by Regan Walker
* * *
Catrìona sat at one of the long trestle tables crowded with the returning warriors, still coated in the dirt of the road they traveled. They had returned with longer beards and happy faces. The time for the evening meal was not yet upon them, but servants hurried to set platters of cold meat, cheese and bread before the hungry men. Now that they were safely home, the men dove into the food, swapping stories of the raids and quaffing pitchers of honey ale, rarely served in Dunfermline since the king preferred his red wine.
Next to her was Steinar and across from them sat Rhodri and Fia with Giric squeezed in between, his gaze fixed on the scribe. Shadow, the boy’s ever-present dog, had taken shelter beneath the table. She could hardly blame him. The hall filled with loud and boisterous exclamations that might frighten such a wee dog, but then again, he might be hoping for a dropped scrap.
Giric sat with his elbows on the table, his head resting on his upturned palms, enraptured, as Steinar described Rhodri’s flaming arrows. The bard downed his ale, blushing as the scribe richly embellished the tale. When the story was finished, Giric looked at Rhodri in awe.
“Ye really did that?”
“Aye, he did,” Steinar said before leaning across the table to launch into another story. Catrìona admired the way the scribe gave of his time to entertain the orphan. Giric might have been his own son for all the attention he paid the boy. One day, Steinar would father sons of his own. Might they be her sons? The thought settled into her heart as a happy truth. He was only a scribe, a rebel warrior who had been exiled from his country, but she could not want a better man. At great risk to himself, he had saved Niall from the brute Rian and now he guarded the king. And still, he had time for the orphan boy.
“There I stood before the king,” Steinar said in dramatic fashion, “prepared to give my life were it required.”
Giric’s eyes grew wide and his mouth gaped.
“Just as I was to be speared by a Norman,” Steinar spoke slowly, drawing out the suspense, “an arrow whooshed through the air to lodge in the knight’s neck.” Steinar grasped his neck as if he’d taken the arrow himself. “I heard the Norman gasp as he fell from his horse, dead as he hit the ground.”
Rhodri stood and bowed.
Giric clapped his hands together, his face beaming with pride at the feat.
Another story began, this one told by Rhodri. It would be even more fanciful than the ones Steinar had told, she was certain, for the bard was a good storyteller.
Just then, Catrìona noticed Audra rise from the table where she had been sitting to head in the direction of the stairs. The queen’s other ladies remained seated but Catrìona expected they would soon follow.
After Rhodri’s story ended, Catrìona pushed herself from the bench. “We must go to the wounded, Fia.” And then to the others, “The queen has asked us to visit the men who returned bearing wounds. ’Tis our Christ-like duty.” She smiled at the scribe and the bard. “Thank you for the most wondrous tales. Mayhap we will see you this eve.”
“You will see me afore that, my lady,” said Steinar, his blue thistle eyes shining. “We, too, must visit the men above.”
Rhodri nodded, his gaze resting on Fia. “Aye, I will join you soon.”
With Fia by her side, Catrìona crossed the crowded hall. As she passed the table where Colbán sat with the king’s guard, he stood and bowed. “My lady, the stitching you did for me is excellent. It pleases me greatly you chose a warrior’s symbol.”
Never sure what to say to the man, and mindful his companions who were listening and appeared well into their cups, she decided on a simple acknowledgment, certain he was overstating her dismal efforts at embroidery. “You… you are most welcome, good sir.”
She dipped her head and continued on toward the stairs. Fia leaned in to ask, “Does the king’s captain refer to that cloth you have been working on? Was that the piece you gave him today upon his return?”
“Aye. Before he left with the king, Colbán asked me to embroider one of his tunics. I was loath to do it, Fia. You know my attempt to embroider scrolls renders them more like twigs gathered for kindling. But ’tis not easy to say nay to that man.”
“I find it most interesting he asked you to do it.”
“ ’Tis possible he did not know how terrible I am at the task. I tried to tell him another lady could do a better job.”
As they reached the stairs, Fia paused and asked, “Well, how did it look when you finished? He seemed quite content. And what did he mean by a ‘warrior’s symbol’?”
“ ’Twas not like anything I have ever stitched before but the shape of it was something I know well and at least I did not bleed upon the cloth.” Catrìona had been most worried she would leave a trail of dark red drops on his copper cloth.
“What did you embroider?” her cousin asked impatiently.
Catrìona began to ascend the stairs and Fia followed. “Falcons, or well, the outline of them with knots for eyes and a feather or two stitched on the body.”
“Falcons? You embroidered falcons on the tunic of the king’s captain?”
“Do not look so surprised,” Catrìona protested. “ ’Tis an easier shape for me than an intricate flower, and more manly, though I cannot say the birds look much like Kessog, which had been my intent.”
“No other man’s tunic will bear the falcon, Cat. You will have the king’s captain eating from your hand. Truth be told, he was more than a little happy to greet you as we passed.”
“Nay, I think not. Colbán would not eat from any woman’s hand. Besides, now that I know I can do it, I have a mind to make a tunic for Steinar and adorn it with falcons and mayhap something else.” As she had worked on the tunic for the king’s captain, she had envisioned making one for the scribe to set him apart, one that spoke of his being lettered as few men were. Aye, she was excited about the tunic.
“I can hardly account for this sudden enthusiasm for needlework,” Fia said with mock sarcasm.
Catrìona ignored Fia’s remark and, at the top of the stairs, turned down the corridor. She did not wish her cousin to know how she dreamed of Steinar and wanted to do things for him only a wife would do. “I asked Margaret for some cloth and she freely gave it, a rich blue wool that will make a worthy tunic.”
“Somehow I do not think this will turn out well,” said Fia, her brows drawing together in a frown. “What if all the king’s men begin to expect falcons?”
“They will not. My embroidery is not so fine as yours or the other ladies.”
Before they arrived at the chamber that was their destination, Catrìona paused in the corridor and looked down at her gown. “We should change ere we go to the wounded, else we decorate our gowns with blood.”
“Aye, and quickly,” said Fia.
Once changed, they headed toward the first of two chambers Margaret had told them were set aside for the wounded. At the door, Catrìona took a deep breath and entered.
A dozen men were laid out on pallets waiting for the physic and his healers. Servants bustled about bringing water, clean linen and bandages. Not since the attack on the vale had Catrìona seen so many wounded. But at least these had a chance to heal.
Moans from the men echoed around the chamber.
In one corner, the king’s physic, a man of middle years with a nearly bald pate, bent over a warrior’s arm. On the other side of the room, Audra crouched low over Duff.
Catrìona went toward her and Fia followed. The mormaer lay still, his eyes closed. Placing a hand on Audra’s shoulder, Catrìona asked, “How is your father?”
Audra looked up, a small smile on her kind face, which Catrìona took as an attempt to be brave. “He is sleeping now and soon will be taken to the chamber they are preparing for him. He will stay in Dunfermline till he is well.” Brushing an errant strand of hair from Duff’s forehead, Audra’s brow wrinkled in concern. “The wound pains him much, but he refuses to admit it. After the king left, I asked the physic to give him a potion.
When it wears off, I imagine he will be blustering about all the attention he is getting, but for now, it allows him to rest.”
“I am glad the news is good.” Then, pushing up her tunic sleeves, Catrìona asked, “How can we help?”
Audra took in their practical tunics and linen aprons. “The servants have removed the old bandages and cleaned the wounds. The physic has directed the bandages be changed and the servants do that now. If you are up to it, you might help them, but the men like to hear a soft voice and have something to drink. Just to see your faces will cheer them.”
“Are the other ladies in the second chamber?” Fia asked.
“All save Isla,” replied Audra. “I will join you to help after I see how things are going there.”
Catrìona consulted with the king’s physic before he quit the room to go with Audra. She and Fia set about the work of helping to comfort the wounded and, where needed, apply clean bandages. The smell of blood was strong in Catrìona’s nostrils, but the grateful smiles of the men kept her working.
It was not long before the heat in the room caused the sweat to rise on her forehead. After she had seen to several men and asked the servants to bring them water to drink, she sat back on her heels and surveyed those yet to be tended. Spotting one she recognized, she looked over to Fia. “Is not that one of Rhodri’s archers?”
Fia raised her head from where she bent over a man’s shoulder and followed Catrìona’s gaze. “Aye, ’tis Brian.” Tying off the bandage she was working on, Fia rose and walked the short distance to where the archer lay, still wearing the green and brown colors favored by Rhodri’s men. “How are you, Brian?”
The archer slowly opened his eyes. “I am well, my lady. ’Tis only my arm that suffered a scratch. ’Twould have been worse but Rhodri’s arrow felled the Norman who sought to end my life. The French knight plucked me right from the tree, he did.”
“Has the wound been stitched?” Fia asked. At the man’s nod, she said, “The servants have gone but I can check to see if ’tis healing.”
Catrìona watched as Fia carefully lifted the bandage and then replaced it.
“It seems in good order,” her cousin said, smiling at the archer.
“ ’Tis only a wee scratch, lady. Were it not for the Welshman and his God-blessed bow, those Normans would have laid me open like a cod, me and many another king’s man besides. Rhodri is as slippery as an eel and his aim deadly keen.”
Catrìona saw a smile spread across her cousin’s face.
“The bard is a wonder,” said Fia, lifting a cup of water to the man’s mouth. “A voice to soothe a wild beast and skill with a bow to bring one down. A man good at many things.”
“Aye, he is,” echoed the archer as he laid his head back and closed his eyes. “Aye, he is.”
Catrìona pushed to her feet, rubbing the cramp from her lower back and twisting her neck to relieve the stiffness. A feeling of being watched made her look toward the door where the golden-haired scribe stood watching her, his expression unfathomable. Like the sunlight falling on the waters of Loch Lomond, his golden hair reflected the light coming through the window, almost shimmering.
“You make a very pretty picture, my lady. I would ask you to change my bandage but alas, ’tis already done.”
Fia snorted beneath her hand and Catrìona shot her cousin a sharp glance.
“I did not know you were wounded,” she said, worried he might still be hurt. But there was no evidence of a wound. He stood tall, every bit the strong warrior, yet somehow he seemed a different man than when he left for Northumbria. There was an air of confidence about him she had not seen before.
“ ’Tis nothing, yet I would have made much of it to have your gentle hands wrapping linen about my leg.”
“If you could see the way I wrap bandages, you might reconsider.”
“Is Rhodri about?” Fia interjected, looking at Steinar.
“Aye,” he said. “In the other chamber, seeing to some of his wounded archers.”
“If ’tis all right with you,” Fia faced Catrìona, “since we are done here, I would offer my help in the next chamber.”
“Go,” Catrìona said. “I will be along shortly. Audra must need help since she did not return.”
Steinar moved to one side of the door, allowing Fia to pass.
Now that they were alone, well, except for the sleeping wounded, she remembered hearing some of the returning men speak of the scribe’s saving the king’s life in Alnwick. “Is it true what they say? That you saved the king?”
“ ’Twas my job to defend his back and I did.”
“You make it sound a simple thing but the men tell a different story.”
He shrugged, apparently unwilling to say more.
“Whatever you did, you have earned the praise of the king’s men.”
He did not respond to her statement but asked instead, “Must you stay here?”
She gazed about the room. “Most of the men sleep, but I must fetch a servant to keep watch before I could leave them.”
“I will fetch the servant,” he said. “Then I would speak with you alone.”
CHAPTER 11
Steinar did not know what he would say to the woman he wanted, the woman Malcolm intended for Colbán. Since he had turned his horse north from Alnwick, his only desire had been to be alone with Catrìona to see if there was a glimmer of affection for him in her eyes. Beyond that, he now had a pressing desire to know what had transpired a year ago in the Vale of Leven.
Once he had fetched a servant to keep vigil over the wounded, he returned to the auburn-haired beauty who haunted his thoughts. “Will you walk with me outside the tower?”
A faint smile crossed her face. “Aye, that would be most welcome. The air in here is close.”
He offered his arm. “ ’Tis worse in the hall with its smell of ale and celebrating warriors.”
She laughed and took his arm. “You speak the truth.”
He glanced at her linen tunic, which lacked the warmth of a velvet gown. “You might want to bring your cloak.”
She looked down at her clothing as if she had not remembered what she wore. In one corner of her apron was a bloodstain. “Oh, aye. I will change and get my cloak. I will meet you in the hall.”
He waited at the bottom of the stairs. When she finally appeared, his eyes followed her as she descended, suspecting he was not the only man who did so. She had donned a gown and a green woolen cloak over which hung her long auburn plaits.
The tree nymph. He knew then he would never tire of seeing her face, no matter what lines the years would add to it. He only felt complete when she was near.
“I am ready,” she said eagerly.
After a fortnight away from her, he, too, was eager. Only he wished they could speak of the future and not the past.
He followed her through the noisy hall and out the tower door, avoiding the gazes of the men still drinking at the tables. One of them might be the king’s captain and he wanted no interference from that quarter.
Hoping her burly guard, Angus, had not followed them, he led her away from the tower to a rock outcropping where it was possible to glimpse the blue waters of the Forth a few miles away.
As they drew near the place of clustered stones, he was relieved to see they were alone.
“ ’Tis beautiful here,” she said, gazing south to where the Forth was visible in the far distance.
Once she had settled onto a rock, he dropped to a large slab of stone across from her, meeting her gaze. “Tell me of your home, Catrìona, and what happened there more than a year ago. How did your father die?”
Frowning, she inquired, “Why do you ask me now?”
“For some time, I have wanted to ask how your father was killed and since I met you, I have been eager to learn about you and your home.”
She seemed to accept his explanation. “ ’Tis not easy to speak of,” she began. “ ’Twas a day of great horror. It did not start that way, of course. Angus and
I were returning from flying Kessog above Loch Lomond when we came upon Northmen attacking my father’s hillfort. I saw it all from the cliffs above.” A shadow fell across her lovely face. “In my mind, I can hear the screams of the women and the shouts of raiders as they brutally killed our men. I can see the bodies strewn upon the ground, including those of my mother and father.” She paused and looked up, her expression grim. “I still have terrible dreams of that day.”
She began to weep and he went to sit beside her, taking her hand in his and placing a protective arm around her shoulders. “Please forgive me. I had no idea you had witnessed your father’s death.” He let out a breath, wishing he could call back his question. Wanting to let her know he understood, he said, “I know what it is to see your father slain before your eyes. I cannot forget and I expect you never will.”
She raised her head to look at him, her green eyes full of tears. “Nay, I cannot forget.”
“I understand your dreams, too. For a long time, in my dreams, I relived that long day of fighting on Senlac Hill when the Normans stormed England’s shores.”
She raised her eyes to meet his, then she looked away, staring into space, mayhap seeing again the terror she had witnessed.
He drew her closer into his chest. “ ’Tis all right, Catrìona. We are both far from those fields of death.”
She curled her slender fingers around his hand.
“But tell me,” he said, “these Northmen, did you know from whence they came? There have been no Northmen attacking Scotland for some time.”
“Nay, but because of the banner they flew, Angus believes they might have come from the Orkneys.”
“The Orkneys…” Steinar searched his memory for something involving the islands far to the north. “The king has Norse relations in the Orkneys who foster his son, Duncan. From time to time, he exchanges messages with them.”
She raised her head and turned to him with sudden interest. “Did you ever pen a message for him about the vale?”
