Page 2 of The Refuge

Dunkeld in Atholl, a year later

Catrìona approached Kessog’s perch just as Fia stepped into the dim light of the mews, lifting her skirts to avoid the feathers strewn about the earthen floor.

“Make haste, Cat,” her cousin urged. “The cart is loaded and Father is anxious to depart.”

Catrìona hurriedly untied the falcon’s jesses. “I just have to retrieve Kessog. I’d not leave him behind.”

Fia brushed a feather from her gown and ran her fingers over her long dark plaits threaded with ribands the same color as her deep blue eyes. “I do wonder if Margaret’s ladies have time for falconry, Cat. ’Tis said they spend more time in prayer than aught else.”

Catrìona frowned and set the hooded falcon on her gauntlet, stroking his breast feathers with the back of her finger. She had prayed little this past year, but since her uncle had accepted the invitation for her and Fia to join the ladies attending the devout queen, she would go.

In the last few months, except for flying Kessog, she and Fia had dedicated themselves to the sewing of gowns and practicing the Saxon tongue. They had been told the queen spoke Saxon and Latin, but only a little Gaelic.

“I could not pray all day in a damp dusty chapel, Fia.” In truth, she was not sure she could pray at all after the events in the vale. “Besides, I want to fly Kessog as much as I can before his molt begins. ”

With a sympathetic smile, her cousin said, “If the hawk will make you feel more at home in Dunfermline, bring him. When you and I are with the queen, the king’s falconer and Niall can see to the bird.”

Catrìona considered Fia’s words. Mayhap it was for the best that Niall took charge of Kessog if the queen kept her ladies busy with duties all day. The king would have a master falconer, but she would feel better if Niall checked on the falcon. “Kessog is trained to my brother’s hand as well as mine.”

At her urging, Niall had come with her to Dunkeld. There was nothing for him in the vale save scorched earth and sorrow. They had mourned together in the months that had followed, taking long walks in silence when they could not bear the company of others. In recent days, the terrible dreams she had at first experienced had diminished, but they had not disappeared altogether. Even now, she had to force the calm demeanor she displayed. Inside, she harbored a gnawing ache for the loss of her parents and friends and worry over the fate of Deidre and the young women taken captive.

But today, Catrìona set her worry aside, determined to allow Fia’s enthusiasm for their new life to carry her along. With a lighter step and Kessog on her gauntlet, she followed Fia out of the mews, blinking as she encountered the bright sunlight.

Uncle Matad and his men waited with the horses in a field of bluebell flowers. The guards, heavily armed with knives and swords hanging from their belts, appeared an odd sight standing amid the delicate bluish-purple flowers.

Angus was standing with her brother next to three horses. She walked to meet them and placed Kessog on his perch in front of the saddle meant for her. Angus helped her to mount. She had bid the faithful guard to leave her more than once in the last year, but he had refused to go.

“I made a solemn oath to yer father,” he had reminded her. “I will nae leave ye, not until ye be wed and another man takes my place as yer protector.”

Accepting his decision, she had finally let him stay. In truth, she was glad for his presence. Along with Niall, Angus was the last tie to her life in the vale .

Fia rode across from her on a handsome gray palfrey. Excitement sparkled in her eyes. “Just think, Cat. By day’s end we will be in Dunfermline dining with the queen!”

“So we shall.” Catrìona had never met Margaret, the Saxon princess who was now Queen of Scots, but her Uncle Matad had told her about the beautiful woman who held the king’s heart in her hand. While Catrìona knew little of the queen, she had heard much about Malcolm Canmore. A ruthless warrior, he had seized the throne a dozen years before, killing the former king. She could not imagine such a man married to the pious Margaret.

They rode south toward Dunfermline and Catrìona’s thoughts turned to Domnall. On the journey from the vale to Dunkeld the year before, she had been an empty shell with naught but tears to offer him. He had been kind but distant, respectful of her loss, asking little of her.

They had arrived in Dunkeld and conveyed the horrible news to her uncle, her mother’s brother. Matad, a widower who had not remarried since losing his wife, was protective of both his daughter and his niece, now the only women in his life. And for Catrìona and Niall, he and Fia were their only family.

Consumed with grief for his sister’s murder, Matad had said naught of the betrothal to Domnall. Catrìona understood the wisdom in waiting. One could hardly have a celebration in the midst of mourning. They had all needed time to grieve.

Domnall had lingered in Atholl only a few days that first time. He and her uncle had spoken together often but always out of Catrìona’s hearing. It was only after Domnall left for Dunfermline that her uncle told her he was postponing any discussion concerning the marriage contract.

She had merely nodded her acceptance.

In the last year, Domnall had been to see her twice. He had been polite and deferential each time, expressing his understanding of her sorrow. Now that the year was over, she looked forward to being with him at King Malcolm’s court. Finally, their life together could begin and she could try and put the horror in the vale behind her.

** *

Dunfermline

Sunlight fell on the bluebell flowers lying on either side of the path Steinar took through the woods. Eager to be about his errand, his long strides ate up the ground, his soft leather boots making no sound. The years he had spent as a warrior in England had taught him to tread lightly.

His right leg ached with the dampness in the air. The wound he’d received from a Norman sword left him with a limp and stiffness in his leg when he sat for too long. Still, it was better than the alternative. For a time, they had not expected him to live. Even with the ministrations of his sister, Serena, recovery had been slow.

When he and Rhodri had left England, the bones in Steinar’s leg were still knitting together, the withered muscles still weak. For a long time, he could not walk without assistance. And after, he had limped badly even with a walking stick.

Fortunately, when he arrived in Scotland, King Malcolm needed a scribe. Educated to one day succeed his father as thegn, Steinar filled the role of a clerk well, his duties requiring him only to sit on a bench and labor with parchment and quill.

When Malcolm raided Northumbria, he did not ask his crippled English scribe to accompany him. But now, Steinar’s leg grew stronger and the limp was fading. As long as he rested the leg, he could use it with ease. One day he hoped to be more than a scribe. His sister’s prayers had been answered. Serena would smile to see him now.

Rhodri teased him about his unsteady gait, saying he wobbled like a cart on a rutted road. Steinar took it in stride, knowing his friend would have said nothing but for the miraculous way the leg had healed.

Whenever he could escape his duties, Steinar belted on his sword he kept hidden in his horse’s stall and took to the forest to spar with imagined foes. Sometimes his opponents were Norman knights, clad in mail and helm. Sometimes he sparred with Theodric, the captain of Talisand’s guards, who now served the Norman who had claimed Steinar’s home as well as his sister.

Each time Steinar wielded his sword, his arm gained strength and his movements became more agile. Now his sword arm was nearly as sure as it had been that day near Stamford Bridge when he fought with King Harold’s army turning away the Norse king, Harald Hardrada. And as sure as that day on Senlac Hill, not long after, when he’d survived the onslaught of the Conqueror’s knights only to watch his father and the Saxon King Harold cut down in front of him. Steinar’s escape north with some of King Harold’s elite guards, the huscarls, had been all that stood between him and death that day.

His last battle had been in York with Edgar ?theling, rightful heir to the English throne. Steinar well remembered the vicious fighting, for it was there he had received the wound that all believed had left him a cripple.

Once he arrived in the clearing, he set about his practice in earnest.

In one smooth arc, he slashed his steel blade through the air, the flash of sunlight on metal sending a surge of strength coursing through him. He could feel the power return to his arm that for so long had lifted only a quill as his ink-stained fingers attested. If only his leg would perform as it once had, he would be whole.

In his mind, he fought the Norman knights on Senlac Hill, deflecting their blows and ripping through flesh. Swinging his sword wide, he saw his father fall. The remembered shock caused his right leg to crumple and he stumbled. Muttering an oath, he wobbled to one side of the path and leaned against a tree. His chest heaved from exertion as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

Had he fought a real enemy, he would be dead. The leg was not yet at full strength and mayhap not his mind either. He vowed one day ’twould be so. He would yet be the warrior he once was.

“It seems you have been keeping secrets from me. I should have known that muscle you have been adding to your arms did not come from tossing about a feathered quill.”

The deep voice was Rhodri’s and with his words, Steinar relaxed and looked around for his friend. Dressed in tunic, leather jerkin and hosen in the colors of the woods, Rhodri blended in with the foliage so as to be near invisible where he stood against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest. The bard was slight of build but strong with a bowman’s muscled arms and a head of black curls and deep-set brown eyes.

“Do you battle your demons, Steinar?”

“Some. But I also spar with teachers who once sharpened my skills. As you can see, I am not yet there. The leg fails me often.”

“But you will be strong again. You were once the best swordsman at Talisand, or so Theodric claimed.” Leaving the tree, Rhodri came closer. “When you are recovered, what then?”

Steinar slid his sword into its scabbard and limped to his friend, his leg telling him he had pushed it too hard. “When that day arrives, we will see. For now I remain the king’s scribe. Malcolm seems content with my service.”

“Aye, he is. But you came here to prove something and I’m thinking ’twas not just that you can again wield a sword.”

“You may be right,” he admitted, looking down at the forest floor covered in the green grass of spring. Lifting his head, he faced his friend’s expectant gaze. “I would test my resolve to fight the Normans again. After all, Malcolm has faced William’s knights more than once and come away the victor. But for now I remain a scribe.”

Rhodri gave him an assessing glance. “You can be more than one thing.” In an amused tone, he added, “I am.”

Steinar grinned. “’Tis why the king has his bard training his archers.”

“I do not mind. Like you, I need the practice.”

Together, they slowly walked back to Malcolm’s tower where they shared a chamber, the limping English scribe and the Welsh bard, each harboring a secret.

***

To Catrìona’s relief, the ride to Dunfermline had not been as long as the journey to Dunkeld the year before, or so sad. It was comforting to leave behind her past and set forth on a new adventure, one that would lead to her future with Domnall. With every mile she traveled, her spirits had risen knowing she would see him that evening.

Midday they had stopped at the River Earn to water the horses and eat a hasty meal of bannocks, cheese and berries before resuming the journey south. There were eight of them with Angus, Niall and her uncle’s three guards.

Their small company arrived in Dunfermline at day’s end, passing tall stands of trees to cross a stream, before riding up a long path to a rocky plateau where they dismounted. Facing her was a massive square tower made of hewn stone blocks. Catrìona tilted her head back to take in its height, so much greater than either her father’s hillfort or her uncle’s home in Atholl. The tall tower, the like of which she had never seen, seemed a fitting fortress for the king. And it would be her new home, at least until she and Domnall were wed.

Two men stood on either side of the large carved wooden door leading into the tower, their gazes fixed on the new arrivals. From their muscled bodies, sheathed swords and proud stance, she judged them to be guards.

Suddenly, the oaken door opened and the king and queen stepped outside.

Catrìona would have known Malcolm, King of Scots, even if he had not been wearing a gold crown and royal attire. Tall of stature and noble of bearing, his dark hair fell to his broad shoulders and his mustache and beard were well trimmed. His eyes exuded power and intelligence as his gaze roved over the small group standing with the Mormaer of Atholl. For all his elegance, the king’s hardened face told her he was a warrior still.

The king smiled widely and strolled up to Matad greeting him and her brother, as men are wont to do, leaving his queen to deal with the women. It was the same way her father had treated men of rank and their wives visiting the vale. Malcolm and her uncle easily conversed, making it apparent they were old friends.

Her movements graceful, the queen walked towards Catrìona and Fia. As fair as her husband was dark, Margaret was serenely beautiful in a gown of yellow silk, finely embroidered with blue flowers at the neck and wrists. She appeared delicate and slight of form despite that her rounded belly suggested she was with child. Her long flaxen plaits hung below her headcloth encircled with a small gold crown. The blue ribands wrapped around her plaits matched her sky-colored eyes.

Margaret quickly put Catrìona at ease with her warm smile. “Welcome to Dunfermline,” she said in Gaelic. Then looking from Catrìona to Fia, she said, “I understand you two are to be my new ladies and I am told you both speak the Saxon tongue.”

Catrìona and Fia curtsied. “My Lady,” they said in unison with downcast eyes, Catrìona adding in the Saxon tongue, “Aye, we speak both languages as well as Latin.”

“That is most agreeable,” said the queen as they rose. “I know you must be tired. Your chamber has been made ready to allow you to rest and change ere we dine. The servants will escort you there and see your chests are brought to you.”

Taking her leave, the queen joined her husband and Matad. As Catrìona watched her walk away, she could not help but wonder if beneath the delicate exterior the queen possessed an inner strength. Else how could she deal with a hardened warrior like Malcolm?

Fia started to follow a servant who beckoned them toward the tower.

Catrìona touched her cousin’s arm. “I must see Kessog settled.”

“While you see to your falcon, I will go to our chamber. I am anxious to know where we will be lodged.” Excitement once again danced in Fia’s eyes as she hurried to follow the servant. Catrìona was happy for her cousin. It had been Fia’s dream to be one of the queen’s ladies; she had talked of little else.

Disappointed that Domnall had not been there to greet her, Catrìona waited for Niall who was coming toward her. “Want to come with me to see the mews?”

Niall nodded and walked with her to her horse where she lifted Kessog from his perch.

“The king’s house is a fortress,” he remarked, looking back at the tower. “Impregnable, no doubt.”

“Aye, ’tis the royal seat.”

In response to her inquiry, a servant pointed them in the direction of the mews, which lay just beyond the stables. The wooden building that housed the king’s hawks was twice the size of the mews maintained by her uncle, but then a king would have a large house for his many birds.

Stepping over the threshold of the dimly lit structure, she glimpsed rows of perches on which were settled many hooded birds.

A smooth-faced young man with a prominent nose and kind eyes introduced himself.

“Welcome. I am Machar, the king’s falconer.”

“I am Catrìona, one of the queen’s new ladies, and this is my brother, Niall. ”

She extended her gauntleted hand, passing the falcon’s jesses to Machar. “And this is Kessog.”

Machar carefully lifted the falcon to his own gauntlet, murmuring soothing words and calming the bird with practiced strokes. “A fine tiercel,” he said, using the term for a male peregrine. “He is most welcome to join the hawks I tend for the king and his chiefs.”

Niall and Machar exchanged a few words as Niall told the falconer of their home in the vale where Kessog had been raised and trained, not disclosing the tragedy they had survived a year earlier. They did not often speak of that time except to each other.

Even in the dim light from the single window, Catrìona could see the many perches held a gyrfalcon, several peregrines and various other hawks. “So many falcons,” she said in awe. “The king must love to hunt.”

“Aye, he does, from the time he lived in England before he claimed the throne. King Edward was fond of the sport. Some of Malcolm’s men also hunt to the hawk.” With a smile he added, “You will frequently dine on roast duck.”

“Kessog has not flown this day, but I have fed him,” she advised the falconer. “We traveled from our uncle’s home in Dunkeld.”

“I will see to him, my lady,” he said confidently. “Would you like to join me in flying him?” he asked Niall. “The days are long and there is still good light.”

“Tomorrow, aye. But tonight we are expected at the king’s table.”

“Are many of the hawks you tend owned by ladies?” Catrìona interjected, suspecting the answer would not be to her liking.

Machar laughed, but sobered when he saw her frown. “There are not many ladies that care to risk their skirts and their lives up on yon crags, scrambling to catch themselves a chick to train. Owned, no. The ladies of a few visiting nobles can fly birds, but when they’re here, they fly the king’s hawks.”

Catrìona remembered well the lengths to which she had gone to catch and then train Kessog. Winning his trust had taken time, getting him accustomed to her voice, her touch. Feeding him was a constant task, made easier by her father’s falconer. Kessog was trained to hunt for sport and did not eat his kill .

At her look of disappointment, Machar explained, “The ladies hereabouts—that is, the queen and her ladies—busy themselves mostly with prayer and needlework. They might wave at the men riding out to hunt, but they do not ride with them.”

Niall shot her a glance, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Well then,” she said, “mayhap ’twill be my brother who will fly Kessog most often in the time remaining before his summer molt.”

Catrìona felt better for leaving her falcon in the care of another, knowing Machar and Niall would keep Kessog happy when she could not attend him.

With a nod toward her brother, she left them to seek out her cousin. Her uncle had told her that she and Fia would likely share a chamber in the tower, as did the queen’s other ladies.

Just inside the tower, she paused to admire the great hall. Two long trestle tables flanked a central hearth. At the head of the two tables was another table set upon a dais. The king’s table . All the seats were benches save two high-backed chairs on the dais where she imagined the king and queen would sit tonight.

Several servants were in the hall, going about their business. One of them, observing Catrìona looking around, told her the ladies’ chambers were on the second floor as were the chambers of the king and queen and offered to show her the one assigned to her and Fia.

Catrìona followed the servant up the stairs to a long corridor with many doors. At the end, a window shed light on the wooden floor. When she asked, the servant told her the corridor wrapped around the square tower. “That allows the hall to be two stories high.”

The servant stopped in front of one chamber midway down the corridor and gestured to a door on the left. Catrìona thanked her and entered to find Fia bent over her chest, digging through garments.

Lifting one of her gowns, Fia looked over her shoulder to where Catrìona stood appraising the room. “They brought your chest,” Fia said, pointing to the end of the other bed. “There are pegs for our cloaks, too.”

The chamber was sparsely appointed but more than adequate to Catrìona’s mind. Two narrow beds took up most of the space. Atop them were well-stuffed bed cushions with blue woolen covers. The only other furniture was a small table between the beds, a brazier for warmth, a side table and a stool. Catrìona walked to the one window. Its shutters open, she looked down on the burn that flowed around the tower like a moat.

“’Tis not as large as your bedchamber in Atholl,” she said, “but will serve us well.”

“Aye,” Fia agreed. “’Tis clean and at least we are alone.”

Catrìona sat upon the bed that would be hers, the one on the left side of the window. “’Tis comfortable.”

“Mine, as well. Oh, a servant brought us water to wash.” Fia pointed to a pitcher and a bowl sitting on the side table.

“I noticed several servants speaking the Saxon tongue to each other on my way here,” Catrìona remarked. “I wonder why there are so many.”

“They are among the English who fled the Normans,” said Fia, “and thankfully, the ones I spoke with can speak a bit of Gaelic, too.”

Feeling quite gritty from the day’s ride, Catrìona walked to the side table and proceeded to wash the dust from her face. “I would love a bath but I suppose it will have to wait.”

Fia refolded her gowns into the chest. “Even with a great number of servants it must be difficult to provide baths for all.”

“Mayhap there is a stream that affords privacy.” Catrìona spoke her thought aloud. The water would be cold but at least she would be clean.

“With so many men around, only you would think of bathing in a stream.”

Catrìona opened her chest, mumbling to herself about preferring to be clean even if she had to wash in the woods surrounded by men.

Soon they were both somewhat refreshed and had helped each other to don proper gowns.

“We do not really need a servant to help us,” observed Catrìona, “and I doubt one will be provided. Here, I will help you do your plaits and you can help me with mine.”

By the time they arrived in the hall, the cavernous room was filling with those attending the evening meal. Torches set in sconces, a fire in the stone hearth and a myriad of candles provided ample light.

Catrìona and Fia stood to one side watching those assembled. Boisterous conversations erupted in laughter, some in Gaelic but others in the Saxon tongue. Most of those in attendance were men but some women mingled among them, which was a comfort to Catrìona. Spotting the queen surrounded by several other women, Catrìona tugged on Fia’s sleeve.

“’Tis the queen and her ladies. Let us join them.”

They launched forth, passing clusters of men and drawing interested stares. Catrìona attributed their curious gazes to the fact she and Fia were new. Or, it could be her bright auburn hair. Her father had once told her, “Anyone would know you are mine by that thick head of dark red hair, little cat.” She felt, but did not return, the men’s stares as she guided Fia through the throng to where the queen stood.

Margaret had changed into another beautiful gown, this one azure silk embroidered in golden thread at the neck and sleeves. Seeing Catrìona approach, the queen raised her head to greet them. “My new ladies, Catrìona and Fia. Did you find all you needed in your chamber?”

“Yea,” said Catrìona, “and we thank you, My Lady, for your kindness.”

Margaret gestured toward the women standing with her. “These are your fellow ladies. I will allow them to introduce themselves.”

First came Audra with light brown hair and hazel eyes. “I am the daughter of Duff, Mormaer of Fife. I bid you welcome.”

The woman’s pleasant face and unassuming air contrasted with what Catrìona knew of the Mormaer of Fife, the warrior who led the king’s army. Since Dunfermline was in Fife, to make conversation, Catrìona said, “You did not have far to travel.”

“Nay, not far,” Audra said with a smile.

Next in the circle of women was Davina. “I come from Lothian to the south.” Her sweet smile was set in a round face with brown eyes framed by honey-colored hair. By her expression, Catrìona judged her to have a genial nature. “Welcome,” was all Davina said.

Mayhap she is shy.

Isobel, darker in both hair and skin than the others, was quick to inform them she had served Margaret since she became queen two years ago. Catrìona thought she heard Isobel say she was from Ross in the north .

Lastly, there was Elspeth. “I am from west of Fife near Loch Tay.” To Catrìona’s mind, by her giddy demeanor, Elspeth appeared to be the youngest of the ladies, especially after seeing the flirtatious looks she flung at the men with her large brown eyes that were the same color as her hair.

“We passed Loch Tay as we traveled to Dunkeld a year ago,” said Catrìona. “’Tis very beautiful.” She resisted the urge to say Loch Lomond was far more resplendent. She was very proud of the beauty of the vale.

“Aye, Loch Tay is grand,” said Elspeth, stretching out the word “grand”.

Catrìona thanked the women for their welcome. She could scarce recall their names, much less which one came from where. In time I will know them well .

Fia had told her the queen’s ladies were rumored to be pious to a woman, making Catrìona wonder if she would be accepted into their company. Pious was not a word she would have used to describe herself. What little faith she had possessed had been shaken by the attack on the vale and the deaths of her parents.

“We lose ladies from time to time,” offered Audra once they were all acquainted.

“Lose them?” Fia repeated, startled.

“Yes. Lose them to their new husbands,” she said in a teasing manner, “as one of us is married off by the king. You two replace ones we lost in such a manner.”

The others laughed but the queen remained quiet, leaving Catrìona curious as to whether Margaret considered herself one of those who had been “married off”.

She was inwardly relieved that her own betrothal was soon to be secured, sparing her such a fate. The prospect of being bartered to one of the king’s men she did not even know sounded dismal.

When those gathered in the hall began to take their seats, the queen bid Catrìona and Fia to follow her to the dais, explaining as special guests, along with Matad and Niall, they were invited to dine with the king and his family.

The queen introduced them to her younger sister, Cristina, whose fair coloring was like Margaret’s, and then seated Catrìona beside Edgar, Margaret’s brother, with Fia on Catrìona’s other side. Niall took his place beyond Fia, while Matad sat on the king’s left with the queen’s sister. The queen then joined the king in the place of honor on his right.

Smells of roast game and spiced vegetables filled the air as servants set platters and bowls before them laden with food. Bread, smelling fresh from the oven, was added to the table along with goblets filled with red wine.

Casting an indifferent glance at the trencher she shared with Edgar, Catrìona tried to muster an appetite and found she was more weary than hungry. Voices rose around her but her mind wandered and she did not attend the conversations. She was relieved to see Edgar conversing with his sister, the queen, and Fia occupied with her meal. Niall, on Fia’s other side, was staring into the hall.

Catrìona’s gaze drifted over the men and women conversing in low voices as they ate. The variety of those in attendance surprised her. Some, who must be the king’s warriors, had a rough appearance, their long hair and beards unkempt. Powerfully built with swords under their seats, their arms displayed bulging muscles. Their tunics were sewn in shades of brown, dark blue and green, more suitable to hiding from their enemies than for a king’s court.

Other men stood out like brightly plumed birds in richly colored velvets and woolens. Sitting among them she spotted Domnall and her heart sped. She tried to catch his eye but was not successful. He had not changed much in the months since he’d last come to Dunkeld. Always well attired, tonight he looked the part of the successful trader. One with like apparel sat next to him: a man of middle years with sun-streaked hair to his broad shoulders. When they had first taken their seats, she had heard the king address him as Maerleswein and wondered if he was a Dane as his name suggested.

Her eyes paused on a servant woman setting dishes before the men. One of the warriors wrapped his arm around the woman’s waist and she pulled away. Like many of the servants in the king’s hall, this one appeared to be Saxon in both style of tunic and speech when she chided the man. Some of the female servants carried themselves like ladies, making Catrìona wonder at their origins .

Edgar urged her to eat, gesturing to their shared trencher that he had piled high with meat and vegetables. “You must be hungry after the journey from Dunkeld. ’Tis a far ride and hard on a woman, all day in the saddle.”

Catriona swallowed a defensive reply. He must not be accustomed to women who rode. Reining in her nagging concerns she wondered just what her uncle had committed her to. But then she chided herself. Edgar is just being polite. Tonight I must be agreeable .

“You have the right of it, of course. It was a far ride and I expect the queen will have much for us to do on the morrow.”

Edgar burst into laughter, nearly spewing his wine. Wiping his mouth with a cloth, he said, “My sister will have you up to pray while ’tis still dark. Trust me, to keep pace with her, you will need your strength. Best eat while you can.”

“You persuade me,” she said, smiling at the handsome young man. For the first time, she noticed the golden curls and blue eyes so like the queen’s and the way he held his head, as if he wore an invisible crown. She had heard that two years prior, thousands of Northumbrians fought the Normans in York to try and win the throne of England for Edgar. But they had failed.

How disappointed he must be.

With her eating knife, Catrìona speared a small piece of roast boar and brought it to her mouth. The combination of aromas from spices and herbs and the taste of the succulent meat roused her appetite. “’Tis very good.”

“Aye,” Edgar said, spearing a piece of meat with his eating knife. “Margaret demands a well-run kitchen. ’Tis what she was used to before we came here.”

She turned her goblet in her hand, the candlelight catching the intricate gold and silver pattern on the vessel. “These are silver trimmed in gold. Do you drink from such goblets every evening?”

“Aye. That, too, is Margaret’s doing,” said Edgar. “She cares little for worldly goods, but she would have the king’s house and the chapel adorned in kingly dignity. ’Tis why you see bright colors here in the hall. She has changed even the way the king’s subjects dress, well, except for the men-at-arms. ”

Catrìona’s eyes roved over the people eating and talking, noting the bright reds, blues and greens worn by some.

“My sister encourages them to buy the brightly colored cloth from the merchants she beckons to Scotland’s shores, even silk and velvet. ’Tis what she expects in a king’s court and she would not have Malcolm appear less than a king.”

Catrìona glanced at Margaret, who was speaking to her husband. Malcolm’s head was inclined to his wife’s. While their words could not be heard in the noisy hall, she could see Margaret was most attentive to the king. Curious to know more about her new mistress, she asked Edgar to tell her how his family came to Scotland.

Fia leaned in to listen.

Edgar took a sip of his wine, then stared at the goblet as if remembering the deep past. “Margaret was only ten and I younger still when we left Hungary where our father was in exile. I do not remember much of that time.”

“Why did you return?”

“King Edward summoned Father to England as heir to the throne. But days after we arrived, my father died.” Edgar’s voice dropped to a whisper. “My mother suspected poison.”

Catrìona gasped. “Treachery?”

He nodded. “For years, we lived in England, sheltered by King Edward. But then the king died and Harold Godwinson was named king. He did not reign long. You know, of course, the Normans killed him at Hastings. As the last male in the Wessex line, I was named king. I was fifteen, about the same age as your brother,” he said to Catrìona. “Did you know?”

“I knew you were England’s rightful heir,” she said without hesitation, “but I did not know you had been named king.”

He shrugged. “’Twas only for a brief time after King Harold’s death. The Norman Conqueror lured away my supporters making sure I was never crowned. ’Tis still in my heart to rule England, yet sometimes I am forced to consider it may not be God’s will.”

“I am sorry for all that has been taken from you,” said Catrìona. Ruthless men had robbed him of his father and his home just as they had robbed her. But unlike her, Edgar had lost a kingdom .

“Two years ago we had great hope,” he said wistfully. “I joined the rebels in York and with the Danes’ help, we took the city from the Normans.” He glanced around the hall, she and Fia following his gaze. “Some of the men here tonight fought with me. Maerleswein was one of them,” he said nodding in the direction of the man sitting next to Domnall. “But when the Danes left, the Conqueror laid waste to York, and I sought refuge in Scotland.” He let out a deep sigh. “Malcolm’s bid for my sister’s hand changed whatever else might have been.”

Anxious to know, she pressed him. “And your sister, Margaret—”

“Did not want to be queen of anything. But I prevailed upon her when Malcolm pressed his suit. She would have preferred the cloistered life, but there was little to be done except to agree to Malcolm’s wishes. After all, we had already accepted his protection.” His gaze drifted to where the king sat listening intently to Margaret. “It was not a bad decision, I think. He adores her and now she is a queen.”

As she reached for her wine, pondering Edgar’s words, Catrìona had the feeling she was being watched. She turned her head toward the trestle table on the right where not fifteen feet away a man chewed on a leg of roast fowl while devouring her with his eyes. He had the face of a hawk, alert eyes and piercing gaze, making her feel like prey. She knew she should look away but she could not tear her eyes from his strong well-defined features, his long flaxen hair and the hint of a beard lining his square jaw.

At her perusal, his mouth twitched up in an impudent grin.

Her cheeks flamed and she abruptly turned her attention back to her trencher. Beneath her lashes she shot a glance to where Domnall sat, but he was talking to the one called Maerleswein and did not appear to have noticed the exchange.