Page 10 of The Refuge

The moor they crossed on their way to Alnwick was wild, a vast open place, pulling Steinar’s gaze to the distant horizon where the sky met the land. To his mind, this level monotonous part of Northumbria in the east lacked the beauty of Talisand in the west with its rolling hills and rivers. Nor did it possess the majesty of Scotland’s lochs and mountains.

He lifted his gaze to the white clouds drifting aimlessly above and thanked God the day would at least be without rain.

He stroked Artair’s neck while watching Duff and the king riding in front of him, thinking how it would be to once again face hundreds of Norman swords. The well-trained knights were formidable, but he had learned much in the half-dozen years since his first encounter with them at Senlac Hill and no longer feared their blades.

The landscape changed as they approached Alnwick. The moor gave way to grass and shrubs and finally he glimpsed green meadows fringed by dense stands of trees.

It was the middle of the morning when they entered a forested area and the king raised his fist, halting the column of men. In the distance, Steinar saw a timbered castle set upon a grass-covered hill the Normans called a motte . He shuddered, for it reminded of the castle the Normans had built at Talisand.

At the base of the motte a palisade fence of wooden posts surrounded the castle and the buildings that supported the knights. At a minimum, there would be a stable, a blacksmith and an armory, but possibly also a chapel.

Outside the palisade was a cluster of thatched cottages. An unprotected village .

Malcolm turned to Duff. “We will make camp here.”

The two rode deeper into the forest where the trees grew in thick stands, too close in some places for even a horse to pass. Steinar and the men followed, picking their way carefully.

Walking his horse forward, Steinar assessed their cover, thinking the king had chosen wisely. Their presence was hidden in the trees, thick enough to allow them to remain undetected until they launched their assault.

Between the forest and the village, he had seen a river about twenty feet across running in front of the castle, the River Aln the men had spoken of on the journey south. The banks of this river would become their field of battle.

The king dismounted and called for his captains. He then retreated to a small clearing among the trees. Malcolm tossed back over his shoulder, “You, too, Scribe.”

Colbán was the first of the captains to ride into the clearing where the king and Duff waited. When the others began flowing into the grassy circle, Rhodri came to stand by Steinar and calmly folded his arms over his chest. “’Twill not be long now.”

Once the dozen men who made up Malcolm’s senior captains were assembled, the king addressed them in a solemn voice. “We have come to show the Northumbrians the Normans do not protect them. To remind the Normans they are not welcome here. This is our land and we claim it for Scotland.”

The men nodded and “Ayes” were raised in a loud chorus.

Shifting his gaze to Rhodri, the king said, “You and your archers will go before us. Rain fire on the structures. Draw out William de Tesson and his knights.” Then Malcolm’s eyes scanned the men, considering each face. “If there is plunder to be had, by all means let the men take it from the Normans.”

The men nodded their appreciation, their faces displaying their eagerness to meet the enemy. With Edgar standing among them, none could forget their queen had lost her country to the Conqueror to whom these Normans swore allegiance.

The group broke apart, each captain returning to his men. Rhodri said to Steinar, “If all goes well, this eve we will dine on fish from the River Aln.”

“Aye, and mayhap we will have many Norman swords to add to the king’s coffers.”

Rhodri nodded and waved goodbye as he went to rejoin his archers.

Soon they would face Norman swords. Some would die, others would be wounded. Steeling himself for the battle ahead, Steinar pulled Catrìona’s riband from under his mail and pressed it to his lips, breathing in her woodland scent and seeing before his face her fiery hair. “Soon. I will see you soon,” he muttered under his breath. Almost it was a prayer.

An hour later, Rhodri and his archers left the forest, walking on foot ahead of the king and his men. The bowmen forded the river with little difficulty, holding their bows and arrows high. All of the arrows bore the same linen-wrapped tips, which now appeared to have been dipped in oil. Once they were on the other side, Rhodri ordered them into a single line, standing close together.

Behind the archers, the warriors waited, some on horseback, some on foot, each wearing mail and helm and well armed. Steinar calmed Artair who snorted, restless for what was coming. Just behind Malcolm and Duff, he was close enough to watch the archers. Colbán and the rest of the king’s guard hovered nearby.

“Ready your bows!” Rhodri shouted. With their left sides facing the castle, the archers held their longbows in their left hand, an arrow in their right. “Nock!” Rhodri cried. In one practiced move, the archers nocked their arrows.

At Rhodri’s signal, two men carrying torches, who had been standing at the ends of the line of archers, walked briskly to the center, lighting the linen on the arrow tips as they went.

Too late, a cry of alarm went up from the palisade gatehouse.

Rhodri shouted “Mark!” and one hundred bows lifted as one. “Draw!” With powerful strokes reflecting a lifetime of training, the men drew back the strings to their ears.

Steinar could taste the tension in the air as shouts rose from the village. The archers waited with their flaming arrows for the next command.

“Loose!” Rhodri roared. Flaming shafts shot high into the sky like so many stars before arching and falling, some on the village roofs, some onto the fence posts. Still others speared the roofs of the outbuildings peeking above the palisade.

Immediately, the flames caught. Wood and thatch flared. Smoke boiled up.

Rhodri shouted again and another volley of flaming arrows reached into the sky with a loud rushing sound like a hundred birds taking flight.

“Fall back!” Rhodri commanded, and his archers retreated through the ranks of Malcolm’s men. Garbed like Rhodri in the colors of the woods, they vanished into the trees.

The king turned to look behind him at his men, a pleased expression on his face. “That should draw them out.”

Behind Steinar and the king’s guard, hundreds of warriors fanned out awaiting orders.

They did not have to wait long. Shouts from the castle filled the air. Villagers scattered in panic, trying to escape the battle to come.

The palisade gate flew open. A stream of mounted knights spewed forth, their helms gleaming in the midday sun and their swords raised in challenge as they flowed onto the wide grassy slope leading to the river.

Malcolm ripped his sword from its sheath and gripped his red and white shield. His voice lifted in a ringing shout. “ Albani! Albani! ”

With a slither of steel, hundreds of swords were yanked from their sheaths. Warriors’ shouts echoed the king’s war cry, the Gaelic word for Scotland.

Malcolm kicked his horse into a charge.

Duff raised his fist into the air and the army of Scots charged forward to follow their king and the Mormaer of Fife as they rushed to meet the Normans.

Steinar rode hard behind Malcolm. The familiar excitement surged through his veins just as it had in his prior battles, only this time he had a king to protect.

Malcolm was a strong fighter, moving swiftly through the Normans, slashing left and right, cutting down knights with his powerful sword and using his shield as a blunt weapon to knock heads and block blows.

But the Norman knights and men-at-arms were well prepared. Swords clashed as they fought with skill and vengeance. The clash of metal and men’s grunts rang in Steinar’s ears as he fought to guard the king.

From the trees, an occasional arrow hissed by Steinar’s head as one of Rhodri’s arrows struck home in the body of a foe. Only the Welshman could have launched the precise shots that were too difficult for other archers to make without hitting one of their own. Only he would take such a risk and succeed.

Steinar hugged the king’s left side, keeping one eye on the king and one on his own flank. Mounted mail-clad knights came at them from every side only to be beaten back in the clash of steel.

The fighting surged around Steinar with the force of a raging sea. Knights cut down men on foot. Horses fell, screaming and thrashing, taking their riders down with them.

Pikemen grunted with the effort of spearing the fallen into the mud like fish in a shallow stream. The sound of men dying filled the air.

A shout rang out in the midst of the tumult as a group of Norman knights turned their horses toward Malcolm, pointing to the crown on his helm. “’Tis the Scot king!”

Steinar spurred his horse, blocking their charge, putting himself between the Norman swords and the king.

Colbán rushed to Steinar, adding his strength to the fight.

The sound of clashing steel was all around them.

The Norman horses reared and plunged as they drove into the midst of Malcolm’s protectors.

Artair stood his ground as firm as an oak tree and Steinar sent up a prayer of thanks for the horse’s steadiness.

Two of the knights engaged Colbán, drawing him away, but Duff remained steadfast by the king as the two battled on together side by side. Steinar dropped back to guard the king’s rear flank, cutting a deep gash in the neck of a knight who tried to come at Malcolm.

Normans surrounded Duff, one knocking him from his horse with a powerful blow, leaving the king’s right side exposed. A mounted knight lunged into the gap, swinging his sword like a harvesting scythe, sweeping the king to the ground.

Malcolm sat up, stunned, shaking his head. Blood welled on his hosen and ran down his leg.

The Norman slid from his saddle and raised his sword for the killing blow.

Launching himself from his horse, Steinar hit the knight with the full force of his body, pounding his shield into the knight’s helm.

The Norman staggered, but recovered and turned again toward Malcolm.

“Nay!” Steinar shouted and blocked the blade intended for the king.

Thwarted, the knight roared his anger and lunged at Steinar. He took the blow on his shield and slipped his sword under it, thrusting deep. The sword point pierced the Norman’s mail, sinking into flesh.

The knight fell to the ground, mortally wounded.

As Malcolm struggled to his feet, Steinar stood before him, flashing his sword back and forth.

But the fight to defend the king was not over. One of the mounted knights charged toward Malcolm. Before Steinar could push the king to safety, an arrow, like a hawk after its prey, whirred past his ear. Whipping his head around, he saw the shaft quivering in the Norman’s neck. With a gasp, the man toppled from his horse, dead.

Steinar turned to see Malcolm swaying. His wounded leg streamed blood, but he courageously held his sword before him. At least he was standing.

Colbán emerged from the fray. “Duff!” he shouted to Steinar. “Where is Duff?”

“I saw him go down—there.” Steinar pointed with his sword. “I did not see him rise. Go. I will cover the king.”

Colbán kneed his mount to where Duff’s horse stood over the wounded mormaer.

Gasping for breath, Steinar surveyed the field of battle. The fighting was waning. Malcolm’s guard, freed from their own confrontations with the Normans, joined Steinar, encircling the king.

One of the foot soldiers knelt before Malcolm. “The Normans run back to their castle, My Lord.”

“Aye,” said the king, lifting his head to watch the Normans retreating, “ the cowards flee.” Malcolm regarded the field strewn with the fallen. “See to the wounded,” he ordered his men.

Steinar looked at Malcolm’s blood-soaked leg. “Sage advice, My Lord. May I suggest you take it yourself?”

Malcolm glanced down and staggered in surprise. Steinar caught the king’s arm and shouted for the physic.

***

Steinar was still supervising the gathering of prisoners and their weapons when a servant came from Malcolm, summoning him to the king’s tent.

Nodding to the posted guards, Steinar entered in time to see the king brush away his physic just tying off the bandage on the king’s leg. In one corner of the tent lay Fife’s mormaer on a pallet, his eyes closed beneath his bushy brows.

Steinar turned his attention to the king, awaiting instructions.

Malcolm gave Steinar’s leg a harsh glance. “So, Scribe, you would give advice to your king yet ignore it yourself?”

Steinar glanced at his leg, surprised to see dried blood coating his hosen. So intense had been the fighting, so anxious had he been for the king’s safety, he had no idea when he had taken the blade.

“It seems we share a wound in common, My Lord,” Steinar said. “I had not noticed.”

“Well, I noticed,” Malcolm replied. “Your wound and much else. We have more in common than a Norman’s sword, my English friend.” The king accepted a goblet of wine from a servant and leveled a steady gaze on Steinar. “See to the scribe,” Malcolm ordered his physic.

The man knelt to unlace Steinar’s leather cross straps and rolled the hosen down, causing him to grit his teeth as the linen was pulled from the wound. At the physic’s instruction, a servant brought water and a cloth to cleanse the wound.

“I know what it is to be exiled,” said the king. “To see my father cut down before my eyes and be forced to flee my country for my life.” At Steinar’s puzzled look, Malcolm said, “Aye, you and I share such a past, Scribe. But ’twas England where I took refuge under King Edward’s protection and you fled to Scotland where you enjoy mine. ”

Steinar had known this and yet he had not seen the king as a kindred soul. “But you have come home, My Lord, whereas I never will.”

“Scotland is your home, son. Here you can fight alongside me, for we share our hatred for William and his Normans. These things and your loyalty to King Harold were part of why I made you my scribe.”

“There was another reason, My Lord?” he asked, looking down at the king’s physic coating his wound with some sort of salve.

Malcolm took another draught of his wine and smiled. “Your hand draws a pretty script.”

“I have my father’s priest to thank for that. But you must know, My Lord, it has been my privilege to serve you, whether as scribe or soldier.”

The king sat back, running his hand over his dark beard. “Now it seems I owe you my life. You will find me most generous.”

When the physic finished bandaging his wound, Steinar took the seat the king waved him toward and waited for Malcolm to say more.

“As I recall, William gave your lands to one of his henchmen.”

“Aye, one of the Conqueror’s favored knights.”

“Well, ’tis no matter,” the king said, flicking his hand as if brushing off dust. “It so happens that a year ago I lost a faithful mormaer in a vicious attack that destroyed all he held. The lands have since stood without protection, without even a hillfort. I am of a mind to give you those lands on the condition you guard them well and respond to my call for men-at-arms when it comes.”

Steinar could not believe the king’s words. Lands of his own! Steinar’s spirits soared. “I would be most willing, My Lord.”

“Aside from your years of service as scribe, you have won the respect of my men,” said the king, his demeanor serious. “First you spared one of Rhodri’s archers the blade of that bully, Rian, and then you rescued your king from a Norman’s sword. There are many who would go with you were they given the chance. I would provide a contingent of warriors and sufficient Saxon servants to help you rebuild.”

Steinar moved from where he sat to kneel at the feet of the king, offering his hands in pledge. “My Lord, I pledge my fealty to you unto death.”

The king placed his hands around Steinar’s. “I accept your pledge. For your service and for preserving the life of your king, you shall have lands in the Vale of Leven and I will bestow upon you the title Mormaer of Levenach.”

The Vale of Leven. Catrìona’s home! And a title! His heart raced in his chest and he fought the rising emotion bringing tears to his eyes. Never had he dreamed he would receive such a boon from the king. But as he kneeled before Malcolm, he suddenly realized the mormaer who had been killed was Catrìona’s father and it had been her home that was attacked.

The king dropped his hands and his dark eyes pierced Steinar where he knelt. “So be it. But say naught of this yet, Scribe. I will announce it in due time.”

Steinar nodded. “As you wish.”

Malcolm stood and motioned for Steinar to rise.

“My Lord,” Steinar asked the king, “what of Cormac’s son, Niall?” He had in mind his own loss of Talisand.

“The young archer? He is only beginning to prove himself. The lands are mine to give as I see fit. You have earned your place among my mormaers. Niall can remain with my archers or go with you, if that be his desire.” Then the king turned to face Duff where he lay on the pallet. “What say you of my new liege man?”

Duff’s eyes opened. “A good choice to replace Cormac.”

Steinar was grateful for the affirmation and the approving smile Fife’s mormaer gave him. He did not wish to appear greedy, but he would risk Malcolm’s ire if it would gain him the hand of the woman who would render his lands a home. “My Lord?”

The king turned back to him. “You have a question?”

“Aye. Might I not be in need of a wife to raise up sons to serve you?”

The king laughed and Duff joined him, exchanging a few barbs about “the eager scribe” which Steinar ignored.

The physic covered a smile with his hand before closing his leather pouch of medicines, salves and potions and, with a bow to the king, quit the tent.

“Aye, a wife would be in order,” said Malcolm. Still appearing amused, he raised a brow. “Have you one in mind?”

“I do, My Lord. And she knows well the land you would give me to hold. ’Tis Catrìona of the Vale of Leven, one of the queen’s ladies.”

The king turned to Duff. “Is that the redhead?”

Duff grinned, waggling his bushy brows. “Aye, the very one, Cormac’s daughter. Audra told me she has become a favorite of your queen.”

Malcolm gave Steinar a sharp glance before shaking his head. “Many have asked for that lady’s hand, Scribe, including the captain of my guard. I owe Colbán much. He has faithfully served me in defiance of his people. He is from Moray, the land of my old enemy, Mac Bethad.”

Cruel fragments of hope slipped through Steinar’s hands. To gain lands yet lose the woman who would make them a home left him feeling empty, deprived of the hope he had clung to. The king would not refuse his faithful captain the woman he wanted. Steinar liked Colbán, a stalwart warrior and a strong leader of men. But he could not picture the rough captain with the free-spirited Catrìona. Steinar’s mind rebelled at the idea of another man having her, of fathering her children. He wanted her for his own.

The king must have observed Steinar’s dismay, for he slapped him on the back and said, “Cheer up, Scribe. I shall find you a lady to bear you fine sons.”

***

Catrìona hurried up the stairs to her chamber, anxious to tell Fia the news. Flinging open the door, out of breath, she shouted, “The king… he returns!”

“He is here?” her cousin asked from where she sat on the stool combing her long dark hair.

“Nay, but the queen requires us, so you must hurry.”

“While I quickly plait my hair, tell me what the messenger said.”

Out of breath, Catrìona dropped onto the edge of her bed. “I was with the queen going over the plans for the pilgrims’ inn when the messenger arrived. The army is but a day’s ride away.”

Catrìona helped Fia, plaiting one side of her hair.

“Is the messenger still here?” asked her cousin.

“I do not know. He was to return to the king once he had food and a fresh horse. ”

Fia’s eyes turned anxious.

“Before you ask, there are wounded among them, which is why the main party travels more slowly. Nothing was said of Rhodri.” Or Steinar .

Knowing her cousin worried for the bard, Catrìona put her arm around Fia’s shoulder. “All may be well with Rhodri. The messenger did not speak of him. He only told the queen Edgar was unharmed. But the king has suffered a leg wound.” At Fia’s gasp, Catrìona added, “’Tis not believed serious. God willing, it will heal.”

Fia tied off her plaits. “Margaret must have been relieved to hear that.”

“Aye, but there was bad news, too. Audra’s father took a sword in his side.”

“Oh, no. Poor Audra,” said Fia. “What did the messenger say about Duff?”

“The mormaer complains the king will not allow him to ride his horse, which caused the queen to smile.”

Fia’s blue eyes met Catrìona’s. “The messenger must have talked long for you to hear all that.”

“Aye, he did, but ’twas only the queen he spoke with. I only heard because I was sitting with her. When the messenger left, Margaret summoned her ladies to join her in the chapel to say special prayers for the recovery of the wounded.”

Fia pushed herself off the bed. “Then we must go.”

Catrìona heard the falling rain and went to the window to open the shutter. “’Tis raining. Best we take our cloaks.” She grabbed her cloak from the peg and handed Fia’s to her.

As they left the chamber, heading for the chapel, Catrìona’s mind turned to the golden-haired scribe. It had not escaped her that the messenger carried no written note. Did the scribe who would have penned such a message yet live?