Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) (10 page)

“My lady, I bid you welcome to Dunfermline,” said Maerleswein. He spoke Gaelic but with an accent that she took as English.

“Thank you,” she said. “Have you been long at Malcolm’s court?”

“Too long, I think,” he said with a laugh. The two men exchanged a glance that told her they shared a secret. When her brows furrowed in question, he explained, “Malcolm is sending me away, albeit with lands and a wife. The king claims ’tis a reward for my battles against the Conqueror, but I suspect he also wants me guarding his southern border for I will be taking my men with me.”

Notwithstanding Maerleswein’s musings about the king’s motives, Catrìona was certain it was happiness she glimpsed in his face. “You are pleased by these developments, I trust?”

“Aye. I have been too long idle. It will suit me to have lands of my own again. It has been many years since my wife died and my only child, a daughter, is now wed.” He grinned then. “I rather like the thought of taking a bride.”

Maerleswein’s face bore only a few lines despite his more than two score years. His body was still that of a warrior. Her own father, the same age, had carried more weight. She could envision the former sheriff siring more children. “Who might your betrothed be, my lord?”

“One of the queen’s ladies. I assume you know her being one yourself.”

Catrìona was suddenly anxious. She hoped it was not Audra for already she was fond of her and, selfishly, did not wish to see her go.

“ ’Tis Davina of Lothian,” he said.

Catrìona inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. She did not know Davina well, but remembered the quiet woman with honey-gold hair and soft brown eyes, a woman of few words who was content with her needlework. “She is lovely.”

“Aye, she’ll do,” said the former sheriff, obviously pleased with the match.

“If you will excuse us, Maerleswein,” Domnall interjected, “I promised Catrìona a walk ere the evening meal begins.”

“Of course.” Maerleswein bowed and strode off to join the king’s men.

“Come.” Domnall offered his arm. “We have just enough time.”

She placed her hand on his forearm and they walked out the open door into a summer evening. The sky was gray with clouds and she smelled rain in the air. Angus was nowhere in sight. For at least a little while, they would be alone except for the people who came and went from the king’s tower.

She wanted to ask Domnall about his plans for the future and more precisely, when he would speak to her uncle about their betrothal, but she did not wish to appear anxious, or as the scribe would say, overbold.

“You look lovely this evening,” he said. “That color becomes you.”

He had said as much of her other gowns in former days. She was pleased but it seemed such a common remark when she wanted to hear so much more. “I am glad you approve.” If he would speak of mundane things, so would she. “How went the hunt?”

He smiled. “We will dine on roast boar and venison tonight. ’Twas a vigorous battle to bring the boar down. The king loved it. Malcolm is never more content than when he is in battle, be it against the Normans or more natural beasts.”

“Aye, he is quite the opposite of Margaret. But I think she complements him well.”

Domnall seemed to consider her words. “The Scots have accepted her.”

“How could they not?”

“Yea, the Lady of Scotland is well liked. Malcolm made a wise match, gaining a princess as well as a rich dowry.”

“I would rather speak of you,” said Catrìona, “Will you linger in Dunfermline?”

“For a while yet.” The look in his eyes told her ’twould not be long. Mayhap they would marry here and he would take her with him when he returned to Leinster. It was her most fervent wish.

“I am glad. I would not want you to leave.” With a laugh, she added, “Unless, of course, you took me with you.” When she saw Domnall’s gaze slip to the ground, she instantly regretted disclosing her thoughts.

“In time, Catrìona. All things in time.” Then looking up, he said, “You only just arrived. There is much to learn from the queen.”

Mayhap the king’s scribe had the right of it. She did tend to be too direct. More like her father than her mother. But she was not slow. Domnall had put her off and his words made her squirm inside. Something was holding him back.
What could it be?

“Are things well with your family?”

He was silent for a moment telling her she had hit upon a sensitive subject.

“My grandsire has passed.”

“I am sorry. Were you close?”

“Not for a long time,” was all he said. Then he changed the subject and returned to the topic of the day’s hunt, describing the fight the boar had given them.

She listened attentively while her mind spun with possibilities.

Finally, placing his hand over hers, he said, “We had best go in.”

Again he had refrained from speaking of their betrothal.
Why?

*     *     *

The River Clyde loomed before her, cloaked in swirling mists. A woman’s scream pierced the air, raising a scream in her own throat. She tried to run but her feet seemed to be stuck in the sand. With great effort, she pressed forward. And then she was running, running.

Behind her, Catrìona heard the roar of a harsh voice and the panting of a huge beast. On she ran as screams erupted around her.

Suddenly she was grabbed and wrenched to the ground. A brutal hand clenched her arm, dragging her over the sand and pebbles. She fought to break free, kicking out with her feet but was held fast in a powerful grip.

In a tongue she did not recognize, the savage beast shouted and lifted her over the side of a ship, thrusting her to the hard wooden deck.

Sobbing, she scurried away, but the beast leaped over the side of the hull and stalked toward her. Grabbing her, he bound her hands, bruising her tender skin. She cried out and tried to crawl away but was hauled back.

A dark shadow loomed above her.

“Nay!” she cried out, sobbing.

“Cat! Cat, wake up!”

From deep in the dream, Catrìona’s mind cleared of mist as Fia shook her awake. Opening her eyes, she stared unblinking into the darkness, her heart pounding in her chest. Soaked in sweat, she panted out breaths as if she were suffocating. “What—?”

“ ’Twas only a dream, Cat,” said Fia, drawing Catrìona into her arms.

“Oh, God, Fia. ’Twas so real,” she gasped.

“You are all right now,” her cousin crooned softly, gently brushing the wet strands of hair from Catrìona’s face. “ ’Tis over.”

She clung to her cousin, a tether to what was real. “In the dream,” she murmured, as she regained her senses and her heart settled in her chest, “I was one of the captured.”

Silence hung in the air, then Fia said, “You only imagine what it must have been like for Deidre and the others.”

“Aye,” Catrìona said, thinking it must be so. “ ’Twas horrible.”

After the terrible dream, Catrìona’s life settled into a routine of early morning prayer followed by very busy days. Margaret undertook many acts of charity in which she enlisted her ladies’ help. Catrìona willingly participated, for the work was to her liking and diverted her mind from the past.

Not every day was she able to steal away to fly Kessog. But when she did, she enjoyed the thrill of the falcon’s hunt and the boy’s company, savoring the days left before Kessog began his molt and she would not fly him.

On one of their excursions, Giric had taken her and Niall to the village. It was larger than she had expected, the thatched stone cottages scattered on either side of a wide dirt path. A blacksmith was kept occupied, Giric told her, mending mail and making swords and knives. Two taverns served the people and visitors. Some of the king’s men were married and had cottages in the village.

She was surprised when the boy led her to a small cottage where several pallets were laid out on the dirt floor.

“ ’Tis where I sleep,” he said, pointing to a pallet in the corner. Her heart went out to the boy, living in such conditions.

“And the other pallets?” she asked. “Who sleeps on them?”

“The other orphans.”

Catrìona shot a glance to where her brother stood examining the broken shutter over the window. “And besides breaking your fast in the hall, who feeds you?” he asked.

“Some of the village women.”

“Mayhap we can make this a better place. It must be cold in the winter.”

“Aye, ’tis,” was the boy’s only reply. It tore at her heart to see the orphans living in such poverty. She was certain Margaret did not know of it. Catrìona could feel her resolve to help building within her and vowed to take a hand in the village.

“I will ask the queen to allow me time and servants to make some needed changes here.”

Niall turned from the window. “I will help, too.”

Margaret had been pleased when Catrìona later asked her for supplies and servants to clean and repair the cottage. The queen had offered to provide clothing and assure the women who fed the children had sufficient stores of food. Catrìona set about seeing the children had new clothes, enlisting her fellow ladies to make the girls pretty tunics, embroidered with flowers. And, because she had suggested the work, Catrìona could hardly fail to participate in the needlework, but the constant company of the chattering women and her frustration at her dismal ability with a needle often left her bored and restless.

A few afternoons later, she had thought the piece she was embroidering was finished until she turned it over. She let out an exasperated sigh when she saw the tangle of knotted thread. It would have to be ripped out and done again. How she wanted to escape the task and the small talk of the queen’s chamber to walk alone in the woods.

Her eyes flitted about the small chamber and, not seeing Margaret, remembered she had left to be with her young son. Angus would be busy in the practice yard with the king’s men and Niall would be with the archers. A perfect time for what she had in mind.

Leaving the other ladies engaged in their sewing, she left the chamber and, once outside the tower, took the path through the woods, following the burn. It was a glorious day, the sun streaming through the leaves to fall on the yellow flowers growing by the path. Birds sang above her, drawing the chitter of red squirrels.

Giving in to a sudden urge, she slipped off her shoes and stripped her feet of the linen hose, wriggling her freed toes in the grass growing to one side of the path. She relished the way the tender green shoots tickled her feet. Undoing her plaits, she let her hair fall free down her back. Stuffing her hose into her shoes, she clutched them in one arm and began to walk.

And then she ran.

Exhilarated by the breeze on her face and the wind in her hair, she ran and ran until, out of breath, she slowed to a walk. Her heart raced as she deeply inhaled the scent of the pine forest, feeling very alive. Nothing had felt so good in a very long time. It reminded her of those times as a girl she had loved to run barefoot in the vale.

If only those days had not ended so abruptly.

To her right the burn rippled over rocks, making a burbling sound. She looked for a place to cross it. A short way ahead she spotted a tree fallen across the stream. Its trunk appeared wide enough for a person’s feet. Determined to cross, she held her skirts away with her free hand and stepped carefully onto the log. With each step she gained confidence. Halfway across, her foot slipped. Hands flailing, she tumbled into the swiftly moving stream with a great splash, her hose and shoes floating away on the current.

“Argh!” Her bottom resting uncomfortably on the rocks beneath the water, she grabbed for the garments slipping away, relieved when she recovered them.

For a moment she just sat there, frustrated and chilled. The burn was not deep, but she was most thoroughly soaked.

A chuckle sounded from the woods.

*     *     *

On his way back to the tower from his sword practice, Steinar spotted what looked like a tree nymph darting past him. Running on the path with the abandon of a wild thing, she had not seen him hidden among the trees. But he recognized the slim figure in the leaf-colored gown, her auburn hair, like a crimson banner, flying out behind her catching the sunlight filtering through the trees.

A free spirit alone in the woods to tempt him.

He could not help wondering if, like his sister, Catrìona had been indulged by a loving father who allowed her pursuits that were more properly those of a son than a daughter. Women like Serena were rare and Catrìona, so like his sister, called to some part of him long dormant.

Intrigued, he decided to follow her.

When she started to cross the stream, he remembered the moss he had seen growing on the fallen tree. Mayhap she had not recognized the danger, how slippery the growth would be under her feet.

He opened his mouth to warn her just as she gave out a shriek and fell into the water with a loud splash. It had to be cold. But he could not resist a chuckle for her dazed expression as she sat blinking in the shallow water.

“Does your father allow you to run barefoot in the forest and dance across logs?”

She whipped her head around and narrowed her eyes. Her long hair fell around her shoulders like a dark crimson shawl, dripping water onto her gown. And still she was beautiful.

“That is none of your concern, Scribe.” With a muffled curse, she struggled to rise. He reached out to help her just as she added somberly, “My father is dead.”

The way she had said it, the look of anguish in her eyes, told him she still mourned her father’s loss. Mayhap his death had been recent.

“Here,” he said reaching toward her, “take my hand and allow me to help you out.”

There was fire in her eyes but she took his hand while holding on to her shoes, soaked with water.

He pulled her from the stream, sodden and shivering. It was the first time they had touched and even dripping wet, the feel of her skin caused a surge of desire to course through him. The wet gown clung to her body, revealing her nipples hardened to small buds and her curves in vivid detail. Wet, she was even more alluring than before. He wanted to pull her close, to feel her softness, but instead, he merely steadied her with his hands. “Did you not see the moss that grows on the log? ’Tis quite apparent.”