by Regan Walker
Catrìona looked at her cousin. “How could you know that?”
“When you are off with Giric flying your falcon, I hear things and Niall sometimes passes to me what he learns from the men at archery practice. He thought to warn us.”
Catrìona watched the one called Colbán as his dark eyes narrowed on Elspeth, like a wolf leering at a lamb. “He appears more man than a silly girl like Elspeth can handle,” she whispered to Fia.
“He has an eye for the queen’s ladies,” said Fia in a low voice. “ ’Tis said the king will give him one of us to wed.”
Catrìona shrugged. It was no concern of hers, unless he desired her cousin. Inwardly, she feared he might, for Fia was very pretty.
Fia looked at her pointedly. “I have seen him watching you more than once.”
“He can watch me all he wants,” Catrìona pronounced defiantly. “I am promised to Domnall.”
When the meal was concluded, the tables were pushed to the walls leaving a large space in the middle of the room for dancing on either side of the central hearth where the fire had been reduced to glowing embers.
Three minstrels took their places in front of the dais facing into the hall where men and women anxiously waited for the music to begin.
They had only begun to pluck at their instruments when Fia nudged her in the side. “Look! Rhodri is not among the musicians. Mayhap he will dance after all.”
Catrìona grew anxious as she looked around the crowded hall, searching for Domnall. She had expected him to come to her when the music began, but he had not. “I wonder where Domnall is.”
“I do not wish to be the bearer of sad news, Cousin, but look to the end of the dais where the new lady has just stepped down. See who awaits her?”
Catrìona’s brows drew together, first in confusion, then in dismay, as she saw her intended kiss the hand of Blackwell’s daughter and lead her to a group of dancers. “Why does Domnall seek her out?”
“You need look no farther than her father’s fortune,” came Fia’s retort. “My father once told me the Mormaer of Blackwell has much land and many ships.”
Would Domnall seek the hand of another for greater fortune? Shamed that the man to whom she had promised her heart had chosen another to partner, Catrìona turned to go. “I cannot stay,” she told Fia.
She was in such a hurry to get away she did not see the tall blond scribe step into her path until she nearly collided with him. His chest was suddenly before her face and she came to a stop, raising her head to look into his unusual eyes.
He grinned broadly. “Will you dance with me, my lady?”
Swallowing hard, she blinked back the tears she had been holding in. “Of… of course.” She took his offered hand and they joined the dancers forming a circle. His hand was large and warm and his grip sure. Somehow knowing he had hold of her gave her comfort. Too, Domnall would see she was not bereft of admirers.
The steps of the dance took them around the circle to the left. Given his limp, she was surprised how agile Steinar was at the quick steps. The dance forced her to concentrate and she smiled stiffly at the others, for inwardly she was hurting. The pain of Domnall’s defection gnawed away at her. Appearing to be gay when she was downcast was not easy, but Steinar’s seeming delight at being her partner helped to soothe the hurt Domnall’s rejection had caused.
She stole a glance at the circle of dancers that included Domnall and Blackwell’s daughter along with Elspeth and the king’s captain.
Steinar drew her attention back to him when he said, “I have not had such a beautiful partner since the queen condescended to dance with me some months ago.” Catrìona saw laughter in his beautiful blue thistle eyes.
She did not hide her gratitude. “To compare me to Margaret is compliment indeed. You exaggerate, of course.” And then with a small smile, “But I will allow it.”
The pace of the dance quickened as the minstrels played faster. When Fia and the bard joined their circle, Catrìona reached up to speak into Steinar’s ear so he could hear her over the music. “Your friend partners with my cousin.”
Watching the two, Steinar said, “Rhodri is much taken with her. He imagines she is Welsh.”
“I have not known any Welshmen, save the bard, but Fia’s roots are in Alba; she is a true Gael.”
“Aye, he knows it, but he is smitten all the same.”
Catching glimpses of Fia and the Welshman holding hands and dancing, their smiles only for each other, Catrìona had to admit, “And she with him.”
“Rhodri is an unusual man,” said Steinar.
“Because, like you, he is educated?”
“That and more. Even I do not know his whole story. He rarely speaks of his past.”
The song ended and their hands dropped to their sides as they waited for another round to begin. Without meaning to, Catrìona’s gaze caught Isla of Blackwell’s hand reaching to Domnall’s chest as she laughed. Pulling her thoughts back to the man standing beside her, she listened as he went on.
“Rhodri was in England for several years before coming with me to Scotland.”
“Why did he come to Scotland?”
“ ’Twas for friendship’s sake. I could not stay in England but my wound made travel difficult. Rhodri helped me. I have always known someday he would return to Wales but I would not wish it to be soon.”
The music began again and he took her hand, joining with the new circle forming. Forcing her gaze away from the circle where Domnall danced with the woman from Blackwell, Catrìona kept her eyes on the golden-haired scribe and her mind on the steps of the dance.
When the music stopped, she realized Steinar had not limped while they were dancing. “Your leg is better?”
“Aye, ’tis better every day.”
The circle of dancers Catrìona and Steinar were a part of made room for the king and queen who had decided to join in the dancing. Catrìona studied the pair. They made a handsome couple with his kingly presence and her graceful bearing. On his dark head, he wore a golden crown. Her flaxen plaits hung long beneath her gold-crowned headscarf. Margaret was years younger than her husband and very pretty as she smiled up at the king. It was obvious they had danced together many times for they moved as one through the steps.
When the song ended, Catrìona was standing near the queen. Margaret put a hand to her chest, breathing deeply. “I am out of breath but I did love it so!”
On Margaret’s other side, the king said, “Aye, mo cridhe, it has been too long.”
A servant brought the king and the queen goblets of wine. Margaret sipped hers. Malcolm took a large swig and handed the goblet back to the servant. Bowing to the queen, the king walked to the center of the room, the eyes of the crowd upon him.
Margaret drew near Catrìona. “You must see this.” Then the queen moved to the side of the room, her eyes on her husband.
A servant brought two swords and placed them across each other on the ground in front of the king.
Catrìona felt the anticipation of the men around her as Steinar leaned in to whisper, “The king is going to show us the victory dance he conceived. I’m told ’twas after a particularly bloody battle.” When she looked at him in question, he said, “He slew one of Mac Bethad’s chiefs and in recognition of his victory, Malcolm laid his victim’s sword on the ground, crossed it with his own and danced around and over the naked blades in triumph.”
Catrìona vaguely recalled her father, who had fought with Malcolm, telling her of a bizarre dance Malcolm had performed after the battle.
The music began slowly, a single steady drumbeat at first, as all eyes turned to the king. With uplifted arms, he began to lift his legs in high steps dancing around and over the crossed swords without ever touching either of them. For a man of middle years, he was most nimble. The people formed a circle around the king and began to clap their hands in time with the drum. The other instruments joined in as the drum beat faster.
“ ’Tis not just a victory dance,” Steinar
explained, “but a reminder to the men their king is still the virile warrior he was when first he danced over his dead enemy’s sword.”
“Are not the son his wife bore him and the child she carries sufficient testimony of that?” asked Catrìona.
“Tis a different kind of virility,” he said with a smile that made her blush.
Margaret, her hand on her rounded belly, stood silently watching, her face unreadable. She neither smiled at her husband’s achievement nor did she look at him with disdain for what the crossed swords symbolized.
Margaret accepts the man she married without asking him to be what he is not. The wisdom displayed by her mistress did not escape Catrìona, yet, in many ways, she believed Margaret had tamed Malcolm and not the other way round.
As Malcolm continued to dance over the swords, Catrìona’s thoughts drifted back to the day before when the queen had asked her to accompany her to a place in the woods she liked to go.
“The light is always good there,” Margaret explained.
Catrìona quickly agreed and fetched her needlework, assuming the queen meant to do the same. They found places to sit under a tree by the burn some distance from the tower and both had embroidered for a while. Then Catrìona looked up from her needlework to see the queen reading from a small book lying open on her lap.
“What is the book you read, My Lady?” she asked.
The queen closed the book and the shimmer of jewels on its cover caused Catrìona to inhale sharply. The book was encased in gold and decorated in sapphires, rubies and emeralds. Sunlight filtering through the trees made the gems glisten. She had seen scrolls in her father’s hillfort and she’d been given a Psalter as a young girl, but she had never seen a book like this. “ ’Tis beautiful.”
“ ’Tis the Gospels I read always. I brought this with me to England from Hungary. ’Twas a gift from my father and my greatest treasure.”
“I can see why. Surely it must be very valuable.”
Margaret smiled. “It is, but not for the reason you might think. It was once covered in plain brown leather, worn with use, but Malcolm saw how I treasured it and had the gold cover and jewels added. It reminds me of Solomon’s temple, bejeweled for God’s glory. You see, the real treasure lies not with its cover, Catrìona, but with what is inside.”
“I see.” And she did. “ ’Tis the words you prize.”
“Yea, God’s words to us.”
Catrìona sighed, wishing she could be as devout as her mistress. “I once believed as you do, but that was before… before I lost my family.” In between words, she had sobbed, unable to stop the flow of tears. “I have tried… but I find that I cannot accept a God who could allow such evil.”
Margaret had set aside her bejeweled book and put her arm around Catrìona’s shoulders, drawing her close. It was a tender gesture more like that of the mother she had lost than of her queen. “My dear Catrìona, God knows your heart better than you do yourself. He knows you will heal and return to Him.”
Such faith… such kindness!
Catrìona had come to love her mistress and understood why the king loved what was precious to Margaret. For all that he could not read, Malcolm had covered Margaret’s volume of the Gospels with jewels for love of his queen.
Catrìona’s straying thoughts returned to the hall just as the king finished his sword dance and the hall erupted in shouts of praise.
“Come,” said Steinar, “let us get some wine. I have grown thirsty with so much dancing.”
Catrìona felt the beads of sweat on her brow and the trickle between her breasts. The hall had grown overwarm with all the people dancing. “Aye, some wine would be welcome.”
He guided her to a table where pitchers of wine and goblets had been set out. Catrìona noticed his limp had returned.
“Does your leg pain you?” she asked.
“Only when I forget to rest it. I have so enjoyed dancing with you, my lady, I fair forgot.”
She laughed. “Again you exaggerate.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Domnall moving toward her, the woman from Blackwell’s hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.
CHAPTER 7
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 the woman.
Steinar wondered what the man was about. If Domnall was 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 the color of pale heather as it often was at gloaming in the long summer days.
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 said to Catrìona. “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, looking at 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, do you not think?” In her eyes, he saw a fervor he’d not seen before.
“I do. 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 and hoped she had forgotten the scene in the hall. He felt only disgust for Domnall’s actions and what they portended. Steinar suspected his attentions to Isla of Blackwell were more than a kindness to the new lady. He had never considered Domnall worthy of Catrìona. If the Irish noble were no longer in her future, she would be free to accept another. As soon as that became known, Malcolm’s men would begin circling 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 smile, “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 and walked to the hearth reaching 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.
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.”
