Page 8 of The Refuge

Steinar heard Catrìona’s sudden intake of breath and turned to see her rigid stance and her eyes staring straight ahead, as if preparing for an onslaught. The cause of her anxious state quickly became apparent as he followed her gaze.

The nobleman from Leinster, Domnall mac Murchada—the one to whom she was supposedly “all but betrothed”—was coming toward them, Blackwell’s daughter on his arm.

“Greetings, Catrìona, and to you, Steinar,” the Irishman said as he approached. “I understand you have met Isla of Blackwell, Catrìona.”

She nodded. “We met earlier today.”

He turned his face to Isla. “Well, since you have met Catrìona, allow me to introduce Steinar, the king’s scribe.”

“My lady,” Steinar said, bowing over Isla’s offered hand.

Isla gave him a dismissive glance. “How unusual to have a scribe who is not a man of the church.”

“Aye,” was Steinar’s only response. He did not like the superior tone in the woman’s voice and he sensed Catrìona was hurt by Domnall’s attention to her.

Steinar wondered what the man was about. If Domnall intended to marry Catrìona, why had he been dancing with the queen’s new lady? Was the man mad? Surely his actions were beyond mere courtesy to a new arrival.

Steinar forgot the wine they had been about to have, wanting to take Catrìona away from the uncomfortable scene. “If you will excuse us,” he said to the pair, “we were just about to go outside.”

Domnall did not object. Instead, he bowed to Catrìona as they took their leave.

Steinar guided her through the door and into the night. The sky was a pale heather as it often was at gloaming in the summer.

Behind them, the door creaked open and Angus, her protector, stepped out and leaned against the stone wall of the tower, crossing his arms over his chest in an unsubtle warning.

They walked a short distance away. “None of the other ladies brings a guard to Malcolm’s court,” he remarked. “And I think yours mistrusts me.”

“Do not mind Angus. He is just doing what my father would have wanted, ever faithful to his oath. He has stood by me since… since my father’s death.”

Seeing again the pain in her eyes, he did not want to speak of unpleasant things nor embarrass her about Domnall’s slight, but he would give her the opportunity to confide in him if she chose. “Did you want to tell me of it?”

“Not tonight,” she said somberly, her eyes focused on the ground.

Respecting her wishes, he would speak of something else. “The queen has told me of her plans for the ferry and the inn for the pilgrims.” And then with a smile, “Your new undertaking.”

“Did she?” Catrìona asked, her somber mood appearing to lift.

“’Twill be the queen’s boldest venture yet.”

“But a worthy one, I think.” In her eyes, he saw a fervor he’d not seen before.

“The pilgrims traveling to St. Andrew’s shrine will be forever in Malcolm’s debt.”

“I rather think the pilgrims will know ’tis the queen’s ferry they ride without charge,” she said, “but I do hope the king will support Margaret in this.”

“She can be most persuasive where he is concerned. And you are right,” he admitted. “The people will know such charity, if granted, comes from the queen.”

“She told me you and I are to help her. Did she say what we are to do? I’ve not spoken with her about the details, only her vision for the completed work.”

“She intends to speak with the king,” Steinar said, laying out what the queen had told him. “Once he approves, which I expect he will, Margaret will soon have the men and materials to begin the task.”

“That will please Margaret.”

“You and I are to be her partners in this new work,” he said with a grin.

She shot him a side-glance. “That should be entertaining,”

Her teasing manner told him her mood had improved and he was glad of it. Even if she were hiding her true feelings, he would try and encourage her. “Margaret has much confidence in you. She told me of all her ladies you are the only one she would entrust with such a project.”

He was pleased when Catrìona’s cheeks turned scarlet, bringing color to her face that had been pale before. He hoped she had forgotten the scene in the hall. For Domnall’s actions and what they portended, he felt only disgust and suspected Domnall’s attentions to Isla of Blackwell were more than a kindness to a new lady.

Steinar did not consider Domnall worthy of Catrìona and his interest in another would present new possibilities. If the Irish noble were no longer in her future, she would be free to accept another. But as soon as that became known, Malcolm’s men would begin circling her like wolves around a stranded fawn. What will I do if that happens?

“Let us see about that wine,” he said, offering her his arm. And then with a grin, “Mayhap Angus is thirsty.”

***

Catrìona had yet to break her fast and was feeding a small girl when Fia hissed into her ear, “I do not know how Margaret puts up with her!”

Isla of Blackwell had turned away from the orphans, refusing to join the ladies in feeding them. Instead, she walked to the hearth and reached her hands toward the fire. The woman had missed the morning prayers with the queen, keeping to her chamber until it was time to break her fast.

Catrìona did not like to think of Isla else the tears would begin to fall. In the fortnight since the woman had arrived at Dunfermline, things had changed with Domnall. He now paid open court to the lady from Blackwell and she often spoke of him, bragging of her conquest.

At first, Catrìona had believed Isla was unaware Domnall had been intended for her, but when she had suggested as much to Fia, her cousin was quick to disagree. “Oh, she knows you were Domnall’s intended. ’Twas common knowledge around the hall. That is why the other men kept their distance from you, well, all save the scribe. And none of the men worried much over him. No, Isla is merely indifferent to another’s pain.”

To think Isla knew and did not care made it all the worse as the conversation at the ladies’ table continued.

“Why, only last eve,” Isla said to Audra, “Domnall described his home in Leinster to me and told me how excited he is for me to see it. He plans to speak to my father on his way home.”

“Domnall goes home?” asked Audra, shooting a glance at Catrìona.

“Only for a time. He has family matters to see to and he is negotiating a trading venture between Leinster and King Malcolm.”

That Domnall had shared his business with this new lady—things he had never told her—caused a deep hurt within Catrìona. She felt the tears well in her eyes. Unable to stand more of the woman’s boasting, with a hasty apology to the queen, Catrìona fled the hall.

She ran from the tower into the forest not realizing she had come to the place next to the burn where she had once sat with the queen. The only sounds were those of the water rushing over stones and the birds in the trees above her.

She sat on a fallen log crossing her arms tightly around her, rocking back and forth, as the tears fell. How could he do this? And without a word to me!

Hearing footfalls behind her coming closer along the path, she brushed the tears from her face and turned her head toward the stream, hoping whoever it was would pass her by.

“Catrìona.”

The queen.

Catrìona turned to face her mistress.

“It occurred to me you might come here. I think I know why you weep but I would listen if you would speak of it,” said Margaret.

Catrìona got to her feet, unwilling to keep all that was in her heart from the queen. “The man my father chose for me, the man I thought to wed, has now chosen another.”

“Ah,” Margaret said knowingly as she beckoned Catrìona to sit and eased herself down beside her. “Domnall mac Murchada. I have observed his actions toward Isla of Blackwell. ’Twould seem he has at last found someone much like himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the year he has been in Dunfermline, I have become aware of his ill-favored character. He is not one I would have chosen for you.”

Catrìona drew little comfort from Margaret’s words. All she could think of was Domnall’s rejection. Beneath the hurt he had caused was the pain from the loss of her parents. The deep wounds had not healed. Mayhap they never would. “’Tis not just Domnall, My Lady. My heart is broken and I am distraught for all that I have lost.”

Margaret took Catrìona’s trembling hand in hers. “I know you have suffered much, Catrìona, and I am very sorry for your pain. It was my hope when you came to us that you would find healing. You will, in time.”

Catrìona looked into the queen’s gentle sky-colored eyes. “I hope so, My Lady.”

Margaret gave her an understanding smile. “There is no soul so damaged, no heart so broken, it cannot be healed by God.”

Tears flowed from Catrìona’s eyes in a great rush as she turned into Margaret’s comforting arms wanting desperately for the words to be true.

The queen stroked her back. “I know what it is to experience loss, Catrìona. I was still young when my father died. Then, my country was torn from me and my family’s lives threatened so that we had to flee England. I know fear.”

Guilt crept over Catrìona. She could not wallow in self-pity when the queen had lost her father and her home, even her country. Catrìona sat up and blinked back the tears filling her eyes. “I am sorry, My Lady.”

“Few among us have not known tragedy and betrayal. I, too, once doubted God. ”

She could not believe this devout queen had ever doubted God. “You?”

A smile crossed her face. “’Tis quite human, I have discovered. God understands your grief, Catrìona, as He did mine. Did not evil men kill His son? But that terrible loss was part of a greater plan.”

Catrìona nodded as Margaret spoke, seeing truth in the queen’s words.

“God has a greater plan for us, as well. Sometimes His plans are different than ours.” The queen looked into her eyes. “We must accept whatever He allows into our lives, trusting Him to use it for good.”

It was hard for Catrìona to accept all that had happened as the queen suggested she should, but Margaret’s words made her wonder for the first time whether she was intended for Domnall after all. What if her father had been wrong to choose him? Painful though the possibility was, she had to consider it might be true.

“You knew, of course, that I did not wish to marry,” said the queen.

“Aye,” said Catrìona, wiping away the last of the tears. “Edgar told me.”

“It was Edgar who persuaded me to accept Malcolm’s suit. He told me I had to do it for the family’s protection and to give him the powerful ally he needed to try and take back England.”

“And so you married Malcolm…”

“I did. Out of duty, at first. But I have come to see, ’twas not Edgar who betrothed me to Malcolm. ’Twas God.”

At Catrìona’s look of surprise, Margaret said, “Like you, the life I once thought to have was not to be. Instead, God gave me a loving husband and a country to serve. A different calling, but one no less worthy.”

“You love the king.” Why it had suddenly occurred to Catrìona she could not say. It might have been the wistful look in Margaret’s eyes when she spoke of her husband.

“Yea, I do. I love my husband and his people, now my people.”

“I admire all you do for them, especially the poor,” said Catrìona. “It has become one of my joys to help the orphans.”

Margaret stared past Catrìona to the waters of the burn, flowing fast with the summer rains they had experienced. “I have tried to be a proper wife for Malcolm, to do what seems needful for Scotland, encouraging trade with other countries, bringing to our shores new wares, making the tower a fit home for a king and sharing with Malcolm God’s truth. But still I ask God, what more would He have me do?”

“Is that what you pray for?” asked Catrìona, curious as to what consumed the queen’s prayers when she secluded herself in the cave.

“I pray for Scotland, for her future, her people and for wisdom for my husband to lead them.” Tears filled Margaret’s eyes as she spoke. “I ask God for children who will serve Him and Scotland after Malcolm and I are gone from this life.”

A lump formed in Catrìona’s throat as she pondered the queen’s devotion to her new country and her husband. “Surely God will honor your prayers. None doubt that the Lady of Scotland loves God and the people.”

Margaret smiled. “It pleases me to think so,” she said, slowly rising, her hand pressing into her lower back.

Catrìona got to her feet. “Does the child pain you, My Lady?”

“Nay, but sometimes my back aches. ’Tis nothing. Come,” urged the queen, “let us return.” Smiling, she said, “We have a ferry to build and an inn to see to. ’Tis a challenge worthy of you, Catrìona. And it should please you to know the king has given his consent to all we spoke of.”

Encouraged by the queen, Catrìona rose and walked back to the tower speaking with her mistress of the future that lay ahead. To Catrìona, they seemed like two old friends walking together.

***

Catrìona lifted her head from the miserable embroidery she had struggled with all morning. Twice she had torn out a thread to replace it with another. Her flowers, she sadly admitted, looked more like bannocks than blossoms.

The heat in the chamber where the queen’s ladies labored was oppressive this summer morning. Setting aside the odious task, she begged leave to get some air. Margaret, always accommodating, graciously nodded her assent.

Hurriedly, lest the queen change her mind, Catrìona left the chamber and headed down the corridor thinking she might visit Kessog in the mews to see how his molt was coming along.

Feeling better as she descended the stairs to the hall where the air was fresher, she was nearly at the last step when she looked up to see the captain of the king’s guard striding toward her from the hearth, carrying something in his hands.

Colbán’s long legs quickly covered the distance between them.

She stopped on the last stair, waiting and wondering what the captain could want with her.

Her curiosity changed to wonder when, reaching her, he bowed in deep obeisance.

“Lady Catrìona.”

The king’s captain had never paid her much attention except for perfunctory greetings when she came into the hall with the queen’s ladies. But she remembered Fia’s saying she had observed him watching her. “Sir?” she asked warily.

“I had hoped to catch you away from the others.”

She waited expectantly, interested to know why he should need to speak to her alone. Except for the servants, the hall was typically empty at this time of the day, as he must have known.

When he hesitated, she stepped down from the stair to the floor, which she immediately realized was a mistake. Now he loomed over her, like a huge bear, his dark eyes intently focused on her.

She swallowed. “’Twould seem your timing is good, sir.”

Despite his initial approach, which she judged overbold, he now appeared diffident, confusing her. His brown eyes grew warm as he considered her while anxiously fumbling with a length of copper-colored cloth he carried.

Without warning, he thrust the cloth toward her.

She reached for it with both hands. It was fine wool, a man’s tunic. With raised brows, she looked up at him. “Sir?”

“’Tis mine,” he said. “I know the queen’s ladies embroider garments when they occupy themselves with their needlework. I would ask you to embroider this for me.”

Beneath the request, Catrìona heard a tone of command. But then, the king’s captain was used to having his requests carried out as orders and, after all, she was only a woman. “Sir, there are others among the queen’s ladies whose fingers are more skilled than mine with a needle. I would be happy to ask one of them—”

“Nay!” he blurted out. Then pausing, he began again. “It must be your hand that embroiders the tunic.”

Why mine? His intense gaze remained fixed on her, telling her there was no use in arguing. She exhaled, resigned. “Very well, if it will please you, I will try.”

He flashed her a brilliant smile, his teeth white between his red mustache and beard. “Aye, ’twould please me.” With that, he bowed, turned and stalked off toward the tower door.

Flustered, she watched him go. How strange .

Her original mission forgotten, she turned on her heels and slowly climbed the long set of wooden stairs, casting a glance at her scarred fingertips, hoping she would not bleed all over the tunic when she attempted to adorn it with some sort of design that might please such a man.

***

In the days that followed the celebration of Maerleswein and Davina’s betrothal, Steinar watched with interest as warriors flocked to Dunfermline from provinces near and far in response to the king’s summons. Many rode horses and carried fine swords. Others were archers skilled enough to garner Rhodri’s respect. Still others were men-at-arms pledged to a mormaer.

The village bulged with men overflowing the taverns, keeping the serving wenches busy. Tents were erected to house the soldiers and the night air smelled of their cook fires that illuminated the meadows and trees all around the burn.

Special contingents had to be dispatched to hunt in order to feed all the men. Each evening their captains dined in the hall that swelled with the new arrivals.

With so many warriors in such a crowded area, there were bound to be fights, especially if one of them was full of wine and took offense at something that was said.

Colbán, the captain of Malcolm’s guard, did not tolerate open fighting among the men and disputes, when they erupted into violence, were quickly quashed. But there was one man who caused more problems than the others, a swaggering braggart, Rian of Lothian.

More than once Steinar had heard the king mutter under his breath that in Rian of Lothian, Maerleswein had foisted off on his king a particularly troublesome piece of flesh.

“Probably laughing at me this very moment,” Malcolm had said.

Rian bore scars on his face, jagged wounds ill healed, announcing to all he was a wild brute of a man. His brown hair was always disheveled and his clothing looked more animal in origin than the fine woolens favored at Malcolm’s court. He was as wide as he was tall but he had not gone to fat. The braggart was all muscle and sinew.

He had instigated several fights in the village and no father would allow his daughter near the man. It took the constant vigilance of the king’s guard to keep the peace when Rian was involved.

That afternoon, as Steinar was returning from his surreptitious sword practice, his leg paining him for not having rested it, he came upon Rian and his rabble of followers outside the stables. With ugly jeers and much laughter, they were tormenting Giric’s little dog, Shadow.

Rian prodded the little dog with a stick. Shadow’s barking merely incited the brute’s followers.

“What is that, a barking rat? Smite it harder, Rian!” said one from where he leaned against the stable.

“Just a wee beastie,” drawled another.

“Whatever it is, makes an irksome noise,” said Rian.

When the dog kept barking, Rian kicked it with his boot.

The dog’s yelp brought Giric running. Scooping him up, the boy shouted, “Leave ’im be!”

“Ho! What have we here?” Rian said, his eyes narrowing on Giric. “Can this be the master of the rat? Or mayhap ’tis his brother. Both are mangy little scraps. Come here, let me get a closer look at ye.” When Giric started to back away, Rian made a grab for the boy’s collar and growled in anger when Giric kicked him. Dodging the man’s grasping hand, Giric stepped aside, clutching the whimpering dog to his chest.

Steinar took a step forward, intending to call a halt to the farce, when Niall strode across the open ground and stepped in front of the boy. Gently shoving him aside, he said. “Take him away, Giric. I will handle this.”

Niall faced Rian, a slim youth against a muscled brute. “Seems to me you are a bit large to be picking on wee dogs and littlings.”

Rian’s face twisted into a grimace as he circled Niall while the brute’s friends shouted insults.

“’Tis only a lad hisself,” said one blustering fellow.

“I am nae certain ’tis even a lad,” taunted Rian. “Might be a girl with that long red hair.”

Rian’s companions erupted in cruel laughter.

Niall stood his ground, his bow slung over his shoulder, his chin jutting out.

Rian glanced over his shoulder at his companions, grinned and charged. His beefy shoulder caught Niall full in the chest, knocking him off his feet.

Niall fell to the ground, a loud snap renting the air as his bow broke beneath him. He jumped up, ripped the broken bow from his shoulder and yanked the seax from its leather sheath at his hip.

Rian smirked and slowly pulled his sword from its scabbard, the steel making a cold threatening ring as it slid free. He waved the sword menacingly in front of Niall’s face.

The men watching backed away, Rian’s followers among them.

Steinar had been watching for Colbán or one of the king’s guards, someone who actually had authority over the men, but none were present.

So it must be me.

“Enough!” Steinar shouted, striding into the middle of the rising tension. He stood in front of Niall, facing Rian. “What goes here?”