Page 6 of The Refuge

After the terrible dream, Catrìona’s life settled into a routine of early morning prayer followed by very busy days. Margaret undertook many acts of charity in which she enlisted her ladies’ help. Catrìona willingly participated, for the work—except for the embroidery—was to her liking and diverted her mind from the past.

Not every day was she able to steal away to fly Kessog. But when she did, she enjoyed the thrill of the falcon’s hunt and the boy’s company, savoring the days left before Kessog would began his molt and she would not fly him.

On one of their excursions, Giric had taken her and Niall to the village. It was larger than she had expected with thatched stone cottages scattered on either side of a wide dirt path. Some of the king’s men were married and had their homes in the village.

A blacksmith and his helpers were kept occupied, Giric told her, mending mail and making swords and knives for the king’s men. Two taverns served the people and the men who came with the king’s visitors.

She was surprised when the boy led them to a small cottage, fallen into ruin, and beckoned her inside. The smell of unwashed linens was strong as she entered. Wooden cups were scattered on the single table. Several pallets were laid on the dirt floor.

“’Tis where I sleep,” Giric said, pointing to a pallet in the corner. Her heart went out to the boy, living in such meager conditions .

“And the other pallets?” she asked. “Who sleeps there?”

“The other orphans.”

Catrìona looked toward her brother, who stood next to the window examining the broken shutter hanging askew.

“Besides the morning gruel you eat in the hall, who feeds you?” Niall asked the boy.

“Some of the village women.”

“Mayhap we can make this a better place,” she offered. “It must be cold in the winter.”

“Aye, ’tis,” was the boy’s only reply. It tore at her heart to see the orphans living in such poverty. She was certain Margaret had no idea of their plight. Catrìona could feel the urge to help rising within her and made a silent vow to take a hand in the village.

“I will ask the queen to allow me time and servants to make some needed changes here.”

Niall turned from the window. “I will help, too.”

Margaret had been pleased when Catrìona later asked for supplies and servants to clean and repair the cottage. The queen had offered to assist with clothing and sufficient stores of food for the women who fed the children.

With Margaret’s blessing, Catrìona set about seeing the children had new clothes, enlisting her fellow ladies to make the girls pretty tunics, embroidered with flowers. And, because she had suggested the work, Catrìona could hardly fail to participate in the needlework, but the constant company of the chattering women and her frustration at her dismal ability with a needle often left her bored and restless.

One afternoon, she had thought the piece she was embroidering was finally finished until she turned it over. Exasperated at the tangle of knotted thread that presented itself, she set the garment aside. The thread would have to be ripped out and the embroidery done anew. How she wanted to escape the task and the small talk of the queen’s chamber to walk alone in the woods.

Her eyes flitted about the small room and, not seeing Margaret, remembered she had left to be with her young son. Angus would be busy in the practice yard with the king’s warriors and Niall would be with the archers. A perfect time for what she had in mind .

Leaving the other ladies engaged in their sewing, she left the chamber and, once outside the tower, took the path through the woods, following the burn. It was a glorious day, the sun streaming through the leaves to fall on the yellow flowers scattered beneath the trees. Birds sang above her, drawing the ire of the red squirrels that chittered nosily as they jumped from branch to branch.

Giving in to a sudden urge, she slipped off her shoes and stripped her feet of the linen hose, wriggling her bare toes in the grass growing at the edge of the path. The tender green shoots tickled her feet. Undoing her plaits, she let her hair hang free down her back. Stuffing her hose into her shoes, she clutched them in one arm and began to walk.

And then she ran.

Exhilarated by the breeze on her face and the wind in her hair, she ran and ran until, out of breath, she slowed to a walk. Her heart racing and her cheeks flushed, she inhaled deeply the scent of the pine forest, feeling very alive. Nothing had felt so good in a very long time. It reminded her of those days as a girl when she had run barefoot in the vale.

If only those days had not ended so abruptly.

The sound of water burbling as it flowed over rocks drew her attention to the burn running next to the path. She looked for a place to cross. A short way ahead she spotted a tree fallen across the stream. Its trunk appeared wide enough for a person’s feet. Determined to cross, she held her skirts away with her free hand and stepped carefully onto the log. With each step she gained confidence.

Halfway across, her foot slipped on moss. Hands flailing, she tumbled into the swiftly moving stream with a great splash, her hose and shoes floating away on the current.

“Argh!” She grabbed for the garments slipping away, relieved when she recovered them. Her bottom rested uncomfortably on the rocks beneath the water and, for a moment, she just sat there, frustrated and chilled. The burn was not deep, but she was thoroughly soaked.

A chuckle sounded from the woods.

***

On his way back to the tower from his sword practice, Steinar spotted what looked like a tree nymph darting past him. Running on the path with the abandon of a wild thing, she had not seen him hidden among the trees. But he recognized the slim figure in the leaf-colored gown, her auburn hair, like a crimson banner, flying out behind her catching the sunlight filtering through the trees.

A free spirit alone in the woods.

He could not help wondering if, like his sister, Catrìona had been indulged by a loving father who allowed her pursuits more properly those of a son than a daughter. Mayhap because she reminded him of his sister, Catrìona called to some part of him long dormant. A part of him he did not want to lose.

Intrigued, he decided to follow her.

When she started to cross the stream, he remembered the moss he had seen growing on the fallen tree. She must not have recognized the danger under her feet.

He opened his mouth to warn her just as she gave out a shriek and fell into the water with a loud splash. It had to be cold. But he could not resist a chuckle for her dazed expression as she sat in the shallow water.

“Surely your father does not allow you to run barefoot in the woods and dance across logs.”

She whipped her head around and narrowed her eyes. Her long hair fell around her shoulders like a dark crimson shawl, dripping water onto her gown. And still she was beautiful.

He emerged from the trees to stand before her.

“That is none of your concern, Scribe.” With a muffled curse, she struggled to rise. He reached out to help her just as she added somberly, “My father is dead.”

The look of anguish in her eyes told him she still mourned her father’s loss. Mayhap his death had been recent.

“Here,” he said reaching toward her, “take my hand and allow me to help you out.”

There was fire in her eyes but she took his hand while clutching her dripping shoes close to her body.

He pulled her from the stream, sodden and shivering. It was the first time they had touched and even dripping wet, the feel of her skin caused a surge of desire to course through him. The wet gown clung to her body, revealing her curves in vivid detail. Wet, she was even more alluring than before. He wanted to pull her close, to feel her softness, but instead, he merely steadied her with his hands. “Did you not see the moss growing on the log? ’Tis quite apparent.”

Her brow furrowed. “You might have warned me.”

Given her reckless run through the woods he wondered if she would have listened. “You fell before I could.”

She brushed the water from her face and looked up at him, her eyes the green of the forest around them. Light filtering through the trees added a soft glow to her pale, damp skin. His gaze dropped to her lips, the color of wild roses. He ached to kiss them.

Bending his head, he moved his lips closer to hers.

Water suddenly dripped from her hair onto her nose, causing her to sniff and step back.

Still holding her shoes in one hand, she shivered. “I… I must look a mess.”

“Indeed not, but you are pale.” Recognizing her predicament, he said, “I wear no cloak to offer you, but I can give you the heat of my body.” He took the shoes she carried and dropped them to the ground, pulling her into his arms, ignoring the water soaking into his tunic. Her breasts pressed into his chest, warming him as his body responded to the nearness of the woman he could not dismiss from his thoughts.

She might be innocent but she possessed a natural seductiveness that promised passion to the man who would claim her. And he wanted to be that man. Every warrior in the king’s hall had noticed the girl. Of all the queen’s ladies, she was the most talked about. They had taken to calling her the Rose of Dunfermline, a coveted prize for the man who would gain her hand.

He stared into her eyes as he lowered his mouth to hers, waiting for a sign he should stop. She may have been too dazed to remember the rules. Or mayhap she did not care. Her breath came out on a soft sigh, telling him she, too, was affected by their closeness. He allowed himself the briefest touch of her lips. They were cool and soft. Then, drawing her more tightly into his embrace, he kissed her.

She responded tentatively, not with practiced movements but with an enchanting innocence .

He tasted of her, inhaling her scent, not unlike the clean, fresh scent of the woods around them. When the kiss ended, he raised his head. “Can it be the kiss of the king’s scribe does not offend the mormaer’s niece?”

As if she was rousing from sleep, she blinked and placed her hands on his chest, then pushed. “’Twas not at all proper.”

He stepped away, his lips twitching up in a smile. “Ah, but that is not what I asked you.” For a moment he was lost in the green pools of her eyes. He wanted more of her, all of her. But when he moved toward her, she backed away.

“I shall say naught of our encounter,” she said shivering, “and, please, tell no one.”

“I would not speak of this to anyone,” he said slightly affronted she would think it of him. “After all, ’twas only a brief sharing of my body’s heat to warm you, naught more.” He lied, of course, and the flicker of surprise in her eyes told him they both knew it. But mayhap she needed the lie. He grinned. “I cannot speak for you, but ’tis certain I am warmed.”

“You are impudent, Scribe,” she said as water dripped from her hair to her face and down her lovely neck.

“Before we go, you must admit you enjoyed that kiss as much as I did.”

“I certainly did not. I was merely… allowing you to share your warmth.”

He returned her a small laugh. “If you insist.” He picked up her wet shoes from the ground and offered her his hand. “Come, I will see you back to the tower.”

She pulled away and stared down at her wet gown. “I cannot go back like this !”

The gown clung to her slender curves in a most provocative way. He did not want other men to see her so. “No, I expect not. We will take the back way to the mews and you can wait there while I retrieve a cloak for you.”

“If you ask a servant, she can fetch my cousin, Fia, who will get one.”

He chuckled. “’Tis probably best you not be seen wearing one of mine.”

They walked back together on the sun-dappled path. Despite the summer day, she shivered with cold. Taking her hand, he let his warmth flow to her, relieved she had not asked about the sword sheathed on his other side. He was not ready for any save Rhodri to know of his practice in the woods.

***

Catrìona sneezed. Beneath her robe, her skin was chilled and looked like a plucked goose. Her shivering would not stop. “I can… cannot seem to get wa… warm.” In truth, she had not been warm since the scribe let go of her hand.

“What were you thinking that you would run alone in the woods?” scolded Fia.

In Catrìona’s mind, she pictured them as young girls. “Remember when we were children, those sun-filled summers when we ran barefoot in the woods near Atholl?”

“Aye, I remember.” Her cousin looked at her askance and, with a disbelieving shrug of her shoulders, chided, “But you are nineteen now, Cat, no longer a child.”

“I was missing those days, Fia. I just wanted to be free and without the sad memories or the limitations of life as a lady of the queen. I was enjoying myself until I tried to cross the burn.”

“You are fortunate ’twas the scribe who found you.”

Yea, very fortunate. She raised her hand to her lips, remembering his mouth on hers. It was her first real kiss. She paled at the thought it was not Domnall who had given it to her, but instead, the handsome scribe. Still she did not regret it. The kiss had awakened a part of her never stirred before. She did not think it a sin to have allowed him to kiss her, but remembering her response, she would not share what happened with her cousin.

“I hate to think what Angus would say if he knew.”

Catrìona averted her eyes, not wanting Fia to see the flush she could feel rising in her cheeks. “Like you, he would scold.”

“And rightly so.”

Catrìona ran her fingers through her wet hair feeling Fia’s eyes upon her. “How can you be younger than me and still act the older sister?”

“Hmm. Possibly because I would not be so foolish. You had better get dressed or they will be upbraiding us for being late to the evening meal. Here,” said Fia, picking up a drying cloth. “I will help you dry your hair.”

Fia placed the cloth over Catrìona’s head and rubbed vigorously, soaking up much of the remaining water. Catrìona’s thoughts turned to the scribe and the way his eyes had lingered on her lips. When he had drawn her into his warm embrace, she had melted into the heat of his muscular chest. Even through her wet gown she had been very aware of his body touching hers. His strength had surrounded her. She should have pulled away but, excited by his touch, she had allowed his masculine scent and towering height to engulf her. She had not wanted to flee; she had wanted to stay and draw upon his warmth. She had wanted him to kiss her.

How could that be when I am intended for Domnall?

She and Domnall had yet to experience such intimacy, but there was a shared respect between them and the knowledge he was the man her father had chosen. Surely her father had chosen well. She remembered the proud look on his face when he told her Domnall was a Leinsterman of noble blood worthy of a mormaer’s daughter.

Steinar was only the king’s clerk and an impudent one at that. But when his arms were around her, his lower status did not seem to matter.

Catrìona handed Fia the drying cloth and shook out her hair, stepping close to the brazier and the heat from the coals. Once warmed, she donned the crimson velvet gown she had chosen to wear.

“Will you plait your hair?” asked Fia.

“If you would help me, I would plait only the sides and secure them in the back. The rest of it I would wear free. ’Tis still not entirely dry.”

“That has always been my favorite way you wear it. I imagine Domnall will like it as well. You have such beautiful hair.”

“If you like red…”

“Men do prefer the queen’s coloring, I suppose. Margaret’s flaxen locks are lovely but your hair is unusual. Men notice it.”

Fia’s compliment made Catrìona glad they were friends as well as cousins.

While Fia plaited Catrìona’s hair, she recalled her meeting with Domnall and Maerleswein. She had forgotten to tell Fia about Davina’s coming betrothal. “Had you heard that Davina will be leaving the queen’s service to marry?”

“Nay, but then she is not one to speak much about herself. Who is it to be?”

“Maerleswein, the nobleman who was once an English sheriff. Domnall introduced us. Maerleswein told me the king has given him lands in Lothian and Davina for his bride.”

“Do you think she will be pleased?” Fia inquired.

“He is a fine looking man, of noble lineage and seems well mannered. He might be older than she would have hoped for, but no doubt he is a better man than some the king could have chosen.”

“I wonder if Malcolm conferred with the queen. Margaret knows her ladies.”

“Whether he did or not, Davina does not seem like one who would object.”

Remembering what Audra had told her when they had first come to Dunfermline, Catrìona said, “I expect there will be a new lady joining us when Davina leaves.”

“Aye, most likely.”

In no time at all, Fia had woven the sides of Catrìona’s hair into two narrow plaits and gathered them to the back of her head to entwine them together in one long plait resting on top of her free-flowing tresses. The change in the way she typically wore her hair pleased her.

Once Fia was dressed, they left the chamber for the hall where they would meet the other ladies. Uncle Matad had departed for Atholl the day before, but even before he had gone, she and Fia had joined the queen’s ladies at one of the tables for meals and no longer ate on the dais. Catrìona was glad for the change. Though she missed Edgar’s company, she did not wish to be on display. Sitting with the queen’s ladies allowed her to hide among them, hopefully avoiding the leering eyes of the king’s men.

** *

Steinar stood next to Rhodri at the bottom of the stairs, swapping stories about their day. Behind them, the hall was already noisy with the crowd gathering for the evening. Light from the open shutters spoke of the long summer days that had come to Scotland.

He had not told his friend of his encounter with the auburn-haired tree nymph and her plunge into the burn. He would keep that meeting and the memory of their kiss to himself, delighting in the one thing he had learned: she was not indifferent to him.

As he searched the crowd for the queen’s ladies, Steinar heard Rhodri’s sharp intake of breath. Following his friend’s gaze to the top of the stairs, Steinar saw Catrìona and her cousin slowly descending. Catrìona was clothed in a deep crimson gown that dipped low, exposing her ivory skin and hinting at her enticing breasts, the same breasts he had felt through her wet gown that afternoon. Her long auburn tresses hung free, one thick strand cascading over her shoulder.

Rhodri dug an elbow into Steinar’s ribs. “Introduce me to the dark-haired one.”

Steinar had noticed the tendre Rhodri held for the girl and was unsurprised at the request.

“Ladies,” he said as the two reached the last step. “Might we detain you for a moment?”

The women paused with expectant expressions. “Aye,” said Catrìona, her green eyes shimmering.

“Allow me to present my friend, Rhodri of Gwynedd and Powys in Wales, the king’s bard and master of the bow.”

“Rhodri, this is Catrìona of the Vale of Leven and her cousin, Fia of Atholl.”

Each of the young women held out her hand to the bard.

Rhodri bowed low, first over Catrìona’s hand. “A rare vixen,” he said smiling up at her. Then he took the hand of Catrìona’s cousin and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “The rarest of jewels. Your midnight hair, fair skin and dark sapphire eyes make me think you Welsh, my lady, and cause me to long for the land of my youth.”

The dark-haired girl blushed, seemingly flattered, as Steinar was certain Rhodri had meant her to be. His friend had won the heart of many a woman at Malcolm’s court. But the bard’s lingering kiss on Fia’s hand and his intense gaze told Steinar this woman was more to Rhodri than just another pretty girl.

“Fia,” breathed Rhodri in his deep voice. “A lovely name for a lovely woman.”

Ignoring his friend’s besotted state, Steinar offered his arm to Catrìona. “May I escort you to your table?”

Placing her hand on his arm, she flashed him a smile and whispered, “How could I refuse a gallant scribe who only this day rescued a drowning lady?”

He laughed. “’Tis difficult to drown in a few feet of water, my lady, but aye, how could you refuse?”

Steinar guided Catrìona to where the queen’s ladies were taking their seats at one end of a trestle table set with candles and pitchers of wine.

Rhodri and Catrìona’s cousin followed closely behind them.

Steinar leaned down to whisper in Catrìona’s ear, “I like your hair like that. It reminds me of how it looked when you ran through the woods.”

Before she could reply, he bid the ladies good eve and pulled a reluctant Rhodri toward a bench farther down the table.

On the dais, the king’s family took their seats along with Maerleswein and Davina. An older man sat on Davina’s other side. On the opposite side of the queen sat her brother, Edgar, and her sister.

“I wonder why Maerleswein sits with the king tonight,” said Steinar.

Rhodri leaned in to whisper. “’Tis the betrothal of Maerleswein and Davina we celebrate. The man on her other side is her father.”

A servant set a large platter on the table and Steinar’s eyes widened. “That explains our fare. ’Tis not often we dine on more than fish, duck and boar. Tonight they serve us swan.” The birds, adorned with some of their own feathers, were surrounded by roasted vegetables and flowers. In the rising aromas, he detected garlic and fennel. There were also peas in cream sauce, one of his favorites.

Once the hall quieted, the king rose to his feet, goblet in hand. “This eve we celebrate a great man and his betrothal to a noble Scotswoman. I bid you raise your goblets to Maerleswein and Davina, betrothed this day! ”

The hall erupted in shouts as goblets were raised and their contents downed with many smiles, for the two were popular with both the men and the women. The jests, Steinar knew, would come later, after the ladies retired from the hall.

“I’m to sing them a love song,” said Rhodri. “Orders from the king. I am quite certain ’tis a match made for land and loyalty but I will try to encourage them to more.”

“You have such a song?”

“Aye, a timeless one.”

“I can hardly wait to hear it,” Steinar teased.

“The queen will like it,” Rhodri said with a shrug. “’Tis all that matters.”

“Now you have me intrigued.” Steinar waited expectantly but Rhodri said nothing more.

Throughout the dinner, Steinar watched Catrìona, her long auburn hair flowing in waves down her back like a fiery waterfall. Her face glowed in the candlelight, making him want to claim another kiss. But it was the memory of her running in the forest like one of the wild creatures that filled his mind. And the sight of her raising her hand to whistle her falcon back to her gauntlet. Her words to the orphan, Giric, had been tender. A most unusual woman . And one who stirred not just his loins but his heart.

She laughed at something one of the women said and her laughter made her face shine with joy.

“My friend,” Rhodri said in somber tone, “be careful on whom your gaze rests. I have heard she is all but betrothed to Domnall mac Murchada, the Irishman from Leinster.”

Inwardly, Steinar scowled. “I have met the man and so have you,” he threw back. “I am not fond of his ways. A man who is promised to a lady should not indulge in common rutting as that one does.”

The meal drew to a close as more wine was poured. Rhodri left the table and headed toward the stool set before the dais. On the way, he stopped to bow before Catrìona’s cousin, making his interest known to all. There had been other ladies who had garnered the bard’s interest in the past, but none like this one. Steinar could only hope Rhodri’s attentions to Atholl’s daughter did not result in a scolding from the king .

Rhodri picked up his harp and sat on a stool facing the king and queen, the hearth to his back. The fire had died to coals but the flickering torches set the hall aglow.

“In honor of the occasion,” Rhodri said plucking a few strings, “I sing an ancient song of love adapted for the betrothed couple.” He sang softly in Gaelic, the words weaving their magic as tendrils of ethereal music echoed from his harp.

Like a lily among thorns is Davina among women.

Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest is her beloved among men.

Let him lead her to the banquet hall.

And let his banner over her be love.

Your love is more delightful than wine.

Pleasing is the fragrance of your perfumes.

Take me away with you—let us hurry!

For I will praise your love more than wine.

The king whispered a translation to Margaret and Steinar noted the slow smile that spread across her face. When the song ended—and there was more of it—Rhodri sang a song in Welsh, mayhap another love song. Finally, he stood and bowed. The queen gave the bard a knowing smile. Whatever he had done had won the queen’s silent praise.

Rhodri returned to their table and Steinar’s congratulations. “Very well done.” Once his friend was seated, he asked, “Where did you get the song you sang for the betrothed couple?”

“I borrowed it from a very old source. ’Tis Solomon’s song. I am certain the queen recognized it. Mayhap she is the only one in the hall who did.”

“You are a clever bard.”

Rhodri said not a word but the look in his eyes told Steinar he owned the compliment.

***

“That first song the bard sang was somehow familiar,” Catrìona said to Fia as she drank the last of her wine, “but I cannot think of where I have heard it.”

“They were lovely words and so romantic. They made Davina blush.”

“Aye, she did blush, especially when Maerleswein grinned at her.”

Fia glanced toward the bard. “Rhodri is talented and so handsome.”

Catrìona gave her cousin a sharp glance. She had observed the glances the bard gave her cousin and Fia’s smiles in return. She worried about their hopeless attraction for each other. “Do not allow your heart to wander in that direction, Fia. You know your father would have the king wed you to some favored mormaer.”

Fia ignored the warning and picked up her goblet. “’Twas a fine meal.”

“Aye, it was. The bard’s song seemed to please the queen. Did you see her smile at him?” Catrìona had observed the subtle exchange between Margaret and the musician and wondered what lay beneath it.

“Nay, I was watching Rhodri.”

Catrìona let out a breath. “Margaret lingers in the hall tonight, do you think ’tis for Davina’s sake?”

“She and Maerleswein are to leave on the morrow to be married in Lothian,”

Catrìona considered again the vacancy Davina’s departure would leave. “I wonder who will take her place.”

Fia shrugged. “We can only hope whoever she is, she is as sweet as the lady she replaces.”