Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) Page 14

  Giric appeared beside her and slipped his small hand in hers. “Be he all right?”

  She knew of whom he spoke for he and Steinar had formed a bond. “Aye, he will,” she said, assuring him as she did herself. He must return.

  Fia’s gaze followed the bard in front of the archers. Still holding Giric’s hand, Catrìona put her arm around Fia. “They will return, for the queen prays for them and her prayers are surely of great effect.”

  Then, spotting Niall behind Rhodri, Catrìona silently prayed for her brother. This was the first time he rode into battle and, though Fia had assured her Rhodri would protect him, Catrìona could only see his youth. God had spared him once. She prayed Niall would be spared again.

  Margaret stood with her ladies in the chill of the early morning, a hand raised in goodbye to her husband, as the sun made its appearance silhouetting the men against the gold-tinged sky. The queen’s face bore a look of pain. How many times, Catrìona wondered, had Margaret sent the king off to battle? How many times had she waited for him to return?

  After the line of men disappeared down the road, Giric raced off, saying he would follow them as they would ride through the village.

  Catrìona and Fia turned toward the hall. Angus was standing just outside the door wearing no mail.

  “You did not go?” she asked him, suddenly happy that her beloved guard’s life would not be risked for such a venture.

  “Nay, the king asked fer those willing to stay behind as guards and I stepped forward. ’Tis not Normans I want to be killing, ’tis Northmen.”

  “It comforts me, dear Angus, to know you remain.”

  He bowed and opened the tower door for her and Fia.

  Domnall came to bid her a hasty goodbye. She could tell he wanted to say more but Isla approached to claim his arm, giving Catrìona a smug smile. Catrìona watched them as they slipped through the open door together, surprised that she felt no regret.

  Domnall would leave Dunfermline today, bound for Isla’s home in Ayrshire. While he rode west, the king and his men would ride south, first to Lothian and then to Northumbria. Catrìona tried not to imagine the raid. Instead, she set her mind to the new task the queen had given her. There would be much to do if Margaret was to have her ferry and inn ready for the pilgrims before winter.

  She would try not to think of Steinar facing the swords of Norman knights. Instead, she hoped her riband kept her in his thoughts for he would surely be in her prayers.

  * * *

  Northumbria

  Steinar pulled off his helm and wiped the blood from his mail, then accepted the flask of wine Rhodri offered him. Taking a long draw, he swept his sleeve over his mouth. “Much appreciated,” he said, handing the flask back to Rhodri. “I was fair thirsty.”

  Rhodri returned the flask to his satchel and extended his palms to the fire around which Malcolm’s men had pitched their tents. “I do not think the king expected the fighting to last all day.”

  “There were Normans among the Northumbrians,” Steinar observed, “trained knights William has placed in the north. Their involvement extended the fight. I took great pleasure in seeing to the end of some.” He felt drained by the daylong battle and his leg ached. Seeing the log rolled near the fire, he sank onto it. The heat of the blaze chased away the chill. Riding into Northumbria had affected him more than he had expected. It was not Talisand, which lay to the west, but it was more of England than he had seen in three years.

  Rhodri joined him on the log and pulled his quiver into his lap, inspecting his remaining arrows. “ ’Twas a wet, dismal day for July,” he observed. “The dampness caused my arrows to drop low.”

  Mist crept along the ground, hiding Steinar’s view of the River Tweed. The hills in the distance were shrouded in clouds. He looked at the leather straps crossing his hosen. “I wear as much mud as I do blood.” He brushed the dirt and dried mud from his legs.

  Steinar thought back over the king’s raiding campaign. To his relief, the summer weather had held as they rode south into Lothian, gathering more of Maerleswein’s men. Thankfully, Rian had given them no more trouble after the king’s scolding.

  Once they arrived in Northumbria, the weather had turned foul.

  Despite the rain, Malcolm happily took his revenge for the Conqueror’s intrusions into Cumbria. Steinar knew from past messages he had composed for Malcolm that the king considered Cumbria and parts of Northumbria to be his.

  “Where is Niall?” Steinar asked Rhodri.

  His friend tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Seeing to his horse.”

  “How did he fare today?”

  “He did well. As far as I could tell the arrows he launched hit true.”

  “All to the good. We would both incur his sister’s wrath if he were wounded,” said Steinar.

  “ ’Tis not only her brother the redhead has a care for and well you know it. The Rose of Dunfermline favors you.”

  “Ah, that name. I had forgotten.”

  A group of young male servants came by just then, pushing a cart piled with muddy mail, shields and leather gambesons. “Can we clean yer armor for ye, sir?”

  Aching in every muscle, Steinar rose stiffly and pulled off his mail, handing it to the servant. The green riband Catrìona had given him fell to the ground. He quickly snatched it up, stuffing the silk into his tunic, but not before Rhodri had noticed.

  “Ho! You carry the lady’s favor. The redhead was wearing ribands that color when we broke our fast.”

  “ ’Twas your idea but it seemed a good one. By her own words, ’tis a reminder she prays for me. Mayhap her prayers will bring me success.”

  Rhodri gave Steinar a knowing smile. The bard did not miss much, but was friend enough to say no more about Steinar’s fondness for the queen’s lady.

  He returned to his seat on the log. His leg throbbing, he kneaded the muscles before they cramped up on him.

  “How much longer do you think we will remain here?” Rhodri asked.

  “The king took much plunder today, but he will not turn the men toward home until he has prodded the backside of William’s man at Alnwick.”

  “Gilbert de Tesson?”

  “Nay, his son, another William,” said Steinar. “Colbán told me Gilbert’s son retained the land and the title after his father died at Senlac Hill. Now the son has erected one of those timber castles overlooking the River Aln.”

  “Like the one at Talisand?” Rhodri asked.

  “Aye.” Steinar did not like to think of the timber castle that now stood over what had been his home, but he comforted himself with the knowledge his sister, Serena, was happy there with her Norman knight. “The Norman Conqueror insists on his castles wherever he perceives a threat. Maerleswein told me there are now two in York.”

  Soon, more of Malcolm’s men straggled in to warm themselves by the fire and speak of the day’s events. They had lost only three, Coinín, Tòmas and Gillis, all good men. But others were wounded, keeping busy the king’s physic and the healers who aided him.

  This had been only a skirmish. The battle looming ahead—an attack on a wooden fortress full of Norman knights—would be different.

  * * *

  The next morning Steinar left Rhodri and Niall as they sat wrapping linen strips around the tips of their arrows and, donning his helm, urged Artair toward the place where the warriors were gathering.

  Colbán rode up to him on his dun-colored horse. “The king has requested you ride at his back today, Scribe.”

  Steinar nodded and turned his horse toward the front of the column. That the captain of the guard addressed him as “Scribe” did not rankle. Since the fight with Rian, the men spoke the byname with respect, even acceptance, and it pleased him to have regained his place among the men who fought with the king. He might have lost the status of a thegn’s son, but at least he could once again call himself a warrior. For too long, the only marks on his hands had been the stains of ink. He was glad his hands now bore calluses from his
sword.

  Wending his way through the confusion of men and horses, Steinar pulled up behind Malcolm who sat erect atop his white charger. He looked every bit the king, his broad shoulders filling out his mail and his thick dark hair resplendent beneath his gold-crowned helm. Duff rode beside Malcolm, leading the army, his bushy brows showing beneath the edge of his helm.

  Malcolm welcomed him with a nod over his shoulder. “We ride to Alnwick to poke at the pride of the Norman whoresons, Scribe. ’Tis a task you should relish.”

  Steinar smiled. “I do.”

  * * *

  “Catrìona!” called Audra from the tower’s open door. “You are wanted by the queen.”

  Catrìona left Giric with his dog in front of the tower and ducked back inside the hall. Once there, she went to where Audra stood with the queen next to the hearth. As soon as she glimpsed the queen’s face, Catrìona perceived something was gravely amiss. “What is it?”

  Facing her two ladies, Margaret said, “I want you to come with me to pray. Malcolm is in terrible danger. I feel it.”

  The queen had often walked with Catrìona in the woods but she had never before asked her to come with her to pray in the cave. “Of course, My Lady.”

  Audra nodded her agreement.

  They did not even stop to get their cloaks but followed Margaret out of the tower and down the path that led to the cave where, it was said, the queen did her most serious praying.

  With so many men gone, the banter and rough speech around the tower were absent, but as they entered the forest, the canopy above them teemed with life. The distinct “kaah” of rooks pierced the air. She looked up to see the black birds with their pale beaks occupying the trees above them.

  Margaret, just ahead of her, appeared to falter. Catrìona reached to take the queen’s elbow. “Is it the babe, My Lady?”

  “Nay. I just need to rest for a moment.”

  The queen’s chest heaved and her brow was furrowed.

  Catrìona helped the queen onto an outcropping of rock. “My Lady, should we turn back?”

  “I will be fine. I prefer to go to the cave where no sounds distract. Fear for the king grows more insistent within me. He rides into danger this day.”

  “You should eat, my queen,” Audra urged.

  Catrìona remembered when the queen and her ladies had broken their fast that morning, Margaret had eaten nothing.

  “I will,” Margaret assured Audra, “as soon as I have prayed. Now, help me up so that we may reach our destination. Time is short.”

  Catrìona did not ask the queen how she came by the knowledge the king was in danger and time was short. Mayhap God had called her to pray for her husband. “Yea, My Lady,” was all she said as she wrapped one arm around the queen’s waist and, together with Audra, lifted her to stand. Catrìona did not let go, but steadied the queen as they continued on their way.

  Shortly, the path dipped and finally ended in a small clearing in front of a cave. Margaret did not hesitate but entered the dark opening, Catrìona beside her.

  Once inside, Audra lit a candle. The cave was long and narrow. Margaret seemed steadier on her feet now and stepped away from Catrìona. The air was cool. Mayhap it revived her.

  Margaret managed to kneel, praying at a makeshift altar of stone. Catrìona and Audra on each side of her.

  Whatever Margaret feared for her husband must have been very real because her whispered prayers had an urgent, pleading tone.

  The ground was cold and hard beneath Catrìona’s knees as she, too, prayed for the king, reciting the Latin prayers she had come to know. Then she prayed for Niall. When she finished praying for her younger brother, she had a sudden urge to pray for Steinar. If the king were in danger, so might be the scribe, for he now rode with the king’s guard. With a fervor brought on by her own fears, she bent her head to pray once again, this time for the man who held her riband and mayhap her heart.

  It was a long time before the queen lifted her head and Catrìona and Audra helped her to rise.

  “It is done,” said Margaret with a sigh. “The king is in God’s hands.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The moor they crossed on their way to Alnwick was wild and open, pulling Steinar’s gaze to the distant horizon where the sky met the land. To his mind, this level monotonous part of Northumbria lacked the beauty of Talisand with its rolling hills and rivers. Nor did it possess the majesty of Scotland’s lochs and mountains.

  As he lifted his gaze to the white clouds drifting aimlessly above, he was thankful the day would at least be without rain.

  He reached down to stroke Artair’s neck as he glanced at the backs of Duff and the king, thinking how it would be to once again face hundreds of Norman swords. The well-trained knights were formidable, but he had learned much in the half dozen years since his first encounter with them at Senlac Hill and no longer feared their blades.

  The landscape changed as they approached Alnwick. The moor gave way to grass and shrubs and finally he glimpsed green meadows fringed by dense stands of trees.

  It was the middle of the morning when they entered a forested area and the king raised his fist, halting the column of men. In the distance, Steinar saw a timbered castle set upon a grass-covered hill the Normans called a motte. He shuddered, for it reminded of the castle the Norman knight called the Red Wolf had built at Talisand.

  At the base of the motte a palisade fence of wooden posts surrounded the castle and the buildings that supported the knights—at a minimum, a stable, a blacksmith and an armory.

  Outside the palisade was a cluster of thatched cottages. An unprotected village.

  Malcolm turned to Duff. “We will make camp here.”

  The two rode deeper into the forest where the trees grew in stands, too close in some places even for a horse to pass. Steinar and the men followed, picking their way carefully. As he rode, Steinar assessed their cover, thinking the king had chosen wisely. Their presence was hidden in a forest of trees, thick enough to allow them to remain undetected until they launched their assault.

  Between the forest and the village, he could see a river about twenty feet across running in front of the castle looming in the distance. He supposed it was the River Aln the men had spoken of on the journey south. The banks of this river would become their field of battle.

  The king dismounted and called for his captains. He then retreated to a small clearing among the trees. Malcolm tossed back over his shoulder, “You, too, Scribe.”

  Colbán was the first of the captains to ride into the clearing where the king and Duff waited. When the others began flowing into the grassy circle, Rhodri came to stand by Steinar and folded his arms over his chest. “ ’Twill not be long now.”

  Once the dozen men who made up Malcolm’s senior captains were assembled, the king addressed them in a solemn voice. “We have come to show the Northumbrians the Normans do not protect them. To remind the Normans they are not welcome here. This is our land and we claim it for Scotland.”

  The men nodded and “Ayes” were raised in a loud chorus.

  Shifting his gaze to Rhodri, the king said, “You and your archers will go before us. Rain fire on the structures. Draw out William de Tesson and his knights.” Then Malcolm’s eyes scanned the men, considering each face. “If there is plunder to be had, by all means let the men take it from the Norman scum.”

  The men nodded their appreciation, their faces displaying their eagerness to meet the enemy. With Edgar standing among them, none could forget their queen had lost her country to the Conqueror to whom these Normans swore allegiance.

  The group broke apart, each captain returning to his men. Rhodri said to Steinar, “If all goes well, this eve we will dine on fish from the River Aln.”

  “Aye, and mayhap we will have many Norman swords to add to the king’s coffers.”

  Rhodri nodded and waved goodbye as he went to join his waiting archers.

  Soon they would face Norman swords. Some would die, others would be wou
nded. Steeling himself for the battle ahead, Steinar pulled Catrìona’s riband from under his mail and pressed it to his lips, breathing in her woodland scent and seeing before his face her fiery hair. “Soon. I will see you soon,” he muttered under his breath. Almost it was a prayer.

  An hour later, Rhodri and his archers left the forest, walking on foot ahead of the king and his men. The bowmen forded the river with little difficulty, holding their bows and arrows high. All of the arrows bore the same linen wrapped around the tips and now they appeared to have been dipped in oil. Once they were on the other side, Rhodri ordered them into a single line, standing close together.

  Behind the archers, the warriors waited, some on horseback, some on foot, all well armed. Steinar calmed Artair who snorted, restless for what was coming. He was behind Malcolm and Duff and close enough to watch the archers. Colbán and the rest of the king’s guard hovered close by.

  “Ready your bows!” Rhodri shouted. With their sides facing the village and the castle, the archers held their longbows in their left hand, an arrow in their right. “Nock!” Rhodri cried. In one practiced move, the archers nocked their arrows.

  At Rhodri’s signal, two men carrying torches, who had been standing at the ends of the line of archers, walked briskly from the ends to the center, lighting the linen on the arrow tips as they went.

  Too late, a cry of alarm went up from the palisade gatehouse.

  Rhodri shouted “Mark!” and one hundred bows lifted as one. “Draw!” With powerful strokes reflecting a lifetime of training, the men drew back the strings to their ears.

  Steinar could taste the tension in the air as shouts rose from the village. The archers waited with their flaming arrows for the next command.

  “Loose!” Rhodri roared. Flaming shafts shot into the sky like so many stars before arching and falling, some on the village roofs, some onto the palisade fence posts. Still others speared the roofs of the outbuildings peeking above the fence.