by Regan Walker
To think Isla knew and did not care made it all the worse as the conversation at the ladies’ table continued.
“Why, only last eve,” Isla said to Audra, “Domnall described his home in Leinster to me and told me how much he wants me to see it. He plans to speak to my father on his way home.”
“Domnall goes home?” asked Audra, shooting a glance at Catrìona.
“Only for a time. He has family matters to see to and he is negotiating a trading venture between Leinster and King Malcolm.”
That Domnall had shared his business with this new lady—things he had never told her—caused a deep hurt within Catrìona. She felt the tears well in her eyes. Unable to stand more of the woman’s boasting, with a hasty apology to the queen, Catrìona fled the hall as her tears began to flow.
She ran from the tower into the forest not realizing she had come to the place next to the burn where she had sat with the queen. The only sounds were those of the water rushing over stones and the birds in the trees above her.
She sat on a fallen log crossing her arms tightly around her, rocking back and forth, as the tears fell. How could he do this? And without a word to me!
Hearing footfalls behind her coming closer along the path, she brushed the tears from her face and turned her head toward the stream, hoping whoever it was would pass her by.
“Catrìona.”
The queen.
Catrìona turned to face her mistress.
“It occurred to me you might come here. I think I know why you weep but I would listen if you would speak of it,” said Margaret.
Catrìona got to her feet, unwilling to keep all that was in her heart from the queen. “The man my father chose for me, the man I thought to wed, has now chosen another.”
“Ah,” Margaret said knowingly as she beckoned Catrìona to sit and eased herself down beside her. “Domnall mac Murchada. I have observed his actions toward Isla of Blackwell. ’Twould seem he has at last found someone much like himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the year he has been in Dunfermline, I have become aware of ill-favored character. He is not one I would have chosen for you.”
Catrìona drew little comfort from Margaret’s words. All she could think of was Domnall’s rejection. Beneath the hurt he had caused was the pain from the loss of her parents. The deep wounds had not healed. Mayhap they never would. “ ’Tis not just Domnall, My Lady. My heart is broken; I am distraught for all that I have lost.”
Margaret took Catrìona’s trembling hand in hers. “I know you have suffered much, Catrìona, and I am very sorry for your pain. It was my hope when you came to us that you would find healing. You will, in time.”
Catrìona looked into the queen’s gentle sky-colored eyes. “I hope so, My Lady.”
Margaret gave her an understanding smile. “There is no soul so damaged, no heart so broken, it cannot be healed by God, Catrìona.”
Tears flowed from Catrìona’s eyes in a great rush as she turned into Margaret’s comforting arms wanting desperately for the words to be true.
The queen stroked her back. “I know what it is to experience loss, Catrìona. I was still young when my father died. Then, my country was torn from me and my family’s lives threatened so that we had to flee. I know fear.”
Guilt crept over Catrìona. How could she wallow in self-pity when the queen had lost her father and her home, even her country? Catrìona sat up and blinked back the tears filling her eyes. “I am sorry, My Lady.”
“Few among us have not known tragedy. I, too, once doubted God.”
She could not believe this devout queen had ever doubted God. “You?”
A smile crossed her face. “ ’Tis quite human, I have discovered. God understands your grief, Catrìona, as He did mine. Did not evil men kill His Son? But that terrible loss was part of a greater plan.”
Catrìona nodded as Margaret spoke, seeing truth in the queen’s words.
“God has a greater plan for us, as well. Sometimes His plans are different than ours.” The queen looked into her eyes. “We must accept whatever He allows into our lives, trusting Him to use it for good.”
It was hard for Catrìona to accept all that had happened as the queen suggested she should, but Margaret’s words made her wonder for the first time if mayhap she was not intended for Domnall after all. What if her father had been wrong to choose him? Painful though the possibility was, she had to consider it might be true.
“You knew, of course, that I did not wish to marry,” said the queen.
“Aye,” said Catrìona, wiping away the last of the tears. “Edgar told me.”
“It was Edgar who persuaded me to accept Malcolm’s suit. He told me I had to do it for the family’s protection and to give him the powerful ally he needed to try and take back England.”
“And so you married Malcolm…”
“I did. Out of duty, at first. But I have come to see, ’twas not Edgar who betrothed me to Malcolm. ’Twas God.”
At Catrìona’s look of surprise, Margaret said, “Like you, the life I once thought to have was not to be. Instead, God gave me a loving husband and a country to serve. A different calling, but one no less worthy.”
“You love the king.” Why it had suddenly occurred to Catrìona she could not say. It might have been the wistful look in Margaret’s eyes when she spoke of her husband.
“Yea, I do. I love my husband and his people, who are now my people.”
“I admire all you do for them, especially the poor,” said Catrìona. “It has become one of my joys to help the orphans.”
Margaret stared past Catrìona to the waters of the burn, flowing fast with the summer rains they had experienced. “I have tried to be a proper wife for Malcolm, to do what seems needful for Scotland, encouraging trade with other countries, bringing to our shores new wares, making the tower a fit home for a king and sharing with Malcolm God’s truth. But I ask God, what more would He have me do?”
“Is that what you pray for?” asked Catrìona, curious as to what consumed the queen’s prayers when she secluded herself in the cave.
“I pray for Scotland, for her future, her people and for wisdom for my husband to lead them.” Tears filled Margaret’s eyes as she spoke. “I ask God for children who will serve Him and Scotland after Malcolm and I are gone from this life.”
A lump formed in Catrìona’s throat as she pondered the queen’s devotion to her new country and her husband. “Surely God will honor your prayers. None doubt that the Lady of Scotland loves God and the people.”
Margaret smiled. “It pleases me to think so,” she said, slowly rising, her hand pressing into her lower back.
Catrìona got to her feet. “Does the child pain you, My Lady?”
“Nay, but sometimes my back aches. ’Tis nothing. Come,” urged the queen, “let us return.” Smiling, she said, “We have a ferry to build and an inn to see to. ’Tis a challenge worthy of you, Catrìona. And it should please you to know the king has given his consent to all we spoke of.”
Encouraged by the queen, Catrìona rose and walked back to the tower speaking of the future that lay ahead. To Catrìona, they seemed like two friends walking the path together.
* * *
Catrìona lifted her head from the miserable embroidery she had struggled with all morning. Twice she had torn out a thread to replace it with another. Her flowers, she sadly admitted, looked more like bannocks than blossoms.
The heat in the chamber where the queen’s ladies labored was oppressive this summer morning. With a deep sigh, she set aside the odious task and begged leave to get some air. Margaret, always accommodating, gave a gracious nod of assent.
Hurriedly, lest the queen change her mind, Catrìona left the chamber and headed down the corridor thinking she might visit Kessog in the mews to see how his molt was coming along.
Feeling better as she descended the stairs to the hall where the air was fresher, she was nearly at the last step when she looked
up to see the captain of the king’s guard striding toward her from the hearth. Colbán’s long legs quickly covered the distance between them.
She stopped on the last stair, waiting. What could he want?
Her curiosity changed to wonder when, reaching her, he bowed in deep obeisance.
“Lady Catrìona.”
The king’s captain had never paid her much attention except for perfunctory greetings when she came into the hall with the queen’s ladies. But she remembered Fia’s remark that he had watched her. “Sir?” she asked warily.
“I had hoped to catch you away from the others.”
She waited expectantly, interested to know why he should need to speak to her alone. Except for the servants, the hall was typically empty at this time of the day, as he must have known.
When he hesitated, she stepped down from the stair to the floor, which she immediately realized was a mistake. Now he loomed over her, like a huge bear. And his dark eyes were intently focused on her.
She swallowed. “ ’Twould seem your timing is good, sir.”
Despite his initial approach, which she judged overbold, he now appeared diffident, confusing her. His brown eyes grew warm as he considered her while anxiously fumbling with a length of copper-colored cloth he carried.
Without warning, he thrust the cloth toward her.
She reached for it with both hands. It was soft, fine wool. A man’s tunic mayhap? With raised brows, she looked up at him. “Sir?”
“ ’Tis mine,” he said. “I know the queen’s ladies embroider garments when they devote themselves to their needlework. I would ask you to embroider this for me.”
Beneath the request Catrìona heard a tone of command. But then, the king’s captain was used to having his requests carried out as ordered and, after all, she was only a woman. “Sir, there are others among the queen’s ladies whose fingers are more skillful than mine with a needle. I would be happy to ask one of them—”
“Nay!” he blurted out. Then pausing, he began again. “It must be your hand that embroiders the tunic.”
Why mine? His intense gaze remained fixed on her, telling her there was no use in arguing. Sighing in resignation, she said, “Very well, if it will please you, I will try.”
He flashed her a brilliant smile, his teeth white between his red mustache and beard. “Aye, ’twould please me.” With that he bowed, turned and stalked off toward the tower door.
Flustered, she watched him go. How strange.
Her original mission forgotten, she turned on her heels and slowly climbed the long set of wooden stairs, casting a glance at her scarred fingertips, hoping she would not bleed all over the tunic when she attempted to adorn it with some sort of design that might please such a man.
* * *
In the days that followed the celebration of Maerleswein and Davina’s betrothal, Steinar watched with interest as warriors flocked to Dunfermline from provinces near and far in response to the king’s summons. Many rode horses and carried fine swords. Others were archers skilled enough to garner Rhodri’s respect. Still others were men-at-arms pledged to a mormaer.
The village bulged with men overflowing the taverns, keeping the serving wenches busy. Tents were erected to house the soldiers and the night air smelled of their cook fires that illuminated the meadows and trees all around the burn.
Special contingents had to be dispatched to hunt in order to feed all the men. Each evening their captains dined in the hall that swelled with the new arrivals.
With so many warriors in such a crowded area, there were bound to be fights, especially if one of them was full of wine and took offense at something that was said.
Colbán, captain of Malcolm’s guard, did not tolerate open fighting among the men and disputes, when they erupted into violence, were quickly quashed. But there was one man who caused more problems than the others, a swaggering braggart named Rian of Lothian.
More than once Steinar had heard the king mutter under his breath that in Rian of Lothian, Maerleswein had foisted off on his king a particularly troublesome piece of flesh.
“Probably laughing at me this very moment,” Malcolm had said.
Rian bore scars on his face that announced to all he was a wild brute of a man. Jagged wounds ill healed. His brown hair was always disheveled and his clothing looked more animal in origin than the fine woolens favored at Malcolm’s court. He was as wide as he was tall but he had not gone to fat. The braggart was all muscle and sinew.
He had instigated several fights in the village and no father would allow his daughter near the man. It took the constant vigilance of the king’s guard to keep the peace when Rian was involved.
That afternoon, as Steinar was returning from his surreptitious sword practice in the woods, his leg paining him for not having rested it, he came upon Rian and his rabble of followers. With ugly jeers and much laughter, they were tormenting Giric’s little dog, Shadow.
Rian prodded the little dog with a stick. Shadow’s barking merely incited the brute’s followers.
“What is that, a barking rat? Smite it harder, Rian!” said one from where he leaned against the stable.
“Just a wee beastie,” drawled another.
“Whatever it is, makes an irksome noise,” said Rian.
When the dog kept barking, Rian kicked it with his boot.
The dog’s yelp brought Giric running. Scooping him up, the boy shouted, “Leave ’im be!”
“Ho! What have we here?” Rian said his eyes narrowing on Giric. “Can this be the master of the rat? Or mayhap ’tis his brother. Both are mangy little scraps. Come here, let me get a closer look at ye.” When Giric started to back away, Rian made a grab for the boy’s collar and growled in anger when Giric kicked him and, dodging his grip, stepped aside, clutching the whimpering dog to his chest.
Steinar took a step forward, intending to call a halt to the farce, when Niall strode across the open ground and stepped in front of the boy. Gently shoving him aside, he said. “Take him away, Giric. I will handle this.”
Niall faced Rian, a slim youth against a muscled brute. “Seems to me you are a bit large to be picking on wee dogs and littlings.”
Rian’s face twisted into a grimace as he circled Niall while the brute’s friends shouted insults.
“ ’Tis only a lad hisself,” said one blustering fellow.
“I am nae certain ’tis even a lad,” taunted Rian. “Might be a girl with that long red hair.”
Rian’s companions erupted in cruel laughter.
Niall said nothing but stood his ground, his bow slung over his shoulder, his chin jutting out.
Rian glanced over his shoulder at his companions, grinned and charged. His beefy shoulder caught Niall full in the chest, knocking him off his feet.
Niall fell and a loud snap rent the air as his bow broke beneath him. He jumped up, ripped the broken bow from his shoulder and yanked the seax at his hip from its leather sheath.
Rian smirked and slowly pulled his sword from its scabbard, the steel making a cold threatening ring as it slid free. He waved the sword menacingly in front of Niall’s face.
The men watching backed away, Rian’s followers among them.
Steinar had been watching for Colbán or one of the king’s guards, someone who actually had authority over the men, but none were present.
So it must be me.
“Enough!” Steinar shouted, striding into the middle of the rising tension. He stood in front of Niall, facing Rian. “What goes here?”
CHAPTER 8
Catrìona had only stepped though the tower door when the loud shouts of men stopped her. Not far away in the open area between the tower and the outbuildings, a group of men circled around what sounded like a brawl. There had been more instances of such fighting since the new warriors had come to Dunfermline. She often took a circuitous path to avoid them and she would do so now.
She had taken only a few steps when Giric came running toward her, his dog at his side barking f
uriously. “ ’Tis the scribe, my lady!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the circle of men. Through a break in the crowd, she saw Niall standing to one side, his bow broken at his feet and the scribe in front of him facing a thick-shouldered warrior wielding a long sword.
Fear gripped her. What had happened? Was Steinar unarmed against the warrior’s sword?
The ring of steel cut through the men’s shouts as Steinar jerked his sword from its scabbard and held it before him, his legs slightly apart. Where had he found a sword?
The crowd stepped back, murmuring.
Giric let go of her hand and drew closer to the looming fight. She reached out and grabbed him, pulling him toward her. “Stand up here,” she told him and led him to a bench he could stand on to safely watch. She stepped closer to watch what transpired.
“Anyone can defeat a youth who carries only a knife,” Steinar said to the large warrior whose back faced her. “Let us see how you do against a man who is armed with a sword!” The undercurrent in Steinar’s voice bespoke anger but also the confidence of one who knew how to wield such a blade. She understood he had once been a warrior but that had been years ago. What of now?
The two men appeared evenly matched in height but Steinar was leaner and younger. His long golden hair settled on his shoulders, reflecting the sun like a torch, while the mountain of a man who would fight him was dark, his hair shorter and unkempt.
She heard the sneer in his opponent’s voice as he pulled his seax from his hip to join the sword he held in his other hand. “This should prove a novelty, cutting up a scribe. But ye need have no worry. I will leave yer right hand should the king find himself in need of a scrivener.” The man bellowed his laughter.
Slowly pulling his own short sword from his belt, Steinar said, “If you wish to fight with two blades, I can accommodate you.”
Now each man held a sword and a long knife, poised to strike. With growing dismay, Catrìona realized there would be no shields in this fight, only blades, and no mail to shield tender flesh. She bit her knuckled fist, tension building inside her. Could Steinar fight the older, larger man?