Chapter 6
Catrìona watched Giric stuff a hunk of bread into his mouth and race from the hall, the small gray wiry-haired creature with an uncanny resemblance to the king’s hounds following on the boy’s heels.
Catrìona rose with the other ladies and decided to get some air before settling into her needlework.
In front of the tower, Steinar stood, talking with one of the king’s men. Her heart sped in her chest at the sight of him.
Giric tugged on Steinar’s sleeve. “Have ye met my dog?” he asked. The man talking with Steinar laughed and waved goodbye as he walked away.
Steinar greeted Catrìona with a smile before looking down at the dog. One ear of the small hound was cocked up and one folded down as if the animal was uncertain if he should be alert. But his small dark eyes bespoke intelligence.
“If you are referring to that bit of gray fluff that follows you about, yea, I have seen him, most recently under the table when we broke our fast.”
“He is ever so clever,” said Giric, beaming at the dog. “He stayed out of sight while we ate.”
Steinar crossed his arms over his chest and brought one hand up to cup his chin as he studied the boy’s new acquisition.
Catrìona took that moment to ask Giric, “Where did you find him?”
Giric scratched the dog affectionately behind one ear. “He followed me to my pallet one night.” In response, the small beast wagged his tail and licked the boy’s hand.
“I imagine,” said Steinar, with a wink to Catrìona, “he has followed you ever since.”
Giric nodded.
Catrìona had seen the dog follow the boy into the hall that morning to lay curled up at his feet while he ate. “Like a shadow.”
“That’s it!” exclaimed Giric, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he inclined his head to look at the dog. “ ’Tis what I will call ye.”
The dog wagged his tail.
“A good name,” said Steinar. “He follows you about like your own.”
The dog scurried off, picked up a large stick in his mouth and carried it back to Giric. Taking the stick from the dog, the boy tossed it some distance away. The dog ran to the stick and stood over it looking at the boy.
“Shadow!” Giric called. The dog snatched the stick in his mouth and sauntered over to the boy, dropping it at his feet.
“He seems to know his name already,” Catrìona said.
Giric ran off then, Shadow following close on his heels, just as a group of riders crested the rise and reined in their horses in front of the tower.
Standing next to the scribe, Catrìona shaded her eyes from the sun to gaze up at the arriving party. Four men, richly attired, and a woman wearing a dark cloak over a green gown, dismounted. An older woman was helped down from her horse by one of the men.
Steinar bid Catrìona good day, saying he had some work to do for the king.
He walked toward the door to the tower, his limp barely perceptible.
Her eyes took in his lithe movement, his broad shoulders and his long legs.
As he reached the door, it opened and he stepped aside to allow Margaret, followed by Fia and the other ladies, to pass through.
Fia hurried to Catrìona. “We are to meet the new lady, Isla of Blackwell.”
Catrìona turned her attention to the new arrivals and particularly the younger woman, as she and Fia joined the welcoming party.
The king strode through the tower door and went to stand by the queen.
Malcolm greeted the men while Margaret and her ladies welcomed the women.
The older one must have been the mother of the young woman who would join Margaret’s ladies. “Greetings,” said the queen.
The women curtsied and said together, “My Lady.”
Catrìona studied the younger one, curious to learn more about her. Isla had brown hair she wore long. As she drew closer, Catrìona saw her eyes were hazel. She was not pretty like Fia or the queen but her face was still attractive and the fine clothes she wore bespoke wealth.
The king suggested the travelers join him for some refreshments and, readily agreeing, they strolled toward the tower door. The men walked ahead and the queen followed with Isla. The other ladies trailed behind, Catrìona and Fia alone at the end.
“What do you know of her?” Catrìona asked her cousin in a whisper.
“Only what the queen told us after you left the hall with Giric. She is from Ayrshire in the west where her father has much land in oats and barley. He raises cattle, too.”
“Ayrshire lies south of the vale on the Firth of Clyde,” said Catrìona, idly thinking here was yet another woman to be bartered away by the king. She was glad she would not share such a fate.
Once they were all inside the hall, Isla was introduced to the queen’s ladies and Audra kindly offered to show their newest member to her chamber, which the two of them would share.
The king and queen set about entertaining the men. A few minutes later, Catrìona and Fia left for their own chamber to retrieve their cloaks as the queen had told her ladies they would be joining her on an outing that day. As they passed Audra’s door, the sounds of an argument could be heard.
“I will not rise before dawn, nor will I feed urchins. And I have no intention of living like a nun. I am here to gain a husband!”
Audra’s words in reply were soft and muffled. Catrìona could only imagine what she had said to Isla. Exchanging a look with Fia, she said, “It seems we are in for a storm.”
“Aye,” said Fia, as they continued down the corridor. “Isla’s concerns are all for herself. I pity the man the king gives her to wed.”
“If she is unkind to Audra, I may decide not to like her,” Catrìona said, wondering how one as selfish as Isla would fare among them.
After living as one of the queen’s ladies and seeing Margaret give of herself to the poor and the needy, she had come to admire her mistress.
Even the early rising and the hour of morning prayer were not so onerous as they had seemed at first.
The queen’s errand that afternoon took them to a small hill about a mile south of Dunfermline in the direction of the River Forth. It had rained during the night and the ground was soft and the grass damp.
The queen sat, reading from a small book she carried.
“Does the queen come here to read?” Catrìona asked Audra from where they stood some distance away. Isobel, the most senior of the queen’s ladies would know, but Catrìona preferred to ask Audra, who did not seem to mind her many questions.
“She comes here to meet the people, making herself available to any who would speak with her.”
Catrìona nodded. She was becoming accustomed to her mistress’ unusual behavior. She and Audra found seats on nearby rocks. Fia joined them.
Audra leaned in to say, “Sometimes the queen takes coins from the king’s treasury to give to the poor who come.”
Catrìona nodded again, remembering a story Steinar had told her of a time he had overheard the king teasing Margaret about her thievery.
“Once he even threatened to have her arrested,” the scribe said.
Knowing the king’s reputation for being harsh, Catrìona was horrified at the thought. “Would he do that?”
“Nay, but he made a great show of it before erupting into laughter. Knowing Margaret never seeks anything for herself alone, he found her theft highly amusing.”
“What did Margaret do?”
“The queen just smiled and reminded Malcolm she had brought him a good dowry and the poor needed the coins more than he did.”
Catrìona had smiled to herself at the idea of Margaret admonishing the king, but as she considered it, the queen’s logic was flawless.
“I think they both enjoyed the exchange,” Steinar concluded.
Catrìona had grown fond of her conversations with the scribe.
She had often found herself looking for him when the men came into the hall to break their fast. His manner was easy and he always had something interesting to tell her.
She loved his stories of his home and his sister he seemed to admire.
After the morning meal, she would stop to talk to him outside the tower.
Sometimes Giric joined them, hanging on the scribe’s every word, for it was clear the boy admired him.
The king also valued Steinar, ever calling for the scribe’s aid in deciphering some missive he had received.
Their two heads, one dark, one light, would bend over the parchment and the king would nod his understanding as Steinar read the words.
In recent days, messages had come more frequently, making Catrìona wonder what was going on.
The queen spoke just then to one of the ladies, calling Catrìona back to the present, but the thought of Steinar did not immediately leave her.
Images of his golden hair shimmering in the light of the sun and the feel of his lips on hers flickered in her mind.
She chided herself for thinking of the scribe when she should be thinking of Domnall.
He was due back today from a trip he had made in furtherance of a matter of trade for the king.
Her musings were interrupted by a group of women, some with babes in their arms, some with small children tagging along, who walked toward the queen from the direction of the village.
Margaret invited them to join her and greeted the children.
“When is the new prince to be born?” asked one of the village women, who balanced a young child on her hip. The woman’s tunic was plain and faded beneath her thin shawl. A simple head covering bespoke her married status.
“In early September,” said Margaret, rubbing her hand over her belly.
“Do you hope for another son?” asked one woman who held the hand of a small boy.
Margaret smiled. “I will take whatever the Good Lord gives me. But the king would like another son.”
The women smiled their understanding.
As the queen spoke to the women, a group of travelers passing on the road stopped to bid her good day. By their clothing of rough woolen tunics, heavy cloaks and leather satchels the men carried, Catrìona judged them to be pilgrims.