Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) Read online

  “Do you go in search of Giric?” he asked her when she had calmed.

  “Yea,” she said. “I had thought to find him in the village and was on my way there.”

  “If it pleases you, I would accompany you.” He was not about to leave her alone to be found again by the loathsome Irishman.

  She tossed him a smile. “Aye, it would please me.”

  They continued down the path that led to the village and she told him of all she had done with Margaret’s permission to improve the cottage where the orphans lived. As she talked, she seemed to shake off the incident at the stables.

  “The queen sent some of the Saxons who are skilled in building to repair the cottage so it will be warm for winter. And I have enlisted some of the women to make it more of a home. Margaret gave me the services of a dear woman, Aeleva, who now cares for the orphans. She cooks and keeps house for them. They seem to love her.”

  Catrìona’s green eyes sparkled as she spoke. He was glad to see Domnall’s attack did not affect her enthusiasm for what she had done for the orphans. “I expect the queen is delighted,” he said, trying to encourage her.

  “I think she is. Margaret had always believed the village women cared for the orphans and they did, after a fashion. But not like Aeleva does now. She is more a mother to them and the young ones especially need that.”

  At the cottage, he and Catrìona stopped to admire the changes. The stones were whitewashed, the shutters new and flowers formed a pretty border on either side of the door. A fair-haired Saxon woman, rosy-cheeked and plump, came out to greet them. “Good day to you, sir, mistress.”

  “Good day to you, Aeleva,” said Catrìona. “This is Steinar, one of the king’s men.”

  Aeleva curtsied and Steinar wished the woman a good day and then asked her, “Is Giric about?”

  “Just around the side,” Aeleva said, pointing, “working on the pen for the chickens.”

  They found Giric building a reed fence on the far side of the cottage where fat chickens were pecking at seed tossed on the ground by a small girl, younger than Giric. The boy looked up at their appearance and beamed. “Is it not grand?”

  “Aye,” said Steinar. “And now you would be a builder besides a warrior?”

  “I shall be both!” he announced, puffing out his small chest. The girl giggled, her fawn-colored curls falling onto her round cheeks.

  Steinar laughed at the boy’s audacity but when he thought of all that would be required to make a home in the Vale of Leven, he reconsidered. “Indeed you shall be.”

  “If you have the time, oh master builder,” said Catrìona in feigned sarcasm, “I would invite you to go with us to see Kessog. With all that has happened, I have not looked in on him since I returned from St. Andrews. He will be feeling slighted.”

  Pounding in a last branch, Giric said, “Aye, I will go! And might there be food in the hall? Mayhap Duncan is there.”

  Steinar said, “I’ve no doubt there will be food and”—he winked at Catrìona—“if the lady agrees, mayhap we might fly the falcon.”

  Giric beamed and waved goodbye to the girl as he rushed to join them.

  * * *

  Catrìona was glad neither Domnall nor Isla was in the hall as they crossed the large space to the kitchen. Sickened by what he had attempted, she did not want to see either of them.

  Sitting on a stool in the kitchen, they found Duncan nibbling on cheese.

  “You and the king’s son,” the round-faced cook said to Giric, “are drawing down our reserves of cheese.” With a smile for Catrìona and Steinar, she added, “ ’Tis regrettable the lads’ stomachs need constant refilling, but ’tis always the way of it.”

  “Ye will not tell the king, will ye?” asked Giric.

  “Nay,” the cook assured the boy, “but ’tis not the king you need worry about, ’tis the queen. She is the one with strict rules about eating before the evening meal.”

  “Oh,” said the two lads in unison, looking very worried.

  Catrìona laughed and reached to where she knew they kept bits of raw meat and put some in her pouch for Kessog.

  “We are on our way to the mews,” she told Duncan. “Would you like to come with us to visit my tiercel and see the king’s hawks?”

  The youth jumped up from his seat. He was twice Giric’s age, but the two could have been brothers. “I would!”

  It was late in the afternoon when they entered the dim light of the mews. Machar was feeding the falcons and seemed happy to see the visitors. “Your tiercel has been pining for you, my lady, but I have kept him fat to hasten his molt. See,” he said, taking Kessog from his perch, “his tail feathers are all in now.”

  “But he does not look ready to hunt,” she said with disappointment as she cast a glance over his still ruffled plumage.

  “ ’Twill not be long now. Mayhap another sennight,” said the falconer.

  Duncan and Giric spent some time looking at all the hawks. Catrìona stood next to Kessog’s perch stroking his feathers as she marveled at Steinar’s patience with the boys. He listened attentively to their questions, answering them when he could. Machar, with his greater knowledge of the hawks, answered some.

  Finally, Steinar looked up at her with raised brows as if he had read her mind.

  “Aye,” she said, “we had best be off. The evening meal will soon be upon us and the king will be asking for his son.”

  She waved goodbye to Giric, who ran off toward the village, and headed toward the tower, Steinar and Duncan talking of the changes Margaret had made since coming to Dunfermline. Catrìona marveled at the friendship between the golden warrior, once a scribe, and the dark-haired youth who was destined to one day be king. Would Steinar serve Duncan as he had his father? Would she be by his side if he did?

  * * *

  That night, when Catrìona and Fia arrived in the hall for the evening meal, the dais was crowded with persons of high rank and the hall filled with warriors in the service of the king and his esteemed visitors.

  On the king’s left sat Matad, Mormaer of Atholl, Fia’s father. Next to him was Duff, Mormaer of Fife, still recovering from his wound gained in Northumbria. It would be awhile before the one who led the king’s army sat a horse.

  On Duff’s other side was the king’s young son, Duncan.

  Edgar helped the queen into her chair beside the king and then sat on her other side. Beside Edgar were the king’s stepsons, the Jarls of Orkney, Paul and Erlend Thorfinnsson.

  “Your father sits next to the king,” Catrìona said to her cousin as they joined the other ladies.

  Fia spoke into her ear. “Aye and Rhodri will entertain them all. He has prepared some special songs that tell of Alba’s deep past.”

  Catrìona had told Fia of Domnall’s disgusting behavior earlier that day and, though Fia was horrified, she was not surprised. “Isla and Domnall deserve each other. He will never be faithful and she will never let him forget it. They will soon be a pair of squabbling ducks.”

  “Aye, mayhap you are right,” said Catrìona. “I wish them well of each other.”

  Not far away sat Steinar and Rhodri, who dipped their handsome heads in greeting when she looked their way. She had been so happy to be with Steinar that afternoon. It had helped to lessen the impact of her encounter with Domnall. But when she thought of what the Irishman had done, her anger returned. She did not like to think of what might have happened had Steinar not come. The golden-haired scribe had become her champion and, if her prayers were answered, one day, he would be more. He might be without land and title but he had courage and honor the king would not fail to reward. Audra might be wrong in thinking Colbán was more courageous and honorable than all the king’s men. Catrìona believed Steinar could well hold that place.

  The meal of roast pheasant and boar was delicious and she vowed to save for Giric a few tasty morsels of meat and whatever sweet they would be served, for the boy would be dining on plainer fare. When she saw a platter of berry tarts ar
rive at the table, she snatched one up and set it aside to keep for the lad.

  Finally, it was time for the entertainment. Rhodri took up his harp and walked to the front of the room, a signal to all to quiet in anticipation of the bard’s songs.

  Suddenly, the tower door burst open and in stepped a tall man clad in unusual garb with a longbow and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. He was flanked by two burly guards in similar attire who also carried longbows. The tall man’s tunic was dark green in color, his hosen dark brown, heavier than that worn by Malcolm’s men and loose about his legs. Over all of it, he wore a sleeveless fur cloak that fitted his body but was open down the front. His curly brown hair reached only to his nape and was confined by a leather thong circling his head like a crown.

  His eyes scanned the hall, his scrutiny finally alighting on the king.

  “Come forward, stranger!” shouted Malcolm.

  The man spoke a word to his guards, who remained at the door, and strode toward the dais. Once there, he took his bow and quiver of arrows from his shoulder and bowed, all eyes upon him.

  Rhodri, who was standing before the king, moved to one side, an expression of keen interest on his face as he regarded the stranger.

  “And who might you be, good sir?” asked Malcolm, seemingly amused by the intrusion.

  “I am Cillyn ap Cynfyn,” he declared, “brother to Bleddyn ap Cynfyn, the King of Gwynedd and Powys in Wales.” After he’d said this, Catrìona heard him repeat the message in the Saxon tongue while looking at the queen. Then the Welshman took from his cloak a parchment and handed it to Malcolm. “A letter from my brother, the king.”

  “You are welcome in my court,” said Malcolm, setting the letter aside. “The Welsh are our friends. What has brought you to Dunfermline?”

  “I come for my nephew, Iorwerth ap Bleddyn.”

  The king retuned him a puzzled look. “We have no man here by that name.”

  “Most respectfully, I disagree, My Lord. I expect you know him by another name.” Shooting the king’s bard a glance, the Welsh nobleman said, “I am told he took the name Rhodri when he decided to defy his noble father and go off adventuring with his harp some years ago.”

  All eyes turned on Rhodri, whose gaze never wavered from the Welshman who claimed to be his uncle.

  At Catrìona’s side, Fia gasped.

  “You did not know?” she whispered to her cousin.

  Fia shook her head. “Nay, but I always knew he must be more than a bard.”

  “Rhodri,” said the king. “Does this man speak the truth? Are you his nephew, son of the Welsh king?”

  Rhodri said, “He is, indeed, my uncle and he speaks the truth, My Lord. I was young and impulsive. My father and I had a disagreement over my interest in poetry and the harp.”

  “Hmm,” muttered the king, rubbing a hand over his beard. “And what is your purpose, Cillyn ap Cynfyn, save to see your nephew?”

  Cillyn drew himself up, his head raised in noble fashion. “My older brother, the king, summons his son home. His words to me were, ‘ ’Tis time my son takes his rightful place; one day he will share the crown with his brothers’.”

  The king stepped down from the dais and offered the Welshman his hand. “I would have your friendship, Cillyn ap Cynfyn. In truth, I would have more. Your country and mine both loathe the Norman invader. I would have an alliance. Would your brother, the king, agree to such?”

  The Welshman appeared to consider Malcolm’s question for a moment and then said, “He might be so inclined if I were to return with my nephew. We have long sheltered the Norman’s enemies, including the English rebel, Eadric the Wild, who allied himself to my brother when he was the Prince of Gwynedd. As you say, our countries are friends and we have a common enemy.”

  Catrìona squeezed her cousin’s hand, knowing Fia was in love and it would break her heart if Rhodri left Scotland.

  Malcolm turned to the bard. “I do not like to think of you leaving my court, Rhodri or Iorwerth, however you are called. By which name should we henceforth address you?”

  “Rhodri, My Lord. ’Tis a name of great renoun in Wales and my own ancestor. I have become used to the sound of it.”

  “As you wish. So, Rhodri, do you agree to return with your uncle to Wales and seek this alliance with Scotland?”

  The hall was so quiet not even the hounds in the corner stirred as all waited for Rhodri’s answer. Only the hearth fire, which burned low, made any sound at all.

  Rhodri’s reply, when it came, echoed through the hall. “I agree… on one condition.”

  Malcolm and Cillyn turned their gazes on the Welshman once considered a bard and a bowman but now recognized as the son of the Welsh king.

  “And what is that?” asked Malcolm. “Come, do not keep us in suspense.”

  Rhodri shifted his gaze to the dais where Fia’s father sat. “I would ask the Mormaer of Atholl for the hand of his daughter, Fia, for I will have no other as my wife.”

  Catrìona turned to her cousin. Fia’s cheeks were streaked with tears, but it was not sadness she saw in her blue eyes; it was joy. “Oh, Fia.”

  “Fia of Atholl, come forward!” shouted the king. Then turning to the Welsh lord, Malcolm said, “A troublesome thing this tendency of my men to demand the bride of their choice.”

  Catrìona saw the queen roll her eyes to the roof above and remembered that Malcolm had once demanded his choice of a bride.

  Addressing the Mormaer of Atholl, who frowned from the dais, the king said, “You’d best join us as well, Matad. It seems the whole kingdom is to witness this conversation.”

  Fia went forward to stand by Rhodri. Her father stepped down from the dais to join the king next to the Welsh lord, who was as tall as the king but more slender of build.

  To Matad, Malcolm exclaimed, “By all the saints! I want this alliance for Scotland!”

  Matad remained silent, watching his daughter.

  The king frowned at his mormaer. “Rhodri is a good man, a fine warrior and plays the music of Heaven. And, above all that, he is a king’s son. What more could you want in a son-in-law, Matad?”

  Fia’s father stood with one hand on his hip. “All you say is correct, My King, but I do not like the thought of my only daughter going so far away. ’Tis not even Scotland.”

  Rhodri took Fia’s hand and the two gazed longingly at each other. Catrìona knew then Fia’s father would not be able to say her nay. Nor would he deny the king an alliance he badly wanted.

  “Gwynedd is not far, my lord,” said Cillyn to Matad. “A short sail north to the River Clyde and then a few days’ ride east to Dunfermline or Atholl. I came that way but a sennight ago when my scouts returned with word my nephew was here.”

  “And I would promise to bring Fia to see you,” encouraged Rhodri.

  Through the whole conversation, Catrìona saw the queen anxiously observing from the dais. Her mouth moved though no words could be heard. She prays!

  “Do you love this man?” Matad asked his daughter.

  “Oh, aye, Father, I do. Ever since I first glimpsed him. I would willingly follow him to Wales.”

  “ ’Twas the same for me, my lord,” said Rhodri to Fia’s father. “I vow to love her and treasure her all of my days.” When Fia’s father remained silent, Rhodri said, “Would it help if we named our first son Matad and agree he would foster with you?”

  The king chuckled.

  Fia’s father let out a breath even Catrìona could hear. “Aye, it might,” he said shortly. “But I would have you linger awhile in Dunfermline and wed here.”

  “I would not think of taking Fia back to Wales except as my wife,” said Rhodri.

  The king breathed an audible sigh of relief and, on the dais, the queen smiled. “ ’Tis agreed,” Malcolm said. “The two will tarry awhile in Dunfermline, as I trust will you, Cillyn, and before they depart, there will be a wedding. More than one if my calculations be true.”

  CHAPTER 16

  In the sen
night that followed, Steinar had more than enough to occupy his days. In addition to sword practice with his fellow guards and the occasional hunt, Paul and Erlend Thorfinnsson had given him Ivar’s ship and skilled workmen from their own longship to have it properly fitted out.

  Out of the hearing of others, Malcolm had told Steinar, “Ivar destroyed Cormac’s ship, so ’tis right you shall claim the Northman’s. My mormaer in the Vale of Leven should have a ship. And, should you not yet know, I have asked Paul and Erlend to hunt for the other women taken from the vale.”

  “Catrìona will be happy to hear it,” he had told the king.

  Steinar was overjoyed at the news of the ship, but he wondered what Catrìona would think of it. Because the king had sworn him to silence, he did not tell Catrìona why he was the one to oversee the work on the longship and she did not ask. But one of the first things he did was to have the dragon heads on the stems removed and the wood sanded smooth.

  Fortunately, the king made Paul and Erlend aware of his plans for Steinar, whereupon the brothers offered to sail the ship, once re-fitted, to the Vale of Leven with whatever supplies Steinar would need for the hillfort he would build. On the way, they would stop along the coast where they thought Ivar might have left some of his men and the women he had taken from the vale. Since the two brothers from Orkney were to leave when the ship was finished, they had assured him he would see it in the vale ere long.

  Catrìona, he had noticed, was occupied with many things, foremost being the queen’s plans for the pilgrims’ ferry and inn.

  “Margaret has pilfered much gold from the king’s treasury for all she has planned for the pilgrims,” Catrìona told him one evening. “But then you must know since you account for it.”

  “Malcolm does not seem to mind,” Steinar had replied. “When I show him the mounting costs, he just shrugs. Mayhap he thinks ’tis a reasonable penance for his raids on Northumbria.”

  “The queen would tell him he should do it for love of God and as a kindness to the pilgrims,” Catrìona had said, “but I think you have the right of it. The king would see it as penance.”