Chapter 1 #2
The deep voice was Rhodri’s and with his words, Steinar relaxed and looked around for his friend.
Dressed in hosen, tunic and leather jerkin in the colors of the forest, Rhodri blended in with the foliage so as to be near invisible where he stood against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest. The bard was slight of build but strong with a bowman’s muscled arms and a head of black curls and deep-set brown eyes.
“Do you battle your demons, Steinar?”
“Some. But I also spar with teachers who once sharpened my skills. As you can see, I am not yet there. The leg fails me often.”
“But you will be strong again. You were once the best swordsman at Talisand, or so Theodric claimed.” Leaving the tree, Rhodri came closer. “When you are recovered, what then?”
Steinar slid his sword into its scabbard and limped to his friend, his leg telling him he had pushed it too hard. “When that day arrives, we will see. For now I remain the king’s scribe. Malcolm seems content with my service.”
“Aye, he is. But you came here to prove something and I’m thinking ’twas not just that you can again wield a sword.”
“You may be right,” he admitted, looking down at the forest floor covered in the green grass of spring.
Lifting his head to face his friend’s expectant gaze, he added, “I would test my resolve to fight the Bastard Norman again. After all, Malcolm has faced William’s knights more than once and come away the victor. But for now I remain a scribe.”
Rhodri gave him an assessing glance. “You can be more than one thing,” he said, adding in an amused tone, “I am.”
Steinar grinned. “ ’Tis why the king has his bard training his archers.”
“I do not mind. Like you, I need the practice.”
Together, they slowly walked back to Malcolm’s tower where they shared a chamber, the limping English scribe and the Welsh bard, each harboring a secret.
* * *
To Catrìona’s relief, the ride to Dunfermline had not been as long as the journey to Dunkeld the year before, nor so sad.
It was oddly comforting to leave behind her past and set forth on a new adventure, one that would lead to her future with Domnall.
With every mile she traveled, her spirits had risen knowing she would see him that evening.
Midday they had stopped at the River Earn to water the horses and eat a hasty meal of bannocks, cheese and berries before resuming the journey south. There were eight of them with Angus, Niall and her uncle’s three guards.
Their small company arrived in Dunfermline at day’s end, passing tall stands of trees to cross a stream, before riding up a long path to a rocky plateau where they dismounted.
Facing her was a massive square tower made of hewn stone blocks.
Catrìona tilted her head back to take in its height, so much greater than either her father’s hillfort or her uncle’s home in Atholl.
The tall tower, the like of which she had never seen, seemed a fitting fortress for the king, impregnable in its appearance.
And it would be her new home, at least until she and Domnall were wed.
Two men flanked the large carved wooden door that led into the tower, their gazes fixed on the new arrivals. From their muscled bodies, sheathed swords and proud stance, she judged them to be guards.
Suddenly, the large oaken door opened and the king and queen stepped outside.
Catrìona would have known Malcolm, King of Scots, even if he had not been wearing a gold crown and royal attire.
Tall of stature and noble of bearing, his dark hair fell to his broad shoulders and he wore a well-trimmed mustache and beard.
His eyes exuded power and intelligence as his gaze roved over the small group standing with the Mormaer of Atholl.
For all his elegance, the king’s hardened face told her he was a warrior still.
The king smiled widely and strolled up to Matad greeting him and her brother, as men are wont to do, leaving his queen to deal with the women.
It was the same way her father had treated men of rank and their wives visiting the vale.
Malcolm and her uncle easily conversed, making it apparent to Catrìona they were good friends.
The queen walked towards Catrìona and Fia, her movements graceful.
As fair as her husband was dark, Margaret was serenely beautiful in a gown of yellow silk, finely embroidered with blue flowers at the neck and wrists.
She appeared delicate and slight of form despite that her slightly rounded belly suggested she was with child.
Her long flaxen plaits hung below her headcloth encircled with a delicate, gold crown.
The blue ribands wrapped around her plaits matched her sky-colored eyes.
Margaret quickly put Catrìona at ease with her warm smile. “Welcome to Dunfermline,” she said in Gaelic. Then looking from Catrìona to Fia, she said, “I understand you two are to be my new ladies and I am told you both speak the Saxon tongue.”
Catrìona and Fia curtsied. “My Lady,” they said in unison with downcast eyes, Catrìona adding in the Saxon tongue, “Aye, we speak both languages as well as Latin.”
“That is most agreeable,” said the queen. “I know you must be tired. Your chamber has been made ready to allow you to change ere we dine. The servants will escort you there and see your chests are brought to you.”
Taking her leave, the queen joined her husband and Matad. As Catrìona watched her walk away, she could not help but wonder if beneath the delicate exterior the queen possessed an inward strength. Else how could she deal with a hardened warrior like Malcolm?
Fia started to follow a servant who beckoned them toward the tower.
Catrìona stopped her with an outstretched arm. “I must see Kessog settled.”
“While you see to your falcon, I will see to our chamber. I am anxious to know where we will be lodged.” Excitement once again danced in Fia’s eyes as she hurried to follow the servant.
Catrìona was happy for her cousin. It had been Fia’s dream to be one of the queen’s ladies; she had talked of little else.
Disappointed that Domnall had not been there to meet her, Catrìona waited for Niall who was coming toward her. “Want to come with me to see the mews?”
Niall nodded and walked with her to her horse where she lifted Kessog from his perch.
“The king’s house is large,” he remarked, looking back at the tower.
“Aye, ’tis the royal seat.”
In response to her inquiry, a servant pointed them in the direction of the mews, which lay just beyond the stables. The wooden building that housed the king’s hawks was twice the size of the mews maintained by her uncle, but then a king would have a large house for his many birds.
Stepping over the threshold of the dimly lit structure, she glimpsed rows of perches on which were settled many hooded birds.
A smoothed-faced young man with a prominent nose and kind eyes introduced himself.
“Welcome. I am Machar, the king’s falconer.”
“I am Catrìona, one of the queen’s new ladies, and this is my brother, Niall.”
She extended her gauntleted hand, passing the falcon’s jesses to Machar. “And this is Kessog.”
Machar carefully lifted the falcon to his own gauntlet, murmuring soothing words and calming the bird with practiced strokes. “A fine tiercel,” he said, using the term for a male peregrine. “He is most welcome to join the hawks I tend for the king and his chiefs.”
Niall and Machar exchanged a few words as Niall told the falconer of their home in the vale where Kessog had been raised and trained, not disclosing the tragedy they had survived a year earlier. They did not often speak of that time except to each other.
Even in the dim light from the single window, Catrìona could see the many perches held a gyrfalcon, several peregrines and various other hawks. “So many falcons,” she said in awe. “The king must love to hunt.”
“Aye, that he does, from the time he lived in England before he claimed the throne. King Edward was fond of the sport. Some of Malcolm’s men also hunt to the hawk.” With a smile he added, “You will frequently dine on roast duck.”
“Kessog has not flown this day, but I have fed him,” she advised the falconer. “We traveled from our uncle’s home in Dunkeld.”
“I will see to him, my lady,” he said confidently. “Mayhap you might like to join me in flying him?” he asked Niall. “The days are long and there is still good light.”
“Tomorrow, aye. But tonight we are expected at the king’s table.”
“Are many of the hawks you tend owned by ladies?” Catrìona interjected, suspecting the answer would not be to her liking.
Machar laughed, but sobered when he saw her frown.
“There are not many ladies that care to risk their skirts and their lives up on yon crags, scrambling to catch themselves a chick to train. Owned, no. The ladies of a few visiting nobles can fly birds, but when they’re here, they fly the king’s hawks. ”
Catrìona remembered well the lengths to which she had gone to catch and then train Kessog.
Winning his trust had taken time, getting him accustomed to her voice, her touch.
Feeding him was a constant task, made easier by her father’s falconer, as Kessog was trained to hunt for sport and did not eat his kill.
At her look of disappointment, Machar explained, “The ladies hereabouts—that is, the queen and her ladies—busy themselves mostly with prayer and needlework. They might wave at the men riding out to hunt, but they do not ride with them.”
Niall shot her a glance, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Well then,” she said, “mayhap ’twill be my brother who will fly Kessog most often in the time remaining before his summer molt.”
Catrìona felt better for leaving her falcon in the care of another, knowing Machar and Niall would keep Kessog happy when she could not attend him.
With a nod toward her brother, she left them to seek out her cousin. Her uncle had told her that she and Fia would likely share a small chamber in the tower, as did the queen’s other ladies.