“You ought make them show more respect, my lady,” the voice said.
Katarina closed her eyes briefly. “Walter.” Her clerk and steward. “What have they done now?”
“They do nothing, my lady. You allow much. Wicker ought not treat you as if you were his sister. And your maidservant ought not tug on your sleeve when she is excited, and chatter inexhaustibly at all other times.?
??
“Susanna is…ebullient,” Katarina admitted about her sole lady’s maid.
“She is a bubble,” he said dourly. “A great, noisy, impudent bubble.”
“She is vibrant, Walter. In these dark times, we need all of that we can get. I am surprised to hear you disapprove of such things.” She started toward the gate. Walter stepped with her, taking her arm to assist her over the rutted cobbles.
How she hated being assisted over rutted cobbles.
“I disapprove of maids acting like ladies, soldiers acting like councilors, and men and women of all ages forgetting their place.”
“Just so, Walter. I will counsel Susanna to flatten herself forthwith.”
Gray-browed and disapproving, he regarded her levelly. “You should rein them in, my lady.”
A fissure of irritation opened up inside her. “They are not horses, Walter.”
“They most certainly are. Stallions too loose on their lead. They need restraint.”
She looked away. He was right. The boundaries of propriety had broken down rather tragically at Rardove. It simply seemed so…unnecessary. So unhelpful. So ungrateful.
And there was the truth of it. Her men, most of whom were barely men at all, were steadfast and loyal when they need not be. There were far richer, less remote, and less dangerous gates to guard south and east. She had no notion why they stayed with her, but in consequence, in gratitude, she gave them a great deal of meat, a great deal of ale, and a great deal of leeway when it came to matters of propriety.
She relied upon them. She cared for them. And they knew it.
No doubt she was in error with this approach. But it was the only one she could think of short of shouting, and Katarina knew very well her voice would not carry far in the wilds of Ireland.
Even so, irritation at her steward rose up more sharply than usual. She wanted to shout No, no, no! at him, like a petulant child. But the familiar inner voice called up, Simply agree with the man.
Her inner voice was extremely sensible.
“You are right, of course,” she said quietly.
They stared at each other. Or rather, he stared, while she looked intently at his eyebrows, since they were so pronounced, and looking directly into his eyes might cause her to do something highly insensible, like grab his ears and yank.
“Now, Walter,” she went on brightly, “we seem to have been caught unawares by Bertrand of Bridge, and I without my good hood.”
He shifted his frown to her blowing hair.
“Might you see to it for me? The green, if you will. And inform the servants of Sir Bertrand’s arrival? So that we might make the proper impression?”
That, of course, was Walter’s weak point, and she aimed for it ruthlessly.
“It would be more proper yet for you to wait indoors and have Sir Bertrand brought to you,” he grumbled but, realizing the futility of arguing, turned and strode off to the keep. Walter had, after all, been her father’s steward before hers, and had seen her at her most improper yet.
He went, clearly resigned to minimizing the damages of Katarina’s improprieties.
She gestured to the door warden standing at the inner bailey gate, and he ducked inside the gatehouse. A moment later, the winches began to turn, and the squeal of iron streaked through the bailey like a cold star. The gate began to lurch upward.
She stood, waiting, letting the wind blow back her cloak. It was no use trying to stop such things. Doors opening, winds blowing, the warrior about to ride through her gates; these sorts of things were unstoppable.
A moment later, hoofs clattered over the cobblestones, and the riders swept into her home.