Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) (6 page)

“You sound like you are missing the shores of Gwynedd.”

Rhodri shrugged, admitting nothing.

“You’d best tread carefully,” Steinar cautioned. “If she is related to the Mormaer of Atholl, she’ll nae have a bard for a husband.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Rhodri said with feigned annoyance. “Doubt it not.”

Amused, Steinar let his friend have the last word and resumed chewing on the leg of roast duck, his eyes never leaving the woman with the bright auburn hair.

When she looked his way, pausing to consider him, his mouth left the duck to hitch up in a smile.

She had noticed him, too.

Immediately, she looked down at her trencher. A moment later, she lifted her head to gaze about the hall. He wondered what she was seeing. Was she impressed? Had she seen the great room before Margaret’s changes, she would have been appalled.

Steinar thought back to when he and Rhodri had first come to Dunfermline. In those days, the tower was mostly the abode of men, the floors of the hall strewn with dirty rushes where the hounds lurked, waiting to grab a fallen bit of meat or a bone cast aside. But once King Malcolm had convinced Margaret of Wessex to become his queen, all had changed.

Now the wooden floors and tables were clean scrubbed, the rushes fresh and herbed and the whitewashed plaster walls were graced with tapestries from the queen’s dower chests. Even the hounds were confined by the king’s command to one corner when meals were served. Margaret could be a tyrant when it came to appearances.

The presence of the new queen brought many nobles to Dunfermline wanting to pay homage to the Saxon princess who had become the Lady of Scotland. And not all of those who had come to Malcolm’s court were Scots. The king’s prior marriage to the widow of Thorfinn Sigurdsson, the Jarl of Orkney, had sometimes brought the Norse to Dunfermline. He scanned the hall, but saw none of the Orkneymen. However, he did note the presence of the Irishman with roots in Leinster who had come this past year and stayed.

The blond heads in the hall reminded him many Saxons were now at Malcolm’s court, driven north by the Conqueror’s ruthlessness. There were so many in Dunfermline, the Scots had to wonder if their country was being overrun. Still, Malcolm could hardly complain when he had dragged many English captives back to Scotland as slaves, plunder from his raids.

Steinar chuckled remembering how the queen had intervened to ransom as many as she could, pilfering the king’s treasure to free the English. How Malcolm had railed about that. She had even sent spies throughout Scotland looking for any English slaves who might be mistreated. Those she could not ransom, she cared for and put to work. There was hardly a cottage in Dunfermline that did not have an English servant.

From across the table Maerleswein lifted his hand in greeting. Steinar raised his goblet to the former Sheriff of Lincolnshire, who had shifted alliances with the coming of the Conqueror and now vowed allegiance to Malcolm.

In their conversations over the hearth fire, Maerleswein had confided his regret that his daughter, Emma, had chosen to wed a Norman knight. Deep in his cups, Steinar had told the former sheriff of his sister, Serena’s marriage to the Norman called the Red Wolf, but unlike Emma, Serena had been given no choice. As the evening had worn on, the two men realized that Emma was at Talisand, Steinar’s home, and her Norman husband was Sir Geoffroi, the Red Wolf’s most trusted knight.

Steinar sighed, trying not to wallow in self-pity nor allow his desire for revenge to consume him. He could not look back.

The meal drew to a close as servants set plates of small honeyed cakes before them. More wine was poured and the hall quieted in anticipation as Rhodri reached for his harp.

*     *     *

Sipping wine from her silver goblet, Catrìona’s eyes followed the bard as he carried a small harp to the front of the dais.

“Matad,” the king addressed her uncle, “do you remember this Welshman?”

Matad nodded.

“His music is wondrous and his tales fascinate,” the king continued. “He is also the best of my archers. Mayhap before you return to Atholl, you might test your skill against his bow.”

“Your bard is an archer?” Matad asked incredulous.

“Not just any archer,” the king said with a grin. “Rhodri is a master of the bow. He
instructs
my archers.”

Matad dipped his head in acknowledgement before turning his attention to the bard, who bowed to the king and queen and took his place on a stool.

The bard wore a tunic of dark green over brown hosen, his clothing plain but well fitted. He plucked the strings of his harp and ethereal notes filled the hall. The bard’s head of ebony curls cascaded over his face as he bent his head over the instrument, his long fingers working their magic.

“The Welsh bard is well favored, is he not?” Fia whispered into Catrìona’s ear.

She turned toward her cousin to see Fia staring at the bard, transfixed. “Aye, I suppose…” He
was
handsome in a boyish way, she silently conceded, his features finely carved. Were it not for his close-cropped beard and slight mustache, she might have thought him pretty.

The enchanting music continued, lilting into the air, instilling a peace in Catrìona’s soul still damaged from the events in the vale.

“He first sings in the Welsh tongue,” the king said to her uncle, “but then he will change to Gaelic.”

As the bard began to sing, a hush came over the hall. His dark eyes alighted on Fia and he fell silent, pausing in his song while his fingers continued to pluck the strings. The bard and Fia locked gazes for a moment before the Welshman dropped his head to focus on his harp.

Catrìona knew bards to be charmers but she would not have believed one could be so bold as to flirt with Fia in front of her father. Catrìona sneaked a glance at her uncle but he did not appear to have noticed what transpired between his daughter and the bard.

A moment later, the Welshman lifted his head and began singing in Gaelic. The song told of a young heir to the throne denied his rightful place and a brave warrior’s stance against the Norman Conqueror who had seized lands that were not his. From her father, Catrìona had heard King Malcolm’s story, how, from his youth, he had wanted the throne of his father, Duncan. But that throne had been denied him. As she listened, she wondered, did the bard sing of Malcolm or the queen’s brother, Edgar?

The song ended and the bard began to tell a story. His deep voice wove a tale of ancient Cymru, land of the mists, where one Rhodri ap Merfyn, called “the great”, defeated the pagans who stormed the shores of Gwynedd from their dragon ships in search of plunder. The bard sang of the fierce battle and the Welsh victory that turned the pagans back.

Listening to the bard’s story, Catrìona’s mind filled with images from that horrible day when the life she had known had been so viciously torn from her. She saw the Northmen storming ashore, her father’s lifeless body, the knife just out of reach of her mother’s hand and the young women dragged away.

Her heart sped and her brow grew damp. Unconsciously, she closed her eyes, clenching her fists, bidding the terrifying scenes to go away.

Fia must have sensed her distress for she reached out her hand and placed it over Catrìona’s, squeezing gently.

Grateful for the comforting gesture, Catrìona smiled her thanks and forced her heart to calm, letting out the breath she had been holding.

The bard’s story ended and he stood and bowed to the king and queen, receiving praise from all. Setting his harp on a cushion placed to one side, he returned to his seat beside the blond warrior who had stared at Catrìona earlier.
Mayhap the two are friends.

Margaret rose and turned to the king. “With your leave, My Lord, my ladies and I will retire and find our beds.”

Malcolm took his wife’s hand, kissed it and pulled her down to whisper something in her ear. Margaret blushed, pulled her hand back and, without a word, turned to walk gracefully from the dais.

Matad shot a look at Fia and Catrìona, a signal they should depart with the queen. Exhausted after the day’s travel, Catrìona was only too happy to comply. She had a feeling that once the queen was gone from the hall, the atmosphere would degenerate to a masculine swagger of ribald jests from too much wine.

Rising from her seat, Catrìona bid Edgar good eve and stepped from the dais, Fia just behind her. She tossed Domnall a look of regret as she passed him and then hurried after the queen, joining the other ladies trailing after Margaret like cygnets after a swan.

She felt Domnall’s gaze following her as she and the ladies crossed the hall. When she reached the stairs, Catrìona looked back, seeing many heads turned in their direction. Among the men whose eyes flickered with interest were the blond warrior and the Welsh bard.

*     *     *

Domnall’s gaze never left Catrìona as she and her cousin followed the queen from the hall, her long auburn plaits hanging below her narrow waist. A fetching woman, but not as attractive to him as she had once been now that she was without her rich dowry and her father’s lucrative trade with Leinster.

In his message telling her he would be at Malcolm’s court, he had not mentioned that his grandsire, the King of Leinster, had recently died.

There would be more than one man in Ireland who desired to reign in his grandsire’s stead and Domnall was one of them.

No longer could he afford to seek the hand of the woman who made him the envy of other men. Now he must marry for wealth and position. But that did not end his lust for the comely redhead. He still wanted Catrìona in his bed.

The door of their bedchamber suddenly opened, jarring Catrìona from sleep.

“Arise! The queen departs!” a raspy voice shouted.

Catrìona heard the command in her mind, instantly aware the harsh voice was not Fia’s. Since the attack on the vale, Catrìona slept lightly. A whisper could bring her awake, but the servant who had hissed the command could not know that. “I am awake,” Catrìona mumbled, knowing Fia was not, for her cousin slept like a rock.

The door thumped closed. She opened her eyes and sat up in bed. Darkness surrounded her, the only light in the chamber a soft glow from the brazier’s banked fire. Edgar’s warning had not been an idle threat. They were summoned before first light to pray.

God must be fond of the dark
.

She fumbled on the small bedside table to find the candle, knocking it over at her first try. Finding it with her fingers, she righted the small tallow column in its stand. Once she was certain the flame had caught, she turned to see her cousin still asleep.

“Fia! Wake up. Else we will be late for the queen. One of the servants already shouted as much.”

Fia groaned and tried to cover her face.

Catrìona pushed herself off the bed and crossed the few feet to her cousin, shaking Fia’s shoulder. “Hurry. ’Twill get easier once we are used to the unholy hour.” The irony of praying at an “unholy” hour made her smile.

Leaving her cousin, she reached for the water in the bowl on the side table and splashed it onto her face. The cold water brought her alert as the servant’s shout had not. She dried her face and lifted the clothes she would wear today from the peg where she had hung them the night before.

Slipping her gown over her linen undertunic, she darted a glance at Fia, who, she was pleased to see, was finally stumbling out of bed.

As quickly as they could, they made themselves presentable, donned their cloaks and descended the stairs to the hall. Torches set in sconces along the walls lighted the large space and a fire blazed in the hearth set in the middle of the cavernous room. The servants were obviously well trained to their mistress’ odd habits.

Catrìona stifled a yawn as she spotted one of the queen’s ladies waiting near the front door, a candle in her hand.

“I am Audra,” the woman reminded them. “The queen bid me stay to show you the way to our place of morning prayer.”

Catrìona was tempted to tell the woman it was not yet morning, but she refrained. She was now in the queen’s service and at Margaret’s disposal. Moreover, Audra’s pleasant manner at so early an hour told her that this one might become a friend. “Thank you,” she said.

They passed through the open door, Catrìona and Fia following Audra as she hurried along.

“Where are you taking us?” Catrìona asked. In the predawn light, she could see little.

“To the new chapel,” said Audra. “ ’Twas where the king and queen were wed. Margaret had it made larger. Now ’tis a fine place to pray. Some afternoons the queen goes away to a cave to pray alone but in the mornings we attend her here.”

“A queen who prays in a cave like a hermit,” Catrìona mumbled under her breath as she stepped carefully over the rocks and tree roots she felt through her leather shoes.

Fia was having the same trouble making her way and reached for Catrìona’s hand to steady herself.

Eventually, they came to a small building on the other side of the tower. Inside, Catrìona glimpsed the queen on her knees before an altar lit by a single candle. The three other ladies were beside her, their heads bent in prayer.

Audra knelt next to the queen and, not wishing to disturb the queen’s prayers with an apology for being late, Catrìona took her place next to Audra. Fia quickly joined her.

The small chapel was silent except for the women’s whispers as they prayed, the smell of stone and dirt strong, the stillness nearly tangible. It was not unlike the chapel at her home in the vale, only larger.

Catrìona hesitated. Should she say something to God before beginning the ritual Latin prayers? She had not spoken to Him since the day her parents had been killed. When Angus and Niall had laid them in the ground, she had prayed for their souls. But even then, she had questioned how a God who cared about His children could permit something so horrible to happen. How could He allow pagan savages to rampage unchecked and unpunished?

What kind of God lets innocents suffer while evil triumphs?

When she had asked the priest at Dunkeld, he offered only pious platitudes. “We are visitors here on earth, my child. Heaven is our eternal home. Your parents are in a better place now, with the holy saints and angels.” His words brought scant comfort. The Northmen who had murdered her parents and her people still roamed free. The cry for justice burned in her heart like coals stirred to a fierce blaze by her memories.