by Regan Walker
Matad dipped his head in acknowledgement before turning his attention to the bard, who bowed to the king and queen and took his place on a stool.
The bard wore a tunic of dark green over brown hosen, his clothing plain but well fitted. He plucked the strings of his harp and ethereal notes filled the hall. The bard’s head of ebony curls cascaded over his face as he bent his head over the instrument, his long fingers working their magic.
“The Welsh bard is well favored, is he not?” Fia whispered into Catrìona’s ear.
She turned toward her cousin to see Fia staring at the bard, transfixed. “Aye, I suppose…” He was handsome in a boyish way, she silently conceded, his features finely carved. Were it not for his close-cropped beard and slight mustache, she might have thought him pretty.
The enchanting music continued, lilting into the air, instilling a peace in Catrìona’s soul still damaged from the events in the vale.
“He first sings in the Welsh tongue,” the king said to her uncle, “but then he will change to Gaelic.”
As the bard began to sing, a hush came over the hall. His dark eyes alighted on Fia and he fell silent, pausing in his song while his fingers continued to pluck the strings. The bard and Fia locked gazes for a moment before the Welshman dropped his head to focus on his harp.
Catrìona knew bards to be charmers but she would not have believed one could be so bold as to flirt with Fia in front of her father. Catrìona sneaked a glance at her uncle but he did not appear to have noticed what transpired between his daughter and the bard.
A moment later, the Welshman lifted his head and began singing in Gaelic. The song told of a young heir to the throne denied his rightful place and a brave warrior’s stance against the Norman Conqueror who had seized lands that were not his. From her father, Catrìona had heard King Malcolm’s story, how, from his youth, he had wanted the throne of his father, Duncan. But that throne had been denied him. As she listened, she wondered, did the bard sing of Malcolm or the queen’s brother, Edgar?
The song ended and the bard began to tell a story. His deep voice wove a tale of ancient Cymru, land of the mists, where one Rhodri ap Merfyn, called “the great”, defeated the pagans who stormed the shores of Gwynedd from their dragon ships in search of plunder. The bard sang of the fierce battle and the Welsh victory that turned the pagans back.
Listening to the bard’s story, Catrìona’s mind filled with images from that horrible day when the life she had known had been so viciously torn from her. She saw the Northmen storming ashore, her father’s lifeless body, the knife just out of reach of her mother’s hand and the young women dragged away.
Her heart sped and her brow grew damp. Unconsciously, she closed her eyes, clenching her fists, bidding the terrifying scenes to go away.
Fia must have sensed her distress for she reached out her hand and placed it over Catrìona’s, squeezing gently.
Grateful for the comforting gesture, Catrìona smiled her thanks and forced her heart to calm, letting out the breath she had been holding.
The bard’s story ended and he stood and bowed to the king and queen, receiving praise from all. Setting his harp on a cushion placed to one side, he returned to his seat beside the blond warrior who had stared at Catrìona earlier. Mayhap the two are friends.
Margaret rose and turned to the king. “With your leave, My Lord, my ladies and I will retire and find our beds.”
Malcolm took his wife’s hand, kissed it and pulled her down to whisper something in her ear. Margaret blushed, pulled her hand back and, without a word, turned to walk gracefully from the dais.
Matad shot a look at Fia and Catrìona, a signal they should depart with the queen. Exhausted after the day’s travel, Catrìona was only too happy to comply. She had a feeling that once the queen was gone from the hall, the atmosphere would degenerate to a masculine swagger of ribald jests from too much wine.
Rising from her seat, Catrìona bid Edgar good eve and stepped from the dais, Fia just behind her. She tossed Domnall a look of regret as she passed him and then hurried after the queen, joining the other ladies trailing after Margaret like cygnets after a swan.
She felt Domnall’s gaze following her as she and the ladies crossed the hall. When she reached the stairs, Catrìona looked back, seeing many heads turned in their direction. Among the men whose eyes flickered with interest were the blond warrior and the Welsh bard.
* * *
Domnall’s gaze never left Catrìona as she and her cousin followed the queen from the hall, her long auburn plaits hanging below her narrow waist. A fetching woman, but not as attractive to him as she had once been now that she was without her rich dowry and her father’s lucrative trade with Leinster.
In his message telling her he would be at Malcolm’s court, he had not mentioned that his grandsire, the King of Leinster, had recently died.
There would be more than one man in Ireland who desired to reign in his grandsire’s stead and Domnall was one of them.
No longer could he afford to seek the hand of the woman who made him the envy of other men. Now he must marry for wealth and position. But that did not end his lust for the comely redhead. He still wanted Catrìona in his bed.
CHAPTER 3
The door of their bedchamber suddenly opened, jarring Catrìona from sleep.
“Arise! The queen departs!” a raspy voice shouted.
Catrìona heard the command in her mind, instantly aware the harsh voice was not Fia’s. Since the attack on the vale, Catrìona slept lightly. A whisper could bring her awake, but the servant who had hissed the command could not know that. “I am awake,” Catrìona mumbled, knowing Fia was not, for her cousin slept like a rock.
The door thumped closed. She opened her eyes and sat up in bed. Darkness surrounded her, the only light in the chamber a soft glow from the brazier’s banked fire. Edgar’s warning had not been an idle threat. They were summoned before first light to pray.
God must be fond of the dark.
She fumbled on the small bedside table to find the candle, knocking it over at her first try. Finding it with her fingers, she righted the small tallow column in its stand. Once she was certain the flame had caught, she turned to see her cousin still asleep.
“Fia! Wake up. Else we will be late for the queen. One of the servants already shouted as much.”
Fia groaned and tried to cover her face.
Catrìona pushed herself off the bed and crossed the few feet to her cousin, shaking Fia’s shoulder. “Hurry. ’Twill get easier once we are used to the unholy hour.” The irony of praying at an “unholy” hour made her smile.
Leaving her cousin, she reached for the water in the bowl on the side table and splashed it onto her face. The cold water brought her alert as the servant’s shout had not. She dried her face and lifted the clothes she would wear today from the peg where she had hung them the night before.
Slipping her gown over her linen undertunic, she darted a glance at Fia, who, she was pleased to see, was finally stumbling out of bed.
As quickly as they could, they made themselves presentable, donned their cloaks and descended the stairs to the hall. Torches set in sconces along the walls lighted the large space and a fire blazed in the hearth set in the middle of the cavernous room. The servants were obviously well trained to their mistress’ odd habits.
Catrìona stifled a yawn as she spotted one of the queen’s ladies waiting near the front door, a candle in her hand.
“I am Audra,” the woman reminded them. “The queen bid me stay to show you the way to our place of morning prayer.”
Catrìona was tempted to tell the woman it was not yet morning, but she refrained. She was now in the queen’s service and at Margaret’s disposal. Moreover, Audra’s pleasant manner at so early an hour told her that this one might become a friend. “Thank you,” she said.
They passed through the open door, Catrìona and Fia following Audra as she hurried along.
“Where are you taking us?” Catr
ìona asked. In the predawn light, she could see little.
“To the new chapel,” said Audra. “ ’Twas where the king and queen were wed. Margaret had it made larger. Now ’tis a fine place to pray. Some afternoons the queen goes away to a cave to pray alone but in the mornings we attend her here.”
“A queen who prays in a cave like a hermit,” Catrìona mumbled under her breath as she stepped carefully over the rocks and tree roots she felt through her leather shoes.
Fia was having the same trouble making her way and reached for Catrìona’s hand to steady herself.
Eventually, they came to a small building on the other side of the tower. Inside, Catrìona glimpsed the queen on her knees before an altar lit by a single candle. The three other ladies were beside her, their heads bent in prayer.
Audra knelt next to the queen and, not wishing to disturb the queen’s prayers with an apology for being late, Catrìona took her place next to Audra. Fia quickly joined her.
The small chapel was silent except for the women’s whispers as they prayed, the smell of stone and dirt strong, the stillness nearly tangible. It was not unlike the chapel at her home in the vale, only larger.
Catrìona hesitated. Should she say something to God before beginning the ritual Latin prayers? She had not spoken to Him since the day her parents had been killed. When Angus and Niall had laid them in the ground, she had prayed for their souls. But even then, she had questioned how a God who cared about His children could permit something so horrible to happen. How could He allow pagan savages to rampage unchecked and unpunished?
What kind of God lets innocents suffer while evil triumphs?
When she had asked the priest at Dunkeld, he offered only pious platitudes. “We are visitors here on earth, my child. Heaven is our eternal home. Your parents are in a better place now, with the holy saints and angels.” His words brought scant comfort. The Northmen who had murdered her parents and her people still roamed free. The cry for justice burned in her heart like coals stirred to a fierce blaze by her memories.
But now, she served a devout queen, one who apparently lived like a nun when she was not with her husband. Catrìona knew she must find a way to pray. And so she began by reminding God who she was until the absurdity of it gripped her. Of course, He knew who she was. But it was the only way she could think to reestablish some kind of a connection with a God she had dismissed as uncaring.
Unwilling to say the old Latin prayers and unable to find words of her own, she remembered the Psalter.
Domini pascit me… The Lord is my shepherd…
She had only finished the last line, et ut inhabitem in domo Domini in longitudinem dierum. …in God’s house forevermore my dwelling place shall be, when she heard the queen rise.
Even in the faint light, Catrìona could see the face of her mistress shining with an inner light and she felt ashamed of the turmoil within her.
The queen’s ladies stood as one.
Margaret turned to Catrìona and Fia. “ ’Tis your first day among us and so you do not know our practice. We begin each day with prayer. Then we feed the orphans and those in need before breaking our fast.”
“Yea, My Lady,” Catrìona said, bowing her head, hearing the command in the queen’s voice and wondering how they were to feed the orphans. “Please forgive us for being late.”
“As I said, ’tis your first day.”
“If I may ask, My Lady…” began Catrìona. She heard the sudden intake of breath from the other women at her effrontery, but she genuinely wanted to know. “Why do we pray before the sun rises?”
The queen gave her a look as if indulging a young child. “Have you never heard that when it was still dark, our Lord got up and left the house and went away to a secluded place to pray? Before He chose the twelve, He prayed all night. There is much to be gained from His example if we would have our prayers answered.”
“Surely He will answer yours, My Lady,” said Catrìona. “You are so… good.”
“Nay, not good, just a woman.”
The queen turned and left the chapel, her ladies following, leaving Catrìona and her cousin alone.
In the light of the candle, she saw Fia roll her eyes. “Now you are questioning the queen herself?”
“I suppose I am. ’Tis hard to think of a woman who rises in the middle of the night to pray as ‘just a woman’ no matter what she says. But if she is just a woman, surely she can answer another woman’s questions.”
As they left the chapel, dawn made its glorious appearance, lighting the sky in shades of blue and heather. Catrìona paused to admire the colors in the clouds, deep rose with the bright color of foxglove flowers in the center. Below the clouds, the sky was streaked in gold. Mayhap the beauty of the dawn was worth the early rising.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she had eaten little the night before. She whispered to Fia, “I cannot fault the queen for her devotion to God and the orphans, but my stomach objects to so much activity before breaking my fast.”
“The priest would say serving others before ourselves is a virtue,” said Fia.
“Aye,” Catrìona agreed, knowing Fia was right and the queen a model of devotion. “We serve a queen who shames us all.”
They arrived back at the tower and stepped through the door to find the queen and the other ladies standing inside. Wafting through the air was the smell of fresh-baked bread. Catrìona’s mouth watered.
A woman wearing a headcloth and carrying a babe came toward Margaret. Handing the babe to the queen, she said, “Good morning, My Lady.”
Margaret cradled the sleepy child in her arms. “Did Edward sleep well?”
“Yea, My Lady, ’tis a sweet lad ye have.”
Margaret kissed the babe—who Catrìona realized was the queen’s young son—before releasing him back to his nurse.
An older man with gray hair, who had been standing to one side, approached. Catrìona assumed he was the king’s steward.
“My Lady, the orphans await you and your ladies.”
“Thank you, Nechtan,” said the queen.
Audra leaned in to Catrìona and Fia. “Before she takes any food for herself, Margaret will see the orphans fed. They come to the tower door each morning, usually nine or ten of them. ’Tis her way and we do the same.”
Just then, the king stomped down the stairs, his heavy feet sounding like drum beats on the wooden planks. Frustration emanated from his grunts as he struggled to pin a large brooch to his scarlet cloak. His dark hair, thrown back from his face, fell to his shoulders in wild abandon. A golden-handled sword hung in a sheath at his side. A man of great height and presence, his entry drew the attention of all. Catrìona could not help but stare.
Spotting his queen, Malcolm went straight to her.
“ ’Twould seem I am in need of your deft hand, mo cridhe.” He grinned mischievously at his wife.
The queen raised her hands to his shoulder and with efficient movements, secured the brooch to his cloak. The king bestowed a kiss on her cheek. As Margaret turned toward her ladies, Malcolm slapped her affectionately on the bottom before striding toward the door, snapping his fingers at two hounds lying in the corner. The hounds immediately rose from the rushes and followed at their master’s heels as he swept through the door.
Margaret seemed flustered for only a moment, then a smile flickered on her face.
Catrìona felt a stab of envy at having witnessed the exchange. Malcolm had called his wife mo cridhe, my heart, and in his eyes she had seen the adoration he held for Margaret that was whispered of at court. To be loved by such a warrior, to be touched in such an affectionate and possessive way. ’Twas not unlike the love that had existed between her father and her mother. The love she hoped to one day share with Domnall.
The king swung open the door and before it thumped closed, Catrìona heard the king’s men, gathering outside, greeting him in a loud chorus.
She turned her attention back to her mistress. At one of the trestle tables, a grou
p of children stood wearing broad grins and simple tunics of earthen colors. They greeted Margaret with noisy expressions of delight, pulling at the queen’s gown.
“Wait your turn,” Margaret gently reproved one very insistent young boy who could not have been more than four summers in age.
Servants bustled about, setting the table with bowls of gruel and bread. Others poured milk into small cups and set them before each place.
Margaret sat down on a bench in the middle of one table and beckoned a small girl to her. “You first, Bridget.” The child was not shy but came directly to the queen and climbed onto her lap. As Audra had told them, the queen did not eat. Instead, she picked up her own silver spoon and began to feed the girl from a bowl of gruel.
Catrìona and Fia joined the queen’s other ladies as they took their places at the table around Margaret and began to attend the remaining children clamoring to be fed from the bowls set before them.
Looking up at Catrìona and Fia while still feeding the young girl, Margaret said, “I try to give them something a child would like, sweetened with honey and raisins.”
Catrìona nodded her understanding as her rumbling stomach reminded her she was hungry. She was about to point out it was not just children who liked honey and raisins when the queen said, “I am rather fond of them myself.”
Off to the side, Catrìona saw a boy standing by himself and called him to her. Older than the others, he was slight of body, ruddy of complexion with beautiful wide set brown eyes and straight brown hair to his nape.
He came toward her cautiously, wearing a serious expression, mayhap because he did not know her, but she sensed there was more behind his reluctant demeanor. The boy’s being orphaned young and having no one made her all the more grateful for Niall. Without him, she would be as alone as this boy.
When he reached her, she invited him to sit beside her. “My name is Catrìona. How are you called?”
“Giric,” he said crawling onto the bench.
