Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) Page 15

  Immediately, the flames caught. Wood and thatch flared. Smoke boiled up.

  Rhodri shouted again and another volley of flaming arrows reached into the sky with a loud rushing sound like a hundred birds taking flight.

  Rhodri commanded, “Fall back!” and his archers retreated through the ranks of Malcolm’s men. Garbed like Rhodri in the colors of the forest, they vanished into the trees.

  The king turned to look behind him at his men, a pleased expression on his face. “That should draw them out.”

  Behind Steinar and the king’s guard, hundreds of warriors had fanned out awaiting orders.

  They did not wait long. Shouts from the castle filled the air. Villagers scattered in panic, trying to escape the battle to come.

  The palisade gate flew open. A stream of mounted knights spewed forth, their silvered helms gleaming in the midday sun and their swords raised in challenge as they flowed onto the wide grassy slope leading to the river.

  Malcolm ripped his sword from its sheath and gripped his red and white shield. His voice lifted in a ringing shout. “Albani! Albani!”

  With a slither of steel, hundreds of swords were pulled from their sheaths and warriors’ shouts echoed the king’s war cry, the Gaelic word for Scotland.

  Malcolm kicked his horse into a charge.

  Duff raised his fist into the air and the army of Scots charged forward to follow their king and the Mormaer of Fife as they stormed toward the Normans.

  Steinar rode hard behind Malcolm. The familiar excitement surged through his veins just as it had in his prior battles, only this time he had a king to protect.

  Malcolm was a strong fighter, moving swiftly through the Normans, slashing left and right, cutting down knights with his powerful sword and using his shield as a blunt weapon to knock heads and block blows.

  But the Norman knights and men-at-arms were well prepared. Swords clashed as they fought with skill and vengeance, the clash of metal and men’s grunts ringing in Steinar’s ears as he fought to guard the king.

  From the trees, an occasional arrow hissed by Steinar’s head as one of Rhodri’s arrows struck home in the body of a foe. Only the Welshman could have launched the precise shots that were too difficult for other archers to make without hitting one of their own. Only he would take such a risk and succeed.

  Steinar kept one eye on the king and one on his own flanks. Mounted mail-clad knights came at them from every side only to be beaten back in the clash of steel.

  The fighting surged around Steinar with the force of a raging sea. Knights cut down men on foot. Horses fell, screaming and thrashing, taking their riders down with them.

  Pikemen grunted with the effort of spearing the fallen into the mud like fish in a shallow stream. The sound of men dying filled the air.

  A shout rang out in the midst of the tumult as a group of Norman knights turned their horses toward Malcolm, pointing to the crown on his helm. “ ’Tis the Scot king!”

  Steinar spurred his horse, blocking their charge, putting himself between the Norman swords and the king.

  Colbán rushed to Steinar, adding his strength to the fight.

  Sounds of clashing steel rang in Steinar’s ears.

  The Norman horses reared and plunged as they drove into the midst of Malcolm’s protectors. Steinar’s horse stood his ground as firm as an oak tree and Steinar sent up a prayer of thanks for Artair’s steadiness.

  Two of the knights engaged Colbán, drawing him away, but Duff remained steadfast by the king as the two battled on together side by side. Steinar reined Artair around to guard the king’s back, cutting a deep gash in the neck of a knight who tried to come at Malcolm from the rear.

  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 physic knelt to unlace Steinar’s leather cross straps and rolled the hosen down, causing him to wince as the physic pulled the linen from the wound. At the physic’s instruction, a servant brought water and 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 kn
own 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 wri
tten note. Did the scribe who would have penned such a message yet live?

  CHAPTER 10

  Steinar’s stomach clenched with the rising tension boiling within him as they drew near to Dunfermline. Soon he would see the auburn-haired beauty. Anticipation warred with regret. He had found the woman he wanted and looked forward to their exchanges. And to holding her in his arms. The prospect of losing her to Colbán clouded his mind. How could he let her go? Steinar could only bring himself to give her up if Catrìona herself favored the match. But what if she did not? Would she defy the king’s order should he command her to wed his captain? Would Steinar defy the king to whom he had given his oath?

  He studied the king’s back. Today, as always, Malcolm rode his white charger a little ahead of his guard, impatient to arrive at his destination, but unwilling to drive the weary men harder than they could bear.

  The sky above was a clear blue for which Steinar was grateful as some of the men walked and the wounded rode in open carts that slowed their pace. At Malcolm’s insistence, Duff traveled in the middle of the army in a cart watched over by the king’s physic. But even with wounded among them, spirits were high all around for the raid had been successful.

  Next to Steinar rode the king’s captain on his dun-colored horse. Was there a hint of a smile on the warrior’s face? Was it only the success of the raid that he thought of, or did he know that the king favored his request for Catrìona’s hand?

  The woman Steinar longed to see.

  Colbán was a leader of men: his sword arm strong in battle, his loyalty to the king unquestioned and his voice like brass when issuing commands. And, unlike Steinar, he was a Gael. Mayhap he reminded Catrìona of her father, who had been one of Malcolm’s chiefs.

  But it was Steinar’s kiss she had accepted. Unless there was more between Colbán and Catrìona than he knew. Now that Domnall was courting another, had Catrìona turned her attention to the king’s captain? Did she know of Colbán’s request for her hand? If she knew Steinar had been granted lands in the Vale of Leven, she might not want to return to the place where she had lost all she held dear. Steinar pressed his hand to his chest where the green riband was tucked beneath mail and tunic, close to his heart. Did Colbán also carry her favor?