Page 15 of The Refuge

She had only finished the last line, et ut inhabitem in domo Domini in longitudinem dierum. …in God’s house forevermore my dwelling place shall be, when she heard the queen rise.

Even in the faint light, Catrìona could see the face of her mistress shining with an inner light and she felt ashamed of the turmoil within her.

The queen’s ladies stood as one.

Margaret turned to Catrìona and Fia. “’Tis your first day among us and so you do not know our practice. We begin each day with prayer. Then we feed the orphans and those in need before breaking our fast.”

“Yea, My Lady,” Catrìona said, bowing her head, hearing the command in the queen’s voice and wondering how they were to feed the orphans. “Please forgive us for being late.”

“As I said, ’tis your first day.”

“If I may ask, My Lady…” began Catrìona. She heard the sudden intake of breath from the other women at her effrontery, but she genuinely wanted to know. “Why do we pray before the sun rises?”

The queen gave her a look as if indulging a young child. “Have you never heard that when it was still dark, our Lord got up and left the house and went away to a secluded place to pray? Before He chose the twelve, He prayed all night. There is much to be gained from His example if we would have our prayers answered.”

“Surely He will answer yours, My Lady,” said Catrìona. “You are so… good.”

“Nay, not good, just a woman.”

The queen turned and left the chapel, her ladies following, leaving Catrìona and her cousin alone.

Fia huffed. “Now you are questioning the queen herself?”

“I suppose I am. ’Tis hard to think of a woman who rises in the middle of the night to pray as ‘just a woman’ no matter what she says. But if it be as she says, surely she can answer another woman’s questions.”

In the light of the candle, she saw Fia raise her eyes to the chamber’s ceiling.

As they left the chapel, dawn made its glorious appearance, lighting the sky in shades of blue and heather. Catrìona paused to admire the colors in the clouds, deep rose with the bright color of foxglove flowers in the center. Below the clouds, the sky was streaked in gold. Mayhap the beauty of the dawn was worth the early rising.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she had eaten little the night before. She whispered to Fia, “I cannot fault the queen for her devotion to God and the orphans, but my stomach objects to so much activity before breaking my fast.”

“The priest would say serving others before ourselves is a virtue,” said Fia.

“Aye,” Catrìona agreed, knowing Fia was right and the queen a model of devotion. “We serve a queen who shames us all.”

They arrived back at the tower and stepped through the door to find the queen and the other ladies standing just inside. The smell of fresh-baked bread wafted through the air making Catrìona’s mouth water.

A woman wearing a headcloth and carrying a babe came toward Margaret. Handing the babe to the queen, she said, “Good morning, My Lady.”

Margaret cradled the sleepy child in her arms. “Did Edward sleep well?”

“Yea, My Lady, ’tis a sweet lad ye have.”

Margaret kissed the babe—who Catrìona realized was the queen’s young son—before releasing him back to his nurse.

An older man with gray hair, who had been standing to one side, approached. Catrìona thought he might be the king’s steward.

“My Lady, the orphans await you and your ladies.”

“Thank you, Nechtan,” said the queen.

Audra leaned in to Catrìona and Fia. “Before she takes any food for herself, Margaret will see the orphans fed. They come to the tower door each morning, usually nine or ten of them. ’Tis her way and we do the same.”

Just then, the king stomped down the stairs, his heavy feet sounding like drum beats on the wooden planks. Frustration emanated from his grunts as he struggled to pin a large brooch to his scarlet cloak. His dark hair, thrown back from his face, fell to his shoulders in wild abandon. A golden-handled sword hung in a sheath at his side. A man of great height and presence, his entry drew the attention of all. Catrìona could not help but stare.

Spotting his queen, Malcolm went straight to her.

“’Twould seem I am in need of your deft hand, mo cridhe.” He grinned mischievously at his wife.