The hireling heaved a wearisome sigh. “ ‘Tis a pity, it be. A rank, poor pity.”
Elise settled her hands on her slender waist, and her eyes flashed with a feral gleam as she gave him a chiding retort. “Ah, now we would hear it! A complaint! Forsooth! The squire would sooner tolerate grievances from the poor beggars in the streets than from those in his own kitchen. Pray tell, good fellow, have I hindered your freedom to imbibe by my presence?”
The man raised a hand wrapped in ragged strips of cloth and scrubbed it across his mouth. “The squire’d do well ta taste his own stock. ‘Tis a pity ta give ‘ese foin folk ’em bitter dregs what he’d ‘ave us pour.”
“Are you unquestioned as a tapster, or were you just born arrogant?” Elise asked with rampant scorn.
“Arrogant?” The fellow gave a brief chortle tinged with reproof. “Well now! Ye might say I’ve gots me share. Been ‘round ye high-blooded folk too long.”
Elise caught her breath in high-flying indignation. “You have far more than your fair portion, let me assure you!”
Untouched by her criticism, the servant responded with an indolent shrug. “ ‘Tain’t so much arr’gance as ‘tis knowin’ good from bad, right from wrong . . . an’ sometimes it takes a wee bit o’ wit ‘fore ye can tell the difference ‘twixt the two.” Stepping close to the cask again, he began filling a second flagon. “Now when his lor’ship were ‘ere . . .”
“What ho! Another loudly lamenting the loss of the late Marquess! I have never heard the like from so many rebellious servants!” Elise complained. She noted the entry of more trenchers of food and, with an impatient wave of her hand, directed the hirelings to a trestle table some distance away, as yet unwilling to let this oafish knave escape without first setting him in his proper place. “Tell me, is there aught that man was able to teach you about good manners?”
“Aye, ‘at ‘ere was.” The cowl muffled the deep voice as he wiped up spilled droplets with the sleeve of his tunic. “His lordship . . . the Mar’kee . . . ‘Twas his very ways I followed.”
“Then I’ll warrant you’ve had a dreadfully poor tutor,” Elise interrupted brusquely. “ ‘Tis a known fact Lord Seymour was a murderer and a traitor to the Queen. You’d do better to seek another source for your instructions.”
“I’ve heard ’em tales meself,” the servant replied, and continued with a short, scoffing laugh, “but I canna’ put much store in ’em.”
“ ‘Twas more than a tale,” Elise reminded him crisply. “Or at least the Queen thought so. She stripped the man of his holdings and gave them to my uncle. Obviously she recognized the better man.”
The man set the flagon down with a thump and leaned forward as if to confront her with a denial, unmindful of the cowl that fell away from his lower face. An unkempt beard of a light brown hue masked his jaw, and beneath the ragged wisps of whiskers hanging over his upper lip, his mouth was drawn back in a snarl. “Who made ye his judge, girl? Why, ye ne’er even met the man, an’ ye’ve no ken o’ the squire if ye say he’s the better man.”
Elise met those eyes which were now strangely piercing within the shadows of the hood. For a moment she was held frozen by the anger she saw blazing there, then she lifted her chin with an elegant air and dared counter his attack. “Are you some ancient sage that you can say whether or nay I met the man?”
Straightening to his full height, the hireling drew back slightly and folded his arms across his chest as he stared down at her with sardonic amusement. At best, the top of her head reached to the point of his bewhiskered chin, and had Elise not tilted her head back, she would have seen naught but a wide expanse of rough sacking covering his chest.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, mistress.” He pressed his hand to that broadness in a mocking gesture and swept her a shallow bow of apology. “I ne’er saw ye ‘ere when Lor’ Seymour was master, an’ I was o’ a mind ta think the two o’ ye ‘ad ne’er met.”
“Actually we never did,” Elise admitted, a trifle piqued at his challenging manner. The man deserved no explanation, and she wondered why she even bothered giving one. Daring to meet his taunting smile, she lent emphasis to her words. “But I would have known him just the same.”
“Indeed?” He gave her an oblique stare from the depth of the cowl “An’ could ye’ve said ‘twas him or nay had ye looked him in the eye?”
Elise’s temper sparked at the servant’s insolence. It was obvious he doubted her claim, and perhaps only common sense discouraged him from calling her a liar. Still, memories from a more recent time lingered in her mind, and she found it rather frustrating that she should be haunted by one she desired to forget . . . the portrait of the Marquess. At first, she had laid the cause of her admiration to the mood of the painting. The Marquess’s green hunting attire had added a debonair flair, while the pair of wolfhounds waiting alertly at his side had conveyed an adventuresome spirit, but in truth, it had been the handsomely aristocratic features, the darkly lashed green eyes, and the subtly taunting smile which had really attracted her and had compelled her to go back for another glimpse or two.
Elise realized the ragged servant was awaiting her reply with a tolerant stare, as if he regarded her silence as proof of a much-inflated boast. Her annoyance grew by a full measure and added to the crispness in her voice. “Obviously you smirk because you know I cannot prove my claim. The Marquess was killed attempting an escape.”
“Aye, I’ve heard it said meself,” her antagonist acknowledged. “On his way ta the Tower, he was, when he tried ta break free o’ the guards an’ was shot dead.” The servant leaned forward again and whispered furtively as if he encountered a dire need for secrecy. “But who’s ta say for sure what happened ta the Mar’kee after he tumbled from the bridge? ‘Ere weren’t nary a soul what ever saw him again, an’ ‘ere weren’t no leavin’s what any could find.” He sighed rather sadly. “Aye, ye can reckon ’em fishes feasted well ‘at night, ‘ey did.”
Elise shivered at the gruesome image conjured forth and, with an effort of will, dismissed what seemed to be a deliberate attempt to unsettle her. Purposefully she directed her attention to the matters at hand. “ ‘Tis the present feast we need attend to . . .” She paused, not knowing how to address the man. “I assume your mother gave you a name.”
“Aye, mistress, ‘at she did. Taylor, it be. Just Taylor.”
Elise swept her hand to indicate those seated at the trestle tables and instructed him on his duties. “Then, Taylor, I bid you see to the squire’s guests and their cups ere he takes us both to task for dallying.”
With a flourish of his own rag-covered hand Taylor stepped into a flamboyant bow. “Yer servant, mistress.”
Elise was rather astounded by his grace and could not resist a conjecture. “You copy your lord’s manners well, Taylor.”
A soft chuckle came from the man as he tugged the cowl closer about his face. “His lor’ship ‘ad as many tutors in his youth as a toad has warts. ‘Twas a game o’ mine ta follow what was bein’ taught.”