Page 4 of The Refuge

The door of their bedchamber suddenly opened, jarring Catrìona from sleep.

“Arise! The queen departs!” a raspy voice shouted.

Catrìona heard the command in her mind, instantly aware the harsh voice was not Fia’s. Since the attack on the vale, Catrìona slept lightly. A whisper could bring her awake, but the servant who had hissed the command could not know that. “I am awake,” Catrìona mumbled, knowing Fia was not, for her cousin slept like a rock.

The door thumped closed. She opened her eyes and sat up in bed. Darkness surrounded her; the only light in the chamber a soft glow from the brazier’s banked fire. Edgar’s warning had not been an idle threat. They were summoned before first light to pray.

God must be fond of the dark .

Catrìona reached her hand to the bedside table, fumbling to find the candle, knocking it over at her first try. Finally, she righted the small tallow column in its stand and, once the flame had caught, she turned to see her cousin still asleep.

“Fia! Wake up. Else we will be late for the queen. One of the servants already shouted as much.”

Fia groaned and tried to cover her face.

Catrìona pushed herself off the bed and crossed the room to her cousin, shaking Fia’s shoulder. “Hurry. ’Twill get easier once we are used to the unholy hour.” The irony of praying at an “unholy” hour made her chuckle.

Leaving her cousin, she reached for the water in the bowl on the side table and splashed it onto her face. The cold water brought her alert as the servant’s shout had not. She dried her face and lifted the clothes she would wear today from the peg where she had hung them the night before.

Slipping her gown over her linen undertunic, she darted a glance at Fia, who, she was pleased to see, was finally stumbling out of bed.

As quickly as they could, they made themselves presentable, donned their cloaks and descended the stairs to the hall. Torches set in sconces along the walls lighted the large space and a fire blazed in the hearth. The servants were obviously well trained to their mistress’ habits.

Catrìona stifled a yawn as she spotted one of the queen’s ladies waiting near the front door, a candle in her hand.

“I am Audra,” the woman reminded them. “The queen bid me stay to show you the way to our place of morning prayer.”

Catrìona was tempted to tell the woman it was not yet morning, but she refrained. She was now in the queen’s service and at Margaret’s disposal. Moreover, Audra’s pleasant manner at so early an hour told her that this one might become a friend. “Thank you,” she said.

They passed through the open door, Catrìona and Fia following Audra as she hurried along.

“Where are you taking us?” Catrìona asked. In the predawn light, she could see little.

“To the new chapel,” said Audra. “’Twas where the king and queen were wed. Margaret had it made larger. Now ’tis a fine place to pray. Some afternoons the queen goes away to a cave to pray alone but in the mornings we attend her here.”

“A queen who prays in a cave like a hermit,” Catrìona mumbled under her breath as she stepped carefully over the rocks and tree roots she felt through her leather shoes.

Fia was having the same trouble making her way and reached for Catrìona’s hand to steady herself.

Eventually, they came to a small building on the other side of the tower. Inside, Catrìona glimpsed the queen on her knees before an altar lit by a single candle. The three other ladies were beside her, their heads bent in prayer. Their words, whispered in Latin, echoed off the walls.

Audra knelt next to the queen and, not wishing to disturb the queen’s prayers with an apology for being late, Catrìona took her place next to Audra. Fia quickly joined her.

The small chapel was silent except for the women’s whispers, the smell of stone and dirt strong, the stillness nearly tangible. It was not unlike the chapel at her home in the vale, only larger.

Catrìona hesitated. Should she say something to God before beginning the ritual Latin prayers? She had not spoken to Him since the day her parents had been killed. When Angus and Niall had laid them in the ground, she had prayed for their souls. But even then, she had questioned how a God who cared about His children could permit something so horrible to happen. How could He allow pagan savages to rampage unchecked and unpunished?

What kind of God lets innocents suffer while evil triumphs?

When she had asked the priest at Dunkeld, he offered only pious platitudes. “We are visitors here on earth, my child. Heaven is our eternal home. Your parents are in a better place now, with the holy saints and angels.” His words brought scant comfort. The Northmen who had murdered her parents and her people still roamed free. The cry for justice burned in her soul like a fierce blaze fed by her memories.

But now, she served a devout queen, one who apparently lived like a nun when she was not with her husband. Catrìona knew she must find a way to pray. And so she began by reminding God who she was until the absurdity of it gripped her. Of course, He knew who she was. But it was the only way she could think to reestablish some kind of a connection with a God she had dismissed as uncaring.

Unwilling to say the old Latin prayers and unable to find words of her own, she remembered the Psalter.

Domini pascit me… The Lord is my shepherd…

She had only finished the last line, et ut inhabitem in domo Domini in longitudinem dierum.…in God’s house forevermore my dwelling place shall be , when she heard the queen rise.

Even in the faint light, Catrìona could see the face of her mistress shining with an inner light and she felt ashamed of the turmoil within her .

The queen’s ladies stood as one.

Margaret turned to Catrìona and Fia. “’Tis your first day among us and so you do not know our practice. We begin each day with prayer. Then we feed the orphans and those in need before breaking our fast.”

“Yea, My Lady,” Catrìona said, bowing her head, hearing the command in the queen’s voice and wondering how they were to feed the orphans. “Please forgive us for being late.”

“As I said, ’tis your first day.”

“If I may ask, My Lady…” began Catrìona. She heard the sudden intake of breath from the other women at her effrontery, but she genuinely wanted to know. “Why do we pray before the sun rises?”

The queen gave her a look as if indulging a young child. “Have you never heard that when it was still dark, our Lord got up and left the house and went away to a secluded place to pray? Before He chose the twelve, He prayed all night. There is much to be gained from His example if we would have our prayers answered.”

“Surely He will answer yours, My Lady,” said Catrìona. “You are so… good.”

“Nay, not good, just a woman.”

The queen turned and left the chapel, her ladies following, leaving Catrìona and her cousin alone.

Fia huffed. “Now you are questioning the queen herself?”

“I suppose I am. ’Tis hard to think of a woman who rises in the middle of the night to pray as ‘just a woman’ no matter what she says. But if it be as she says, surely she can answer another woman’s questions.”

In the light of the candle, she saw Fia raise her eyes to the chamber’s ceiling.

As they left the chapel, dawn made its glorious appearance, lighting the sky in shades of blue and heather. Catrìona paused to admire the colors in the clouds, deep rose with the bright color of foxglove flowers in the center. Below the clouds, the sky was streaked in gold. Mayhap the beauty of the dawn was worth the early rising.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she had eaten little the night before. She whispered to Fia, “I cannot fault the queen for her devotion to God and the orphans, but my stomach objects to so much activity before breaking my fast.”

“The priest would say serving others before ourselves is a virtue,” said Fia.

“Aye,” Catrìona agreed, knowing Fia was right and the queen a model of devotion. “We serve a queen who shames us all.”

They arrived back at the tower and stepped through the door to find the queen and the other ladies standing just inside. The smell of fresh-baked bread wafted through the air making Catrìona’s mouth water.

A woman wearing a headcloth and carrying a babe came toward Margaret. Handing the babe to the queen, she said, “Good morning, My Lady.”

Margaret cradled the sleepy child in her arms. “Did Edward sleep well?”

“Yea, My Lady, ’tis a sweet lad ye have.”

Margaret kissed the babe—who Catrìona realized was the queen’s young son—before releasing him back to his nurse.

An older man with gray hair, who had been standing to one side, approached. Catrìona thought he might be the king’s steward.

“My Lady, the orphans await you and your ladies.”

“Thank you, Nechtan,” said the queen.

Audra leaned in to Catrìona and Fia. “Before she takes any food for herself, Margaret will see the orphans fed. They come to the tower door each morning, usually nine or ten of them. ’Tis her way and we do the same.”

Just then, the king stomped down the stairs, his heavy feet sounding like drum beats on the wooden planks. Frustration emanated from his grunts as he struggled to pin a large brooch to his scarlet cloak. His dark hair, thrown back from his face, fell to his shoulders in wild abandon. A golden-handled sword hung in a sheath at his side. A man of great height and presence, his entry drew the attention of all. Catrìona could not help but stare.

Spotting his queen, Malcolm went straight to her.

“’Twould seem I am in need of your deft hand, mo cridhe .” He grinned mischievously at his wife.

The queen raised her hands to his shoulder and with efficient movements, secured the brooch to his cloak. The king bestowed a kiss on her cheek. As Margaret turned toward her ladies, Malcolm slapped her affectionately on the bottom before striding toward the door, snapping his fingers at the two hounds lying in the corner. The hounds immediately rose from the rushes and followed at their master’s heels as he swept through the door.

Margaret seemed flustered for only a moment, then a smile flickered on her face.

Catrìona felt a stab of envy at having witnessed the exchange. Malcolm had called his wife mo cridhe , my heart, and in his eyes she had seen the adoration he held for Margaret that was whispered of at court. To be loved by such a warrior, to be touched in such an affectionate and possessive way. ’Twas not unlike the love that had existed between her father and her mother. The love she hoped to one day share with Domnall.

Before the door to the hall thumped closed, Catrìona heard the king’s men, gathering outside, greeting him in a loud chorus.

She turned her attention back to her mistress. At one of the trestle tables, a group of children stood wearing broad grins and simple tunics of earthen colors. They greeted Margaret with noisy expressions of delight, pulling at the queen’s gown.

“Wait your turn,” Margaret gently reproved one very insistent young boy who could not have been more than four summers in age.

Servants bustled about, setting the table with bowls of gruel and bread. Others poured milk into small cups and set them before each place.

Margaret sat down on a bench in the middle of one table and beckoned a small girl to her. “You first, Bridget.” The child was not shy but came directly to the queen and climbed onto her lap. As Audra had told them, the queen did not eat. Instead, she picked up her own silver spoon and began to feed the girl from a bowl of gruel.

Catrìona and Fia joined the queen’s other ladies as they took their places at the table around Margaret and began to attend the remaining children clamoring to be fed from the bowls set before them.

Looking up at Catrìona and Fia while still feeding the young girl, Margaret said, “I try to give them something a child would like, sweetened with honey and raisins. ”

Catrìona nodded her understanding as her rumbling stomach reminded her she was hungry. She was about to point out it was not just children who liked honey and raisins when the queen said, “I am rather fond of them myself.”

Off to the side, Catrìona saw a boy standing by himself and called him to her. Older than the others, he was slight of body, ruddy of complexion with beautiful wide set brown eyes and straight brown hair that fell to his nape.

He came toward her cautiously, wearing a serious expression, mayhap because he did not know her, but she sensed there was more behind his reluctant demeanor. The boy’s being orphaned young and having no one made her all the more grateful for Niall. Without him, she would be as alone as this boy.

When he reached her, she invited him to sit beside her. “My name is Catrìona. How are you called?”

“Giric,” he said crawling onto the bench.

Thinking he was about six or seven summers, she handed him a spoon. “I expect you feed yourself.”

He nodded vigorously and took the spoon, dipping it into the bowl. Between mouthfuls of gruel, he said, “Yer hair is pretty.”

She could not help but smile. He was adorable. “Thank you.”

He squinted up at her. “Art new?”

“Aye. My cousin, Fia,” she pointed to Fia sitting across from them feeding a young girl, “and my brother, Niall, and I have just come from Dunkeld. Like you, Niall and I are orphans.”

“Ye’re older,” he said as if that was entirely different and she supposed it was.

“Aye, but orphans still.” He did not ask how it had come to be she had no parents and she did not wish to ask about his own circumstances, knowing it would cause each of them pain to speak of it. She had only wanted him to know she and Niall understood his loss.

The sounds of eating and occasional exchanges between the children echoed about the hall. For a while, she let Giric eat. Then she thought of something that might please him. “Do you like falcons?”

His eyes lit up and he put down the spoon, wiping his mouth on his tunic sleeve. “Aye, lady! Do ye have one? ”

“I do. His name is Kessog and he lives in the mews. Mayhap we can visit him this afternoon.”

He frowned. “The queen’s ladies do their sewing then.”

“I will ask the queen if she will allow me to show you my falcon. I am not so good at needlework that I will be missed. Can you be outside the door to the hall at midday?”

He nodded. Licking the last bit of gruel from his spoon, he reached for a piece of bread. “I will be there.” Taking the bread with him, he slipped from the bench and raced toward the door to join the other children who were leaving. Just as he went outside, he turned and waved to her.

She returned the gesture. Giric. Smiling to herself, she thought to ask Niall to go along on their afternoon adventure.

When the children had gone, a score of men and women came into the hall and were greeted by Margaret. They were simply dressed like the servants. All of them seemed to know the queen and warmly responded to her words of welcome. Catrìona wondered who they were. She had not seen them the evening before. Their clothing was modest but clean. Some looked more like Saxons than Scots, fair-haired and blue-eyed. A few children accompanied them.

They took the empty places at the same table where Catrìona sat with her cousin and the other ladies.

Catrìona was puzzled.

As if reading her mind, Audra said, “They come each morning, the poor in Dunfermline. Many are English. The queen offers them food and provides them clothing.”

“The queen does much good,” Catrìona observed as a servant filled her bowl with the warm, cinnamon-scented gruel. She was happy to see raisins sprinkled on top.

“I love her for her goodness,” said Audra. “We all do. You have not seen the half of it.”

“Will the queen eat now?” Catrìona asked. She would not eat before her mistress, but truth be told, the smell of fresh bread and the thought of the honey and raisins on her tongue made her ravenous.

Audra glanced at the villagers and then turned back to Catrìona and Fia. “Once Margaret is certain the poor have been fed, then she will eat. But much of the time, she consumes little. We must remind her each day that she eats for the babe she carries or she would waste away to nothing. She fasts often.”

Catrìona felt shame for her own selfishness. At her father’s home in the vale, any in need had been welcomed but they had never placed the poor above themselves like Margaret did. No wonder the king loved her.

The queen walked to the dais and took her place at the high table. Not long after, the tower door burst open and Malcolm strode into the hall, his men trailing behind him, sending up a great din, laughing and speaking in loud voices of the hunt they were planning. From their eyes fixed on the bowls of gruel, Malcolm and his men appeared eager to break their fast and take to the woods. They must have been accustomed to seeing the poor in their midst, for they did not remark on it.

The king and Catrìona’s uncle joined the queen at the head table. The king’s men found places at the trestle tables, most of them sitting at the table across from where Catrìona and the queen’s ladies were eating with the poor.

Among the men were the golden-haired warrior and his companion, the bard.

Catrìona picked up her spoon and scooped a helping of gruel into her mouth, the honey and raisins as tasty as she had imagined.

“There’s the Welshman,” said Fia, looking up from her own bowl and turning to glimpse the bard.

Catrìona broke off a piece of bread and glanced at the handsome blond with broad shoulders sitting beside the bard. “And his friend.”

As if he sensed her eyes upon him, the fair-haired warrior turned and smiled at her.

Instantly, she looked down at her gruel, embarrassed at having been caught at his game of staring. What must he think? It was Domnall she should be looking at but she had not seen him come into the hall with the king.

A moment later, with a one-word command, the king summoned the warrior who had smiled at her. “Steinar!”

The warrior immediately responded, rising from his place to stride to the king, his hair catching the sun’s light flowing through the open shutters. He walked with a slight limp.

“Who is that one?” she asked Audra.

The queen’s lady followed Catrìona’s gaze. “The king’s scribe.”

A scribe? She would never have believed it. His body was that of a warrior, not a man of the cloth. Though he carried no sword, she could not imagine him as the king’s clerk. It meant he was educated, a man of letters, as few warriors were. Even the king was unlettered. Mayhap this blond scribe, who looked like a Saxon, had fled to Scotland, or been dragged there by the king as a slave. Could this man be a slave?

At the sound of the tower door opening, she turned. Domnall strolled inside with Maerleswein. Gesturing his companion to proceed without him, Domnall came toward her.

Her heart sped. She was glad to see him. He looked very handsome. He might intend to hunt with the king, but first he was coming to speak with her and she was pleased he would do so.

His features, sharp as always, softened as he approached.

She stood to greet him. “Domnall.”

He gazed at her with obvious pleasure. In his pale blue eyes, she saw the desire that she had seen there before. Inwardly, she warmed to the idea they would soon be man and wife.

“Catrìona, I regret I have not been able to see you until now. How do you fare? How was your journey from Dunkeld?”

She drew him aside so they would be out of earshot of the others. “I am well, sir. The journey was uneventful, the weather fair. And you?” She had missed him and longed for him to say he had eagerly awaited her arrival and looked forward to their betrothal now that her mourning period was over.

But he said none of those things. Instead, he spoke of the king. “Malcolm has been a most gracious host. I have lingered long in his hall hoping to trade with him.”

Unwilling to let him see her disappointment, she let her gaze drift to the floor. Gathering her resolve, she raised her head, a mask of calm in place. “The queen, too, is most kind.”

“Will you walk with me later?” he asked. “Mayhap before the evening meal?”

Hope sprang within her. “Aye, I will come early to the hall. ”

“Good. The sun will not have left the sky and we can walk to the burn.”

He bid her a good day and she wished him a successful hunt, watching him take his place next to Maerleswein. It had not been the meeting she had hoped for. He had not even taken her hand. Had time and distance changed his feelings? But she was certain it was desire she had glimpsed in his eyes.

***

Catrìona’s fingers, unused to embroidery, were red from her many missed stabs of the needle. It had scarce been an hour and she did not think she could endure more.

Margaret, her sister, Cristina, and the queen’s ladies were tucked away in one of the chambers the queen called her own, the women bent to their needlework, each embellishing a piece of cloth or a garment.

“Tell us about your home,” said an exuberant Elspeth.

Catrìona glanced up from her needlework to see the youngest of Margaret’s ladies leaning forward on her stool looking at Catrìona expectantly.

Happy for an excuse to lay aside her embroidery, she began to describe her home in the vale, recalling the happy times before the Norse attack. “’Tis the most beautiful place in all of Scotland, not that I have seen all of Scotland, but I cannot imagine any place more magnificent. Why, you can stand on Ben Lomond and gaze far ahead into the bluest loch anywhere on earth. ’Tis like gazing into… Heaven.” Without warning, a lump formed in her throat and tears welled in her eyes, making her feel foolish before the other women at the emotion the mere memory of her home roused within her.

The queen came to her rescue. Smiling kindly, she said “I have heard ’tis a wondrous place.”

“I expect you, too, have come to Dunfermline to find a husband,” said the dark-haired Isobel, the eldest of Margaret’s ladies.

The statement surprised Catrìona and since most of them were sent to Malcolm’s court to do just that, it hardly seemed necessary. But seeing the women’s sudden interest and because she was proud of her intended, she said, “My father selected a husband for me but we are not yet betrothed.” Surely the king and queen were aware of her circumstances, but Catrìona had carefully worded her reply should the others not be aware her father was dead.

“Might he be someone we know?” asked Davina timidly. Of all the queen’s ladies, the honey-haired woman from Lothian appeared the most soft-spoken.

Catrìona cast a glance at Fia before answering. “Aye,” she said proudly. “He is the Irishman from Leinster, Domnall mac Murchada.”

Isobel and Audra nodded, their reaction to her mention of Domnall’s name told her they were familiar with him.

Davina said nothing but on her face was a puzzled expression.

Before Catrìona could explain, Elspeth jumped in. “You know him, Davina. He is the one who is always with Maerleswein, the English sheriff.”

“Maerleswein is no longer a sheriff,” corrected Isobel. “He forfeited his lands and title when he led the rebels in York.”

“Well, he was a sheriff,” Elspeth insisted.

“He served William for a time,” interjected Margaret. The comment went unnoticed but Catrìona wondered what had turned the sheriff against the Norman they now called the Conqueror.

“Maerleswein and Domnall talk of naught save ships and trade,” said Isobel as if bored by the thought.

“Trade is very important to Scotland,” said Margaret. “I have encouraged the king to pursue it for what it can mean for our people.”

“Aye,” said Fia, “My father is keenly interested in being a part of the king’s plans for the sake of Atholl.”

“’Twas a good thing to encourage trade that brings new wares to our shores,” said the kind-hearted Audra in defense of the queen’s idea. “My father tells me that before you came to Dunfermline, My Lady, the bright colors and fine clothing the merchants bring to Dunfermline were not seen here. ’Twas only a gathering of warriors in rough clothing eating amid dirty rushes.”

Elspeth giggled, apparently trying to imagine the scene.

“Is it true, My Lady?” asked Catrìona. “You changed the way the men and women dress?”

The queen set down her embroidery and gazed toward the window where sunlight was streaming into the small chamber. “When we first came to Dunfermline two years ago, it was a very different place than it is today.” She looked around the circle of women. “Malcolm had no queen; his first wife had died. The tower was the stronghold of men, a place for them to sleep and eat before setting out on a raid. The chapel was a dank, dismal place, rarely used.”

“The tower was dark and not clean as it is today,” said Cristina, the queen’s sister, with obvious disdain. Her face twisted into a grimace, an expression Catrìona could not picture on Margaret. “We were raised in the courts of Hungary and England,” Cristina continued, “places of great opulence. We were unused to filth.”

Margaret interrupted, mayhap to keep her sister from describing all they had encountered. “Once I agreed to become Malcolm’s wife, I wanted his court to bring glory to him and to Scotland.”

Catrìona could only imagine what it must have been like for the young queen amid the king’s rough warriors. Margaret had changed many things, bringing a civility to Malcolm’s court apparently absent before. “He must love you all the more for it.”

Margaret blushed. “I am happy he loves me at all, but in truth, he was willing to make the changes because he saw the wisdom in them.”

“And because they were important to you ,” said the queen’s sister.

“Well, I for one am glad for the hearty fare your kitchen prepares,” said an enthusiastic Elspeth. “I can only imagine what the king’s men dined on before you came to Dunfermline.”

The queen seemed amused. “They did not use many spices or sauces in those days. The fare was simple and the meat cooked in the hall over the central hearth fire and not always well.”

The queen’s ladies, who had come after the changes were made, laughed at the queen’s description of men tearing great chunks of meat off haunches of venison and boar roasted over an open fire in the hall.

Cristina huffed. “’Twas hardly acceptable.”

After that, the women went back to their needlework and Catrìona did the same, enduring the stabs of her needle for another hour. Finally, she looked up at the light coming through the window, thinking it must be time to meet Giric. Desperate for a change and longing for the diversion flying Kessog would bring, she glanced at Margaret whose deft fingers were working small, perfect stiches of golden thread into a large square of ivory silk. An altar cloth .

“My Lady,” Catrìona said, setting aside her embroidery. The queen paused in her needlework and lifted her brows in inquiry. “Would it be permitted for me to show one of the orphans my falcon? The lad seemed most eager to see it when we broke our fast together this morning.”

The other women, Fia among them, kept their heads down, their busy hands pausing only briefly with Catrìona’s question.

The queen’s sister frowned, clearly disapproving of the request. A few years younger than Margaret, Cristina was not so pretty or, Catrìona sensed, so kind as the queen. “Your falcon ? Surely that is no seemly pet for a lady.”

“Kessog is no pet,” said Catrìona. “He is a wild bird of prey raised to hunt.”

Thankfully, the queen was not as rigid as her sister and intervened before an argument could begin. “Of course you may go. While I encourage my ladies in their embroidery to adorn the chapel’s altar and to make beautiful their clothing, we do much more than needlework at Dunfermline. In time you will see, but for today, bringing joy to a small orphan shall be your devotional. ’Twas the lad, Giric, was it not?”

“Aye, My Lady.”

“He is a most unusual boy,” said the queen. “Misfortune has not dulled his young spirit. Your time with him will be well spent.”

Catrìona thanked her new mistress and hurried out of the chamber and down the long set of stairs to the hall below. Grabbing the pouch of meat she had earlier begged from the kitchen servants, she raced through the front door to find Giric already waiting.

“I thought ye’d fergot,” he said, pushing away from the tower wall. In his voice she heard the resignation of one used to being disappointed.

“Nay, I did not forget. Come,” she extended her hand and he took it. “I will show you Kessog. Mayhap we can fly him. Would you like that?”

His eyes glistened in delight. “Oh, aye! Be it allowed?”

She nodded and they walked toward the mews, the boy asking her questions about the falcon, what he looked like, how big he was, how long she had trained him and, finally, “Does he hunt? ”

“Aye, of course. For birds, mostly; ducks are a particular favorite of Kessog’s.” Again, she had the urge to ask him how he lost his parents. She hoped eventually he would tell her of his own accord. Instead, after she’d answered his questions about the falcon, she asked, “Where do you stay?”

“In the village with the others. ’Tis not far.” Catrìona had yet to see the village but was glad the boy had company and a place to sleep.

“One day I will see it, but now we must meet my brother,” she encouraged. “You will like him.”

Niall was already waiting for her as she and Giric stepped into the structure that was home to the king’s hawks.

Machar retrieved Kessog from his perch. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

She returned Machar’s greeting and said to her brother, “Niall, this is my new friend, Giric.”

She was certain she had done the right thing in bringing the boy when he looked up at Niall and enthusiastically asked, “Do ye fly falcons, too?”

Niall tousled the boy’s hair. “Aye, ’tis a sport our father favored. Once, we had many more than just Kessog.” He shot Catrìona a glance, regret in his eyes, for his own peregrine falcon had been taken as plunder by the Northmen.

Machar handed the hooded Kessog to Niall, who lowered the bird for Giric to stroke the falcon’s breast feathers. “Gently,” her brother instructed.

Awestruck, Giric said, “He is…” The boy hesitated as if searching for a word.

“Magnificent?” Niall asked with a smile.

“Aye!” exclaimed Giric.

Catrìona thought so, too. Kessog was a fine example of a tiercel, brightly plumed and perfect of form.

“I want to see him fly,” said Giric.

“And you shall,” Catrìona assured him. “But you will have to look sharp. He is very fast in the hunt.”

“There is a field not far from the tower,” offered Machar. “The burn runs near it. It will have ducks and room for your falcon to hunt. ”

Thanking him, she took Kessog on her gauntlet and left the mews with Niall.

Giric ran ahead. “I know the field!”

She and Niall walked along, at first not saying much. Then Niall asked, “Do you ever think of Deidre? I have wondered about her and the others who were taken.”

It had been a year but she did not hesitate. “Yea, she was more like a younger sister to me than a maidservant. She would be seventeen summers.” Catrìona felt a pang of remorse and her brow furrowed. “I have oft woken from a bad dream to see her face before me.”

“They might have made her a slave…” His voice trailed off.

Catrìona did not like to think about what had been the fate of the pretty young woman. “’Tis possible, mayhap even likely.”

“I would get her back if I could,” he said solemnly.