by Regan Walker
Thinking he was about six or seven summers, she handed him a spoon. “I expect you feed yourself.”
He nodded vigorously and took the spoon, dipping it into the bowl. Between mouthfuls of gruel, he said, “Yer hair is pretty.”
She could not help but smile. He was adorable. “Thank you.”
He squinted up at her. “Art new?”
“Aye. My cousin, Fia,” she pointed to Fia sitting across from them feeding a young girl, “and my brother, Niall, and I have just come from Dunkeld. Like you, Niall and I are orphans.”
“Ye’re older,” he said as if that was entirely different and she supposed it was.
“Aye, but orphans still.” He did not ask how it had come to be she had no parents and she did not wish to ask about his own circumstances, knowing it would cause each of them pain to speak of it. She had only wanted him to know she and Niall understood his loss.
The sounds of eating and occasional exchanges between the children echoed about the hall. For a while, she let Giric eat. Then she thought of something that might please him. “Do you like falcons?”
His eyes lit up and he put down the spoon, wiping his mouth on his tunic sleeve. “Aye, lady! Do ye have one?”
“I do. His name is Kessog and he lives in the mews. Mayhap we can visit him this afternoon.”
He frowned. “The queen’s ladies do their sewing then.”
“I will ask the queen if she will allow me to show you my falcon. I am not so good at needlework that I will be missed. Can you be outside the door to the hall at midday?”
He nodded. Licking the last bit of gruel from his spoon, he reached for a piece of bread. “I will be there.” Taking the bread with him, he slipped from the bench and raced toward the door to join the other children who were leaving. Just as he went outside, he turned and waved to her.
She returned the gesture. Giric. Smiling to herself, she thought to ask Niall to go along on their afternoon adventure.
When the children had gone, a score of men and women came into the hall and were greeted by Margaret. They were simply dressed like the servants. All of them seemed to know the queen and warmly responded to her words of welcome. Catrìona wondered who they were. She had not seen them the evening before. Their clothing was modest but clean. Some looked more like Saxons than Scots, fair-haired and blue-eyed. A few children accompanied them.
They took the empty places at the same table where Catrìona, Fia and Audra sat with the other ladies.
Catrìona was puzzled.
As if reading her mind, Audra said, “They come each morning, the poor in Dunfermline. Many are English. The queen offers them food and provides them clothing.”
“The queen does much good,” Catrìona observed as a servant filled her bowl with the warm, cinnamon-scented gruel. She was happy to see raisins sprinkled on top.
“I love her for her goodness,” said Audra. “We all do. You have not seen the half of it.”
“Will the queen eat now?” Catrìona asked. She would not eat before her mistress, but truth be told, the smell of fresh bread and the thought of the honey and raisins on her tongue made her ravenous.
Audra glanced at the villagers and then turned back to Catrìona and Fia. “Once Margaret is certain the poor have been fed, then she will eat. But much of the time, she consumes little. We must remind her each day that she eats for the babe she carries or she would waste away to nothing. She fasts often.”
Catrìona felt shame for her own selfishness. At her father’s home in the vale, any in need had been welcomed but they had never placed the poor above themselves like Margaret did. No wonder the king loved her.
The queen walked to the dais and took her place at the high table. Not long after, the tower door burst open and Malcolm strode into the hall, his men trailing behind him, sending up a great din, laughing and speaking in loud voices of the hunt they were planning. From their eyes fixed on the bowls of gruel, Malcolm and his men appeared eager to break their fast and take to the woods. They must have been accustomed to seeing the poor in their midst, for they did not remark on it.
The king and Catrìona’s uncle joined the queen at the head table. The king’s men found places at the trestle tables, most of them sitting at the table across from where Catrìona and the queen’s ladies were eating with the poor.
Among the men were the golden-haired warrior and his companion, the bard.
Catrìona picked up her spoon and scooped a helping of gruel into her mouth, the honey and raisins as tasty as she had imagined.
“There’s the Welshman,” said Fia, looking up from her own bowl and turning to glimpse the bard.
Catrìona broke off a piece of bread and glanced at the handsome blond with broad shoulders sitting beside the bard. “And his friend.”
As if he sensed her eyes upon him, the fair-haired warrior turned and smiled at her.
Instantly, she looked down at her gruel, embarrassed at having been caught at his game of staring. What must he think? It was Domnall she should be looking at but she had not seen him come into the hall with the king.
A moment later, with a one-word command, the king summoned the warrior who had smiled at her. “Steinar!”
The warrior immediately responded, rising from his place to stride to the king, his hair catching the sun’s light flowing through the open shutters. He walked with a slight limp.
“Who is that one?” she asked Audra.
The queen’s lady followed Catrìona’s gaze. “The king’s scribe.”
A scribe? She would never have believed it. His body was that of a warrior, not a man of the cloth. Though he carried no sword, she could not imagine him as the king’s clerk. It meant he was educated, a man of letters, as few warriors were. Even the king was unlettered. Mayhap this blond scribe, who looked like a Saxon, had fled to Scotland, or been dragged there by the king as a slave. Could this man be a slave?
At the sound of the tower door opening, she turned. Domnall strolled inside with Maerleswein. Gesturing his companion to proceed without him, Domnall came toward her.
Her heart began to race in her chest. She was glad to see him. He looked very handsome. He might intend to hunt with the king, but first he was coming to speak with her and she was pleased he would do so.
His features, sharp as always, softened as he approached.
She stood to greet him. “Domnall.”
He gazed at her with obvious pleasure. In his pale blue eyes, she saw the desire that she had seen there before. Inwardly, she warmed to the idea they would soon be man and wife.
“Catrìona, I regret I have not been able to see you until now. How do you fare? How was your journey from Dunkeld?”
She drew him aside so they would be out of earshot of the others. “I am well, sir. The journey was uneventful, the weather fair. And you?” She had missed him and longed for him to say he had eagerly awaited her arrival and looked forward to their betrothal now that her mourning period was over.
But he said none of those things. Instead, he spoke of the king. “Malcolm has been a most gracious host. I have lingered long in his hall and hope to trade with him.”
Unwilling to let him see her disappointment, she let her gaze drift to the floor. Gathering her resolve, she raised her head, a mask of calm in place. “The queen, too, is most kind.”
“Will you walk with me later?” he asked. “Mayhap before the evening meal?”
Hope sprang within her. “Aye, I will come early to the hall.”
“Good. The sun will not have left the sky and we can walk to the burn.”
He bid her a good day and she wished him a successful hunt, watching him walk to his place next to Maerleswein. It had not been the longed for meeting she had hoped for. He had not even taken her hand. Had time and distance changed his feelings? Yet, she was certain it was desire she had glimpsed in his eyes.
* * *
Catrìona’s fingers, unused to embroidery, were red from her many missed stabs of the needle. It has
scarce been an hour. How will I survive more of this?
Margaret, her sister, Cristina, and the queen’s ladies were tucked away in one of the chambers the queen called her own, the women bent to their needlework, each embellishing a piece of cloth or a garment.
“Tell us about your home,” said an exuberant Elspeth.
Catrìona glanced up from her needlework to see the youngest of Margaret’s ladies looking at her expectantly and sitting forward on her stool.
Happy for an excuse to lay aside her embroidery, Catrìona began to describe her home in the vale, recalling happier days, before the Norse attack. “ ’Tis the most beautiful place in all of Scotland, not that I have seen all of Scotland, but I cannot imagine any place more magnificent. Why, you can stand on Ben Lomond and gaze far ahead into the bluest loch anywhere on earth. ’Tis like gazing into… Heaven.” Without warning, a lump formed in her throat and tears welled in her eyes, making her feel foolish before the other women at the emotion the mere memory of her home roused within her.
The queen came to her rescue. Smiling kindly, she said “I have heard ’tis a wondrous place.”
“Did you come to Dunfermline to find a husband?” asked the dark-haired Isobel, the eldest of Margaret’s ladies.
The question was a bold one, and since most of them were sent to Malcolm’s court to do just that, it hardly seemed necessary to ask, but seeing the women’s sudden interest and because she was proud of her intended, she said, “My father selected a husband for me but we are not yet betrothed.” Surely the king and queen were aware of her circumstances, but Catrìona had carefully worded her reply should the others not be aware her father was dead.
“Might he be someone we know?” asked Davina timidly. Of all the queen’s ladies, the honey-haired woman from Lothian appeared the most soft-spoken.
Catrìona cast a glance at Fia before answering. “Aye,” she said proudly. “He is the Irishman from Leinster, Domnall mac Murchada.”
Isobel and Audra appeared surprised to learn she was already promised, but their reaction to her mention of Domnall’s name told her they were familiar with him.
Davina said nothing but on her face was a puzzled expression.
Before Catrìona could explain, Elspeth jumped in. “You know him, Davina. He is the one who is always with Maerleswein, the English sheriff.”
“Maerleswein is no longer a sheriff,” corrected Isobel. “He forfeited his lands and title when he led the rebels in York.”
“Well, he was a sheriff,” Elspeth insisted.
“He served William for a time,” interjected Margaret. The comment went unnoticed but Catrìona wondered what had turned the sheriff against the Norman they now called the Conqueror.
“Maerleswein and Domnall talk of nothing save ships and trade,” said Isobel as if bored by the thought.
“Trade is very important to Scotland,” said Margaret. “I have encouraged the king to pursue it for what it can mean for our people.”
“Aye, said Fia, “My father is keenly interested in being a part of the king’s plans for the sake of Atholl.”
“ ’Twas a good thing to encourage trade that brings new wares to our shores,” said the kind-hearted Audra in defense of the queen’s idea. “My father tells me that before you came to Dunfermline, My Lady, the bright colors and fine clothing the merchants bring to Dunfermline were not seen here. ’Twas only a gathering of rough-clothed warriors eating amid dirty rushes.”
Elspeth giggled, apparently trying to imagine the scene.
“Is it true, My Lady?” asked Catrìona. “Did you change the way the men and women dress?”
The queen set down her embroidery and gazed toward the window where sunlight was streaming into the small chamber. “When we first came to Dunfermline two years ago, it was a very different place than it is today.” She looked around the circle of women. “Malcolm had no queen; his first wife had died. The tower was the stronghold of men, a place for them to sleep and eat before setting out on a raid. The chapel was a dank, dismal place, rarely used.”
“The tower was dark and not clean as it is today,” said Cristina, the queen’s sister, with obvious disdain. Her face twisted into a grimace, an expression Catrìona could not picture on Margaret. “We were raised in the courts of Hungary and England,” Cristina continued, “places of great opulence. We were unused to filth.”
Margaret interrupted, mayhap to keep her sister from describing all they had encountered. “Once I agreed to become Malcolm’s wife, I wanted his court to bring glory to him and to Scotland.”
What must it have been like for the young queen amid so many rough warriors? Margaret had changed many things, bringing a civility to Malcolm’s court apparently absent before. “He must love you all the more for it.”
Margaret blushed. “I am happy he loves me at all, but in truth, he was willing to make the changes because he saw the wisdom in them.”
“And because they were important to you,” said the queen’s sister.
“Well, I for one am glad for the hearty fare your kitchen prepares,” said an enthusiastic Elspeth. “I can only imagine what the king’s men dined on before you came to Dunfermline.”
The queen seemed amused. “They did not use many spices or sauces in those days. The fare was simple and the meat cooked over the central hearth fire and not always well.”
The queen’s ladies, who had come after the changes were made, laughed at the queen’s description of men tearing great chunks of meat off haunches of venison and boar roasted over an open fire in the hall.
Cristina huffed. “ ’Twas hardly acceptable.”
After that, the women went back to their needlework and Catrìona did the same, enduring the stabs of her needle for more than an hour. Finally, she looked up at the light coming through the window, thinking it must be time to meet Giric. Desperate for a change and longing for the diversion flying Kessog would bring, she glanced at Margaret whose deft fingers were working small, perfect stiches of golden thread into a large square of ivory silk. An altar cloth.
“My Lady,” Catrìona said, setting aside her embroidery. The queen paused in her needlework, lifting her brows in inquiry. “Would it be permitted for me to show one of the orphans my falcon? The lad seemed most eager to see it when we broke our fast together this morning.”
The other women, Fia among them, kept their heads down, their busy hands pausing only briefly with Catrìona’s question.
The queen’s sister frowned, clearly disapproving of the request. A few years younger than Margaret, Cristina was fair-haired, but not so pretty or, Catrìona sensed, so kind as the queen. “Your falcon? Surely that is no seemly pet for a lady.”
“Kessog is no pet,” said Catrìona. “He is a wild bird of prey raised to hunt.”
Thankfully, the queen was not as rigid as her sister and intervened before an argument could begin. “Of course you may go. While I encourage my ladies in their embroidery to adorn the chapel’s altar and to make beautiful their clothing, we do much more than needlework at Dunfermline. In time you will see, but for today, bringing joy to a small orphan shall be your devotional. ’Twas the lad, Giric, was it not?”
“Aye, My Lady.”
“He is a most unusual boy,” said the queen. “Misfortune has not dulled his young spirit. Your time with him will be well spent.”
Catrìona thanked her new mistress and hurried out of the chamber and down the long set of stairs to the hall below. Grabbing the pouch of meat she had earlier begged from the kitchen servants, she raced through the front door where Giric was already waiting.
“I thought ye’d fergot,” he said, stepping away from the tower wall. In his voice she heard the resignation of one used to being disappointed.
“Nay, I did not forget. Come,” she extended her hand and he took it. “I will show you Kessog. Mayhap we can fly him. Would you like that?”
His eyes glistened in delight. “Oh, aye! Be it allowed?”
She nodded and they walke
d toward the mews, the boy asking her questions about the falcon, what he looked like, how big he was, how long she had trained him and, finally, “Does he hunt?”
“Aye, of course. For birds, mostly; ducks are a particular favorite of Kessog’s.” Again, she had the urge to ask him how he lost his parents. She hoped eventually he would tell her of his own accord. Instead, after she’d answered his questions about the falcon, she asked, “Where do you stay?”
“In the village with the others. ’Tis not far.” Catrìona had yet to see the village but was glad the boy had company and a place to sleep.
“You will like my brother,” she encouraged. “Niall will meet us at the mews.”
Niall was already waiting for her as she and Giric stepped into the dimly lit structure that housed the king’s falcons.
Machar retrieved Kessog from his perch. “Good afternoon, my lady.”
She returned Machar’s greeting and said to her brother, “Niall, this is my new friend, Giric.”
She was certain she had done the right thing in bringing the boy when he looked up at Niall and enthusiastically asked, “Do ye fly falcons, too?”
Niall tousled the boy’s hair. “Aye, ’tis a sport our father favored. Once, we had many more than just Kessog.” He shot Catrìona a glance, regret in his eyes, for his own peregrine falcon had been taken as plunder the day of the Norse attack.
Machar handed the hooded Kessog to Niall, who lowered the bird for Giric to stroke the falcon’s breast feathers. “Gently,” her brother instructed.
Awestruck, Giric said, “He is…” The boy hesitated as if searching for a word.
“Magnificent?” Niall asked.
“Aye!” exclaimed Giric.
Catrìona thought so, too. Kessog was a fine example of a tiercel, brightly plumed and perfect of form.
“I want to see him fly,” said Giric.
“And you shall,” Catrìona assured him. “But you will have to look sharp. He is very fast in the hunt.”
“There is a field not far from the tower,” offered Machar. “The burn runs near it. ’Twill have ducks and room for your falcon to hunt.”
Thanking him, she took Kessog on her gauntleted hand and left the mews with Niall.