Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) (22 page)

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.”

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?”

In his mind, he shifted through the missives he had penned pertaining to the Orkneys and the brothers Paul and Erlend Thorfinnsson who ruled the islands. “I do remember something. ’Twas last summer. Malcolm sent a messenger to the brothers and asked me to write a missive for the messenger to carry, inquiring about an attack on one of his mormaers in the west. I had not thought of it because he only mentioned the hillfort’s location as being on the River Clyde.”

“My father’s hillfort was on the River Clyde,” she said anxiously. “What news did the king receive back?”

“As I recall, Paul sent a reply saying he had no knowledge of any raid on Scotland and insisted he and his brother were loyal to the king. They are his stepsons, after all. And Malcolm’s eldest son is in their care.” Gazing into her anxious eyes, he said, “The king would not hesitate to take revenge for an attack on one of his mormaers if he knew who was responsible.”

She looked down at their joined hands, one of her tears dropping onto his hand. “My father was faithful to the king. They fought Mac Bethad together.”

He squeezed her hand. “Were any saved besides you and your brother?”

“Angus, of course, and the Northmen spared some of the women, taking them on their ships when they sailed. My handmaiden was among them. She would be seventeen summers now.” Her eyes pleading, she asked, “What has become of them?”

He leaned in to press a kiss to her temple. “You cannot think of that now, little one. To worry will not bring them back.” He would not tell her the women had likely been sold like so many surplus cattle.

She turned her face and, as she did, her forehead brushed his lips.

“I have missed you,” he said, raising her chin with his finger. Her eyes were like liquid emeralds and he could not resist their power. Capturing her lips, he kissed her deeply. She responded, returning the kiss and reaching her hands into his hair.

How he wanted this woman! Not just in his bed but as his partner for life. Keenly aware she was not his to claim, he lifted his mouth from hers, speaking to himself as well as to her. “The king would not be pleased to know I claim your kisses when he may already have in mind a man for you to wed.”

She dropped her hands to her lap. “But there is no one…”

Her lips were swollen with his kisses and her eyes a darker shade of green. Wisps of auburn hair blew about her delicate face. Achingly beautiful and so innocent. Apparently she did not know of Colbán’s request for her hand. And he could not tell her.

“You do not know that,” he said with regret. “The king chooses the husbands for Margaret’s ladies. Now that you are free of the Irishman, you will be highly sought after.” He wanted to tell her he would ask for her hand but since he had already done so and been turned away, he said nothing.

She shook her head as if unable to accept the possibility. “The queen needs me in her work to build an inn for the pilgrims. Besides,” she said, giving him a sharp glance, “would the king not ask if there is one I would want?”

Could she mean him? That she might want him even though she knew him to be merely one of the king’s men caused his heart to soar with hope, but it soon died with his memory of the king’s words. He could not allow himself to think of having her. In that way lay madness. “The king gives no maiden a choice.” When she began to protest, he stood and offered his hand. “All things in time, little one. Come, we’d best return.”

*     *     *

Catrìona folded the traveling gowns she would take with her to St. Andrews and Steinar’s words came back to her.
All things in time.
The same words of dismissal Domnall had spoken when she laid her heart as his feet. But this was far worse than Domnall, for she cared deeply for Steinar. Once again, she had spoken too soon and received only rejection. He would take her kisses but shun her desire for more, for she would have his heart if she could. Mayhap it was her destiny to be loved by no man. If that were the case, she would rather serve Margaret all of her days than be given by the king to some man for whom she cared little.