Page 27 of The Refuge

Chapter 6

After the terrible dream, Catrìona’s life settled into a routine of early morning prayer followed by very busy days. Margaret undertook many acts of charity in which she enlisted her ladies’ help. Catrìona willingly participated, for the work—except for the embroidery—was to her liking and diverted her mind from the past.

Not every day was she able to steal away to fly Kessog. But when she did, she enjoyed the thrill of the falcon’s hunt and the boy’s company, savoring the days left before Kessog would began his molt and she would not fly him.

On one of their excursions, Giric had taken her and Niall to the village. It was larger than she had expected with thatched stone cottages scattered on either side of a wide dirt path. Some of the king’s men were married and had their homes in the village.

A blacksmith and his helpers were kept occupied, Giric told her, mending mail and making swords and knives for the king’s men. Two taverns served the people and the men who came with the king’s visitors.

She was surprised when the boy led them to a small cottage, fallen into ruin, and beckoned her inside. The smell of unwashed linens was strong as she entered. Wooden cups were scattered on the single table. Several pallets were laid on the dirt floor.

“’Tis where I sleep,” Giric said, pointing to a pallet in the corner. Her heart went out to the boy, living in such meager conditions.

“And the other pallets?” she asked. “Who sleeps there?”

“The other orphans.”

Catrìona looked toward her brother, who stood next to the window examining the broken shutter hanging askew.

“Besides the morning gruel you eat in the hall, who feeds you?” Niall asked the boy.

“Some of the village women.”

“Mayhap we can make this a better place,” she offered. “It must be cold in the winter.”

“Aye, ’tis,” was the boy’s only reply. It tore at her heart to see the orphans living in such poverty. She was certain Margaret had no idea of their plight. Catrìona could feel the urge to help rising within her and made a silent vow to take a hand in the village.

“I will ask the queen to allow me time and servants to make some needed changes here.”

Niall turned from the window. “I will help, too.”

Margaret had been pleased when Catrìona later asked for supplies and servants to clean and repair the cottage. The queen had offered to assist with clothing and sufficient stores of food for the women who fed the children.

With Margaret’s blessing, Catrìona set about seeing the children had new clothes, enlisting her fellow ladies to make the girls pretty tunics, embroidered with flowers. And, because she had suggested the work, Catrìona could hardly fail to participate in the needlework, but the constant company of the chattering women and her frustration at her dismal ability with a needle often left her bored and restless.

One afternoon, she had thought the piece she was embroidering was finally finished until she turned it over. Exasperated at the tangle of knotted thread that presented itself, she set the garment aside. The thread would have to be ripped out and the embroidery done anew. How she wanted to escape the task and the small talk of the queen’s chamber to walk alone in the woods.

Her eyes flitted about the small room and, not seeing Margaret, remembered she had left to be with her young son. Angus would be busy in the practice yard with the king’s warriors and Niall would be with the archers. A perfect time for what she had in mind.

Leaving the other ladies engaged in their sewing, she left the chamber and, once outside the tower, took the path through the woods, following the burn. It was a glorious day, the sun streaming through the leaves to fall on the yellow flowers scattered beneath the trees. Birds sang above her, drawing the ire of the red squirrels that chittered nosily as they jumped from branch to branch.

Giving in to a sudden urge, she slipped off her shoes and stripped her feet of the linen hose, wriggling her bare toes in the grass growing at the edge of the path. The tender green shoots tickled her feet. Undoing her plaits, she let her hair hang free down her back. Stuffing her hose into her shoes, she clutched them in one arm and began to walk.

And then she ran.

Exhilarated by the breeze on her face and the wind in her hair, she ran and ran until, out of breath, she slowed to a walk. Her heart racing and her cheeks flushed, she inhaled deeply the scent of the pine forest, feeling very alive. Nothing had felt so good in a very long time. It reminded her of those days as a girl when she had run barefoot in the vale.

If only those days had not ended so abruptly.

The sound of water burbling as it flowed over rocks drew her attention to the burn running next to the path. She looked for a place to cross. A short way ahead she spotted a tree fallen across the stream. Its trunk appeared wide enough for a person’s feet. Determined to cross, she held her skirts away with her free hand and stepped carefully onto the log. With each step she gained confidence.

Halfway across, her foot slipped on moss. Hands flailing, she tumbled into the swiftly moving stream with a great splash, her hose and shoes floating away on the current.

“Argh!” She grabbed for the garments slipping away, relieved when she recovered them. Her bottom rested uncomfortably on the rocks beneath the water and, for a moment, she just sat there, frustrated and chilled. The burn was not deep, but she was thoroughly soaked.

A chuckle sounded from the woods.

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