arch an eyebrow in question. Servant or no, there was little doubt that she
thought herself the queen bee at Dunbar.
Forcing herself to maintain her patience, Iliana set down the edge of the tapestry she had
been helping Ebba with and moved to the woman's side so that she would not have to yell
across the room. Her mother had taught her that there was little authority, let alone
dignity, in shrieking from a distance like a fishwife selling her wares. Pausing at the
woman's side, Iliana graced her with a somewhat cool smile, then announced, “Lord Angus is
seeing to fresh rushes for the floor, but I thought mayhap something pleasant smelling
would be nice to add to them. Mayhap you could take a couple of women and go collect some”
“Heather.”
Iliana blinked at the interruption. “Heather?”
Pursing her lips, the woman nodded her head with firm certainty. “Aye. 'Tis what 'er
ladyship put among the rushes.”
Trying not to grit her teeth, Iliana forced a smile that was even chillier than the first.
“That may be so, but I prefer lavender.”
Giorsal shook her head at once. “Lady Muireall always put heather”
“I am not Lady Muireall,” Iliana snapped coldly, “and I prefer lavender.”
“There is no lavender this far north,” the servant announced.
Iliana sighed in defeat, not needing to see the satisfaction on the other woman's face to
know when she had lost. “I see.”
“There be a muckle o' heather, though.” “I am sure there is,” she commented dryly.
“I'll take the women and go find some.” Barking a word in Gaelic that immediately drew the
other women to her side, she led them away without even pretending to await permission.
Watching them go, Iliana moved dispiritedly to the trestle table and dropped onto its
bench with a sigh. She was definitely not having a good day.
The great hall had been empty when she had made her way down that morning. Determined to
begin
work on setting the castle to rights, Iliana had not bothered with breaking her fast, but
had sent Ebba in search of servants. The maid had returned with Giorsal and three other
women older than her own grandmother would have been were she still alive. Despite their
elevated ages, they had gotten a great deal done that morning, but Iliana began to think
that settingDunbarkeep to rights might very well kill her. 'Twas not the work so much.
While she could not say she was used to the hard labor she had been performing that
morning, she had certainly worked before. The real problem was the women, or at least
their attitudes.
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
thought herself the queen bee at Dunbar.
Forcing herself to maintain her patience, Iliana set down the edge of the tapestry she had
been helping Ebba with and moved to the woman's side so that she would not have to yell
across the room. Her mother had taught her that there was little authority, let alone
dignity, in shrieking from a distance like a fishwife selling her wares. Pausing at the
woman's side, Iliana graced her with a somewhat cool smile, then announced, “Lord Angus is
seeing to fresh rushes for the floor, but I thought mayhap something pleasant smelling
would be nice to add to them. Mayhap you could take a couple of women and go collect some”
“Heather.”
Iliana blinked at the interruption. “Heather?”
Pursing her lips, the woman nodded her head with firm certainty. “Aye. 'Tis what 'er
ladyship put among the rushes.”
Trying not to grit her teeth, Iliana forced a smile that was even chillier than the first.
“That may be so, but I prefer lavender.”
Giorsal shook her head at once. “Lady Muireall always put heather”
“I am not Lady Muireall,” Iliana snapped coldly, “and I prefer lavender.”
“There is no lavender this far north,” the servant announced.
Iliana sighed in defeat, not needing to see the satisfaction on the other woman's face to
know when she had lost. “I see.”
“There be a muckle o' heather, though.” “I am sure there is,” she commented dryly.
“I'll take the women and go find some.” Barking a word in Gaelic that immediately drew the
other women to her side, she led them away without even pretending to await permission.
Watching them go, Iliana moved dispiritedly to the trestle table and dropped onto its
bench with a sigh. She was definitely not having a good day.
The great hall had been empty when she had made her way down that morning. Determined to
begin
work on setting the castle to rights, Iliana had not bothered with breaking her fast, but
had sent Ebba in search of servants. The maid had returned with Giorsal and three other
women older than her own grandmother would have been were she still alive. Despite their
elevated ages, they had gotten a great deal done that morning, but Iliana began to think
that settingDunbarkeep to rights might very well kill her. 'Twas not the work so much.
While she could not say she was used to the hard labor she had been performing that
morning, she had certainly worked before. The real problem was the women, or at least
their attitudes.
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
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