Page 12 of The Refuge

Steinar thought back to when he and Rhodri had first come to Dunfermline. In those days, the tower was mostly the abode of men, the floors of the hall strewn with dirty rushes where hounds lurked, waiting to grab a fallen bit of meat or a bone cast aside. But once King Malcolm had convinced Margaret of Wessex to become his queen, all had changed.

Now the wooden floors and tables were clean scrubbed, the rushes fresh and herbed and the whitewashed plaster walls graced with tapestries from the queen’s dower chests. Even the hounds were confined by the king’s command to one corner when meals were served. Margaret had a gentle heart but she could be a tyrant when it came to appearances.

Steinar looked around, trying to see the hall through the eyes of one who had only just arrived. The presence of the new queen had brought many nobles to Dunfermline wanting to pay homage to the Saxon princess who had become the Lady of Scotland. And not all of those who had come to Malcolm’s court were Scots. The king’s prior marriage to the widow of the Jarl of Orkney sometimes brought the Norse to Dunfermline. None of the Orkneymen were here tonight, but there was that Irishman with roots in Leinster who had come this past year and stayed.

The blond heads in the hall reminded him many Saxons were now at Malcolm’s court, driven north by the Conqueror’s knights. There were so many in Dunfermline, the Scots had to wonder if their country was being overrun. Still, Malcolm could hardly complain when he had dragged many English captives back to Scotland as plunder from his raids.

Steinar chuckled remembering how the queen had intervened to ransom as many as she could, pilfering the king’s treasury to free the English. How Malcolm had railed about that. She had even sent spies throughout Scotland looking for any English slaves who might be mistreated. Those she could not ransom, she cared for and put to work. There was hardly a cottage in Dunfermline that did not boast an English servant.

From across the table, Maerleswein lifted his hand in greeting. Steinar raised his goblet to the former Sheriff of Lincolnshire, who had shifted alliances with the coming of the Conqueror and now was Malcolm’s man.

In their conversations over the hearth fire, Maerleswein had confided his regret that his daughter had chosen to wed a Norman knight and remain in England. Drinking more wine than he typically did, Steinar had recounted his own tale of woe. Not only had he suffered the loss of his lands, but his sister, too, had married a Norman. Unlike Maerleswein’s daughter, however, Serena had been given no choice. Steinar refused to engage in self-pity as some did in Malcolm’s court. Nor would he allow his desire for revenge to consume him. He must not look back.

The meal drew to a close as servants set plates of small honeyed cakes before them. More wine was poured and the hall quieted in anticipation as Rhodri reached for his harp.

* * *

Sipping wine from her silver goblet, Catrìona’s eyes followed the bard as he carried a small harp to stand before the dais.

“Matad,” the king addressed her uncle, “do you remember this Welshman?”

Matad nodded.

“His music is wondrous and his tales fascinate,” the king continued. “He is also the best of my archers. Mayhap before you return to Atholl, you might test your skill against his bow.”

“Your bard is an archer?” Matad asked incredulous.

“Not just any archer,” the king said with a grin. “Rhodri is a master of the bow. He instructs my archers.”

Her uncle dipped his head to the king and then turned his attention to the bard, who bowed to the king and queen and took his place on a stool.

The bard wore a tunic of dark green wool over brown hosen, his clothing plain but well fitted. Plucking the strings of his harp, he soon filled the hall with ethereal music. Bending his head over the instrument, his ebony curls cascaded over his face as his long fingers worked their magic.

“The Welsh bard is well favored, is he not?” Fia whispered into Catrìona’s ear.

She turned toward her cousin to see Fia staring at the bard, transfixed. “Aye, I suppose…” He was handsome in a boyish way, she silently conceded, his features finely carved. Were it not for his close-cropped beard and slight mustache, she might have thought him pretty.

The enchanting music continued, lilting into the air, instilling a peace in Catrìona’s soul still damaged from the events in the vale.

“He first sings in the Welsh tongue,” the king said to her uncle, “but then he will change to Gaelic.”

As the bard began to sing, a hush came over the hall. His dark eyes alighted on Fia and he paused in his singing while his fingers continued to pluck the strings of his harp. The bard and Fia locked gazes for a moment before the Welshman dropped his head to focus on his harp.

Catrìona knew bards to be charmers but she would not have believed one could be so bold as to flirt with Fia in front of her father. Catrìona sneaked a glance at her uncle but he did not appear to have noticed what transpired between his daughter and the handsome bard.

A moment later, the Welshman lifted his head and began singing in Gaelic. The song told of a young heir to the throne denied his rightful place and a brave warrior’s stance against the Norman Conqueror who had seized lands that were not his. From her father, Catrìona had heard King Malcolm’s story, how, from his youth, he had wanted the throne of his father, Duncan. But that throne had been denied him. As she listened, she wondered if the bard sang of Malcolm or the queen’s brother, Edgar.

The song ended and the bard began to tell a story. His deep voice wove a tale of ancient Cymru, land of the mists, where one Rhodri ap Merfyn, called “the great”, defeated the pagans who stormed the shores of Gwynedd from their dragon ships in search of plunder. The bard sang of the fierce battle and the Welsh victory that turned the pagans back.

Listening to the bard’s story, Catrìona’s mind filled with images from that horrible day when the life she had known had been so viciously torn from her. She saw the Northmen storming ashore, her father’s lifeless body, the knife just out of reach of her mother’s hand and the young women dragged away.

Her heart sped and her brow grew damp. Unconsciously, she closed her eyes, clenching her fists, bidding the terrifying scenes to go away.

Fia must have sensed her distress for she reached out her hand and placed it over Catrìona’s, squeezing gently.

Grateful for the comforting gesture, Catrìona opened her eyes and smiled her thanks, letting out the breath she had been holding and forcing her heart to calm.

The bard’s story ended and he stood and bowed to the king and queen, receiving praise from all. Setting his harp on a cushion placed to one side, he returned to his seat beside the blond warrior who had stared at Catrìona earlier. Mayhap the two are friends.