Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) (7 page)

But now, she served a devout queen, one who apparently lived like a nun when she was not with her husband. Catrìona knew she must find a way to pray. And so she began by reminding God who she was until the absurdity of it gripped her. Of course, He knew who she was. But it was the only way she could think to reestablish some kind of a connection with a God she had dismissed as uncaring.

Unwilling to say the old Latin prayers and unable to find words of her own, she remembered the Psalter.

Domini pascit me… The Lord is my shepherd…

She had only finished the last line,
et ut inhabitem in domo Domini in longitudinem dierum. …in God’s house forevermore my dwelling place shall be
, when she heard the queen rise.

Even in the faint light, Catrìona could see the face of her mistress shining with an inner light and she felt ashamed of the turmoil within her.

The queen’s ladies stood as one.

Margaret turned to Catrìona and Fia. “ ’Tis your first day among us and so you do not know our practice. We begin each day with prayer. Then we feed the orphans and those in need before breaking our fast.”

“Yea, My Lady,” Catrìona said, bowing her head, hearing the command in the queen’s voice and wondering how they were to feed the orphans. “Please forgive us for being late.”

“As I said, ’tis your first day.”

“If I may ask, My Lady…” began Catrìona. She heard the sudden intake of breath from the other women at her effrontery, but she genuinely wanted to know. “Why do we pray before the sun rises?”

The queen gave her a look as if indulging a young child. “Have you never heard that when it was still dark, our Lord got up and left the house and went away to a secluded place to pray? Before He chose the twelve, He prayed all night. There is much to be gained from His example if we would have our prayers answered.”

“Surely He will answer yours, My Lady,” said Catrìona. “You are so… good.”

“Nay, not good, just a woman.”

The queen turned and left the chapel, her ladies following, leaving Catrìona and her cousin alone.

In the light of the candle, she saw Fia roll her eyes. “Now you are questioning the queen herself?”

“I suppose I am. ’Tis hard to think of a woman who rises in the middle of the night to pray as ‘just a woman’ no matter what she says. But if she is just a woman, surely she can answer another woman’s questions.”

As they left the chapel, dawn made its glorious appearance, lighting the sky in shades of blue and heather. Catrìona paused to admire the colors in the clouds, deep rose with the bright color of foxglove flowers in the center. Below the clouds, the sky was streaked in gold. Mayhap the beauty of the dawn was worth the early rising.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she had eaten little the night before. She whispered to Fia, “I cannot fault the queen for her devotion to God and the orphans, but my stomach objects to so much activity before breaking my fast.”

“The priest would say serving others before ourselves is a virtue,” said Fia.

“Aye,” Catrìona agreed, knowing Fia was right and the queen a model of devotion. “We serve a queen who shames us all.”

They arrived back at the tower and stepped through the door to find the queen and the other ladies standing inside. Wafting through the air was the smell of fresh-baked bread. Catrìona’s mouth watered.

A woman wearing a headcloth and carrying a babe came toward Margaret. Handing the babe to the queen, she said, “Good morning, My Lady.”

Margaret cradled the sleepy child in her arms. “Did Edward sleep well?”

“Yea, My Lady, ’tis a sweet lad ye have.”

Margaret kissed the babe—who Catrìona realized was the queen’s young son—before releasing him back to his nurse.

An older man with gray hair, who had been standing to one side, approached. Catrìona assumed he was the king’s steward.

“My Lady, the orphans await you and your ladies.”

“Thank you, Nechtan,” said the queen.

Audra leaned in to Catrìona and Fia. “Before she takes any food for herself, Margaret will see the orphans fed. They come to the tower door each morning, usually nine or ten of them. ’Tis her way and we do the same.”

Just then, the king stomped down the stairs, his heavy feet sounding like drum beats on the wooden planks. Frustration emanated from his grunts as he struggled to pin a large brooch to his scarlet cloak. His dark hair, thrown back from his face, fell to his shoulders in wild abandon. A golden-handled sword hung in a sheath at his side. A man of great height and presence, his entry drew the attention of all. Catrìona could not help but stare.

Spotting his queen, Malcolm went straight to her.

“ ’Twould seem I am in need of your deft hand,
mo cridhe
.” He grinned mischievously at his wife.

The queen raised her hands to his shoulder and with efficient movements, secured the brooch to his cloak. The king bestowed a kiss on her cheek. As Margaret turned toward her ladies, Malcolm slapped her affectionately on the bottom before striding toward the door, snapping his fingers at two hounds lying in the corner. The hounds immediately rose from the rushes and followed at their master’s heels as he swept through the door.

Margaret seemed flustered for only a moment, then a smile flickered on her face.

Catrìona felt a stab of envy at having witnessed the exchange. Malcolm had called his wife
mo cridhe
, my heart, and in his eyes she had seen the adoration he held for Margaret that was whispered of at court. To be loved by such a warrior, to be touched in such an affectionate and possessive way. ’Twas not unlike the love that had existed between her father and her mother. The love she hoped to one day share with Domnall.

The king swung open the door and before it thumped closed, Catrìona heard the king’s men, gathering outside, greeting him in a loud chorus.

She turned her attention back to her mistress. At one of the trestle tables, a group of children stood wearing broad grins and simple tunics of earthen colors. They greeted Margaret with noisy expressions of delight, pulling at the queen’s gown.

“Wait your turn,” Margaret gently reproved one very insistent young boy who could not have been more than four summers in age.

Servants bustled about, setting the table with bowls of gruel and bread. Others poured milk into small cups and set them before each place.

Margaret sat down on a bench in the middle of one table and beckoned a small girl to her. “You first, Bridget.” The child was not shy but came directly to the queen and climbed onto her lap. As Audra had told them, the queen did not eat. Instead, she picked up her own silver spoon and began to feed the girl from a bowl of gruel.

Catrìona and Fia joined the queen’s other ladies as they took their places at the table around Margaret and began to attend the remaining children clamoring to be fed from the bowls set before them.

Looking up at Catrìona and Fia while still feeding the young girl, Margaret said, “I try to give them something a child would like, sweetened with honey and raisins.”

Catrìona nodded her understanding as her rumbling stomach reminded her she was hungry. She was about to point out it was not just children who liked honey and raisins when the queen said, “I am rather fond of them myself.”

Off to the side, Catrìona saw a boy standing by himself and called him to her. Older than the others, he was slight of body, ruddy of complexion with beautiful wide set brown eyes and straight brown hair to his nape.

He came toward her cautiously, wearing a serious expression, mayhap because he did not know her, but she sensed there was more behind his reluctant demeanor. The boy’s being orphaned young and having no one made her all the more grateful for Niall. Without him, she would be as alone as this boy.

When he reached her, she invited him to sit beside her. “My name is Catrìona. How are you called?”

“Giric,” he said crawling onto the bench.

Thinking he was about six or seven summers, she handed him a spoon. “I expect you feed yourself.”

He nodded vigorously and took the spoon, dipping it into the bowl. Between mouthfuls of gruel, he said, “Yer hair is pretty.”

She could not help but smile. He was adorable. “Thank you.”

He squinted up at her. “Art new?”

“Aye. My cousin, Fia,” she pointed to Fia sitting across from them feeding a young girl, “and my brother, Niall, and I have just come from Dunkeld. Like you, Niall and I are orphans.”

“Ye’re older,” he said as if that was entirely different and she supposed it was.

“Aye, but orphans still.” He did not ask how it had come to be she had no parents and she did not wish to ask about his own circumstances, knowing it would cause each of them pain to speak of it. She had only wanted him to know she and Niall understood his loss.

The sounds of eating and occasional exchanges between the children echoed about the hall. For a while, she let Giric eat. Then she thought of something that might please him. “Do you like falcons?”

His eyes lit up and he put down the spoon, wiping his mouth on his tunic sleeve. “Aye, lady! Do ye have one?”

“I do. His name is Kessog and he lives in the mews. Mayhap we can visit him this afternoon.”

He frowned. “The queen’s ladies do their sewing then.”

“I will ask the queen if she will allow me to show you my falcon. I am not so good at needlework that I will be missed. Can you be outside the door to the hall at midday?”

He nodded. Licking the last bit of gruel from his spoon, he reached for a piece of bread. “I will be there.” Taking the bread with him, he slipped from the bench and raced toward the door to join the other children who were leaving. Just as he went outside, he turned and waved to her.

She returned the gesture.
Giric.
Smiling to herself, she thought to ask Niall to go along on their afternoon adventure.

When the children had gone, a score of men and women came into the hall and were greeted by Margaret. They were simply dressed like the servants. All of them seemed to know the queen and warmly responded to her words of welcome. Catrìona wondered who they were. She had not seen them the evening before. Their clothing was modest but clean. Some looked more like Saxons than Scots, fair-haired and blue-eyed. A few children accompanied them.

They took the empty places at the same table where Catrìona, Fia and Audra sat with the other ladies.

Catrìona was puzzled.

As if reading her mind, Audra said, “They come each morning, the poor in Dunfermline. Many are English. The queen offers them food and provides them clothing.”

“The queen does much good,” Catrìona observed as a servant filled her bowl with the warm, cinnamon-scented gruel. She was happy to see raisins sprinkled on top.

“I love her for her goodness,” said Audra. “We all do. You have not seen the half of it.”

“Will the queen eat now?” Catrìona asked. She would not eat before her mistress, but truth be told, the smell of fresh bread and the thought of the honey and raisins on her tongue made her ravenous.

Audra glanced at the villagers and then turned back to Catrìona and Fia. “Once Margaret is certain the poor have been fed, then she will eat. But much of the time, she consumes little. We must remind her each day that she eats for the babe she carries or she would waste away to nothing. She fasts often.”

Catrìona felt shame for her own selfishness. At her father’s home in the vale, any in need had been welcomed but they had never placed the poor above themselves like Margaret did. No wonder the king loved her.

The queen walked to the dais and took her place at the high table. Not long after, the tower door burst open and Malcolm strode into the hall, his men trailing behind him, sending up a great din, laughing and speaking in loud voices of the hunt they were planning. From their eyes fixed on the bowls of gruel, Malcolm and his men appeared eager to break their fast and take to the woods. They must have been accustomed to seeing the poor in their midst, for they did not remark on it.

The king and Catrìona’s uncle joined the queen at the head table. The king’s men found places at the trestle tables, most of them sitting at the table across from where Catrìona and the queen’s ladies were eating with the poor.

Among the men were the golden-haired warrior and his companion, the bard.

Catrìona picked up her spoon and scooped a helping of gruel into her mouth, the honey and raisins as tasty as she had imagined.

“There’s the Welshman,” said Fia, looking up from her own bowl and turning to glimpse the bard.

Catrìona broke off a piece of bread and glanced at the handsome blond with broad shoulders sitting beside the bard. “And his friend.”

As if he sensed her eyes upon him, the fair-haired warrior turned and smiled at her.

Instantly, she looked down at her gruel, embarrassed at having been caught at his game of staring.
What must he think?
It was Domnall she should be looking at but she had not seen him come into the hall with the king.

A moment later, with a one-word command, the king summoned the warrior who had smiled at her. “Steinar!”

The warrior immediately responded, rising from his place to stride to the king, his hair catching the sun’s light flowing through the open shutters. He walked with a slight limp.

“Who is that one?” she asked Audra.

The queen’s lady followed Catrìona’s gaze. “The king’s scribe.”

A scribe?
She would never have believed it. His body was that of a warrior, not a man of the cloth. Though he carried no sword, she could not imagine him as the king’s clerk. It meant he was educated, a man of letters, as few warriors were. Even the king was unlettered. Mayhap this blond scribe, who looked like a Saxon, had fled to Scotland, or been dragged there by the king as a slave.
Could this man be a slave?

At the sound of the tower door opening, she turned. Domnall strolled inside with Maerleswein. Gesturing his companion to proceed without him, Domnall came toward her.

Her heart began to race in her chest. She was glad to see him. He looked very handsome. He might intend to hunt with the king, but first he was coming to speak with her and she was pleased he would do so.