by Tamara Leigh
When one after the other passed through the door, Marguerite could not know whether they turned right toward the training yard or left to the glen, but after settling on the lowermost step to await Theriot’s reappearance, she heard metal beating metal.
A good thing. Not only would it provide Hendrie practice, but allow Edgar to release some anger.
When Theriot exited the stable, once more Dubh was at his side. As they moved toward the hut, the hound’s eyes landed on Marguerite, and she faltered as if caught doing something wrong.
Theriot halted. When he turned his head toward the tower, she looked upon a face framed by lengthening hair and a jaw covered by a fairly thick beard.
What did he see? Had there been improvement in his sight this past month? She pushed upright. Taking a step to the side, she watched for a change of expression or movement of the head to indicate he saw. If he did, it did not show.
He said something to Dubh, and the dog ran forward.
Then Theriot had seen her and commanded the hound to her mistress? Or did he merely send her back to the tower?
As he resumed his stride that was now less fluid, the dog stopped short of Marguerite, gave what sounded a joyful bark, and peered across her shoulder at the one whose company she preferred.
When Theriot disappeared around the side of the hut, Dubh looked to Marguerite like a child did its mother in the hope of being granted more play time.
She patted the scruffy head. “Go, Dubh. Give aid I cannot.”
The hound loped opposite.
Not wasted emotion, Marguerite told herself. Kindness and consideration due him.
As she started up the steps, she was struck by a thought. Would Malcolm allow it? She smiled. Why not? He had to know Dubh spent more time in Theriot’s company than hers. Hoping the king would grant her an audience, she hastened up the steps.
It was time. This eve he would dine with a king not his own.
Though Theriot had declined every invitation, not the one delivered this day with tidings that until this prisoner departed Dunfermline, the hound known as Dubh would go where he went. It was worded to sound as if meant to ensure Theriot respected his boundaries, but it had to be of Marguerite’s doing.
Though this past month there was only minor improvement in his vision, his unnatural sense continued to sharpen and this day alerted him he was watched in a way not merely of the curious nor hostile, though that he had also felt when he crossed to the stable.
It was not the first time he sensed Marguerite in the bailey, but previously he had ignored her. However, when Dubh reacted to what Theriot thought her presence, he had determined to verify it was her and commanded the dog to go to the one he named.
The black of Dubh had raced toward the figure near the tower, and the victorious bark told she had found her mistress.
Satisfied, Theriot had returned to the hut. Then came scratching at the door. Marguerite had sent Dubh back. Continuing to waver between offense at what he believed pity and gratitude for the hound’s instinctual attentiveness that allowed him to move more easily through a world still far from seen, Theriot determined he would regard the lady’s offering not as an insult but a gift.
Straightening the tunic earlier washed in a basin and dried before the fire, he turned from the sideboard. “We go.”
Dubh bounded upright, but Theriot hesitated. Having earned the grudging respect of many of Malcolm’s men for his seemingly impossible victory over one of the warriors who attacked him and the king in the glen, he should be fairly well received in the hall, but that would not save him from humiliation. He could make sense of the shapes and colors of food and had practiced eating with utensils to ensure he was not reduced to groping, but if light did not fall right on what was set before him…
He ground his teeth. It was loathsome he must be so mindful of feeding the body that protection afforded by closely attending to his surroundings was lost, but that was what he was reduced to. God willing, it would not always be thus, that just as prayers were being answered for his unnatural sense, more greatly they would be answered for his sight.
He lowered his lids. “Almighty, I thank You for giving me hope You will make all things right by daily strengthening the extra sense gifted me. But the days count higher, and still I am mostly blind. If You will make me whole again, I will be more faithful. I will—”
The words spoken aloud emphasizing how pitiful his attempt to strike a bargain, he opened eyes of little benefit to him. Holy men and his sire said God could not be cajoled into answering requests in a manner of which only the beseecher approved and that whatever answer was given, it would be best for all. But if Theriot’s prayers were to be answered with a shake of the head rather than a nod, how would that benefit any but the enemy were he to move with much caution throughout the remainder of his life?
It was not the first time he pondered that, nor considered were God unwilling to heal him it would be because of delayed punishment for the injustice of the conquest in which he had participated. And there was another thing to consider—that Hugh was right in believing God was not active in the lives of His creation, that ever Theriot was merely a recipient of good fortune now come to a painful end.
Feeling himself lean that direction as if preferable his prayers were unheard rather than denied, he moved his thoughts to the princess who occasionally visited. Despite the temptation to discuss his doubts with one of great faith, he had not. Thus, she had prayed for his eyes to be healed and asked that if God chose otherwise, He aid Theriot in remembering all his blessings and accepting his loss by finding good in it and making better of it.
Ever that last was received with resentment, but if that was to be his fate, even greater his need for God’s aid.
Though the bell had rung to gather all for the evening meal, and further delay would make it impossible to slip into the hall among the masses, he crossed to the bed and lowered.
He thanked God for easing his anger, decreasing his sensitivity to light, returning shapes and colors to his eyes, and continuing to restore the unnatural sense that was his greatest hope of survival if functional vision were permanently lost.
“Pray not,” he entreated. “Let it be Your will I see again, but if You deny me…” He breathed deep. “Help me accept it, find good in it, and make better of it.” Then he added what the princess had not. “And let me burden none. Amen.”
Beneath a sky darkened by night and clouds beginning to spit rain, he and Dubh began the short walk to the tower. Not until he was halfway up the treacherous steps did he realize he had left something behind.
The shard he should have secured to his leg remained on the sideboard where he had set it while tending to his ablutions. Were his sight not impaired, he would have seen it.
Loathing the necessity of being unduly conscious of where he placed items and remembering he had done so, he considered retrieving it, but already he came late. And too great the desire to turn back and forego what would surely be his most challenging exercise in humility. Thus far.
Chapter Nineteen
Not until Princess Margaret of England agreed to become Queen of Scots had the blessing of the meal been of such duration. It frustrated many, especially warriors eager to ease their hunger, but Malcolm controlled grumbling by having drink flow beforehand and the meal delivered immediately following the blessing so it not grow cold.
As viands were carried through a side door, their scents vying with those of light rain come through windows and burning wood warming the hall, Marguerite glanced at Princess Cristina seated on one side of her and Colban the other.
Grateful the former remained at prayer, the latter engaged in conversation with an envoy of the Highlanders, she moved her regard to the western wall and stared at what had been concealed behind a tapestry upon her return to Dunfermline.
After her nearly disastrous visit to the graveyard, she had asked about her parents’ headstone and been told the princess aided Malcolm in composing the word
s engraved there. Then the king had brought her here and removed a tapestry so worn it was a poor fit among the beautiful ones hung during Marguerite’s absence. Seeing the original headstone was fixed to the wall with Diarmad the Mad’s shield and crossed swords on either side of it, she had embraced Malcolm and wept.
Now, so intent was she on the tribute, she became aware of a shift in the air only when Colban said, “I did not think he would come. But then, neither did I expect the king to issue an invitation.”
The envoy grunted. “The princess’s influence over Malcolm is troublesome. Does she have her way, she will make a saint of him when it is a warrior king Scotland needs, and more than ever with William eyeing our country.”
That last barely heard, Marguerite swept her gaze past diners whose interest was divided between the hunger of empty bellies and the starvation of dull minds. Theriot had come.
“Chevalier!” Malcolm called, causing Cristina to snap up her head and the chevalier and hound to halt in the aisle between crowded tables. “I began to think you changed your mind. Well come to my hall.”
Theriot inclined his head. As he waited to be directed to his place, Meg leaned toward the king. When he nodded at whatever she said, the princess stood and descended the dais.
Not all present fell silent, but enough none had to strain to catch her words. “You shall sit at high table with us, Sir Theriot of the family D’Argent.” Amid gasps and murmurings, she looped an arm through his and drew him forward.
As they neared the dais, Marguerite ceased breathing for fear he would place a foot wrong, but the princess said something as she and Dubh slowed and Theriot took the step up and strode past esteemed guests and retainers.
Many would think it unseemly a prisoner was afforded such honor, but none would protest in the king’s hearing—perhaps not even Edgar were he present. Since being denied the reach of lands beyond Dunfermline, it was rare the prince dined here, but his men were in attendance. And then there was Hendrie.
Marguerite searched out the warrior who usually preferred the company of the garrison at the lower tables. Having been relieved of his watch over Edgar, he was among them, eyes upon Theriot.
Just past Marguerite, Meg halted. “A place will be made for you between Princess Cristina and my betrothed’s ward.”
Marguerite’s startle did not compare to that of the woman beside her. As if anticipating her sister’s protest, Meg leaned near and whispered, “Christian charity.”
Cristina huffed and shifted to the side the same as Marguerite.
“Intolerable,” the envoy muttered as his future queen returned to Malcolm’s side.
Marguerite expected Colban to agree. He did not, though surely he disapproved of Theriot sitting above others, and all the more since he had to know her feelings for this Norman were among the reasons she resisted his attentions.
“Princess Cristina, Lady Marguerite,” Theriot acknowledged and stepped to the bench. His shin touched the edge as if gauging the height, then he lifted one leg over and the other.
As he settled, the brush of his arm caused Marguerite to catch her breath at the same moment Dubh jolted the bench in her haste to crawl beneath.
“Mercy!” Cristina hissed. “’Tis unseemly dogs of all breeds are allowed at table.”
Marguerite looked past Theriot. From the woman’s narrowed eyes, it was obvious her words were not directed at Dubh alone. Too, she had spoken in Norman-French which she detested. Did Theriot know she referred to one other than the animal between his and her mistress’s calves?
Beneath the table, Theriot splayed his hands, above it ground his teeth. Though the princess offended, he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing he was aware she spoke of him, with which her brother would agree were he present.
Grateful to Malcolm’s betrothed for mentioning Edgar was unlikely to join them at meal, he decided to behave in a manner opposite what was expected of him.
Feeling Dubh’s wet nose against his hand, determinedly ignoring Marguerite, he looked to one of brown hair and yellow gown. “You are kind to allow this Norman to dine with you, Princess,” he said in her language to ensure she understood as she wished him to understand.
She turned her face to him. “Christian charity, even for the enemy.”
“Much appreciated, though were you unable to extend it, I would understand.”
“How?”
“As a vassal of the Duke of Normandy, I fought the side of he who dispossessed your family and is now King of England.”
“King! That vile, misbegotten—” She bit back what he guessed ungodly words.
“Great the blessing your family not only found sanctuary in Scotland, but a home at Malcolm’s court,” Theriot said.
She harrumphed, then surprised by leaning near. “The price is my sister who did not wish to wed, and certainly not to a man as unrefined as her betrothed. As for this court, you must agree we live well below the standards to which our royal persons are accustomed—or you would if you could look upon it.”
Theriot shifted his jaw. “It is a changed world for all. I am sorry for your discomfort.”
“Sorry? Your people are the victors, mine…” She drew a sharp breath. “Much the Normans have ill-used us.”
“So they have.”
It felt she searched his face for something to give her cause to turn her back on him, then she said, “It is of credit to your blood you are not blind to our suffering, Sir Theriot.”
This time he did not believe her choice of words deliberate and further proof was given when she touched his arm. It seemed still he possessed the skill of charming ladies, and more easy that since he had not needed to feign sincerity.
He cleared his throat. “One does not have to see well to know of the injustice done your people.”
“I am tempted to thank you, Sir Theriot.”
Then much progress made in a short time with one who equated him with a dog of poor breeding.
Movement alerting him to the approach of someone on the opposite side of the table, he watched the shadow halt before him, listened to liquid streaming into a vessel, smelled the mist of wine.
Pleased his thirst was not overlooked, he shifted his clouded gaze to where he would find his drink. When the servant departed, he saw a grey so uniform in length, he knew it for a cup rather than goblet.
Feigning ignorance, he said, “Tell, Princess Cristina, is my drink wine or ale?”
“Wine, regrettably of low quality. As told, we live below what is due us.”
Setting a hand on the linen-covered top, once more he eschewed pride and requested what he need not, “Will you do me the kindness of moving the vessel to my fingers?”
On one side of him, he heard Marguerite catch her breath, on the other side sensed hesitation. Then the princess leaned near and slid the cup’s base against his fingertips. “Kindness done.”
“I thank you.” He curved his hand around it and, though he thirsted, drank slowly to ensure no misplaced drop.
“Is it true all those of D’Argent blood and few years have black hair marked by silver?” she asked.
He lowered the cup. “Even the youngest of my siblings—my sister, Nicola.”
Her groan was sympathetic. “I suppose it is attractive in a young man for how it draws the eye and piques curiosity, but a woman? Woe unto your sister she shall appear old long before her time.”
“Not so, Princess. So much she resembles our lovely mother whom age naturally silvers, Nicola could be entirely silvered and still as comely as any woman half her age.”
She laughed. “Careful lest you make me envious of her.”
Could he see Cristina well, here would be the place to compliment her appearance. Though determined to learn more of her beyond her face and body, before he could move that direction, servants began delivering individual plates surely filled at sideboards.
Theriot was unaccustomed to eating in this manner, but though denied the opportunity to choose what appeale
d, there was advantage in not fumbling over the passing of platters.
Might Malcolm’s betrothed have arranged it for him? Possible if not for the absence of expressions of surprise. Likely this was how it was done here.
When a plate was set before the princess, next him, he was pleased torch and candlelight made known the shapes and some colors of the viands.
Cristina leaned in again and pushed the rim of his plate against his thumb near the cup. “By your left hand is bread, on the right chunks of cheese, at the top a very small apple sure to be tart.” She shuddered. “And at the bottom sliced venison.”
Glad to know exactly what he was seeing—more, that all were acceptable to carry to the lips without spoon or knife, he turned to her as a low rumble of thunder sounded across the heavens. “You are kind.”
“Christian charity,” she said, slightly breathless.
A short while later, he became aware of a shift in conversations and the lowering of voices. Something of note had happened, and from the tension Marguerite exuded, knew it bothered her as much as Cristina. “What is it, Princess?”
For answer, she scooted nearer the person on her other side.
“He did not linger,” mused a Scotsman several places beyond Marguerite.
Someone snorted. “Methinks none informed him who would be sitting at high table. First, she who is to be queen betrays, now she who is to be a nun.”
They spoke of Edgar. Though he was not expected in the hall, he had come. And gone.
Theriot settled into his meal. He could have cleared his plate quickly, but he was loath to reveal how improved his vision, pitiful though it was compared to what it should be.
As rain began falling enthusiastically, its mist entering through open windows, his awareness of Marguerite increased when she began feeding Dubh beneath the table.
Theriot turned to her. “You are without appetite?”
“My hunger is satisfied. I but pass the remains to my hound.”
He inclined his head. “I believe I have you to thank for the use of Dubh.”
