Page 9 of The Refuge

Catrìona had just stepped though the tower door when the loud shouts of men stopped her. Not far away in the open area between the tower and the outbuildings, a group of men circled around what sounded like a brawl. There had been more instances of such fighting since the new warriors had come to Dunfermline. She often took a circuitous path to avoid them and she would do so now.

She had taken only a few steps when Giric came running toward her, his dog at his side barking furiously. “’Tis the scribe, my lady!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the circle of men. Through a break in the crowd, she saw Niall standing to one side, his bow broken at his feet and the scribe in front of him facing a thick-shouldered warrior wielding a long sword.

Fear gripped her. What had happened? Was Steinar unarmed against the warrior’s sword?

The ring of steel cut through the men’s shouts as Steinar jerked a sword from the scabbard at his waist and held it before him, his legs slightly apart.

Where had he found a sword?

The crowd stepped back, murmuring.

Giric let go of her hand and drew closer to the looming fight. She reached out and grabbed him, pulling him toward her. “Stand up here,” she told him and led him to a bench he could stand on to safely watch. She stepped closer to the circle of men to watch what transpired .

“Anyone can defeat a youth who carries only a knife,” Steinar said to the large warrior whose back faced her. “Let us see how you do against a man who is armed with a sword!” The undercurrent in Steinar’s voice bespoke anger but also the confidence of one who knew how to wield such a blade. He had once been a warrior but that was years ago.

The two men appeared evenly matched in height but Steinar was leaner and younger. His long golden hair settled on his shoulders, reflecting the sun like a torch, while the mountain of a man who would fight him was dark, his hair shorter and unkempt.

She heard the sneer in his opponent’s voice as he pulled his seax from his hip to join the sword he held in his other hand. “This should prove a novelty, cutting up a scribe. But ye need have no worry. I will leave yer right hand should the king find himself in need of a scrivener.” The man bellowed his laughter.

Slowly pulling his own short sword from his belt, Steinar said, “If you wish to fight with two blades, I can accommodate you.”

Now each man held a sword and a long knife, poised to strike. With growing dismay, Catrìona realized there would be no shields in this fight, only blades, and no mail to shield tender flesh. She bit her knuckled fist, tension building inside her. Could Steinar fight the older, larger man?

“It seems I must be the one to teach you manners,” Steinar calmly said as he began to circle his opponent. “’Tis not wise to mistreat those invited to the king’s court.”

The crowd moved back as the two men circled each other. Through the gaps in the shifting men, she watched the swords and knives poised to strike.

The one called Rian suddenly lunged for the scribe’s chest, but Steinar slipped to the side as if he’d anticipated the move. As he did, he sliced the other man’s leg.

A line of red emerged on Rian’s hosen and the man howled his anger.

The crowd backed away as Steinar took another step, his right leg appearing to falter.

Catrìona inhaled sharply, praying he would have the strength to continue. She could not bear for him to be hurt by this man who, she was certain, would show no mercy.

But she need not have feared, for Steinar was ready for the stocky warrior’s next strike, beating back the larger man’s sword and seax with blows Rian strained to fend off.

The sound of steel meeting steel filled the air as the four weapons clashed in rapid succession.

Steinar’s feet moved in a fluid motion. At times his steps were so fast it was difficult to see them. The dazzling display seemed to confuse his opponent who shook his head as if trying to focus on Steinar’s blades.

“The scribe can fight!” called out one man.

“Aye and well,” said another.

“He is good!” Giric cried out to her. His dog, Shadow, barked each time the crowd grew excited or surged toward them.

Before her eyes, the man she had known only as a scribe had turned into a fierce warrior, his movements sure and practiced, his sword arm strong. At times, the metal flashed so fast the blades were nearly a blur. Tears of pride welled in her eyes.

A movement to her left caught her attention. She turned to glimpse the king and Colbán coming around the corner of the tower. As they drew near her, the two men paused to watch the fight.

The crowd shouted encouragement to the two locked in a deadly clash of blades, their gazes so fixed on the combat they did not notice the king.

Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to one side, appearing to study the fight with keen interest.

Steinar and his fulsome opponent slowed, circling each other, wiping sweat from their faces with the sleeves of their tunics. It appeared to Catrìona that Rian was starting to tire, his feet faltering in the face of so much skill.

Mayhap he is as surprised as the rest of them that Steinar can wield a blade .

Rian slashed at Steinar with his knife while swinging his sword, but Steinar danced away.

The crowd murmured their amazement at Steinar’s ability to repeatedly deflect the blade of a man whose sword they had obviously feared .

Catrìona was relieved Steinar was holding his own. Even with a wounded leg, he fought well. What a magnificent warrior!

Steinar pivoted to avoid the other man’s lunge but one edge of Rian’s sword caught his arm.

She winced to see Steinar hurt, but he seemed not to notice as he shoved his seax into the sheath at his belt and grabbed the pointed end of his blade with his glove.

What is he doing?

Holding the hilt of his sword in his other hand, Steinar met Rian’s next strike with a forceful blow of the blunt side of the blade. His shoulder muscles flexed beneath his tunic with the force of the impact that shoved Rian back.

The larger man stumbled and his sword fell from his hand, clanging as it hit the ground.

Steinar kicked it away. “Do you wish to continue with only that knife?”

Rian sheathed his seax, his chest heaving with exertion. “Nay, ’tis enough.”

“Then concede me the victory.”

The brute wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Ye have won.”

Catrìona relaxed, realizing the fight was over.

Giric jumped from the bench and ran to her side, his dog following. “Did ye see him? Did ye see the scribe fight?”

“Aye,” she said. “I saw it all.”

Steinar sheathed his sword. “From now on,” he told Rian, “you will leave the archer alone.”

“Aye, I’ll leave the paltry archer be,” Rian conceded with bad grace.

“I’d be careful what you call the king’s archers,” Steinar cautioned. “Their arrows bear the kiss of death.”

The crowd was quiet now, listening with interest.

Rhodri came to stand beside Niall. “I will see you have a new bow, this time a longbow of elm like mine.”

Niall smiled his approval.

Catrìona’s heart burst with gratitude for Steinar’s defense of her brother. But before she could go to him to express her thanks, the king marched into the midst of the crowd, a satisfied smile on his face .

Seeing the king, the crowd fell away.

Steinar, whose back had been to the king, whirled around. “My Lord.”

Malcolm slapped Steinar on the back. “It appears you have as much skill with a sword as you do with a quill.”

The men standing around nodded and she heard murmurs of agreement.

“I have need of your sword arm as one of my guards,” said the king.

Catrìona’s heart lurched. Oh, God, a guard. A guard was a man of war like her father, like all of Malcolm’s men. Steinar could be injured or killed.

“As for you, Rian of Lothian,” Malcolm’s tone was harsh as he faced the warrior, towering over the brute, “if ever I hear of you instigating another fight, you will be gone from my court and my army.”

Rian bowed his head and his shoulders slumped. “Aye, My Lord.”

“It occurs to me,” said the king to Steinar, “if you accompany me to Northumbria, I will have both a guard at my back and a scribe for my messages. ’Twould please the queen.” He shot a glance at Rhodri. “A scribe who is a swordsman and a bard who leads my archers. Ha! I shall keep both of you close.”

Colbán dipped his head to Catrìona as he passed her and joined the king. “We will be glad for his sword arm,” he said to Malcolm.

Steinar grinned broadly. “As you wish,” he said to the king.

Catrìona could see he was pleased, but she was not certain she was. His arm was bleeding from where the ruffian had cut him. The idea of Steinar lying on the ground wounded or worse struck her like a blow. She could not bear to see him hurt.

Malcolm swept his arm toward the tower in a grand gesture. “Come,” he said to Steinar and Rhodri, “let us share some wine in my hall. Colbán, you will join us.”

The captain of the guard dipped his head to the king.

Malcolm put his arm around Steinar’s shoulder and they proceeded toward the door of the tower. Behind the king and Steinar, Rhodri strolled with Colbán.

As they passed, she noted Steinar limped slightly, making her worry all the more. He glanced at her over his shoulder, but if there was a message in his eyes, she could not decipher it.

***

Steinar set down his goblet, content, but feeling the effects of too much wine and no food. The king and Colbán might be at it for some time, but he’d had enough. Across from him, Rhodri had just finished his last goblet. “While I am happy to be joining the ranks of Malcolm’s warriors,” he said to Rhodri in a low voice, “one more toast and I will be slipping beneath the table.”

“Aye and I’ve a pretty lass to meet,” whispered the bard. “I must go ere I am late.”

“Catrìona’s cousin?”

Rhodri nodded, his deep brown eyes twinkling.

“Be careful, my friend,” Steinar cautioned. He hoped the Welshman did not draw the ire of the king for his attention to one of Margaret’s ladies.

Ignoring Steinar’s words, Rhodri said, “Until this eve!” and hurriedly left the hall.

Steinar sat staring at the closed door, wondering how far things had gone between his friend and the girl. Rhodri had dallied with his share of the ladies who frequented Malcolm’s court, always with much success. But this one was different. Fia of Atholl was the daughter of a powerful mormaer. And Steinar was certain the Welshman was in love.

His own besotted state was ever before him. Now that he was again a warrior and one of the king’s guards, dare he believe he might win Catrìona’s hand? And, with that in mind, he began to think of the beautiful firebrand as within his reach.

The king’s next words ended Steinar’s pondering. “Be prepared to ride at dawn.”

***

Rhodri set out for the place where he had agreed to meet Fia, not far from the tower but still sheltered from curious eyes. With each step his heart beat faster in anticipation of seeing her. They had been careful about their stolen moments. Only Steinar knew they had been meeting in secret .

Never had Rhodri expected to find the woman he wanted at Malcolm’s court. He had enjoyed the favors of many since coming to Dunfermline, but none had captured his heart like the dark-haired lass from Atholl. Undaunted by what she believed was a love that could never be, she had allowed their love to grow.

This would be their last chance to be alone before he left for Northumbria. As he came through the copse of trees, he saw her waiting in the lee of a large rock, her long dark hair falling down her back over a sapphire blue gown, the same color as her beautiful eyes.

He stilled when he heard her singing. It was one of his own songs and her voice was sweet to his ears.

“You sing a pleasant melody, my love.”

Whirling around, she ran to him. “Oh, Rhodri, I thought you would never come!”

Tortured all morning because he had been unable to touch her, he took her in his arms and kissed her.

Threading her fingers through his head of curls, she pressed her young body against his own.

“I have missed you, my Fia,” he whispered in her ear as he showered her forehead and face with kisses.

In response, she pulled his head down to her and kissed him, a wild open-mouthed kiss that left him breathing heavily.

When their lips finally parted, he said, “’Tis best we do not continue or I will soon be making love to you in the meadow amid the flowers.”

“You would not…”

“Nay, but that does not mean I do not think of it.” He took her hand and led her to the fallen log they often sat upon.

Changing the subject, she asked, “Why were you late?”

“I would have been here sooner but the king detained Steinar to celebrate his victory over Rian and insisted I join them. Did you see the fight?”

“I did not, but Catrìona told me of it. She is very grateful for his defending Niall. She did not say it, but I think she worries about Steinar’s joining the king’s guard. She cares for your friend, you know.”

“And he for her.”

“Will you go to Northumbria? Catrìona said the king intends you and Steinar both go.”

“I was always to go, but now I shall have Steinar with me.” Glimpsing the sadness in her eyes, he took her small hands in his. “Will you worry for me while I am gone?”

“I will not!” she said too quickly and tried to pull away.

He held on to her hands, bringing her knuckles to his lips. She turned her head to face him, blushing as he kissed her fingers. “I think you will,” he said with a grin. Letting go of her hands, he put his arm around her and drew her close. “Have no fear, my blue-eyed lass from Atholl, I shall return to you.”

“You tease me,” she said, but did not move from his embrace.

“That is only because you are so serious. ’Tis a good balance you are for me, for I am ever one to play.” Then he kissed her again. When the kiss ended, he said, “I will miss seeing your face each day.”

“Aye, and I will miss you,” she said with a pretty blush in her cheeks.

“I would have a token from you, Fia, one of your ribands to carry with me, one that is blue like your eyes.” Many women had given him such tokens over the years but only this one was important. Only this one would he carry next to his heart.

“Aye,” she said smiling, apparently delighted at his request. “I will bring it to the evening meal.”

“We have but a little time now. You asked before about my home in Gwynedd. I will tell you about it and you can tell me about Atholl. I have seen much of England but little of Scotland and I would know more of this land that gave birth to you.”

And so he sat next to her and spoke of the land of his birth. “’Tis a beautiful place, Gwynedd is, with mountains and—as you would call them—lochs. My home lies in the west, not so different from Scotland in appearance. You would like it.”

She turned her face away. “I will never see it.”

“Mayhap you will one day. Now tell me of Atholl.”

As he listened to her description of her home, he did not tell her all that was in his heart. She was everything he wanted in a woman, in a wife. But to her, he was only a bard and an archer, not one who could claim a mormaer’s daughter. He admired her courage in loving a man who was beneath her station. She did not yet know he was more than a bard, more than a warrior. But one day she would.

When she had finished telling him of Dunkeld and Atholl, she faced him, her blue eyes pleading. “Oh, Rhodri, promise me you will be careful in Northumbria.”

“I am always careful, my love. Besides, I have one hundred archers under my command, many with longbows like mine. Once we let our volley of arrows fly, we seek cover in the trees to send more arrows into our enemies.”

“Is that why you always wear green and brown?”

“Aye, to blend with the forest and the land. ’Tis the manner of Welshmen who are skilled with the bow.”

“Does Niall go with you?”

“He does, and most willingly. ’Twill be his first time in battle.”

“Cat will worry.”

“You must assure her I will see Niall safely home. He will be at my side and never away from my protection. I will guard him well.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “Oh, Rhodri, what is to become of us?”

He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Have no worry for the future, my Fia. Trust me to have guard over that as well.”

***

Early the next morning, before the sun had made an appearance, Catrìona joined the queen and her ladies in the chapel to pray for Malcolm and his men. Her conversations with Fia had convinced her that her cousin worried for the bard who would lead the king’s archers into battle. Catrìona was concerned for Steinar and the limp that always told her he was weary. Niall, too, would go and she feared for him, as well. She could not lose her brother.

Kneeling, she said her prayers in Latin but the rote words did not echo the cry of her heart. Kings went out to war with little thought for the women they left behind. A woman’s only weapon was prayer. But she had learned from Margaret, it was a mighty weapon.

Oh God, please bring them safely back to me .

The mood, as they broke their fast that morning, was somber. Even Giric was subdued as he stared at the men eating in their mail-clad tunics with swords and knives belted at their waists.

The men, eager to ride, were noisy in their leaving as they pushed back the benches, speaking of the coming raid and headed for the door. Catrìona watched them pass, ignoring their interested gazes. More of Malcolm’s men had begun to notice her now that Domnall openly paid court to Isla.

As the men flowed out the door, she spotted Steinar standing to the side, talking with one of the men. When he was alone, she came to stand before him. He had plaited the hair on either side of his face keeping the hair from his eyes. He wore mail and belted at his waist was a sword, marks of his new position as a king’s guard.

“Catrìona,” he said, looking glad to see her.

His unusual eyes drew her into their depths and suddenly it was hard to breathe. “I… I have yet to thank you for what you did for my brother.”

“Niall came to Giric’s rescue and I came to aid Niall. I only did what needed being done. I do not think Rian will bother him or the boy again.”

“You have my gratitude.” And more. “I have never seen any man better with a sword.”

“I grow stronger.”

“But you will be careful now that you serve as one of the king’s guards?” She could not bring herself to admit he was going to Northumbria to raid even though she perceived well enough the king’s intent.

“I will.”

“And I will pray for your safe return.”

He smiled at her words. “I am grateful, my lady, and I would ask a favor.”

“Anything,” she said.

“Your cousin has given Rhodri one of her ribands to take with him, a simple token from a queen’s lady. Might I beg one of yours?”

It was the gesture of a woman who held a tendre for a warrior to give him a token of her affection. She knew Fia had a fondness for the bard and Catrìona certainly harbored a tendre for Steinar, though she had never told him of her feelings. Still, she did not stop to consider. She would not deny the request of a man riding off to battle, mayhap to his death.

Without hesitating, she pulled an emerald silk riband from her plait and handed it to him. “To remind you that I will pray for your safe return.”

He pressed the silk to his lips, then tucked it beneath his mail. “I shall carry it next to my heart, my lady.” He bowed and followed the other warriors out of the hall.

She watched him go through the door. He takes my heart with him .

As the last of the men left the tower, with a feeling of resignation sitting heavy on her chest, she followed. Just outside, the sun was making its appearance, silhouetting the men against the gold-tinged sky.

Catrìona went to stand beside Fia, who stood in front of the tower with the other women watching the warriors mounting their horses, their shields and helms fixed to their saddles.

At the head of the column, King Malcolm sat proudly on his white charger. Beside him was Duff, Mormaer of Fife, on his chestnut-colored courser. Two battle-hardened warriors setting off again. Audra had told them her father’s place as leader of the king’s army was a privilege granted for Duff’s loyalty during the time Malcolm fought for his crown.

Steinar rode a fine black horse, a stallion strong of bone with a deep chest and long mane. She had never seen him clad in mail and mounted on a horse. Her heart ached seeing him depart with Malcolm’s warriors, heavily armed for war. But Steinar’s expression told her he was pleased to be among them.

Giric appeared beside her and slipped his small hand in hers. “Be he all right?”

She heard the tremble in his young voice and knew of whom he spoke for he and Steinar had formed a bond. “Aye, he will,” she said, assuring him as she did herself. He must return .

Fia’s gaze followed the bard, riding in front of the archers. Still holding Giric’s hand, Catrìona put her other arm around Fia. “They will return, for the queen prays for them and her prayers are surely of great effect.”

Then, spotting Niall behind Rhodri, Catrìona silently prayed for her brother. This was the first time he rode into battle and, though Fia had assured her Rhodri would protect him, Catrìona could only see his youth. God had spared him once. She prayed He would spare Niall again.

Margaret stood next to her ladies in the chill of the early morning, one hand raised in farewell to her husband, the other resting on her belly swollen with Malcolm’s child. The queen’s face bore a look of pain. How many times, Catrìona wondered, had Margaret sent the king off to battle? How many times had she waited for him to return?

After the line of men disappeared down the road, Giric raced off, saying he would follow them as they rode through the village.

Catrìona and Fia turned toward the hall. Angus was standing just outside the door. He wore no mail.

“You did not go,” she said, suddenly happy that her beloved guard’s life would not be risked in this venture.

“Nay, the king asked fer those willing to stay behind as guards and I stepped forward. ’Tis not Normans I want to be killing, milady, ’tis Northmen.”

“It comforts me, dear Angus, to know you remain.”

He bowed and opened the tower door for her and Fia.

In the hall, Domnall came to bid her a hasty goodbye. She could tell he wanted to say more but Isla approached to claim his arm, giving Catrìona a smug smile. Catrìona watched them as they slipped through the open door together, surprised that she felt no regret.

Domnall would leave Dunfermline today, bound for Isla’s home in Ayrshire. While he rode west, the king and his men would ride south, first to Lothian and then to Northumbria. Catrìona tried not to imagine the raid. Instead, she set her mind to the new task the queen had given her. There would be much to do if Margaret was to have her ferry and inn ready for the pilgrims before winter.

She would try not to think of Steinar facing the Norman swords. Instead, she hoped her riband kept her in his thoughts for he would surely be in her prayers.

***

Northumbria

Steinar pulled off his helm and wiped the blood from his mail, then accepted the flask of wine Rhodri offered him. Taking a long draw, he swept his sleeve over his mouth. “Much appreciated,” he said, handing the flask back to Rhodri. “Fighting gives me an awful thirst.”

Rhodri returned the flask to his satchel and extended his palms to the fire around which Malcolm’s men had pitched their tents. “I do not think the king expected the fighting to last most of the day.”

“There were Normans among the Northumbrians,” Steinar observed, “trained knights William has placed in the north. Their involvement extended the fight. I took great pleasure in seeing to the end of some.” He felt drained by the long battle and his leg ached. Seeing the log rolled near the fire, he sank onto it. The heat of the blaze chased away the chill. Riding into Northumbria had affected him more than he had expected. It was not Talisand, which lay to the west, but it was more of England than he had seen in three years.

Rhodri joined him on the log and pulled his quiver into his lap, inspecting his remaining arrows. “’Twas a wet, dismal day for July,” he observed. “The dampness caused my arrows to drop low.”

Mist crept along the ground, hiding Steinar’s view of the River Tweed. The hills in the distance were shrouded in clouds. He looked at the leather straps crossing his hosen. “I wear as much mud as I do blood.” He brushed the dirt and dried mud from his legs.

Steinar thought back over the king’s raiding campaign. To his relief, the summer weather had held as they rode south into Lothian, gathering more of Maerleswein’s men. Thankfully, Rian had given them no more trouble after the king’s scolding.

Once they arrived in Northumbria, the weather had turned foul.

Despite the rain, Malcolm happily took his revenge for the Conqueror’s intrusions into Cumbria. Steinar knew from past messages he had composed for Malcolm that the king considered Cumbria and parts of Northumbria to be his.

“Where is Niall?” Steinar asked Rhodri.

His friend tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Seeing to his horse.”

“How did he fare today?”

“He did well. There was no time to fashion him a new longbow so I have given him one of mine. As far as I could tell the arrows he launched hit true.”

“All to the good. We would both incur his sister’s wrath if he were wounded,” said Steinar.

“’Tis not only her brother the redhead has a care for and well you know it. The Rose of Dunfermline favors you.”

“Ah, that name. I had forgotten.”

A group of young male servants came by just then, pushing a cart piled with muddy mail, shields and leather gambesons. “Can we clean yer armor for ye, sir?”

Aching in every muscle, Steinar rose stiffly and pulled off his mail, handing it to the servant. The green riband Catrìona had given him fell to the ground. He quickly snatched it up, stuffing the silk into his tunic, but not before Rhodri had noticed.

“Ho! You carry the lady’s favor. The redhead was wearing ribands that color when we broke our fast.”

“’Twas your idea but it seemed a good one. By her own words, ’tis a reminder she prays for me. Mayhap her prayers will bring me success.”

Rhodri tossed Steinar a knowing smile. The bard did not miss much, but was friend enough to say no more about Steinar’s fondness for the queen’s lady.

He returned to his seat on the log. His leg throbbing, he kneaded the muscles before they cramped up on him.

“How much longer do you think we will remain here?” Rhodri asked.

“The king took much plunder today, but he will not turn the men toward home until he has prodded the backside of William’s man at Alnwick.”

“Gilbert de Tesson?”

“Nay, his son, another William,” said Steinar. “Colbán told me Gilbert’s son retained the land and the title after his father died at Senlac Hill. Now the son has erected one of those timber castles overlooking the River Aln.”

“Like the one at Talisand?” Rhodri asked.

“Aye.” Steinar did not like to think of the timber castle that now stood over what had been his home, but he comforted himself with the knowledge his sister, Serena, had found a new life there. “The Norman Conqueror insists on his castles wherever he perceives a threat. Maerleswein told me there are now two in York. ”

Soon, more of Malcolm’s men straggled in to warm themselves by the fire and speak of the day’s events. They had lost only three, Coinín, Tòmas and Gillis, all good men. But others were wounded, keeping busy the king’s physic and the healers who aided him.

As weary as he was, Steinar knew this had been only a skirmish. The battle looming ahead—an attack on a wooden fortress full of Norman knights—would be different.

***

The next morning Steinar left Rhodri and Niall where they sat wrapping linen strips around the tips of their arrows and, donning his helm, urged Artair toward the place where the warriors were gathering.

Colbán rode up to him on his dun-colored horse. “The king has requested you ride at his back, Scribe.”

Steinar nodded and turned his horse toward the front of the column. That the captain of the guard addressed him as “Scribe” did not rankle. Since the fight with Rian, the men spoke the byname with respect, even acceptance, and it pleased him to have gained a place among them. He might have lost the status of a thegn’s son, but at least he could again count himself a warrior. For too long, the only marks on his hands had been the stains of ink. He was glad his hands now bore calluses from his sword.

Wending his way through the confusion of men and horses, Steinar pulled up behind Malcolm on his white charger. He looked every bit the king, his broad shoulders filling out his mail and his thick dark hair resplendent beneath his gold-crowned helm. Duff rode beside Malcolm, leading the army, his bushy brows showing beneath the edge of his helm.

The king welcomed him with a nod over his shoulder. “We ride to Alnwick to poke at the pride of the Norman Bastard who calls himself the Conqueror. ’Tis a task you should relish, Scribe.”

Steinar smiled. “I do.”

***

“Catrìona!” called Audra from the tower’s open door. “You are wanted by the queen. ”

Catrìona left Giric with his dog in front of the tower and ducked back inside the hall. Once there, she went to where Audra stood with the queen next to the hearth. As soon as she glimpsed the queen’s face, Catrìona perceived something was gravely amiss. “What is it?”

Facing her two ladies, Margaret said, “I want you to come with me to the cave to pray. Malcolm is in terrible danger. I feel it.”

The queen had often walked with Catrìona in the woods but she had never before asked her to come with her to pray in the cave. “Of course, My Lady.”

Audra nodded her agreement.

They did not even stop to get their cloaks but followed Margaret out of the tower and down the path that led to the cave where, it was said, the queen did her most serious praying.

With so many men gone, the banter and rough speech around the tower were absent, but as they entered the forest, the canopy above them teemed with life. The distinct “kaah” of rooks pierced the air. She looked up to see the black birds with their pale beaks occupying the trees above them.

Margaret, just ahead of her, appeared to falter. Catrìona reached out to support the queen’s elbow. “Is it the babe, My Lady?”

“Nay. I just need to rest for a moment.”

Catrìona helped her to sit on a rock outcropping. “My Lady, should we turn back?”

The queen’s chest heaved and her brow furrowed. Catrìona exchanged a worried glance with Audra. They were both concerned.

“I will be fine,” said the queen. “I prefer to go to the cave where no sounds distract. Fear for the king grows more insistent within me. He rides into danger this day, I am certain.”

“You should eat, My Lady,” Audra urged.

Catrìona remembered when the queen and her ladies had broken their fast that morning, Margaret had eaten nothing.

“I will,” Margaret assured Audra, “as soon as I have prayed. Now, help me up so that we may reach our destination. Time is short.”

Catrìona did not ask the queen how she came by the knowledge the king was in danger and time was short. Mayhap God had called her to pray for her husband. “Yea, My Lady,” was all she said as she wrapped one arm around the queen’s waist and, together with Audra, lifted her to stand. Catrìona did not let go, but steadied the queen as they continued on their way.

Shortly, the path dipped and finally ended in a small clearing in front of the opening to a cave. Margaret did not hesitate but entered the wide dark cleft, Catrìona beside her.

Once inside, Audra lit a candle. The cave was long and narrow. Margaret seemed steadier on her feet now and stepped away from Catrìona. The air was cool. Mayhap it revived her.

Margaret managed to kneel at the makeshift altar of stone. Catrìona and Audra on each side of her joined the queen in prayer.

Whatever Margaret feared for her husband must have been very real because her whispered prayers had an urgent, pleading tone.

The ground was cold and hard beneath Catrìona’s knees as she, too, prayed for the king, reciting the Latin prayers she had come to know. Then she prayed for Niall. When she finished praying for her younger brother, she had a sudden urge to pray for Steinar. If the king were in danger, so might be the scribe, for he now rode with the king’s guard. With a fervor brought on by her own fears, she bent her head to pray once again, this time for the man who held her riband and mayhap her heart.

It was a long time before the queen lifted her head and Catrìona and Audra helped her to rise.

“It is done,” said Margaret, her expression no longer clouded with fear. “The king is in God’s hands.”