Page 7 of The Refuge

Catrìona watched Giric stuff a hunk of bread into his mouth and race from the hall, the small gray wiry-haired creature with an uncanny resemblance to the king’s hounds following on the boy’s heels.

Catrìona rose with the other ladies but decided to get some air before settling into her needlework.

In front of the tower, Steinar stood, talking with one of the king’s men. Her heart sped in her chest at the sight of him.

Giric tugged on Steinar’s sleeve. “Have ye met my dog?” he asked.

The man talking with Steinar laughed and waved goodbye as he walked away.

Steinar greeted Catrìona with a smile before looking down at the dog. One ear of the small hound was cocked up and one folded down as if the animal was uncertain if he should be alert. But his small dark eyes bespoke intelligence. “If you are referring to that bit of gray fluff that follows you about,” he said, “yea, I have seen him, most recently under the table when we broke our fast.”

“He is ever so clever,” said Giric, beaming at the dog. “He stays out of sight when we eat.”

Steinar crossed his arms over his chest and brought one hand up to cup his chin as he studied the boy’s new acquisition.

Catrìona took that moment to ask Giric, “Where did you find him?”

Giric scratched the dog affectionately behind one ear. “He followed me to my pallet one night.” In response, the small beast wagged his tail and licked the boy’s hand.

“I imagine,” said Steinar, with a wink to Catrìona, “he has followed you ever since.”

Giric nodded enthusiastically.

Catrìona had seen the dog on the boy’s heels as he entered the hall that morning to lay curled up at Giric’s feet while he ate. “Like a shadow.”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Giric, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he inclined his head to look at the dog. “’Tis what I will call ye.”

The dog wagged his tail as if in approval.

“A good name,” said Steinar. “He follows you about like your own.”

The dog scurried off, picked up a large stick in his mouth and carried it back to Giric. Taking the stick from the dog, the boy tossed it some distance away. The dog ran to the stick and stood over it looking at the boy.

“Shadow!” Giric called. The dog snatched the stick in his mouth and sauntered over to the boy, dropping it at his feet.

“He seems to know his name already,” Catrìona said.

Giric ran off then, the dog following, just as a group of riders crested the rise and reined in their horses in front of the tower.

Standing next to the scribe, Catrìona shaded her eyes from the sun to gaze up at the arriving party. Four men, one richly attired, and two women. The younger woman wearing a cloak over a dark green gown, dismounted.

Steinar bid Catrìona good day, saying he had some work to do for the king. He walked toward the door to the tower, his limp barely perceptible. Her eyes took in his lithe movement, his broad shoulders and his long legs. As he reached the door, it opened and he stepped aside to allow Margaret, followed by Fia and the other ladies, to pass through.

Fia hurried to Catrìona. “We are to meet the new lady, Isla of Blackwell.”

Catrìona turned her attention to the new arrivals and particularly the younger women, as she and Fia joined the welcoming party.

The king strode through the tower door and went to stand by the queen.

Malcolm greeted the men while Margaret and her ladies welcomed the women. The older one must have been the mother of the young woman who would join Margaret’s ladies. “Greetings,” said the queen.

The women curtsied and said together, “My Lady.”

Catrìona studied the younger one, curious to learn more about her. Isla had brown hair she wore long. As she drew closer, Catrìona saw her eyes were hazel. She was not pretty like Fia or the queen but she had an attractive face and her fine clothes bespoke great wealth.

The king suggested the travelers join him for some refreshments and they readily agreed. The men walked ahead and the queen followed with Isla and her mother, strolling toward the tower door. The other ladies trailed behind, Catrìona and Fia alone at the end.

“What do you know of Isla?” Catrìona asked her cousin in a whisper.

“Only what the queen told us after you left the hall. Her family is from Ayrshire in the west where her father has much land in oats and barley. He raises cattle, too.”

“Ayrshire lies south of the vale on the Firth of Clyde,” said Catrìona, idly thinking here was yet another woman to be bartered away by the king. She was glad she would not share such a fate.

Once they were all inside the hall, Isla was introduced to the queen’s ladies and Audra kindly offered to show their newest member to her chamber, which the two of them would share.

The king and queen set about entertaining the men and Isla’s mother. A few minutes later, Catrìona and Fia left for their own chamber to retrieve their cloaks, for the queen had told her ladies they would be joining her on an outing that day. As they passed Audra’s door, the sounds of an argument could be heard.

“I will not rise before dawn, nor will I feed urchins. And I have no intention of living like a nun. I am here to gain a husband!”

Audra’s words in reply were soft and muffled. Catrìona could only imagine what she had said to Isla. Exchanging a look with Fia, she said, “It seems we are in for a storm.”

“Aye,” said Fia, as they continued down the corridor. “Isla’s concerns are all for herself. I pity the man to whom the king gives her.”

“If she is unkind to Audra, I may decide not to like her,” Catrìona said, wondering how one as selfish as Isla would fare among them. After living as one of the queen’s ladies and seeing Margaret give of herself to the poor and the needy, she had come to admire her mistress. Even the early rising and the hour of morning prayer were not so onerous as they had seemed at first.

The queen’s errand that afternoon took them to a small hill about a mile south of Dunfermline toward the River Forth. It had rained during the night and the ground was soft and the grass damp.

The queen sat on a large stone bench, reading from a small book.

“Does the queen come here to read?” Catrìona asked Audra from where they stood some distance away. Isobel, the most senior of the queen’s ladies would know, but Catrìona preferred to ask Audra, who did not seem to mind her many questions.

“She comes here to meet the people, making herself available to any who would speak with her.”

Catrìona nodded. She was becoming accustomed to her mistress’ unusual behavior. She and Audra found seats on nearby rocks. Fia joined them.

Audra leaned in to say, “Sometimes the queen takes coins from the king’s treasury to give to the poor who come.”

Audra’s words reminded Catrìona of a conversation she’d had with Steinar about a time he had overheard the king teasing Margaret concerning her thievery.

“Once he even threatened to have her arrested,” the scribe said.

Knowing the king’s reputation for being harsh, Catrìona had been horrified at the thought. “Would he do that?”

“Nay, but he made a great show of it before erupting into laughter. The king is well aware that Margaret never seeks anything for herself alone. He found her theft highly amusing.”

“What did Margaret do?”

“The queen just smiled and reminded Malcolm she had brought him a good dowry and the poor needed the coins more than he did.”

The idea of Margaret admonishing the king brought a smile to Catrìona’s face. The queen’s logic was flawless.

“I think they both enjoyed the exchange,” Steinar concluded.

Catrìona had grown fond of her conversations with the scribe. She had often found herself looking for him when the men came into the hall to break their fast. He always had something interesting to tell her. She loved his stories of his home and his sister he seemed to admire. After the morning meal, she would stop to talk to him outside the tower. Sometimes Giric joined them, hanging on the scribe’s every word, for it was clear the boy admired him.

The king also valued Steinar, ever calling for the scribe’s aid in deciphering some missive he had received. Their two heads, one dark, one light, would bend over the parchment and the king would nod his understanding as Steinar read the words. In recent days, messages had come more frequently, making Catrìona wonder at the cause.

The queen spoke just then to one of the ladies, calling Catrìona back to the present, but the thought of Steinar did not immediately leave her. Images of his golden hair shimmering in the light of the sun and the feel of his lips on hers flickered in her mind. She chided herself for thinking of the scribe when she should be thinking of Domnall. He was due back today from a trip he had made in furtherance of a matter of trade for the king. Mayhap with his return, she would think more about him.

Her musings were interrupted by a group of women who walked toward the queen from the direction of the village. Some carried babes in their arms, others were accompanied by small children tagging along beside them.

Margaret invited them to join her and greeted the children.

“When is the new prince to be born?” asked one of the village women, who balanced a young child on her hip. The woman’s tunic was plain and faded beneath her thin shawl. A simple head covering marked her a married woman.

“In early September,” said Margaret, rubbing her hand over her belly.

“Do you hope for another son?” asked one woman who held the hand of a small boy.

Margaret smiled. “I will take whatever the Good Lord gives me. But the king would like another son.”

The women smiled their understanding.

As the queen spoke to the women, a group of travelers passing on the road stopped to bid her good day. By their clothing of rough woolen tunics and heavy cloaks and the leather satchels the men carried, Catrìona judged them to be pilgrims.

“From where do you come?” asked Margaret of the man who, leaning on his wooden staff, appeared to be leading the party.

“We come from Dun Edin across the Forth, bound for the shrine of St. Andrew,” said the bearded man. His face was weather-beaten, his dark hair long and tangled.

“Did you have any problem crossing the Forth?” the queen asked.

“Nay but the fare for the crossing was dear,” he replied. Catrìona was aware pilgrims often traveled with little coin and accepted charity where it was offered.

“’Tis a worthy pilgrimage,” Margaret remarked. She stood and walked toward the small party, pressing coins into their hands. “To help you on your way.”

They thanked her profusely and departed for the village where they said they hoped to find lodging for the night before they resumed their journey eastward.

As the pilgrims continued down the road, Margaret resumed her seat on the stone, her gaze following them until they disappeared from sight. Then the queen returned her attention back to the village women. After some conversation, the women made as if to leave.

“Wait,” Margaret cried, holding out a hand to stop them. Rising from the stone bench, she took off her scarlet cloak. To the woman who drew her thin shawl tightly around her, the queen said, “You have no cloak. Take mine.”

“Oh no, My Lady,” the woman said, dismayed by the queen’s generous offer.

But Margaret would not be gainsaid. “I have others and this one I would give to you.”

It was then Catrìona realized several of the village women wore no cloaks.

Audra was the first to follow the lead of their mistress, taking her own cloak from her shoulders and placing it around one of the village women.

Seized by a sudden desire to show kindness to the women, Catrìona took off her cloak. Tears came to her eyes as she walked to one of the women whose height was nearly her own and whose rust-colored tunic was simple and could not be very warm. Two young children clung to her skirts. Handing the green cloak to the woman, she said, “It will look nice on you and it will keep you warm.”

The woman accepted Catrìona’s cloak. “Thank you, my lady. ’Tis very kind.”

Catrìona sensed she had changed as a result of Margaret’s influence, for though she loved her green cloak, another lay in her chest, while this woman had none. What joy it gave her to give to one in need.

The rest of the queen’s ladies removed their cloaks and gave them to the women who had none.

All except for Isla of Blackwell.

Isla drew her beautiful blue cloak more tightly around her and turned her head away. Catrìona remembered Isla’s heated exchange with Audra that morning and what she had said about why she had come.

As the women and their children departed, Margaret resumed her seat on the flat stone and sat back staring toward the River Forth, a distant look in her eyes.

From where they were standing, Catrìona could see a slice of blue water just above the vegetation in the distance. The wide river was not far.

She and the other ladies resumed their seats around Margaret. After some time, the queen beckoned Catrìona to her. She did not hesitate and went to sit beside the queen.

Without her cloak, Catrìona felt the cold of the stone through her gown as she took her seat and knew the queen had to feel it as well. “My Lady?”

Margaret spoke in a soft voice. “I have been thinking about the pilgrims, Catrìona. I would make their way easier as they journey to the shrine of St. Andrew.”

Catrìona waited expectantly for Margaret to explain, not understanding why the queen had singled her out.

“I want you to help me,” added the queen, turning her blue eyes on Catrìona.

She considered it an honor to be asked by the virtuous queen to assist her but still the question rose to her lips. “Me? ”

Margaret returned her a small laugh. “It has not slipped my notice that of all my ladies, you are the one who is not happy unless challenged.” Then with a smile, “Even if you have to wander far afield to find that challenge. You take on ventures no one else would. None of my other ladies owns a falcon or seeks out paths through the woods. ’Tis no wonder your father gave you one of his guards.”

Feeling heat rise in her cheeks, she dropped her gaze to her lap. “Aye.”

“I hoped this might take your mind from the events in the vale, even end the dreams you sometimes have.”

Catrìona raised her head. “You know about them?” She would not have wanted the queen to worry that the horrible day in the vale still haunted her.

“Your fellow ladies were concerned for you when they heard your screams in the night.”

Catrìona dropped her gaze to her hands. “They are less now, My Lady.”

The queen patted her hands. “That is good.” As Catrìona lifted her gaze to Margaret, the queen said, “I seem to recall you have befriended the king’s scribe, have you not?”

She nodded hesitantly, wondering what the queen had in mind.

“Assuming I can persuade the king to part with more of his gold, I will need to account for the expenditures and you can work with the scribe to see it done.”

Though she was delighted to have the chance to work with Steinar, Catrìona was dismayed at the prospect of spending the king’s gold, no matter what Steinar had told her.

Margaret appeared undaunted. “I would have a ferry built to take the pilgrims from Dun Edin across the Forth without cost. I know some shipbuilders who can do it. From Dunfermline to the shrine ’tis thirty miles, which means once they cross the Forth, they still have days of weary travel. I would build lodging for them on this side of the Forth. This, too, I would provide without charge.”

“So large a task…” Catrìona said, thinking aloud.

The queen laughed. “Aye, but one that would interest you more than embroidery, no? ”

Catrìona nodded, looking at the tips of her fingers still scarred from the many needle pricks. Never had she imagined an undertaking like building a ferry and an inn, but she was quick to catch the queen’s enthusiasm. “There are many Saxons who do not yet have work, My Lady. Might they be called upon to serve in your inn? Some might even have building skills and others could take charge of it.”

“A splendid idea,” said Margaret. “Of course, I will have to appoint a steward, someone I trust to oversee the inn, but ’tis doable. Nechtan might be of assistance.” Then with a small smile, she added, “Using the Saxons to help run the inn and serve the pilgrims should appeal to my husband, assuming I can convince him his people will love him all the more for his generosity.”

With that, the queen stood, beckoning her ladies, urging them to return with her to the tower.

On the way back, Margaret filled Catrìona’s mind with ideas for the new ferry and the inn to serve the pilgrims. The enormity of the task excited her. Finally there was something for her to do of importance.

***

That evening, when Steinar came into the hall with Rhodri, his eyes were immediately drawn to the king standing near the door speaking with the family that had arrived earlier that day. Any newcomer was of interest, but especially a family whose presence suggested high rank and much wealth. The man was of middle years, stout and dark-haired. The women with him both had the same nut-brown hair, one older and one younger. The man’s blue cloak was trimmed in gilted leather and the women wore silk gowns trimmed in velvet.

Steinar nudged Rhodri in the ribs. “Do you know those who speak with the king? I missed their names when they arrived earlier and I spent the afternoon holed up writing the king’s missives.”

“By the way he is dressed, I would say he is one of the king’s mormaers, but I do not know either him or the women. I’ve been on the archery field most of the day.”

The king and the family walked to the dais and were joined by the queen.

Steinar noted the young woman on the dais was the same age as the queen’s ladies. “Might she be the replacement for Davina?”

“She is the right age and comely enough,” Rhodri observed without enthusiasm.

Having found her place at the high table, the young woman’s gaze drifted about the hall, but her look was disdainful, as if she found the people wanting. “Her manner suggests a haughty spirit.”

“Whether she is haughty or no matters little,” said Rhodri. “If she is to be one of the ladies who serve Margaret, she is likely here at her father’s bidding to make a good match. Lands and coin will produce a husband for her even if she is a witch.”

Rhodri had the right of it. Since Margaret had become queen, several of her ladies had left to marry one of the king’s favored men. As he watched Catrìona, standing with the queen’s ladies, he realized he did not want her to be given to anyone save him, and particularly not to a man such as Domnall. No doubt her powerful uncle, the Mormaer of Atholl, had a hand in the match. Steinar did not want to think of another man touching her, of taking her innocence. But there was little he could say to prevent it.

“Take care lest you become obsessed with the flame-haired one,” said Rhodri as they found seats at one of the trestle tables.

“No doubt you speak truth.” At one time Steinar might have searched the hall for a willing woman. Now he watched only Catrìona. Tonight her face was lit with excitement as she and her cousin took their seats farther down the table and spoke in lively conversation with the queen’s ladies. What had given rise to her impassioned mood?

“Her brother practices with the archers every day,” Rhodri remarked, distracting him from the women.

“How is his skill?”

“Quite good. Like your sister, Serena, skill with a bow comes easily to him. I expect he will ride with the archers when Malcolm next sets off on a raid.”

“It will not be long now,” Steinar remarked. “The king has summoned men from the provinces for that very purpose.” Any day, Steinar expected to see warriors pouring in to Dunfermline in response to the king’s missives to his chiefs.

The servants began setting pitchers of wine on the tables. Once the king’s goblet was filled, he slowly rose from his chair and raised his goblet in toast to the new arrivals. The hall quieted.

“To our guests, the Mormaer of Blackwell and his wife and daughter. Welcome to Dunfermline.”

Goblets all around the hall were raised and wine quaffed as shouts of “Aye!” ascended from the crowd.

Servants set haunches of roast venison before them, the spicy aroma making Steinar suddenly ravenous with hunger. A Saxon serving wench, filling his goblet, aimed a slow smile at him. Long flaxen plaits complemented her round face and form, but he was not interested. He had eyes for only one woman.

“Will you entertain us this eve?” he asked Rhodri as he bit into a slice of venison.

“Not tonight.” The bard grinned. “I am to have the evening free.” Rhodri sliced off a piece of meat and brought it to the trencher they shared. “The king has arranged for a group of minstrels to play. There will be dancing.”

***

“Dancing!” Catrìona exclaimed, beaming her pleasure. “I have not danced in a very long time. Not since before…” Her words trailed off as she remembered her parents had arranged for music and dancing the evening she and Domnall were to be betrothed. The vision of the planned gaiety faded from her mind, reminding her she and Domnall were not yet betrothed.

Across from her, Fia’s blue eyes glistened with excitement. “I can hardly eat for the thought of dancing in King Malcolm’s court. Do you think the bard will play with the minstrels? I would so like to dance with him.” Her cousin’s gaze shifted to where the bard sat with Steinar.

“You will have to wait and see,” said Catrìona. “I expect there will be several instruments. Mandolins, flutes, mayhap even drums. He may be asked to join them.”

“I hope not,” said Fia. “Rhodri is splendid in his green velvet tunic.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the giggles of Elspeth, the youngest of the queen’s ladies, who sat nearby flirting with one of the king’s guards. She giggled when he returned her smiles with a lusty glance.

“She had best contain her smiles,” Fia whispered to Catrìona, “else she will soon be devoured by that one.”

Her cousin’s eyes were focused on a muscled warrior Catrìona had not noticed before. His dark gaze was fierce and his warrior’s chest and arms spoke of strength. His long hair was neither blond nor brown but somewhere in between, held in place by a strip of leather encircling his head. Unlike his hair, his short beard and mustache were red.

“He is Colbán of Moray,” said Fia, “captain of the king’s guard and a man known for stealing young women’s virtue.”

Catrìona looked at her cousin. “How could you know that?”

“When you are off with Giric flying your falcon, I hear things and Niall sometimes passes to me what he learns from the men at archery practice. He thought to warn us.”

Catrìona watched the one called Colbán as his dark eyes narrowed on Elspeth, like a wolf leering at a lamb. “He appears more man than a girl like Elspeth can handle,” she whispered to Fia.

“He has an eye for the queen’s ladies,” said Fia in a low voice. “’Tis said the king will give him one of us to wed.”

Catrìona shrugged. It was no concern of hers, unless he desired her cousin. Inwardly, she feared he might, for Fia was very pretty.

Fia looked at her pointedly. “I have seen him watching you more than once.”

“He can watch me all he wants,” Catrìona pronounced defiantly. “I am promised to Domnall.”

When the meal was concluded, the tables were pushed to the walls leaving a large space in the middle of the room for dancing on either side of the central hearth where the fire had been allowed to die to glowing embers.

Three minstrels took their places in front of the dais facing into the hall where men and women anxiously waited for the music to begin.

They had only begun to pluck at their instruments when Fia nudged her in the side. “Look! Rhodri is not among the musicians. Mayhap he will dance after all.”

Catrìona grew anxious as she looked around the crowded hall, searching for Domnall. She had expected him to come to her when the music began, but he did not. “I wonder where Domnall is.”

“I do not wish to be the bearer of sad news, Cousin, but look to the end of the dais where the new lady has just stepped down. Look who awaits her.”

Catrìona’s brows drew together, first in confusion, then in dismay, as she saw her intended kiss the hand of Blackwell’s daughter and lead her to a group of dancers. “Why does Domnall seek her out?”

“You need look no farther than her father’s fortune,” came Fia’s retort. “My father once told me the Mormaer of Blackwell has much land and many ships.”

Would Domnall seek the hand of another for greater fortune? Shamed that the man to whom she had promised her heart had chosen another to partner, Catrìona turned to go. “I cannot stay,” she said.

She was in such a hurry to get away she did not see the tall blond scribe step into her path until she nearly collided with him. His chest was suddenly before her face and she came to a sudden stop, raising her head to look into his eyes.

He grinned broadly. “Will you grant me a dance, my lady?”

Swallowing hard, she blinked back the tears she had been holding in. “Of… of course.” She took his offered hand and they joined the dancers forming one of the circles. His hand was large and warm and his grip sure. Somehow knowing he had hold of her gave her comfort. Too, it might be good for Domnall to see she was not bereft of admirers.

The steps of the dance took them around the circle to the left. Given his limp, she was surprised how agile Steinar was at the quick steps. The dance forced her to concentrate and she smiled stiffly at the others, for inwardly she was hurting. The pain of Domnall’s defection gnawed away at her. Appearing to be gay when she was downcast was not easy, but Steinar’s seeming delight at being her partner helped to soothe the hurt Domnall’s rejection had caused.

She stole a glance at the circle of dancers that included Domnall and Blackwell’s daughter along with Elspeth and the king’s captain.

Steinar drew her attention back to him when he said, “I have not had such a beautiful partner since the queen condescended to dance with me some months ago.” Catrìona saw laughter in his beautiful blue thistle eyes .

She did not hide her gratitude. “To compare me to Margaret is high praise, indeed. You exaggerate, of course.” Giving him a small smile, she added, “But I will allow it.”

The pace of the dance quickened as the minstrels played faster. When Fia and the bard joined their circle, Catrìona reached up to speak into Steinar’s ear so he could hear her over the music. “Your friend partners with my cousin.”

Watching the two, Steinar said, “Rhodri is much taken with her. He imagines she is Welsh.”

“I have not known any Welshmen, save the bard, but Fia’s roots are in Alba; she is a true Gael.”

“Aye, he knows it, but he is smitten all the same.”

Catching glimpses of Fia and the Welshman holding hands and dancing, their smiles only for each other, Catrìona admitted, “And she with him.”

“Rhodri is an unusual man,” said Steinar.

“Because, like you, he is educated?”

“That and more. Even I do not know his whole story. He rarely speaks of his past.”

The song ended and their hands dropped to their sides as they waited for another round to begin. Without meaning to, Catrìona’s gaze caught Isla of Blackwell’s hand reaching to Domnall’s chest as she laughed. Pulling her thoughts back to the man standing beside her, she listened as he went on.

“Rhodri was in England for several years before coming with me to Scotland.”

“Why did he come here?”

“’Twas for friendship’s sake. I could not stay in England but my wound made travel difficult. Rhodri helped me. I have always known someday he would return to Wales but I would not wish it to be soon.”

The music began again and he took her hand, joining with the new circle forming. Forcing her gaze away from the circle where Domnall danced with the woman from Blackwell, Catrìona kept her eyes on the golden-haired scribe and her mind on the steps of the dance.

When the music stopped, she realized Steinar had not limped while they were dancing. “Your leg is better. ”

“Aye, ’tis better every day.”

The circle of dancers Catrìona and Steinar were a part of made room for the king and queen who had decided to join in the dancing. They were a handsome couple with his kingly presence and her graceful bearing. On his dark head, he wore a golden crown. Her flaxen plaits hung long beneath her gold-crowned headscarf. Margaret was years younger than her husband and very pretty as she smiled up at the king. It was obvious they had danced together many times for they moved as one through the steps.

When the song ended, Catrìona was standing near the queen. Margaret put a hand to her chest, breathing deeply. “I am out of breath but I did love it so!”

On Margaret’s other side, the king said, “Aye, mo cridhe , it has been too long.”

A servant brought the king and the queen goblets of wine. Margaret sipped hers. Malcolm took a large swig and handed the goblet back to the servant. Bowing to the queen, the king walked to the center of the room, the eyes of the crowd upon him.

Margaret drew near Catrìona. “You must see this.” Then the queen moved to the side of the room, her eyes on her husband.

A servant brought two swords and crossed them on the floor in front of the king.

Catrìona felt the anticipation of the men around her as Steinar leaned in to whisper, “The king is going to show us the victory dance he conceived. I’m told ’twas after a particularly bloody battle.” When she looked at him in question, he said, “He slew one of Mac Bethad’s chiefs and in recognition of his victory, Malcolm laid his victim’s sword on the ground, crossed it with his own and danced around and over the naked blades in triumph.”

Catrìona vaguely recalled her father, who had fought with Malcolm, telling her of a bizarre dance Malcolm had performed after the battle.

The music began slowly, a single steady drumbeat, as all eyes turned to the king. With uplifted arms, he began to lift his legs in high steps dancing around and over the crossed swords without ever touching either of them. For a man of middle years, he was most nimble. The people formed a circle around the king and began to clap their hands in time with the drum. The other instruments joined in as the drum beat faster.

“’Tis not just a victory dance,” Steinar explained, “but a reminder to the men their king is still the virile warrior he was when first he danced over his dead enemy’s sword.”

“I should think the son his wife bore him and the child she carries sufficient testimony of that,” said Catrìona.

“Tis a different kind of virility,” he said with a smile that made her cheeks heat.

Margaret, her hand on her rounded belly, stood silently watching, her face unreadable. She neither smiled at her husband’s achievement nor did she look at him with disdain for what the crossed swords symbolized. In that moment Catrìona realized Margaret accepted the man she had married without asking him to be what he was not. The wisdom displayed by her mistress did not escape Catrìona, yet, in many ways, she believed Margaret had tamed Malcolm and not the other way around.

As Malcolm continued to dance over the swords, Catrìona’s thoughts drifted back to the day before when the queen had asked her to accompany her to a place in the woods she liked to go.

“The light is always good there,” Margaret had explained.

Catrìona quickly agreed and fetched her needlework, assuming the queen meant to do the same. They found places to sit under a tree by the burn some distance from the tower. For a while, both of them bent their heads to their embroidery. After some time, Catrìona looked up from her needlework to see the queen reading from a small book lying open on her lap.

“What is the book you read, My Lady?” she asked.

The queen closed the book and the shimmering jewels on its cover caused Catrìona to inhale sharply. The book was encased in gold and decorated in sapphires, rubies and emeralds. Sunlight filtering through the trees made the gems glisten. She had seen scrolls in her father’s hillfort and she’d been given a Psalter as a young girl, but she had never seen a book like this. “How beautiful.”

“’Tis the Gospels I read always. I brought this with me to England from Hungary. ’Twas a gift from my father and my greatest treasure.”

“I can see why. Surely it must be of great worth. ”

Margaret smiled. “It is, but not for the reason you might think. It was once covered in plain brown leather, worn with use, but Malcolm saw how I treasured it and had the gold cover and jewels added. It reminds me of Solomon’s temple, bejeweled for God’s glory. You see, the real treasure lies not with its cover, Catrìona, but with what is inside.”

“I see.” And she did. “’Tis the words you prize.”

“Yea, God’s words to us.”

Catrìona wished she could be as devout as her mistress. “I once believed as you do,” she told Margaret, “but that was before… before I lost my family.” In between words, she cried softly, unable to stop the flow of tears. “I have tried… but I find that I cannot accept a God who could allow such evil.”

Margaret set aside her bejeweled book and put her arm around Catrìona’s shoulders, drawing her close. It was a tender gesture more like that of the mother she had lost than of her queen. “My dear Catrìona, God knows your heart better than you do yourself. He knows you will heal and return to Him.”

Such faith… such kindness! Catrìona had come to love her mistress and understood why the king loved what was precious to Margaret. For all that he could not read, Malcolm had covered Margaret’s treasured Gospels with jewels for love of his queen.

Catrìona’s straying thoughts returned to the hall just as the king finished his sword dance and the crowd erupted in shouts of praise.

“Come,” said Steinar, “let us get some wine. I have grown thirsty with so much dancing.”

Catrìona felt the beads of sweat on her brow and the trickle between her breasts. The hall had grown overwarm. “Aye, some wine would be welcome.”

He guided her to a table where pitchers of wine and goblets had been set out. Catrìona noticed his limp had returned.

“Does your leg pain you?” she asked.

“Only when I forget to rest it. I have so enjoyed dancing with you, my lady, I fair forgot.”

She laughed. “Again you exaggerate.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Domnall moving toward her, the woman from Blackwell’s hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.