by Regan Walker
They set off, Somerled keeping just behind Ragnhild as she urged her horse into a gallop. As they entered the forest, the hair on the back of Somerled’s neck prickled.
He would not have needed Liadan’s warning to know danger was near.
RAGNHILD GALLOPED BEHIND the other hunters in pursuit of the hart, the sound of pounding hooves echoing through the woods. Around her, dappled light filtered through the trees. Behind her, she heard the sound of Somerled following. She hoped the hunt would give her a chance to show him she was capable and quick with her bow.
A hart could be cunning, dashing into a burn to hide his trail or doubling back to confuse the hounds. Thus, she was careful to listen for the horn’s signals indicating such might be happening. Ahead, she heard the hounds baying loudly. They must have encountered a hart, perhaps more than one since the harts ran in packs this time of year.
The huntsman sound a quick series of doubled notes, indicating the hart being pursued was running in the open. As her horse galloped ahead, she looked around, listening for a creature crashing through the woods.
He could be anywhere.
“I see him!” Somerled shouted. “He has doubled back and is coming this way. Quick, watch the clearing on your right.”
Ragnhild reined in her horse, reached for her bow and nocked an arrow, its point sharpened only this morning.
The large deer bounded into the clearing and she focused, then loosed her arrow. It hurtled though the air toward the hart, catching him in the chest, bringing him down.
Before she could turn to see Somerled’s reaction, the sound of another arrow whizzing past her caught her attention. Behind her, she heard a grunt.
Turning in the saddle, she saw Somerled slide from his agitated horse, a splash of red turning his sleeve scarlet. An arrow was lodged in the flesh of his arm.
“Somerled!” she shouted, getting down from her horse and running to where he stood among the leaves strewn about the forest floor. “You’re hit!”
SOMERLED HAD WITNESSED the princess’ well-aimed shot and had seen the hart drop to his knees in the clearing bathed in sunlight. The successful kill had distracted him. By the time he had heard the release of another arrow, it was too close to avoid altogether. He pressed himself to the courser’s neck but that did not spare him.
He grunted as the arrow struck, tearing through his sleeve and ripping into the muscle of his left arm. His horse reared and a stab of pain made him grimace with the movement.
Sliding to the ground, his left arm throbbing, he soothed the courser with soft words. Carefully, he scanned the trees, searching for the one who had loosed the arrow. A movement in the undergrowth some distance off drew his gaze but he saw no one. Mayhap ’twas only a forest creature frightened by the sounds.
Ragnhild rushed to his side, eyes wide at the arrow protruding from his arm. “You are bleeding!”
“Aye, but I do not think the arrow hit the bone, thank God.”
She looked around and then back to his arm. “What a clumsy hunter to not see you in the way of his shot.”
He didn’t want her to know the shot had been intentional, a near miss of his vital organs. “Aye, a shot gone awry. Help me remove the arrow.”
She swallowed, pressing her lips together, and nodded. “What shall I do?”
“Break the shaft that is behind me and give me the fletching.” He clenched his jaw and waited as she snapped the shaft and handed him the part of the shaft that contained the fletching. He tucked it into his sword belt. “Do you have any ale? Wine?” he asked her.
“I do,” she said, quickly going to her horse and leading him back to Somerled. She held up a drinking flask. “’Tis wine.”
“Pour it over what’s left of the shaft.”
Her brows drew together as she moved to take a stance behind him. “All right but ’twill sting like a wasp.”
He was tempted to laugh. “I expect it will.” He winced as the liquor met his raw flesh. Once done, he gripped the arrow tip and, with clenched teeth, yanked the shaft from his arm.
The blood ran free from the wound and she covered it with a wine-soaked cloth, a worried look on her face. “You are pale but at least you are free of the wretched barb.” She pulled a cream-colored scarf from inside her sleeve. “Hold still while I try and stop the bleeding.” With her forehead furrowed in concentration, Ragnhild tied the scarf around his arm above the wound, cinching it tight.
Aware her face was mere inches from his own and her faint scent of rose wafting to his nostrils, he lifted her chin with his right hand and looked long into her eyes that were the green of the hills of Morvern in spring. Loose tendrils of her red-gold hair had come free to frame her beguiling face. “Princess, do you care so much I shed a little blood?”
She met his gaze and her mouth opened as if in surprise, or mayhap in sudden realization. Averting her eyes, she said, “Why, yes…I do.”
“That being the case, I would show my affection for you.” He brought her face to his and pressed a kiss on her sweet lips. He wanted more but since she was an innocent and this their first kiss, he refrained. Meeting her wide-eyed gaze, he said, “I write no poetry, Princess and, as yet, have no castle, but my intentions are honorable and I am ever constant once my heart is given.”
Her gaze lingered on him, her mouth slightly open, as if begging for another kiss.
The sound of the other hunters riding toward them and the hounds baying intruded into their private moment. Somerled stepped back, leaving a blushing Ragnhild to take up the reins of her horse.
Moments later, the hunters entered the clearing and the huntsman sounded a wavering note on his horn, signaling the kill had been made. Though they could not see him and Ragnhild where they stood among the trees, he thought it time for him to leave.
“Best claim your kill,” said Somerled.
“But your arm—”
“Do not worry. I am fine.” Wincing against the pain, he swung into the saddle and smiled down at her. “We will take up this meeting again soon. Meanwhile, tonight we dine on venison, thanks to you, Princess.”
Not wishing the hunters to see his bloodied person, he led his horse from the woods in another direction, still experiencing the taste of her lips.
CHAPTER 9
RAGNHILD WONDERED at Somerled’s seeming indifference to being shot through with an arrow. He sat straight in the saddle as he turned to go, his head up, as if nothing had happened. He was an altogether fine-looking man with the sides of his hair taken up for the hunt, emphasizing his strong jaw.
The wound from the arrow had stopped bleeding but he would still be hurting. She wanted to follow him and tend his arm but she knew he would not want her to. He would hide the wound and his pain from all.
“Will I see you this eve?” she had asked to his back. It was a bold question for a maiden, but his kiss, the touch of his lips on hers and his words had changed everything. What she would have resisted from any other man she had encouraged from him. And, had they not been interrupted, she would have welcomed another of his kisses.
She could no longer hide her desire for him.
At her question, he had turned in the saddle. “Aye, or before. I am to meet with King David this afternoon so I must change my clothing.” He glanced at his blood-spattered sleeve and then at her. “I thank you for your ministrations.”
When he had gone from her sight, she rode to where the hunters had dismounted and were now standing around the dead hart. One of the huntsmen was cutting the entrails from the deer to offer to the hounds now leashed but whining, eager for their prize.
“Was this your kill?” asked Hugh de Morville. “I have asked and it was none of ours.”
“It was,” said Ragnhild from where she sat on her horse. “He doubled back or I would not have had a clean shot.”
“I congratulate you on your good fortune,” said de Morville. “He’s a grand specimen and will feed us all.” Then with a bow and a grin, “The honor of the hunt goes to
the Isle of Man and to its princess.”
As the hunters nodded their agreement, she inclined her head. “Thank you.” Wishing to change from her hunting attire, Ragnhild bid the men good day and returned to the stables where the king’s constable kept his horses. Placing the reins in the hands of a groom, she sought her chamber where Cecily waited.
“How went the hunt?” asked her handmaiden as she began to help Ragnhild undress.
She hesitated. There was so much she could have said but did not. Instead, she treasured in her heart the moment in the woods with Somerled and would share it with no one. The memory of it still made her pulse speed and brought a smile to her face. “It went well,” she finally said. “’Twas my arrow that brought down the hart but, as I think on it, I believe Lord Somerled allowed me to take a shot that should have been his.”
Brows raised above her blue eyes, Cecily said, “A gracious man. Still, however you came by it, my lady, you did well. And how did the hunters react?”
“They were generous, expressing congratulations.”
Having unlaced her tunic, Cecily helped her shed the garment and the chemise underneath. “That is to the good, though they had to be jealous.”
“Possibly. Hugh de Morville was kind. I think he was even pleased it was my arrow that felled the deer.”
Cecily gestured to the large wooden tub with steam rising from the water. “I had a bath drawn for you in anticipation of your return. I have added your rosewater to it.”
“Bless you,” said Ragnhild, walking to the tub. “I wouldn’t want to smell of horse and sweat in the king’s presence.”
Ragnhild allowed her handmaiden to scrub her back, then accepted the sponge from her to see to the rest.
“While you were at the hunt,” said Cecily, standing before her, “I spent some time in the kitchen, inquiring about herbs. The servants were chattering away like magpies.”
“Really, about what?” she asked with fleeting interest.
“’Twas all of Lord Somerled. He seems to be a man about which there is much speculation, especially by the young maids.”
“And?” Ragnhild tried not to show her interest yet she waited with great anticipation.
“I learned something I thought would interest you.”
Ragnhild raised a brow, impatient for Cecily’s news.
“He was married young in Ireland and his wife died giving him a son.”
He is a widower? “He cannot be thirty now. How old might the son be?”
“The women guessed eight or nine.”
“I have never seen such a child with Lord Somerled. Where is he?”
“One of the kitchen servants heard the lad is in Ireland with his grandmother, a Norsewoman.”
Ragnhild rose from the water and Cecily handed her a drying cloth. As she wiped the water from her body, she thought of what her handmaiden had told her. She was unsurprised that Somerled’s mother was Norse; he had the height, fair hair and blue eyes that would name him such.
The news of an earlier marriage did not trouble her. A man who loved once could love again. Marriages between the young were often arranged, the two individuals knowing little of each other. Surely Somerled’s marriage had been one of those, for he might not have been twenty when he was wed. Too, women often died in childbirth, leaving their babes to be raised by others. Ragnhild was not opposed to raising another woman’s child, especially a boy in need of a mother’s love.
Cecily helped her into her chemise and the gown of copper-colored samite threaded with gold, fitting the fabric belt around her hips.
Accepting her knife from her handmaiden, Ragnhild tucked it into her waist. “If I must be hailed as the one who brought down the hart, I would have them know I am a woman of royal blood and not an ill-bred hoyden who prefers to ride with men. My father would want me to be dressed as befits a princess.” What she did not say was that the pains she took with her appearance were not just for her father, but for the golden warrior who now occupied her thoughts and filled her heart with longing.
“Aye, Mistress, he will be most proud of you this eve.”
Cecily combed Ragnhild’s long hair until it was shining.
She asked her handmaiden to form it into two plaits. “I’ll not have the Earl of Orkney spouting poems about my hair falling around my shoulders tonight.”
Cecily laughed as she wrapped the braids with copper-colored ribands and set a circlet of gold on Ragnhild’s head from which her silk veil flowed down her back like a pale waterfall.
“The earl makes quite an appearance when he recites in loud voice for all to hear,” said Cecily. “The younger servant girls giggle behind their hands.”
Ragnhild let out a sigh. “I had to hold my tongue not to do the same. He meant well, I’m sure, but humility is not in his nature. And I cannot forget he may have murdered a good man.”
AFTER HE BATHED and managed to clean the wound which was beginning to bruise, Somerled wrapped a new bandage around his arm before donning clean clothes. Just as he was leaving his chamber, Angus returned.
“I was wondering where you were,” said Somerled.
“After the hunt, I shared a few tankards of ale with the other hunters,” said his brother. “You should have joined us. The men were in good spirits even though a woman brought down the hart.”
“I might have done had my arm not been covered in blood.” He glanced at the bloodied tunic he had tossed on the floor. A shaft of light from the small window made the blood appear a dark red.
Angus shifted his gaze to the torn tunic. “What happened?”
“Do you recall Liadan’s warning this morning? It seems someone decided an arrow would suffice to remove the troublesome Gael who would court the princess.”
Angus looked over the tunic Somerled now wore. “I see no bandage. Is it a bad wound? Your sword arm?”
“Nay, my left. The bandage is beneath my sleeve. It aches like the devil but at least the wound is confined to my arm and the bleeding has stopped. The arrow would have hit my chest had I not moved just before it struck.”
“Fortunate that,” said Angus.
“I would have no one know I was hit. Even the princess thinks it was a stray arrow from a hunter with a bad aim.”
“Who did it, do you think?”
Somerled handed the fletching to his brother. “Mayhap whoever owns this. See if you can find out to whom it belongs.”
Angus accepted the broken arrow shaft and studied the fletching. “Not one of ours. After Liadan’s comment this morning, I would have thought the Orkney earl was your only enemy but I am certain Sweyn still hates you and one of his men may have come with the earl. I will see what I can learn, but first, let us eat. They have set out a table of victuals in the hall.”
“Aye, I am hungry,” said Somerled. “And then I need to meet with the king. Much depends on it.”
After he and Domnall had eaten some bread and cheese, quaffing it down with ale, he inquired where he might find the king. A servant led him to a small solar up a narrow set of stairs. “You are expected, my lord.”
David sat at a table with another man, a shaft of light falling behind them. The king waved his hand, welcoming Somerled into the private chamber. “Come in, Lord Somerled. Allow me to introduce you to my steward, Walter Fitz Alan.”
Somerled offered his hand to the man, glad the arrow had not hit him in his right arm. Fitz Alan, of an age with Somerled, rose to shake his hand. The steward wore his light brown hair short and his beard close-cropped like the Normans who sported beards. “Welcome to Scotland,” he said before resuming his seat.
“Thank you,” said Somerled.
David indicated with his hand that Somerled should take the open chair at the table. “Join us. We were just discussing the Isles of Arran and Bute in anticipation of my meeting with you.”
Somerled sat down and leaned forward, anxious to hear more.
“Arran, as you likely know,” began Fitz Alan, “is largely unproductive.”
It was not the isle’s productivity that occupied Somerled’s thinking but, not wishing to appear disagreeable, he said nothing.
“Since Arran and Bute are of no particular interest to my steward,” interjected the king, “but doubtless of some importance to you, I propose to make them a gift to you. We have done little to aid the Gaels there in the face of Norse raids, save for recent attempts to send the pirates fleeing.”
A feeling of excitement built in Somerled’s chest. He had not expected so great a boon. “Arran and Bute are part of my heritage, the ancient Dalriada. Guarded by my longships and galleys, they will provide no haven for the Norse, nor will they pose a threat to Argyll or to Scotland.”
“Then ’tis done,” said David. “I will have the charter drawn up. To your request, I will send you back to your isles with two of my French stonemasons. They use the idle days of winter to lay their designs and cut the stones, so the timing is right. By spring, you will be ready to build.”
Somerled was pleased. “You have assisted me greatly, Your Grace.”
David sat back in his chair and fixed Somerled with a pointed look. “And what will you do for the Scots and their king in return?”
He did not have to think long before replying. “You will have Somerled, Lord of Argyll, Kintyre and Lorne as a friend, which is no mean thing.”
The king nodded. “Would you swear fealty to me as your overlord?”
Somerled shook his head. “Homage and respect I freely give you, for it is well deserved. Fealty, nay. As you have said, I am a king. Thus, I am bound to other kings only by my bond of friendship and my word of honor. Instead, I would propose an alliance. Should you have need of my thousands of warriors and my hundred galleys and longships, we would come at your call. And should I have need, you would do the same for me.”
The king leaned forward, his forearm on the table. “If what I am told is truth, you are a leader loved by your people, even the Irish, and honest and fair to all. Believing this, I can accept your word and will hold you to it.” The king narrowed his eyes on Somerled. “It did give me pause when I heard you ripped out the pirates’ hearts in Morvern.”