Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) (5 page)

“We passed Loch Tay as we traveled to Dunkeld a year ago,” said Catrìona. “ ’Tis very beautiful.” She resisted the urge to say Loch Lomond was far more resplendent. She was very proud of the beauty of the vale.

“Aye, Loch Tay is grand,” said Elspeth, stretching out the word “grand”.

Catrìona thanked the women for their welcome. She could scarce recall their names, much less which one came from where.
In time I will know them well
.

Fia had told her the queen’s ladies were rumored to be pious to a woman, making Catrìona wonder if she would be accepted into their company. Pious was not a word she would have used to describe herself. What little faith she had possessed had been shaken by the attack on the vale and the deaths of her parents.

“We lose ladies from time to time,” offered Audra once they were all acquainted.

“Lose them?” Fia repeated, startled.

“Yes. Lose them to their new husbands,” she said in a teasing manner, “as one of us is married off by the king. You two replace ones we lost in such a way.”

The others laughed but the queen remained quiet, leaving Catrìona curious as to whether Margaret considered herself one of those who had been “married off”.

Catrìona was inwardly relieved that her own betrothal was soon to be secured, sparing her from such a fate. She had no desire to be bartered to one of the king’s men she did not even know.

When those gathered in the hall began to take their seats, the queen bid Catrìona and Fia to follow her to the dais, explaining as special guests, along with Matad and Niall, they were invited to dine with the king and his family.

The queen introduced them to her younger sister, Cristina, whose fair coloring was like Margaret’s, and then seated Catrìona beside Edgar, Margaret’s brother, with Fia on Catrìona’s other side. Niall took his place beyond Fia, while Matad sat on the king’s left with the queen’s sister. The queen then joined the king in the place of honor on his right.

Smells of roast game and spiced vegetables filled the air as servants set platters and bowls before them laden with food. Bread, smelling fresh from the oven, was added to the table along with goblets filled with red wine.

Casting an indifferent glance at the trencher she shared with Edgar, Catrìona tried to muster an appetite and found she was more weary than hungry. Voices rose around her but her mind wandered and she did not attend the conversations. She was relieved to see Edgar conversing with his sister, the queen, and Fia occupied with her meal. Niall, on Fia’s other side, was staring into the hall.

Catrìona’s gaze drifted over the men and women conversing in low voices as they ate. The variety of those in attendance surprised her. Some, who must be the king’s warriors, had a rough appearance, their long hair and beards unkempt. Powerfully built with swords dangling from their belts, their arms displayed bulging muscles. Their tunics were in shades of brown, dark blue and green, more suitable to hiding from their enemies than for a king’s court.

Other men stood out like brightly plumed birds in fine velvets and woolens of rich colors. Among them she spotted Domnall, her intended, and her heart sped. She tried to catch his eye but was not successful. It was clear he had not changed much in the months since he’d last come to Dunkeld. Always richly attired, tonight he looked the part of the successful trader with a noble lineage. One with like apparel sat next to him: a man of middle years with sun-streaked hair to his broad shoulders. When they had first taken their seats, she had heard the king address him as Maerleswein and wondered if he was a Dane as his name suggested.

Her eyes paused on a servant woman setting dishes before the men. One of the warriors wrapped his arm around the woman’s waist and she pulled away. Like many of the servants in the king’s hall, this one appeared to be Saxon in both style of tunic and speech when she chided the man. Some of the female servants carried themselves like ladies, making Catrìona wonder where they had come from.

Edgar urged her to eat, gesturing to their shared trencher that he had piled high with meat and vegetables. “You must be hungry after the journey from Dunkeld. ’Tis a far ride and hard on a woman, all day in the saddle.”

Catriona swallowed a defensive reply. He must not be accustomed to women who rode. She mustered her strength and reined in the nagging concerns she harbored about what her uncle had committed her to. Edgar is just being polite, she chided herself.
Tonight I must be agreeable
.

“You are right, of course. I expect the queen will have much for us to do on the morrow.”

Edgar burst into laughter, nearly spewing his wine. Wiping his mouth with a cloth, he said, “My sister will have you up to pray while ’tis still dark. Trust me, to keep pace with her, you will need your strength. Best eat while you can.”

“You persuade me,” she said, smiling at the handsome young man. For the first time, she noticed the golden curls and blue eyes so like the queen’s and the way he held his head, as if he wore an invisible crown. She had heard that two years prior, thousands of rebels fought the Normans in York to try and win the throne of England for Edgar. But they had failed.

How disappointed he must be.

With her eating knife, Catrìona speared a small piece of roast boar and brought it to her mouth. The combination of aromas from spices and herbs and the taste of the succulent meat roused her appetite. “ ’Tis very good.”

“Aye,” Edgar said, spearing a piece of meat with his eating knife. “Margaret demands a well-run kitchen. ’Tis what she was used to before we came here.”

Turning her goblet in her hand, the light caught the intricate gold and silver pattern on the vessel. “These are silver trimmed in gold. Do you drink from such goblets every evening?”

“Aye. That, too, is Margaret’s doing,” said Edgar. “She cares little for worldly goods, but she would have the king’s house and the chapel adorned in kingly dignity. ’Tis why you see bright colors here in the hall. She has changed even the way the king’s subjects dress, well, except for the men-at-arms.”

Catrìona’s eyes roved over the people eating and talking, noting the bright reds, blues and greens worn by some.

“My sister encourages them to buy the brightly colored cloth from the merchants she beckons to Scotland’s shores. ’Tis what she expects in a king’s court and she would not have Malcolm appear less than a king.”

Catrìona glanced at the subject of Edgar’s remarks. Margaret was speaking to her husband, Malcolm’s head inclined to his wife’s. While their words could not be heard in the noisy hall, she could see Margaret was most attentive to the king. Curious to know more about her new mistress, she asked Edgar to tell her how his family came to Scotland.

Fia leaned in to listen.

Edgar took a sip of his wine, then stared at the goblet as if remembering the deep past. “Margaret was only ten and I younger still when we left Hungary where our father was in exile.”

“Why did you return?”

“King Edward summoned Father to England as heir to the throne. But days after we arrived, my father died.” Edgar’s voice dropped to a whisper. “My mother suspected poison.”

Catrìona gasped. “Treachery?”

He nodded. “For years, we lived in England, sheltered by King Edward. But then the king died and Harold Godwinson was named king. He did not reign long. You know, of course, the Normans killed him at Hastings. As the last male in the Wessex line, I was named king. I was fifteen, about the same age as your brother,” he said to Catrìona. “Did you know that?”

“I knew you were England’s rightful heir,” she said without hesitation, “but I did not know you had been named king.”

He shrugged. “ ’Twas only for a brief time after King Harold’s death. The Norman Conqueror lured away my supporters making sure I was never crowned. ’Tis still in my heart to rule England, yet sometimes I am forced to consider it may not be God’s will.”

“I am sorry for all that has been taken from you,” said Catrìona. Ruthless men had robbed him of his father and his home just as they had robbed her. But unlike her, Edgar had lost a kingdom.

“Two years ago we had great hope,” he said wistfully. “I fought with the rebels in York and with the Danes’ help, we took the city.” He glanced around the hall and she and Fia followed his gaze. “Some of the men here tonight fought with me. But when the Danes left and the Conqueror laid waste to York, my family and I fled England and Scotland became our haven.” He let out a deep sigh. “Malcolm’s bid for my sister’s hand changed whatever else might have been.”

Anxious to know, she pressed him. “And your sister, Margaret—”

“Did not want to be queen of anything. But I prevailed upon her when Malcolm pressed his suit. She would have preferred the cloistered life, but there was little to be done except to agree to Malcolm’s wishes. After all, we had already accepted his protection.” His gaze drifted to where the king sat listening intently to Margaret. “It was not a bad decision, I think. He adores her and now she is a queen.”

As she reached for her wine, pondering Edgar’s words, Catrìona had the feeling she was being watched. She turned her head toward the trestle table on the right where a man not fifteen feet away gnawed on a leg of roast fowl while devouring her with his eyes. He had the face of a hawk, eyes alert and his gaze piercing, making her feel like prey. She knew she should look away but she could not tear her eyes from his strong well-defined features, his long golden hair nearly the color of flax, and the hint of a beard lining his square jaw.

At her perusal, his mouth twitched up in an impudent grin.

Her cheeks flamed and she abruptly turned her attention back to her trencher. Beneath her lashes she shot a glance to where Domnall sat, but he was talking to the one called Maerleswein and did not appear to have noticed the exchange.

Steinar shifted his gaze from the trencher he shared with Rhodri to scan the hall when suddenly his attention was arrested by a blaze of auburn hair reflecting the light of the torches.

Who is she?

Reaching for a roast leg of duck, he chewed on the savory meat as he stared at the woman sitting beside the queen’s brother on the dais. She was as beautiful as the queen but her features more striking. Redheaded women, he remembered, had a reputation for spirit.
And passion.

Leaning in to Rhodri, between bites he asked, “Do you know those dining with the king?”

Rhodri turned his eyes to the front of the hall. “The dark-haired man of middle years is Matad of Dunkeld, Atholl’s mormaer. He is a powerful relation of the king but mayhap you do not recall his last visit. I was told I would be entertaining him and his party this eve.”

Steinar assessed the king’s nobleman. “He is just as I would imagine Atholl’s mormaer.” Of stern countenance, his dark eyes looked out on those in attendance as if suspicious of all. But Steinar was not so interested in the man as the woman sitting next to the queen’s brother. “Who is the woman with the red hair sitting next to Edgar?”

“I assume the two females are Atholl’s relations,” offered Rhodri. “The auburn-haired lad sitting on the other side of the girl with dark hair must be brother to the woman you ask about. They look much alike.”

In truth, he had not noticed the youth, but now Steinar looked again, seeing the resemblance. “Aye, ’tis possible.”

“The dark-haired young woman,” Rhodri murmured, “could be Welsh. Mayhap I will sing my first song for her. ’Tis a Welsh love song.”

“You would offer your song to
her
when all the women at Malcolm’s court, save the queen and her ladies, willingly fall at your feet? ’Tis a shame to give up what is offered to seek what is not.”

“Ah, but that is ever the way of it. A bard’s task is to sing of the love that eludes a man. And what of you? Your eyes wander not to the available females in the hall, as is your wont, but alight on only a single, flame-colored flower.”

Steinar watched the auburn-haired woman as she spoke to the queen’s brother, her face lit with an inner glow. “Not a flower, I think, but a firebrand.” Not since he had come to Dunfermline had he encountered a woman who, even at a distance, captured his interest like this one. Nothing could ever come of his interest in one the king’s guests, however, for he had naught to offer a woman. No title, no lands and little coin. But watching the redhead in the days ahead would provide a welcome diversion.

“Do not let her fiery hair deceive you,” said Rhodri. “If she is to be one of the queen’s ladies, she may be as devout as Margaret and the others who serve her, compliant women who will not question to whom they are given. Rich dowries all, but the king will wed them only to men he favors.”

Steinar was certain Rhodri was wrong about the redhead being compliant. “After growing up with Serena, I could never desire a woman who lacks spirit.”

Rhodri chuckled. “The Lady of Talisand is unique. Your sister was the best of all the archers I trained, though she did not wield a longbow.”

“Aye, she did well with that bow you made her.” Remembering their happy times together before the Conqueror came, he let out a wistful sigh. “I miss her and our sparring with words. In truth, I would wish for one like her.”

“There is little challenge in a woman who never questions, never speaks her opinion. One could fall asleep with all the ‘Yea, my lords’ one hears from the women at Malcolm’s court.”

“True, but now that I think on it,” Steinar pondered aloud, “the queen is not as meek as she appears. Mayhap we should not be so quick to judge her ladies.”

“Aye,” said Rhodri, fingering his scant dark beard. “The queen has her say and the king supports her. They have argued a time or two.”

Steinar noticed his friend’s gaze kept coming back to the companion of the redhead. “You find the dark-haired one to your liking?”

“I like the look of her, yea. Hair the color of a dark night on the Irish Sea and skin like fresh cream. I wager her eyes are as blue as the waters of Llyn Tegid.”

“Llyn Tegid?”

“The lake of beauty, ’tis near my home,” Rhodri said, a faraway look in his eyes.