Chapter 9 #2
Normans surrounded Duff, one knocking him from his horse with a powerful blow, leaving the king exposed. A mounted knight lunged into the gap, swinging his sword like a harvesting scythe, sweeping the king to the ground.
Malcolm sat up, stunned and shook his head. Blood welled on his hosen and ran down his leg.
The Norman slid from his saddle and raised his sword for the killing blow.
Launching himself from his horse, Steinar hit the knight with the full force of his body, pounding his shield into the knight’s helm.
The Norman staggered, but recovered and turned again toward Malcolm.
“Nay!” Steinar shouted and blocked the blade intended for the king.
Thwarted, the knight roared his anger and lunged at Steinar. He took the blow on his shield and slipped his sword under it, thrusting deep. The sword point pierced the Norman’s mail, sinking into flesh.
The knight fell to the ground, mortally wounded.
As Malcolm struggled to his feet, Steinar stood before him, flashing his sword back and forth.
But the fight to defend the king was not over.
One of the mounted knights charged toward Malcolm.
Before Steinar could push the king to safety, an arrow, like a hawk after its prey, whirred past his ear.
Whipping his head around, he saw the shaft quivering in the Norman’s neck.
With a gasp, the man toppled from his horse, dead.
Steinar turned to see Malcolm swaying, his wounded leg streaming blood, but he courageously held his sword before him. Steinar breathed a sigh of relief.
Colbán emerged from the fray. “Duff!” he shouted to Steinar. “Where is Duff?”
“I saw him go down—there.” Steinar pointed with his sword. “I did not see him rise. Go. I will cover the king.”
Colbán kneed his mount to where Duff’s horse stood over the wounded mormaer.
Gasping for breath, Steinar surveyed the field of battle. The fighting was waning. The king’s guard, freed from their own confrontations with the Normans, joined Steinar, encircling the king.
One of the foot soldiers knelt before Malcolm. “The Normans run back to their castle, My Lord.”
“Aye,” said the king, lifting his head to watch the Normans retreating, “the cowards flee.” Malcolm regarded the field strewn with the fallen. “See to the wounded,” he ordered his men.
Steinar nodded at Malcolm’s blood-soaked leg. “Sage advice, My Lord. May I suggest you take it yourself?”
Malcolm looked down and staggered in surprise. Steinar caught the king’s arm as he shouted for the physic.
* * *
Steinar was still supervising the gathering of prisoners and their weapons when a servant came from Malcolm, summoning him to the king’s tent.
Nodding to the posted guards, Steinar entered in time to see the king brush away his physic just finishing with his bandage. In one corner of the tent lay Fife’s mormaer on a pallet, his eyes closed beneath his bushy brows.
Steinar turned his attention to the king, awaiting instructions.
Malcolm gave Steinar’s leg a harsh glance. “So, Scribe, you think to order your king to take your advice and yet you feel free to ignore it yourself?”
Steinar glanced at his leg, surprised to see dried blood coating his hosen. So intense had been the fighting, so anxious had he been for the king’s safety, he had no idea when he had taken the blade.
“It seems we share a wound in common, My Lord,” Steinar said. “I had not noticed.”
“Well, I noticed,” Malcolm replied. “Your wound and much else. We have more in common than a Norman’s sword, my English friend.” The king accepted a goblet of wine from a servant and leveled a steady gaze on Steinar. “See to the scribe,” Malcolm ordered his physic.
The man knelt to unlace Steinar’s leather cross straps and rolled the hosen down, causing him to grit his teeth as the linen was pulled from the wound. At the physic’s instruction, a servant brought water and a cloth to cleanse the wound.
“I know what it is to be exiled,” said the king.
“To see my father cut down before my eyes and be forced to flee my country for my life.” At Steinar’s puzzled look, Malcolm said, “Aye, you and I share such a past, Scribe. But ’twas England where I took refuge under King Edward’s protection and you fled to Scotland where you enjoy mine. ”
Steinar had known this and yet he had not seen the king as a kindred soul. “But you have come home, My Lord, whereas I never will.”
“Scotland is your home, son. Here you can fight alongside me, for we share our hatred for William and his Normans. These things and your loyalty to King Harold were part of why I made you my scribe.”
“There was another reason, My Lord?” he asked, looking down at the king’s physic coating his wound with some sort of salve.
Malcolm took another draught of his wine and smiled. “Your hand draws a pretty script.”
“I have my father’s priest to thank for that. But you must know, My Lord, it has been my privilege to serve you, whether as scribe or soldier.”
The king sat back, running his hand over his dark beard. “Now it seems I owe you my life. You will find me most generous.”
When the physic finished bandaging his wound, Steinar took the seat the king waved him toward and waited for Malcolm to say more.
“As I recall, William gave your lands to one of his henchmen.”
“Aye. Sir Renaud de Pierrepont, the one they call the Red Wolf.”
“Yea, I have heard of that one. But no matter,” the king said, flicking his hand as if brushing off dust. “It so happens that a year ago I lost a faithful mormaer in a vicious attack that destroyed all he held. The lands have since stood without protection, without even a hillfort. I am of a mind to give you those lands on the condition you guard them well and respond to my call for men-at-arms when it comes.”
At first, Steinar could not believe the king’s words. Lands of his own? Steinar’s spirits soared. “I would be most willing, My Lord.”
“Aside from your years of service as scribe, you have won the respect of my men,” said the king, his demeanor serious.
“First you spared one of Rhodri’s archers the blade of that bully, Rian, and then you rescued your king from a Norman’s sword.
There are many who would go with you were they given the chance.
I would provide a contingent of warriors and sufficient Saxon servants to help you rebuild. ”
Steinar moved from where he sat to kneel at the feet of the king, offering his hands in pledge. “My Lord, I pledge my fealty to you unto death.”
The king placed his hands around Steinar’s. “I accept your pledge. For your service and for preserving the life of your king, you shall have lands in the Vale of Leven and I will bestow upon you the title Mormaer of Levenach.”
The Vale of Leven. Catrìona’s home! And a title!
His heart raced in his chest and he fought the rising emotion as tears came to his eyes.
Never had he dreamed he would receive such a boon by the king.
But as he kneeled before Malcolm, he suddenly realized the mormaer who had been killed was Catrìona’s father and it had been her home that was attacked. Oh, my love.
The king dropped his hands and his dark eyes pierced Steinar where he knelt. “So be it. But say nothing of this yet, Scribe. I will announce it in due time.”
Steinar nodded. “As you wish.”
Malcolm stood and motioned for Steinar to rise.
“My Lord,” Steinar asked the king, “what of Cormac’s son, Niall?” He had in mind his own loss of Talisand.
“The young archer? He has yet to become a man and to prove himself. The lands are mine to give as I see fit. You have earned your place among my mormaers. Niall can remain with my archers or go with you, if that be your desire.” Then the king turned to face Duff where he lay on the pallet. “What say you of my new liege man?”
“A good choice to replace Cormac.”
Steinar was grateful for the affirmation and the approving smile Fife’s mormaer gave him.
Steinar did not wish to appear greedy, but he would risk Malcolm’s ire if it would gain him the hand of the woman who would render his lands a home. “My Lord?”
The king turned back to him. “You have a question?”
“Aye. Might I not be in need of a wife to raise up sons to serve you?”
The king laughed and Duff joined him, exchanging a few barbs about “the eager scribe” which Steinar ignored.
The physic covered a smile with his hand before closing his leather pouch of medicines, salves and potions and, with a bow to the king, quit the tent.
“Aye, a wife would be in order,” said Malcolm. Still appearing amused, he raised a brow. “Have you one in mind?”
“I do, My Lord. And she knows well the land you would give me to hold. ’Tis Catrìona of the Vale of Leven, one of the queen’s ladies.”
The king turned to Duff. “Is that the redhead?”
Duff grinned, waggling his bushy brows. “Aye, the very one, Cormac’s daughter. Audra told me she has become a favorite of your queen.”
Malcolm gave Steinar a sharp glance before shaking his head. “Many have asked for that lady’s hand, Scribe, including the captain of my guard. I owe Colbán much. He has faithfully served me in defiance of his people who are from Moray, the land of my old enemy, Mac Bethad.”
Cruel fragments of hope slipped through Steinar’s hands.
To gain lands yet lose the woman who would make them a home left him feeling empty, deprived of the light he clung to.
But how could the king refuse his faithful captain the woman he wanted?
Steinar liked Colbán, a stalwart warrior and a strong leader of men.
But he could not picture the rough captain with the free-spirited Catrìona.
Steinar’s mind rebelled at the idea of another man having her, of fathering her children. He wanted her for his own.
The king must have observed Steinar’s dismay, for he slapped him on the back and said, “Cheer up, Scribe. I shall find you a lady to bear you fine sons.”
* * *
Catrìona hurried up the stairs to her chamber, anxious to tell Fia the news. Flinging open the door, out of breath, she shouted, “The king…. he returns!”
“He is here?” her cousin asked from where she sat on the stool combing her long dark hair.
“Nay, but the queen requires us, so do hurry.”
“While I quickly plait my hair, tell me what the messenger said.”
Out of breath, Catrìona dropped onto the edge of her bed. “I was with the queen going over the plans for the pilgrims’ inn when the messenger arrived. The army is but a day’s ride away.”
Catrìona helped Fia to plait her hair. “Is the messenger still here?” asked her cousin.
“I do not know. He was to return to the king once he had food and a fresh horse.”
Fia’s eyes turned anxious.
“Before you ask, there are wounded among them, which is why the main party travels more slowly. Nothing was said of Rhodri.” Or Steinar.
Knowing her cousin worried for the bard, Catrìona put her arm around Fia’s shoulder.
“Rhodri may be well. The messenger did not speak of him. He only told the queen Edgar was unharmed. But the king has suffered a leg wound.” At Fia’s gasp, Catrìona added, “ ’Tis not believed serious. God willing, his leg will heal.”
Fia tied off her plaits. “Margaret must have been relieved to hear that.”
“Aye, but there was bad news, too. Audra’s father took a sword in his side.”
“Oh, no. Poor Audra,” said Fia. “What did the messenger say about Duff?”
“The mormaer complains the king will not allow him to ride his horse, which caused the queen to smile.”
Fia’s blue eyes met Catrìona’s. “The messenger must have talked long for you to hear all that.”
“Aye, he did, but ’twas only the queen he spoke with. I only heard because I was sitting with her. When the messenger left, Margaret summoned her ladies to join her in the chapel to say special prayers for the recovery of the wounded.”
Fia pushed herself off the bed. “Then we must go.”
Catrìona heard the falling rain and went to the window to open the shutter. “ ’Tis raining. Best we take our cloaks.” She grabbed her cloak from the peg and handed Fia’s to her.
As they left the chamber, heading for the chapel, Catrìona’s mind turned to the golden-haired scribe. It had not escaped her that the messenger carried no written note. Did the scribe who would have penned such a message yet live?