Page 1 of The Refuge

The Vale of Leven, Strathclyde, Scotland 1071

Catrìona stepped to the edge of the crag perched high above the vale. Wind whipped her auburn hair and umber cloak behind her as she raised her gauntlet and let the falcon fly free. Kessog soared into the air over the blue waters of Loch Lomond. Her heart soared with him.

This land of tall peaks and deep lochs was her home. Gray clouds might hover over the tops of the mountains, but the foothills were clothed in the green velvet of spring dotted with bright yellow flowers.

In the distance, the falcon shrieked as he arrowed toward the loch’s crystalline waters, then flew in tight circles over a flock of teals, seeking his prey. The clouds parted and a golden shaft of sunlight reflected off the ducks’ wings and shimmered in the waters of the loch.

Excitement rose within her in anticipation of her future and of the arrival of Domnall, her intended. This very day he would come by ship from Leinster to meet with her father and seal their betrothal. She had oft heard Domnall speak of his home in Ireland. One day it would be her home, too.

In her mind Domnall appeared a most handsome man, except for his nose, which was thin with a high ridge. His wavy light brown hair, always neatly combed, and his well-trimmed beard gave him a noble air. His eyes were the palest of blues. But it was not his appearance that had made her father choose Domnall. It was his noble Irish lineage and his wisdom in matters of business that would enhance the trade between Leinster and the vale.

Whenever Domnall visited, his eyes followed her as she moved about the hillfort. In his gaze, she had glimpsed desire, flattered he wanted her and not just the trade with her father. Her cheeks flushed to think that one day she would bear his children.

In the distance, Kessog streaked toward a duck, but missed his strike.

Catrìona watched the falcon for a while until a sharp gust of wind made her shiver. A sudden urge to return to the hillfort had her whistling Kessog back to her uplifted gauntlet. She fed him a bit of meat from the small leather pouch secured at her waist and turned toward the place where Angus, her faithful guard, waited patiently next to the horses.

His craggy face broke into a smile. “’Tis best we go back, milady. Yer mother will be wantin’ to see ye about the final packin’ fer yer journey.”

“Mother did not want me to fly Kessog today,” she said with a grin, “but I had to, just one more time.” She set the falcon on his perch affixed to the pommel of her saddle. Fastening the leather hood over his head, she secured his jesses and stroked his breast feathers.

Angus helped her to mount and she turned the pony toward home, her heart warming with the thought of the trip east to visit her cousin, Fia. This time, Domnall would be with her for the journey to Atholl.

The sure-footed garrons she and Angus rode over the mountain pass easily found their way along the familiar rock-strewn path.

They approached the last ridge where they would begin their descent to the River Clyde. But instead of the quiet she expected, men’s shouts, cries of terror and women’s screams rent the air.

Quickly, she reached the crest and dismounted. Wide-eyed, she stared into chaos fifty feet below.

Two longships with dragonheads carved into their stems belched forth silver-helmed warriors wielding axes, swords and spears. At the top of one mast flew a banner, a black raven on a field of yellow. Stirred by the wind, the raven appeared to fly. The eerie sight made her shudder.

Northmen!

The long-haired raiders shouted battle cries as they charged across the sand toward the hillfort, cutting down her father’s men as if butchering cattle. They moaned as they fell, pierced through with spears and swords, grunting their last as blood spurted from their bellies.

Unarmed servants shrieked as axes sank into their backs.

Panicked women ran in all directions, shouting for their children.

Catrìona’s heart pounded in her chest as she watched the unfolding terror. She gripped the seax at her waist. “ A Dhia m’anam !” God preserve us! “I must go to them!”

Angus pulled her back from the crest. “Nay, ye cannot. Keep away from the edge lest they see ye. The bushes here provide scant cover.” Grabbing up the reins, he led the horses away from the ridge.

“But—” She looked toward the crest, now unable to see what was happening. “My father did not raise me to stand aside when evil strikes.”

Angus returned to her and spoke in a low voice. “Ye can do nothing fer them, milady. We can only await the end of it.”

Fear of the brutal Northmen warred with the desire to come to the aid of those she loved. She bit into her knuckle as she remembered what she had heard of the Norse raids. But if she went to help, in the face of so many bloodthirsty warriors, she would be only one more victim. Angus, sworn to protect her, might die trying to prevent her death.

With the sounds of the mayhem ringing loud in her ears, Catrìona dropped to the ground and crawled on her belly to the edge of the rise, pulling her hood over her flame-colored hair to blend with the shrubs.

Angus came to join her, lying on his stomach in the grass. “Are ye certain ye want to see this?”

She peered down at the scene below, not wanting to witness the bloody fighting, yet unable to turn away. “My family, my friends…” The women’s screams sliced through her heart like knives. “I cannot look away.”

Huge Northmen grabbed screaming women and dragged them over the sand and pebble-strewn beach to one of the longships.

Men fought and continued to die. Bodies were strewn about the ground. Some of the fallen were Northmen but most were her father’s men. Bowing her head, she prayed God would give the men of the vale the strength to defeat this horde from Hell.

She winced as a Norse raider swung his axe, felling one of her father’s men. Her gorge rose in her throat and she averted her eyes. The man was father to Deidre, her handmaiden. Only that morning he had wished her and Angus good hunting.

Forcing her gaze back to the unfolding horror, she searched for her father, her mother and younger brother, but did not see them. Niall had gone hunting that morning, his bow and arrows slung over his shoulder. She prayed he had not yet returned.

A tall giant, covered in the blood of those he had slain, shouted orders in their tongue as he cut a path through her father’s men guarding the palisade gate. His greater height and long black hair contrasted sharply with the other Northmen who were mostly fair.

He must be their leader.

Her father, strong and robust, his fiery hair so like her own, suddenly appeared at the gate with sword raised.

Catrìona cringed in fear for him and her mother who she knew must be in the hillfort behind him. Cormac, Mormaer of the Vale of Leven, would give his life for his family.

Angus laid his arm across her shoulder. “I would go to his aid, milady, but yer father swore me to stay by yer side and I will nae leave ye. Either Cormac will prevail or God will take him.”

“Surely, the Lord will protect him.”

But He did not. The fight between the dark Northman and her father was short. With one blow the Northman cut him down. She pressed her eyelids tightly closed. The shouts and screams died away. When she opened her eyes, her gaze darted to where her father lay on the ground in front of the gate, blood dripping from a gash in his tunic.

“Best ye not look,” said Angus, his eyes filled with torment.

“I will look,” she said, determination turning her voice hard. “I want to remember their leader, their ships and their banner.” The terrible events of this day would be seared in her memory forever.

Where was her mother?

She surveyed the scene below. The ground in front of the hillfort was littered with bodies from the palisade fence to the river’s edge. The Norse raiders, splattered with the blood of those they had slain, retrieved their dead and wounded and carried them to the longships.

Having struck and killed, the invaders now descended like a flock of vultures to pick clean the corpses, gathering prized swords and treasures accumulated over a lifetime, hauling them to the longships.

The sound of women sobbing drew her attention to one of the ships where a small group of young women huddled together at the base of the mast. A harsh command from one of the Northmen cut short their wailing. A crimson gown worn by one of the women caught Catrìona’s eye. It was one of her own gowns she had given to Deidre to wear to the festivities planned for that evening.

Oh, Deidre . She was not dead but would her fate be worse?

A terrified bellow sounded from a cow as one of the Northmen prodded the animal up a boarding plank and onto the ship. Another raider followed, leading her father’s prize stallion.

A Northman appeared carrying a blazing torch. Holding it high, he strode toward her father’s ship, climbed aboard and set the flaming brand to the furled sail. It burst into flame.

Catrìona watched, horrified, as the hemp and sailcloth burned, sending great billows of smoke into the air.

Once the oars and the hull caught fire, the Northman jumped to the sand and carried the torch to the palisade fence. Another raider joined him to splash what looked like pitch onto the timbered posts. The wood began to burn.

The two Northmen walked to the palisade gate, stepped over her father and headed toward the hillfort, their terrible task not yet done.

“Nay!” she whispered hoarsely.

A short while later, the Northmen climbed aboard their ships, rowed out to the middle of the river and raised their sails. The wind filled the square canvases, carrying the ships toward the Firth of Clyde and the open sea.

The determination Catrìona had felt only moments before drained from her, leaving in its place the shock of what she had witnessed. Her eyes burned from the tears she had shed.

She cast a defeated glance at Angus who seemed to have aged since they’d arrived at the crest, the creases in his face etched deeper than before, making him look older than his thirty summers. He had no wife or children to lose, but he had served her father for ten years and could count many friends among the fallen .

Angus slowly got to his feet as if reluctant to take the next step. Helping her to rise, he walked toward the horses.

Catrìona brushed dirt from her cloak. “To where do those heathen dogs sail?”

“I canna say fer sure, milady, but I would guess the Orkneys from the raven banner. They claim it assures them victory. They were young, mayhap an errant band out fer mayhem and plunder.”

She trudged to her horse, steeling herself for what lay ahead. “We must hope some of our people yet live.”

Angus helped her to mount.

What they found when they reached the bottom of the hill confirmed what they had seen from the crest, only now they could smell the bodies ripped asunder. Covering her nose, she stared at the field of dead. Her eyes smarted from the smoke billowing into the air around her.

She stepped around the bodies lying on the blood-soaked ground, listening for a groan or a sound that would tell her some still lived. She avoided looking at their faces, for she would know them and that would be worse. She looked for auburn hair like her own, relieved when she did not find Niall.

Assured her brother was not among the fallen, she went to where her father lay in front of the palisade, knowing by the blood covering his chest and the vacant look in his eyes he was dead.

Catrìona wanted to scream but no sound came from her throat. Her heart sank with her knees as she dropped to his side. Tears filled her eyes and coursed down her cheeks. She wiped them away and kissed his forehead, paying her last respects to the father she loved. No one else called her “little cat”. In her mind she heard his voice as he told her the stories of Ireland from long ago.

She got to her feet. Inside, she felt numb and hollow.

“I will see to him,” said Angus coming alongside her.

She looked back at the bodies. “There are so many…”

“Aye, but Domnall’s men will help when he arrives.”

Nodding, she slowly walked through the open gate, dreading what she might encounter. The palisade’s timbers burned but the flames had not yet reached this point. The acrid smell of smoke filled her nostrils, but she forced herself to keep going. She had to find her mother.

Just inside the gate, Catrìona spotted her mother lying on the ground, a knife not far from her open hand. Her dark hair was loose and tangled, her throat slit.

Oh, Mother .

Catrìona kneeled beside the woman who had given her life and kissed her cheek. In death her mother’s face was peaceful. She picked up the knife. The blade was still clean. Her mother had not been able to deliver even one blow to her killer. Securing the knife in her belt, Catrìona rose, vowing to draw Norse blood with it, if given the chance.

Staggering back through the palisade gate, she searched for Angus, wanting to be assured he was close.

Movement drew her eyes to the edge of the trees. A figure ran toward her, bow and arrows slung over his shoulder, his bright auburn hair flying out behind him.

“Niall!” She broke into a run. When she reached him, they embraced. She clung to him, drawing comfort from his familiar scent. New tears she could not hold back poured from her eyes. “Thank God you were not here.”

He pulled back to face her. “Who did this, Cat?”

“Northmen.” She looked around but saw none of the dead raiders. “Oh, Niall, ’twas ghastly. Angus and I had just reached the crest when we realized the hillfort was under attack. I can still hear the screams of the women.”

“Father? Mother?” His voice faltered as he looked toward the bodies scattered upon the ground.

“Dead. Father fought bravely, as did his men, but they were greatly outnumbered.” When the rush of words ended, she paused and then said, “All the men were killed.” Remembering the small bodies scattered among the others, she added, “Even the children. The only ones taken were some of the women.”

“Deidre?”

“Taken.” Her pretty handmaiden had lived sixteen summers, older than Niall by only a year. The two had grown up together as friends. Catrìona could still see Deidre’s smiling face when they had talked of their coming journey to Atholl .

Niall clenched his jaw and shut his eyes as if to gain control. When he opened them, his face was set in stone, much like her heart.

Angus approached, wiping soot from his forehead with the back of his hand. “’Tis glad I am to see ye’re safe, Niall.”

Her brother’s face twisted in anger as he clenched his fingers around his bow. “I wish I had been here to fight the whoresons.”

“Cormac would not have wanted that. He would want ye to live to one day father sons of yer own.” He turned to Catrìona. “None are alive, milady. I have moved yer mother away from the hillfort to lie next to yer father, just there.” He pointed to a patch of grass some distance away where two bodies lay apart from the others. Angus had covered their faces. “The wind will feed the fire,” he said. “Soon the hillfort will be gone.”

She could not bear to think her home was being consumed by fire, but the pungent smell of burning wood filled the air, making it all too real.

Glancing toward the bodies of their parents, Niall said to Angus, “I will help you bury them.”

Once her parents’ bodies lay in the ground, she and Niall stood over the two graves, her brother speaking the words from the Psalter they had learned as children. Catrìona barely heard them. Instead, images filled her mind: her father smiling at her as he had wished her a good hunt; her mother reminding her not to be long; and Deidre excited for their journey.

She could not believe they were gone. Guilt overcame her for remaining unscathed while so many had been butchered. Overlaying the guilt was anger, pain and regret for being unable to save those she loved.

She stumbled to a rock near the river and sank onto its hard surface, wrapping her arms tightly around her, holding in the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. In one day she had lost her parents, her home and her people.

Niall joined her, putting his arm around her. She leaned against his chest, drawing comfort from his closeness.

Only a moment passed when Niall stood. “I must help Angus in burying the dead. ”

By the time Domnall arrived that afternoon, the fire had died to smoking embers. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she watched his ship sail into the small bay. She had so wanted to see him. What would happen to their betrothal now?

His men jumped over the side and pulled the ship onto the shore. Once the plank was set in place, Domnall crossed to the sand and strode toward her. He had come richly attired for his meeting with her father, a meeting that would never occur.

She hurried forward to meet him, desperate to be surrounded by his strength.

When he reached her, Domnall met her gaze and then looked behind her to the ruins of the hillfort. Finally, he turned toward the water’s edge where her father’s ship had once been anchored. Only a blackened carcass remained.

“A raid?”

“Yea. Northmen.” She yearned for him to hold her, to comfort her, but instead, he took her hand and walked a few steps toward the charred remains of her home, a sight she had no desire to see.

“How did you—?”

“Angus and I were hunting with Kessog and Niall was in the forest or we would have been killed with the others.” She did not tell him she might have been taken with Deidre.

A deep crease formed between his brows. “Cormac?”

She looked toward the new graves. “Dead with my mother.”

Niall and Angus came to join them. The guard was the first to speak. “Milord.”

“Angus, Niall,” Domnall said shortly, acknowledging them. “A terrible day, indeed. I do not suppose the thieves left anything?”

“Nay,” said Angus. “They took all they wanted and burned the rest.”

“They even took my dowry.” She had seen them carry to the longships the chest in which her father kept his gold. “And Mother’s silver goblets. Small things when measured against lives.”

Angus shook his head. “There’s naught to be done now, save to bury the dead and leave this place.” He looked at Domnall. “We could use the help of yer men.”

As if waking from a trance, Domnall blinked. “Certainly.” He gestured his men standing next to his ship to draw close and ordered them to help.

This was not the joyous meeting she had envisioned. Not a betrothal to be celebrated. But at least Domnall was here and alive. And he had not let go of her hand.