Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3)

by Regan Walker

  “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.

  “The scribe 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.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Catrìona glimpsed the king and Colbán come 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 see 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 felt relief Steinar was holding his own and pride welled up inside her to think that, even with a wounded leg, he should fight so well. What a magnificent warrior he is!

  Steinar pivoted to avoid the other man’s lunge but one edge of Rian’s sword caught the scribe’s arm. He winced and shoved his seax into the sheath at his belt.

  What is he doing?

  Grabbing the pointed end of his own sword with his glove, while holding the hilt 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 impact that shoved Rian back.

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

  The scribe kicked it away. “Do you wish to continue with only that knife?” he asked.

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

  “Then concede me the victory,” Steinar said.

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

  Steinar sheathed his sword. “From now on, you will leave the archer alone?” And Catrìona realized Steinar referred to her brother.

  “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.

  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.”

  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 strode into the midst of the crowd, a satisfied smile on his face.

  Seeing the king, the crowd of men fell away.

  Steinar, whose back had been to the king, whirled around, a look of incredulity on his face. “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.

  “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 him, “if ever I hear of you instigating another fight, you will be gone from my court.”

  Rian dipped his head, 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, the captain of Malcolm’s guard, 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.

  With a satisfied smile directed at the king, Steinar said, “As you wish.”

  Catrìona could see he was pleased, but she was not certain she was pleased. 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. I care too much to see him hurt.

  Malcolm swept his arm toward the tower in 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 drowning in wine.”

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

  “You meet Catrìona’s cousin?”

  “I do,” said the Welshman, his deep brown eyes twinkling.

  “Be careful, my friend,” Steinar cautioned. He hoped Rhodri 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, did he dare think he could win Catrìona’s hand? And, with that thought, he began to think of the beautiful firebrand as within his reach.

  The king’s next words ended Steinar’s pondering. “Prepare yourself, Scribe. We 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 and his groin swelling.

  When their lips finally parted, he said, “ ’Tis best we do not continue or I will be taking you to the meadow to make love to you 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 the color of your eyes.” Many women had given him such tokens but only this one was important. Only this one would he carry next to his heart.

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

  “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 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. ’Tis not so different from Scotland. 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 and he will carry a new bow I will make him.”

  “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 told her that her cousin worried for the bard who would lead the king’s archers into battle. Catrìona worried 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 as they 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 had 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 a sword, marks of his new position with the king.

  “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 di
d 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.

  “I understand 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, Fia waited 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. Audra had told them her father’s place as leader of the king’s army was a privilege granted for Duff’s loyalty.

  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 to see him depart with Malcolm’s warriors, heavily armed for war. But Steinar’s expression told her he was pleased to be among them.