Page 3 of The Refuge

Steinar lifted his gaze from the trencher he shared with Rhodri to scan the hall when suddenly his attention was arrested by a blaze of auburn hair reflecting the light of the torches.

Who is she?

Reaching for a roast leg of duck, he chewed on the savory meat as he stared at the woman sitting beside the queen’s brother on the dais. She was as beautiful as the queen but her features more striking. Redheaded women, he remembered, had a reputation for spirit.

Leaning in to Rhodri, between bites he asked, “Do you know those dining with the king?”

Rhodri turned his eyes to the front of the hall. “The dark-haired man of middle years is Matad of Dunkeld, Atholl’s mormaer. He is a powerful relation of the king but mayhap you do not recall his last visit. I was told I would be entertaining him and his party this eve.”

Steinar assessed the king’s nobleman. “He is just as I would imagine Atholl’s mormaer.” Of stern countenance, Matad’s dark eyes looked out on those in attendance as if suspicious of all. But Steinar was not so interested in the man as the woman sitting next to the queen’s brother. “Who is the woman with the red hair sitting next to Edgar?”

“I assume the two females are Atholl’s relations,” offered Rhodri. “The auburn-haired lad sitting on the other side of the girl with dark hair must be brother to the woman you ask about. They look much alike. ”

In truth, he had not noticed the youth, but looking again, he could see the resemblance. “Aye, ’tis possible.”

“The dark-haired young woman,” Rhodri murmured, “could be Welsh. Mayhap I will sing my first song for her. ’Tis a Welsh love song.”

Rhodri never ceased to surprise him. “You would offer your song to her when all the women at Malcolm’s court, save the queen and her ladies, willingly fall at your feet? ’Tis a shame to give up what is offered to seek what is not.”

“Ah, but that is ever the way of it. A bard’s task is to sing of the love that eludes a man. And what of you? Your eyes wander not to the available females in the hall, as is your wont, but alight on only a single, flame-colored flower.”

Steinar watched the auburn-haired woman as she spoke to the queen’s brother, her face lit with an inner glow. “Not a flower, I think, but a firebrand.” Not since he had come to Dunfermline had he encountered a woman who, even at a distance, captured his interest like this one. Nothing could ever come of it for he had no title, no lands and little coin to offer a woman, much less one of the king’s favored guests. But watching the redhead in the days ahead would provide a welcome diversion.

“Do not let her fiery hair deceive you,” said Rhodri. “If she is to be one of the queen’s ladies, she may be as devout as Margaret and the ones who serve her, compliant women who will not question to whom they are given. Rich dowries all, but the king will wed them only to his nobles and the men he favors.”

Steinar was certain Rhodri was wrong about the redhead being compliant. “After growing up with my sister, Serena, I could never want a woman who lacks spirit.”

Rhodri chuckled. “Your sister is unique, the best of all the archers I trained, though she did not wield a longbow.”

“Aye, she did well with that smaller bow you made her.” Remembering their happy times together before the Conqueror had come, he said, “I miss her and our sparring with words. In truth, I would wish for one like her. There is little challenge in a woman who never questions, never speaks her opinion. One could fall asleep with all the ‘Yea, my lords’ one hears from the women at Malcolm’s court. ”

“True,” Rhodri agreed, fingering his scant dark beard, “but now that I think on it, the queen is not as meek as she appears. Mayhap I should not be so quick to judge her ladies.”

“You speak the truth,” said Steinar. “The queen has her say and the king supports her, though they have argued a time or two.” Noting his friend’s gaze kept coming back to the companion of the redhead, he said, “You find the dark-haired one to your liking?”

“I like the look of her, yea. Hair like a dark night on the Irish Sea and skin like fresh cream. I wager her eyes are as blue as the waters of Llyn Tegid.”

“Llyn Tegid?”

“The lake of beauty, ’tis in Gwynedd, not so far from Powys,” Rhodri said, a faraway look in his eyes.

“You sound like you are missing your home.”

Rhodri shrugged, admitting nothing.

“You’d best tread carefully,” Steinar cautioned. “If she is related to the Mormaer of Atholl, she’ll nae have a bard for a husband.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Rhodri said with feigned annoyance. “Doubt it not.”

Amused, Steinar let his friend have the last word and resumed chewing on the leg of roast duck, his eyes never leaving the woman with the bright auburn hair.

When she glanced in his direction, pausing to consider him, his mouth hitched up in a smile.

She had noticed him, too.

Immediately, she returned her interest to her trencher. A moment later, she lifted her head and gazed about the hall. He wondered what she was thinking, whether she was amazed by what she saw. Had she seen the great room before Margaret’s changes, she would have been appalled.

Steinar thought back to when he and Rhodri had first come to Dunfermline. In those days, the tower was mostly the abode of men, the floors of the hall strewn with dirty rushes where hounds lurked, waiting to grab a fallen bit of meat or a bone cast aside. But once King Malcolm had convinced Margaret of Wessex to become his queen, all had changed .

Now the wooden floors and tables were clean scrubbed, the rushes fresh and herbed and the whitewashed plaster walls graced with tapestries from the queen’s dower chests. Even the hounds were confined by the king’s command to one corner when meals were served. Margaret had a gentle heart but she could be a tyrant when it came to appearances.

Steinar looked around, trying to see the hall through the eyes of one who had only just arrived. The presence of the new queen had brought many nobles to Dunfermline wanting to pay homage to the Saxon princess who had become the Lady of Scotland. And not all of those who had come to Malcolm’s court were Scots. The king’s prior marriage to the widow of the Jarl of Orkney sometimes brought the Norse to Dunfermline. None of the Orkneymen were here tonight, but there was that Irishman with roots in Leinster who had come this past year and stayed.

The blond heads in the hall reminded him many Saxons were now at Malcolm’s court, driven north by the Conqueror’s knights. There were so many in Dunfermline, the Scots had to wonder if their country was being overrun. Still, Malcolm could hardly complain when he had dragged many English captives back to Scotland as plunder from his raids.

Steinar chuckled remembering how the queen had intervened to ransom as many as she could, pilfering the king’s treasury to free the English. How Malcolm had railed about that. She had even sent spies throughout Scotland looking for any English slaves who might be mistreated. Those she could not ransom, she cared for and put to work. There was hardly a cottage in Dunfermline that did not boast an English servant.

From across the table, Maerleswein lifted his hand in greeting. Steinar raised his goblet to the former Sheriff of Lincolnshire, who had shifted alliances with the coming of the Conqueror and now was Malcolm’s man.

In their conversations over the hearth fire, Maerleswein had confided his regret that his daughter had chosen to wed a Norman knight and remain in England. Drinking more wine than he typically did, Steinar had recounted his own tale of woe. Not only had he suffered the loss of his lands, but his sister, too, had married a Norman. Unlike Maerleswein’s daughter, however, Serena had been given no choice. Steinar refused to engage in self-pity as some did in Malcolm’s court. Nor would he allow his desire for revenge to consume him. He must not look back.

The meal drew to a close as servants set plates of small honeyed cakes before them. More wine was poured and the hall quieted in anticipation as Rhodri reached for his harp.

***

Sipping wine from her silver goblet, Catrìona’s eyes followed the bard as he carried a small harp to stand before the dais.

“Matad,” the king addressed her uncle, “do you remember this Welshman?”

Matad nodded.

“His music is wondrous and his tales fascinate,” the king continued. “He is also the best of my archers. Mayhap before you return to Atholl, you might test your skill against his bow.”

“Your bard is an archer?” Matad asked incredulous.

“Not just any archer,” the king said with a grin. “Rhodri is a master of the bow. He instructs my archers.”

Her uncle dipped his head to the king and then turned his attention to the bard, who bowed to the king and queen and took his place on a stool.

The bard wore a tunic of dark green wool over brown hosen, his clothing plain but well fitted. Plucking the strings of his harp, he soon filled the hall with ethereal music. Bending his head over the instrument, his ebony curls cascaded over his face as his long fingers worked their magic.

“The Welsh bard is well favored, is he not?” Fia whispered into Catrìona’s ear.

She turned toward her cousin to see Fia staring at the bard, transfixed. “Aye, I suppose…” He was handsome in a boyish way, she silently conceded, his features finely carved. Were it not for his close-cropped beard and slight mustache, she might have thought him pretty.

The enchanting music continued, lilting into the air, instilling a peace in Catrìona’s soul still damaged from the events in the vale.

“He first sings in the Welsh tongue,” the king said to her uncle, “but then he will change to Gaelic.”

As the bard began to sing, a hush came over the hall. His dark eyes alighted on Fia and he paused in his singing while his fingers continued to pluck the strings of his harp. The bard and Fia locked gazes for a moment before the Welshman dropped his head to focus on his harp.

Catrìona knew bards to be charmers but she would not have believed one could be so bold as to flirt with Fia in front of her father. Catrìona sneaked a glance at her uncle but he did not appear to have noticed what transpired between his daughter and the handsome bard.

A moment later, the Welshman lifted his head and began singing in Gaelic. The song told of a young heir to the throne denied his rightful place and a brave warrior’s stance against the Norman Conqueror who had seized lands that were not his. From her father, Catrìona had heard King Malcolm’s story, how, from his youth, he had wanted the throne of his father, Duncan. But that throne had been denied him. As she listened, she wondered if the bard sang of Malcolm or the queen’s brother, Edgar.

The song ended and the bard began to tell a story. His deep voice wove a tale of ancient Cymru, land of the mists, where one Rhodri ap Merfyn, called “the great”, defeated the pagans who stormed the shores of Gwynedd from their dragon ships in search of plunder. The bard sang of the fierce battle and the Welsh victory that turned the pagans back.

Listening to the bard’s story, Catrìona’s mind filled with images from that horrible day when the life she had known had been so viciously torn from her. She saw the Northmen storming ashore, her father’s lifeless body, the knife just out of reach of her mother’s hand and the young women dragged away.

Her heart sped and her brow grew damp. Unconsciously, she closed her eyes, clenching her fists, bidding the terrifying scenes to go away.

Fia must have sensed her distress for she reached out her hand and placed it over Catrìona’s, squeezing gently.

Grateful for the comforting gesture, Catrìona opened her eyes and smiled her thanks, letting out the breath she had been holding and forcing her heart to calm .

The bard’s story ended and he stood and bowed to the king and queen, receiving praise from all. Setting his harp on a cushion placed to one side, he returned to his seat beside the blond warrior who had stared at Catrìona earlier. Mayhap the two are friends.

Margaret rose and turned to the king. “With your leave, My Lord, my ladies and I will retire and find our beds.”

Malcolm took his wife’s hand, kissed it and pulled her down to whisper something in her ear. Margaret blushed, pulled her hand back and, without a word, turned to walk gracefully from the dais.

Matad glanced sharply at Fia and Catrìona, a signal they should depart with the queen. Exhausted after the day’s travel, Catrìona was only too happy to comply. She had a feeling that once the queen was gone from the hall, the atmosphere would degenerate to a masculine swagger of ribald jests from too much wine.

Rising from her seat, Catrìona bid Edgar good eve and stepped from the dais, Fia just behind her. She tossed Domnall a look of regret as she passed him and then hurried to join the other ladies trailing after Margaret like cygnets after a swan.

She felt Domnall’s gaze follow her as she and the ladies crossed the hall. When she reached the stairs, Catrìona looked back, seeing many heads turned in their direction. Among the men whose eyes flickered with interest were the blond warrior and the Welsh bard.

***

Domnall’s gaze never left Catrìona as she and her cousin followed the queen from the hall, her long auburn plaits hanging below her narrow waist. A fetching woman, but not as attractive to him as she had once been now that she was without her rich dowry and her father’s lucrative trade with Leinster.

In his message telling her he would be at Malcolm’s court, he had not mentioned that his grandsire, the King of Leinster, had recently died.

There would be more than one man in Ireland who desired to reign in his grandsire’s stead.

Domnall was one of them.

No longer could he afford to seek the hand of the woman who made him the envy of other men. Now he must marry for wealth and position. But that did not end his lust for the comely redhead. He still wanted Catrìona in his bed.