Page 5 of The Refuge

Chapter 2

Dunkeld in Atholl, a year later

Catrìona approached Kessog’s perch just as Fia stepped into the dim light of the mews, lifting her skirts to avoid the feathers strewn about the earthen floor.

“Make haste, Cat,” her cousin urged. “The cart is loaded and Father is anxious to depart.”

Catrìona hurriedly untied the falcon’s jesses. “I just have to retrieve Kessog. I’d not leave him behind.”

Fia brushed a feather from her gown and ran her fingers over her long dark plaits threaded with ribands the same color as her deep blue eyes. “I do wonder if Margaret’s ladies have time for falconry, Cat. ’Tis said they spend more time in prayer than aught else.”

Catrìona frowned and set the hooded falcon on her gauntlet, stroking his breast feathers with the back of her finger. She had prayed little this past year, but since her uncle had accepted the invitation for her and Fia to join the ladies attending the devout queen, she would go.

In the last few months, except for flying Kessog, she and Fia had dedicated themselves to the sewing of gowns and practicing the Saxon tongue. They had been told the queen spoke Saxon and Latin, but only a little Gaelic.

“I could not pray all day in a damp dusty chapel, Fia.” In truth, she was not sure she could pray at all after the events in the vale. “Besides, I want to fly Kessog as much as I can before his molt begins.”

With a sympathetic smile, her cousin said, “If the hawk will make you feel more at home in Dunfermline, bring him. When you and I are with the queen, the king’s falconer and Niall can see to the bird.”

Catrìona considered Fia’s words. Mayhap it was for the best that Niall took charge of Kessog if the queen kept her ladies busy with duties all day. The king would have a master falconer, but she would feel better if Niall checked on the falcon. “Kessog is trained to my brother’s hand as well as mine.”

At her urging, Niall had come with her to Dunkeld. There was nothing for him in the vale save scorched earth and sorrow. They had mourned together in the months that had followed, taking long walks in silence when they could not bear the company of others. In recent days, the terrible dreams she had at first experienced had diminished, but they had not disappeared altogether. Even now, she had to force the calm demeanor she displayed. Inside, she harbored a gnawing ache for the loss of her parents and friends and worry over the fate of Deidre and the young women taken captive.

But today, Catrìona set her worry aside, determined to allow Fia’s enthusiasm for their new life to carry her along. With a lighter step and Kessog on her gauntlet, she followed Fia out of the mews, blinking as she encountered the bright sunlight.

Uncle Matad and his men waited with the horses in a field of bluebell flowers. The guards, heavily armed with knives and swords hanging from their belts, appeared an odd sight standing amid the delicate bluish-purple flowers.

Angus was standing with her brother next to three horses. She walked to meet them and placed Kessog on his perch in front of the saddle meant for her. Angus helped her to mount. She had bid the faithful guard to leave her more than once in the last year, but he had refused to go.

“I made a solemn oath to yer father,” he had reminded her. “I will nae leave ye, not until ye be wed and another man takes my place as yer protector.”

Accepting his decision, she had finally let him stay. In truth, she was glad for his presence. Along with Niall, Angus was the last tie to her life in the vale.

Fia rode across from her on a handsome gray palfrey. Excitement sparkled in her eyes. “Just think, Cat. By day’s end we will be in Dunfermline dining with the queen!”

“So we shall.” Catrìona had never met Margaret, the Saxon princess who was now Queen of Scots, but her Uncle Matad had told her about the beautiful woman who held the king’s heart in her hand. While Catrìona knew little of the queen, she had heard much about Malcolm Canmore. A ruthless warrior, he had seized the throne a dozen years before, killing the former king. She could not imagine such a man married to the pious Margaret.

They rode south toward Dunfermline and Catrìona’s thoughts turned to Domnall. On the journey from the vale to Dunkeld the year before, she had been an empty shell with naught but tears to offer him. He had been kind but distant, respectful of her loss, asking little of her.

They had arrived in Dunkeld and conveyed the horrible news to her uncle, her mother’s brother. Matad, a widower who had not remarried since losing his wife, was protective of both his daughter and his niece, now the only women in his life. And for Catrìona and Niall, he and Fia were their only family.

Consumed with grief for his sister’s murder, Matad had said naught of the betrothal to Domnall. Catrìona understood the wisdom in waiting. One could hardly have a celebration in the midst of mourning. They had all needed time to grieve.

Domnall had lingered in Atholl only a few days that first time. He and her uncle had spoken together often but always out of Catrìona’s hearing. It was only after Domnall left for Dunfermline that her uncle told her he was postponing any discussion concerning the marriage contract.

She had merely nodded her acceptance.

In the last year, Domnall had been to see her twice. He had been polite and deferential each time, expressing his understanding of her sorrow. Now that the year was over, she looked forward to being with him at King Malcolm’s court. Finally, their life together could begin and she could try and put the horror in the vale behind her.

* * *

Dunfermline

Sunlight fell on the bluebell flowers lying on either side of the path Steinar took through the woods. Eager to be about his errand, his long strides ate up the ground, his soft leather boots making no sound. The years he had spent as a warrior in England had taught him to tread lightly.

His right leg ached with the dampness in the air. The wound he’d received from a Norman sword left him with a limp and stiffness in his leg when he sat for too long. Still, it was better than the alternative. For a time, they had not expected him to live. Even with the ministrations of his sister, Serena, recovery had been slow.

When he and Rhodri had left England, the bones in Steinar’s leg were still knitting together, the withered muscles still weak. For a long time, he could not walk without assistance. And after, he had limped badly even with a walking stick.