Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) (12 page)

“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.”

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.”

“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.

“What do you know of her?” Catrìona asked her cousin in a whisper.

“Only what the queen told us after you left the hall with Giric. She is from Ayrshire in the west where her father has much land in oats and barley. He raises cattle, too.”

“Ayrshire lies south of the vale on the Firth of Clyde,” said Catrìona, idly thinking here was yet another woman to be bartered away by the king. She was glad she would not share such a fate.

Once they were all inside the hall, Isla was introduced to the queen’s ladies and Audra kindly offered to show their newest member to her chamber, which the two of them would share.

The king and queen set about entertaining the men. A few minutes later, Catrìona and Fia left for their own chamber to retrieve their cloaks as the queen had told her ladies they would be joining her on an outing that day. As they passed Audra’s door, the sounds of an argument could be heard.

“I will not rise before dawn, nor will I feed urchins. And I have no intention of living like a nun. I am here to gain a husband!”

Audra’s words in reply were soft and muffled. Catrìona could only imagine what she had said to Isla. Exchanging a look with Fia, she said, “It seems we are in for a storm.”

“Aye,” said Fia, as they continued down the corridor. “Isla’s concerns are all for herself. I pity the man the king gives her to wed.”

“If she is unkind to Audra, I may decide not to like her,” Catrìona said, wondering how one as selfish as Isla would fare among them. After living as one of the queen’s ladies and seeing Margaret give of herself to the poor and the needy, she had come to admire her mistress. Even the early rising and the hour of morning prayer were not so onerous as they had seemed at first.

The queen’s errand that afternoon took them to a small hill about a mile south of Dunfermline in the direction of the River Forth. It had rained during the night and the ground was soft and the grass damp.

The queen sat, reading from a small book she carried.

“Does the queen come here to read?” Catrìona asked Audra from where they stood some distance away. Isobel, the most senior of the queen’s ladies would know, but Catrìona preferred to ask Audra, who did not seem to mind her many questions.

“She comes here to meet the people, making herself available to any who would speak with her.”

Catrìona nodded. She was becoming accustomed to her mistress’ unusual behavior. She and Audra found seats on nearby rocks. Fia joined them.

Audra leaned in to say, “Sometimes the queen takes coins from the king’s treasury to give to the poor who come.”

Catrìona nodded again, remembering a story Steinar had told her of a time he had overheard the king teasing Margaret about her thievery.

“Once he even threatened to have her arrested,” the scribe said.

Knowing the king’s reputation for being harsh, Catrìona was horrified at the thought. “Would he do that?”

“Nay, but he made a great show of it before erupting into laughter. Knowing Margaret never seeks anything for herself alone, he found her theft highly amusing.”

“What did Margaret do?”

“The queen just smiled and reminded Malcolm she had brought him a good dowry and the poor needed the coins more than he did.”

Catrìona had smiled to herself at the idea of Margaret admonishing the king, but as she considered it, the queen’s logic was flawless.

“I think they both enjoyed the exchange,” Steinar concluded.

Catrìona had grown fond of her conversations with the scribe. She had often found herself looking for him when the men came into the hall to break their fast. His manner was easy and he always had something interesting to tell her. She loved his stories of his home and his sister he seemed to admire. After the morning meal, she would stop to talk to him outside the tower. Sometimes Giric joined them, hanging on the scribe’s every word, for it was clear the boy admired him.

The king also valued Steinar, ever calling for the scribe’s aid in deciphering some missive he had received. Their two heads, one dark, one light, would bend over the parchment and the king would nod his understanding as Steinar read the words. In recent days, messages had come more frequently, making Catrìona wonder what was going on.

The queen spoke just then to one of the ladies, calling Catrìona back to the present, but the thought of Steinar did not immediately leave her. Images of his golden hair shimmering in the light of the sun and the feel of his lips on hers flickered in her mind. She chided herself for thinking of the scribe when she should be thinking of Domnall. He was due back today from a trip he had made in furtherance of a matter of trade for the king.

Her musings were interrupted by a group of women, some with babes in their arms, some with small children tagging along, who walked toward the queen from the direction of the village.

Margaret invited them to join her and greeted the children.

“When is the new prince to be born?” asked one of the village women, who balanced a young child on her hip. The woman’s tunic was plain and faded beneath her thin shawl. A simple head covering bespoke her married status.

“In early September,” said Margaret, rubbing her hand over her belly.