Page 31 of Summer Warrior

“One of the kitchen servants heard the lad is in Ireland with his grandmother, a Norsewoman.”

Ragnhild rose from the water and Cecily handed her a drying cloth. As she wiped the water from her body, she thought of what her handmaiden had told her. She was unsurprised that Somerled’s mother was Norse; he had the height, fair hair and blue eyes that would name him such.

The news of an earlier marriage did not trouble her. A man who loved once could love again. Marriages between the young were often arranged, the two individuals knowing little of each other. Surely Somerled’s marriage had been one of those, for he might not have been twenty when he was wed. Too, women often died in childbirth, leaving their babes to be raised by others. Ragnhild was not opposed to raising another woman’s child, especially a boy in need of a mother’s love.

Cecily helped her into her chemise and the gown of copper-colored samite threaded with gold, fitting the fabric belt around her hips.

Accepting her knife from her handmaiden, Ragnhild tucked it into her waist. “If I must be hailed as the one who brought down the hart, I would have them know I am a woman of royal blood and not an ill-bred hoyden who prefers to ride with men. My father would want me to be dressed as befits a princess.” What she did not say was that the pains she took with her appearance were not just for her father, but for the golden warrior who now occupied her thoughts and filled her heart with longing.

“Aye, Mistress, he will be most proud of you this eve.”

Cecily combed Ragnhild’s long hair until it was shining.

She asked her handmaiden to form it into two plaits. “I’ll not have the Earl of Orkney spouting poems about my hair falling around my shoulders tonight.”

Cecily laughed as she wrapped the braids with copper-colored ribands and set a circlet of gold on Ragnhild’s head from which her silk veil flowed down her back like a pale waterfall.

“The earl makes quite an appearance when he recites in loud voice for all to hear,” said Cecily. “The younger servant girls giggle behind their hands.”

Ragnhild let out a sigh. “I had to hold my tongue not to do the same. He meant well, I’m sure, but humility is not in his nature. And I cannot forget he may have murdered a good man.”

AFTER HE BATHED and managed to clean the wound which was beginning to bruise, Somerled wrapped a new bandage around his arm before donning clean clothes. Just as he was leaving his chamber, Angus returned.

“I was wondering where you were,” said Somerled.

“After the hunt, I shared a few tankards of ale with the other hunters,” said his brother. “You should have joined us. The men were in good spirits even though a woman brought down the hart.”

“I might have done had my arm not been covered in blood.” He glanced at the bloodied tunic he had tossed on the floor. A shaft of light from the small window made the blood appear a dark red.

Angus shifted his gaze to the torn tunic. “What happened?”

“Do you recall Liadan’s warning this morning? It seems someone decided an arrow would suffice to remove the troublesome Gael who would court the princess.”

Angus looked over the tunic Somerled now wore. “I see no bandage. Is it a bad wound? Your sword arm?”

“Nay, my left. The bandage is beneath my sleeve. It aches like the devil but at least the wound is confined to my arm and the bleeding has stopped. The arrow would have hit my chest had I not moved just before it struck.”

“Fortunate that,” said Angus.

“I would have no one know I was hit. Even the princess thinks it was a stray arrow from a hunter with a bad aim.”

“Who did it, do you think?”

Somerled handed the fletching to his brother. “Mayhap whoever owns this. See if you can find out to whom it belongs.”

Angus accepted the broken arrow shaft and studied the fletching. “Not one of ours. After Liadan’s comment this morning, I would have thought the Orkney earl was your only enemy but I am certain Sweyn still hates you and one of his men may have come with the earl. I will see what I can learn, but first, let us eat. They have set out a table of victuals in the hall.”

“Aye, I am hungry,” said Somerled. “And then I need to meet with the king. Much depends on it.”

After he and Domnall had eaten some bread and cheese, quaffing it down with ale, he inquired where he might find the king. A servant led him to a small solar up a narrow set of stairs. “You are expected, my lord.”

David sat at a table with another man, a shaft of light falling behind them. The king waved his hand, welcoming Somerled into the private chamber. “Come in, Lord Somerled. Allow me to introduce you to my steward, Walter Fitz Alan.”

Somerled offered his hand to the man, glad the arrow had not hit him in his right arm. Fitz Alan, of an age with Somerled, rose to shake his hand. The steward wore his light brown hair short and his beard close-cropped like the Normans who sported beards. “Welcome to Scotland,” he said before resuming his seat.

“Thank you,” said Somerled.

David indicated with his hand that Somerled should take the open chair at the table. “Join us. We were just discussing the Isles of Arran and Bute in anticipation of my meeting with you.”