He had been feisty and skittish the whole ride, and had balked at a low jump near the hedgerow, sending her tumbling.
She hurried along the road, drawing a few glances from the villagers, but they were used to seeing Aileas alone and barely paused in their tasks. From habit, she surveyed the walls and towers of her father’s castle, making sure the sentries were in their places. Although it had been years since her family’s estate had suffered an armed attack, her father insisted that everything be maintained in a battle-ready state.
He had also been improving the fortifications for years. Until he took possession of it, Dugall Castle had been little more than a lone, round stone keep with a chapel added at one end. Sir Thomas had enclosed a large area with a series of defensive walls and circular towers. Besides the hall and chapel, the inner ward now housed stables and barracks, armory and mews and an expanded kitchen, which he had the masons attach to the keep by a long corridor. Guest quarters, also attached to the keep by means of a stone stairway, were the latest addition.
The guards at the gatehouse saluted as they stood aside to let her pass. “Have you seen my—” she began, but the watchman was already nodding.
“Aye, Lady Aileas. He’s in the stable already.”
“Good,” she said, knowing the groom would attend to Demon, so she was free to find Rufus.
Hurrying past the corner towers, she reached the wide, flat, grassy area where her father’s men usually trained. She easily spotted Sir Rufus Hamerton’s red-haired head among all the other men and called his name.
With a broad smile, Rufus detached himself from his fellows, who barely acknowledged the familiar sight of their lord’s daughter, and strode across the damp grass toward her, his hair ruffling in the breeze so that it looked even redder. His cheeks were likewise red from physical exertion, and he wore only breeches and boots, his leather tunic slung over his muscular shoulder. Sweat dripped off his massive chest, and as he approached, she could tell by the stench wafting toward her that he had indeed been working hard.
“God’s wounds, I’m tired,” he announced in a deep, resonant voice as he casually scratched himself. “And parched. And if I don’t get to the garderobe soon, I’m going to burst.” He started to walk to the men’s barracks. “What brings you here in such a hurry, Aileas?” he asked jovially. “Are we under attack?”
“No,” she replied, “not exactly.”
He gave her a curious look.
“We’re going to have visitors in a little while.”
“Oh?” Rufus halted and put on his tunic before smiling down at the shorter Aileas. “Who?”
“Sir George de Gramercie.”
It was obvious Rufus didn’t remember the name, for he shrugged and resumed walking, picking up his pace so that she had to trot to keep up with him.
“Our neighbor’s son who’s been roving all over the country for the last ten years like a traveling minstrel,” she reminded him. “Now that his father has died, he’s come home at last.”
Rufus’s response was a desultory grunt.
They had reached the outskirts of the barracks, a large wattle and daub, timbered structure near the stables and armory. Rufus obviously couldn’t wait to get to the garderobe, for he turned down the small alley between the stable and armory and sighed as he relieved himself.
“God’s holy rood, that’s better,” he said when he returned and began walking toward the barracks again. “So what’s all the fuss?” he asked, gazing at her with puzzlement. “Lots of visitors come here.”
She couldn’t believe Rufus had forgotten about Sir George. “He’s the man my father wants me to marry!”
Rufus barked a laugh as he shoved open the barracks’ heavy wooden door. “Isn’t he the one you said spends more on his clothes than his armour?”
“Yes,” she said, catching the door before it hit her, then following him inside the large and chilly room, whose only furnishings were straw pallets covered with rough woolen blankets, a table with one basin and ewer and wooden chests—one per knight, squire or page. There were hooks on the wall, upon which hung an assortment of clothing, armor and weapons. In one corner was a battered chamber pot.
Several men were also there, resting after their duties or before their watch. They called out greetings and nodded to Aileas. “Seems we’re about to have a popinjay in our midst, men!” Rufus declared. “Get out the feather beds and clean sheets!”
Aileas smiled at Rufus’s sarcastic remarks. Surely once he saw Sir George, he would realize that she could never marry a man like that. Why, besides being vain, he was too thin, with no stomach at all to speak of. Surely he couldn’t fight worth a fig. And while his family was rich, he was probably lazy and derelict in his duties as the lord of an estate.
Nevertheless, she didn’t want to talk about her future with an audience, so she lifted her brows and said, “Is it not nearly time for the changing of the guard? And should not some of you be cleaning your weapons? If my father sees even a hint of rust...”
She did not have to say more, for the men quickly grabbed their accoutrements and went out, bowing their farewells.
“I’m thinking of having my old blade mended instead of going to the expense of a new sword,” Rufus said meditatively as he hung his sword belt on a peg.
“What?” Aileas cried, her hands on her hips. “That’s stupid! It’s been mended so much, it’s sure to snap any day now.”
“It’s expensive to have a new sword made. Besides, the handle of my old one fits my hand perfectly.”
Aileas realized she didn’t want to get involved in a discussion on the merits of new weapons versus old, familiar ones. “What about Sir George? What if my father insists that I marry him?”
Rufus threw himself down on the first straw pallet he spied and gave her a quizzical look. “Isn’t he the one been neglecting his duties all these years?”
“Yes!”
“Then why would your father want you to marry a reckless puppy like that?”
“Because our lands join.”
“Well,” Rufus said, making a pillow of his hands and lying back so that he was looking at the beams in the ceiling, “you would be the lady of a great estate. You could do much worse.”
For a moment, Aileas was very tempted to kick him.
