by Regan Walker
Yea, very fortunate. She raised her hand to her lips, remembering the scribe’s warm lips on hers. It was her first real kiss. She paled at the thought it was not Domnall who had given it to her, but instead, the handsome scribe. Still she would not change what had happened if she could. The kiss had awakened a part of her never stirred before. Was it a sin to have allowed him to kiss her so? To respond as she had?
“I hate to think what Angus would say if he knew.”
She averted her gaze from her cousin, not wanting Fia to see the flush Catrìona could feel rising in her cheeks. “Like you, he would scold.”
“And rightly so.”
Catrìona ran her fingers through her wet hair feeling Fia’s eyes upon her. “How can you be younger than me and still act the older sister?”
“Hmm. Mayhap because I would not be so foolish. You had better get dressed or they will be upbraiding us for being late to the evening meal. Here,” said Fia, picking up a drying cloth. “I’ll help with your hair.”
Fia placed the drying cloth over Catrìona’s head and rubbed vigorously, soaking up much of the remaining water. Catrìona’s thoughts turned to the scribe and the way his eyes had lingered on her lips. When he had drawn her into his warm embrace, she had melted into the heat of his muscular chest. Even through her wet gown she had been very aware of his body touching hers. His strength had surrounded her. She knew she should have pulled away but, excited by his touch, she had allowed his masculine scent and towering height to engulf her. She had not wanted to flee; she had wanted to stay and draw upon his warmth. She had wanted him to kiss her.
How could that be when I am intended for Domnall?
She and Domnall had yet to experience such intimacy, but there was a shared respect between them and the knowledge he was the man her father had chosen. Surely her father had chosen well. She remembered the proud look on his face when he told her Domnall was an Irishman of noble blood worthy of a mormaer’s daughter.
Steinar was only the king’s clerk and an impudent one at that. But when his arms were around her, his station did not seem to matter.
Catrìona handed Fia the drying cloth and shook out her hair, stepping close to the brazier. Once warmed, she donned the crimson velvet gown she had chosen to wear. ’Twas a shade she was fond of that did not war with the color of her hair.
“Will you plait your hair?” asked Fia.
“If you would help me, I would plait only the sides and secure them in the back. The rest of it I would wear free. ’Tis still not entirely dry.”
“That has always been my favorite way you wear it. I imagine Domnall will like it as well. You have such beautiful hair.”
“If you like red…”
“Men do prefer the queen’s coloring, I suppose. Margaret’s flaxen locks are lovely but your hair is unusual. Men notice it.”
Fia’s compliment made Catrìona glad they were friends as well as cousins.
While Fia dressed on her hair, Catrìona recalled her meeting with Domnall and Maerleswein. She had forgotten to tell Fia about Davina’s coming betrothal. “Had you heard that Davina will be leaving the queen’s service to marry?”
“Nay, but then she is not one to speak much. Who is it to be?”
“Maerleswein, the nobleman who was once an English sheriff. Domnall introduced us and Maerleswein told me the king has given him lands in Lothian and Davina for his bride.”
“Do you think she will be pleased?” Fia inquired.
“He is a fine looking man, of noble lineage and seems well mannered. He is older than she might have hoped for, but no doubt a better man than some the king could have chosen.”
“Mayhap he conferred with the queen. Margaret knows her ladies.”
“Whether he did or not, Davina does not seem like one who would object.”
Remembering what Audra had told her when they had first come to Dunfermline, Catrìona said, “I expect there will be a new lady joining us when Davina leaves.”
“Aye, most likely.”
In no time at all, Fia had woven the sides of Catrìona’s hair into two narrow plaits and gathered them to the back of her head to entwine together in one long plait resting on top of her free-flowing tresses. The change in the way she typically wore her hair pleased her.
Once Fia was dressed, they left the chamber for the hall where they would meet the other ladies. Uncle Matad had departed for Atholl the day before, but even before he had gone, she and Fia had joined the queen’s ladies at one of the tables for meals and no longer ate on the dais. Catrìona was glad for the change. Though she missed Edgar’s company, she did not wish to be on display. Sitting with the queen’s ladies allowed her to hide among them, hopefully avoiding the leering eyes of the king’s men.
* * *
Steinar stood next to Rhodri at the bottom of the stairs, swapping stories about their day. Behind them, the hall was already noisy with the crowd gathering for the evening meal. Light from the open shutters spoke of the long summer days that had come to Scotland.
He had not told his friend of his encounter with the auburn-haired tree nymph and her plunge into the burn. He would keep that meeting and the memory of their kiss to himself, delighting in the one thing he had learned: she was not indifferent to him.
As he searched the crowd for the queen’s ladies, Steinar heard Rhodri’s sharp intake of breath. Following his friend’s gaze up the stairs, Steinar saw Catrìona and her cousin slowly descending. Catrìona was clothed in a deep crimson gown that dipped low, exposing her ivory skin and hinting at her enticing breasts, the same breasts he had felt through her wet gown that afternoon. Her long auburn tresses hung free, one thick strand cascading over her shoulder.
Rhodri dug an elbow into Steinar’s ribs. “Introduce me to the dark-haired one.”
Steinar had noticed the tendre Rhodri held for the girl and was unsurprised at the request.
“Ladies,” he said as the two reached the last step. “Might we detain you for a moment?”
The women paused with expectant expressions. “Aye,” said Catrìona, her green eyes shimmering like emeralds.
“Allow me to present my friend, Rhodri of Gwynedd, the king’s bard and master of the bow.”
“Rhodri, this is Catrìona of the Vale of Leven and her cousin, Fia of Atholl.”
Each of the young women held out her hand to the bard.
Rhodri bowed low, first over Catrìona’s hand. “A rare vixen,” he said smiling up at her. Then he took the hand of the dark-haired one and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “The rarest of jewels with dark sapphire eyes. Your midnight hair and fair skin make me think you Welsh, my lady and cause me to long for the land of my youth.”
The dark-haired girl blushed, seemingly flattered, as Steinar was certain Rhodri had meant her to be. His friend had won the heart of many a woman at Malcolm’s court. But the bard’s lingering kiss on Fia’s hand and his intense gaze told Steinar this woman was more to Rhodri than just another pretty girl.
“Fia,” breathed Rhodri in his deep voice. “A lovely name for a lovely woman.”
Ignoring his friend’s besotted state, Steinar offered his arm to Catrìona. “May I escort you to your table?”
Placing her hand on his arm, she flashed him a smile and whispered, “How could I refuse a gallant scribe who only this afternoon saved a drowning lady?”
He laughed. “ ’Tis difficult to drown in a few feet of water, my lady, but aye, how could you refuse?”
Steinar guided Catrìona to where the queen’s ladies were taking their seats at one end of a trestle table set with candles and pitchers of wine.
Rhodri and Catrìona’s cousin followed closely behind them.
Steinar leaned down to whisper in Catrìona’s ear, “I like your hair like that. It reminds me of how it looked when you ran through the woods.” The way it would look spread on my pillow.
Before she could reply, he bid the ladies good eve and pulled a reluctant Rhodri toward their seats farther down th
e table.
On the dais, the king’s family took their seats along with Maerleswein and Davina. An older man sat on Davina’s other side. On the opposite side of the queen sat her brother, Edgar, and her sister.
“I wonder why Maerleswein sits with the king tonight,” said Steinar.
Rhodri leaned in to whisper. “ ’Tis the betrothal of Maerleswein and Davina we celebrate. The man on her other side is her father.”
A servant set a large platter on the table, drawing Steinar’s attention. “That explains our fare. ’Tis not often we dine on more than fish, duck and boar. Tonight they serve us swan and peacocks.” The birds, adorned with some of their own feathers, were surrounded by roasted vegetables and flowers set upon large serving dishes. In the rising aromas, he detected garlic and fennel. There were also peas in cream sauce, one of his favorites.
Once the hall quieted, the king rose to his feet, goblet in hand. “This eve we celebrate a great man and his betrothal to a noble Scotswoman. I bid you raise your goblets to Maerleswein and Davina, betrothed this day!”
The hall erupted in shouts as goblets were raised and their contents downed with many smiles, for the two were popular with both the men and the women. The jests, Steinar knew, would come later, after the ladies retired from the hall.
“I’m to sing them a love song,” said Rhodri. “Orders from the king. I am quite certain ’tis a match made for land and loyalty but I will try to encourage them to more.”
“You have such a song?”
“Aye, a timeless one.”
“I can hardly wait to hear it,” Steinar teased.
“The queen will like it,” Rhodri said with a shrug. “ ’Tis all that matters.”
“Now you have me intrigued.” Steinar waited expectantly but Rhodri said nothing more.
Throughout the dinner, Steinar watched Catrìona, her long auburn hair flowing in waves down her back like a fiery waterfall. Her face glowed in the candlelight, making him want to claim another kiss. But it was the memory of her running in the forest like one of the wild creatures that filled his mind. Then he saw her raising her hand to sound a shrill whistle calling her falcon to her gauntlet as if one with the hawk. Yet with the orphan boy, her words were tender. A most unusual woman. And one who stirred his heart as well as his loins.
She laughed at something one of the women said and her laughter made her face shine with joy.
“My friend,” Rhodri said in somber tone, “be careful on whom your gaze rests. I have heard she is all but betrothed to Domnall mac Murchada, the Irishman from Leinster.”
Inwardly, Steinar scowled. “I have met the man and so have you,” he threw back. “I am not fond of his ways. A man who is promised to a lady should not be so quick to indulge in common rutting.”
The meal drew to a close as more wine was poured. Rhodri left the table and headed toward the stool set before the dais. On the way, he stopped to bow before Catrìona’s cousin, making his interest known to all. There had been other ladies who had garnered the bard’s interest in the past, but none like this one. Steinar could only hope Rhodri’s attentions to Atholl’s daughter did not result in a scolding from the king.
Rhodri picked up his harp and sat on a stool facing the king and queen, the hearth to his back. The fire had died to coals but the flickering torches set the hall aglow.
“In honor of the occasion,” Rhodri said plucking a few strings, “I sing an ancient song of love adapted for the betrothed couple.” He sang softly in Gaelic, the words weaving their magic as tendrils of ethereal sounds echoed from his harp.
Like a lily among thorns is Davina among women.
Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest is her beloved among men.
Let him lead her to the banquet hall.
And let his banner over her be love.
Your love is more delightful than wine.
Pleasing is the fragrance of your perfumes.
Take me away with you—let us hurry!
For I will praise your love more than wine.
The king whispered a translation to Margaret and Steinar noted the slow smile that spread across her face. When the song finished—and there was more of it—Rhodri sang a song in Welsh, mayhap another love song. Finally, he stood and bowed. The queen gave the bard a knowing smile.
Rhodri returned to their table and Steinar greeted him with, “Very well done.” Once his friend was seated, Steinar asked, “Where did you get the song you sang for the betrothed couple?”
“I borrowed it from a very old source. ’Tis Solomon’s song. I am certain the queen recognized it. Mayhap she is the only one in the hall who did.”
“You are a clever bard.”
Rhodri said not a word but the look in his eyes told Steinar he owned the compliment.
* * *
“That first song the bard sang was somehow familiar,” Catrìona said to Fia as she drank the last of her wine, “but I cannot think of where I have heard it.”
“They were lovely words and so romantic. Did you see Davina blush?”
“Aye, especially when Maerleswein grinned.”
Fia sighed. “The bard is quite talented. And handsome.”
Catrìona gave her cousin a sharp glance. “His song seemed to please the queen. Did you see her smile at the bard?” Catrìona had observed the subtle exchange between Margaret and the bard and wondered what lay beneath it. She had also noted the glances Rhodri exchanged with her cousin.
“Nay, I was watching Rhodri.”
Catrìona let out a sigh. Fia’s attraction for the bard was as hopeless as his was for her. “Do not allow your heart to wander in that direction, Fia. You know your father would have the king wed you to some favored mormaer.”
Fia ignored the warning and picked up her goblet of wine. “ ’Twas a fine meal.”
“Aye, it was.” Thinking out loud, Catrìona added, “Margaret lingers in the hall tonight, mayhap for Davina’s sake.”
“She and Maerleswein are to leave on the morrow to be married in Lothian,” said Fia.
Catrìona considered again the vacancy Davina’s departure would leave. “I wonder who will take her place.”
Fia shrugged. “We can only hope whoever she is, she is as sweet as the lady she replaces.”
CHAPTER 6
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 and 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, 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 stayed out of sight while we ate.”
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.
Catrìona had seen the dog follow the boy into the hall that morning to lay curled up at his feet while he ate. “Like a shadow.�
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“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.
“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, Shadow following close on his heels, 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, richly attired, and a woman wearing a dark cloak over a 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 woman, 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 woman. “Greetings, Isla,” said the queen.
The new lady made a brief curtsey, “My Lady.”
Catrìona studied her, curious to learn more about the one who would be joining them in service to the queen. Isla’s hair was a warm brown and as she drew closer, Catrìona saw she had hazel eyes. She was not pretty like Fia or the queen but her face was still attractive and the fine clothes she wore bespoke wealth.
The king suggested the travelers join him for some refreshments and, readily agreeing, they strolled toward the tower door. The men walked ahead and the queen followed with Isla. The other ladies trailed behind, Catrìona and Fia alone at the end.
