Page 50 of The Refuge

Then, spotting Niall behind Rhodri, Catrìona silently prayed for her brother. This was the first time he rode into battle and, though Fia had assured her Rhodri would protect him, Catrìona could only see his youth. God had spared him once. She prayed He would spare Niall again.

Margaret stood next to her ladies in the chill of the early morning, one hand raised in farewell to her husband, the other resting on her belly swollen with Malcolm’s child. The queen’s face bore a look of pain. How many times, Catrìona wondered, had Margaret sent the king off to battle? How many times had she waited for him to return?

After the line of men disappeared down the road, Giric raced off, saying he would follow them as they rode through the village.

Catrìona and Fia turned toward the hall. Angus was standing just outside the door. He wore no mail.

“You did not go,” she said, suddenly happy that her beloved guard’s life would not be risked in this venture.

“Nay, the king asked fer those willing to stay behind as guards and I stepped forward. ’Tis not Normans I want to be killing, milady, ’tis Northmen.”

“It comforts me, dear Angus, to know you remain.”

He bowed and opened the tower door for her and Fia.

In the hall, Domnall came to bid her a hasty goodbye. She could tell he wanted to say more but Isla approached to claim his arm, giving Catrìona a smug smile. Catrìona watched them as they slipped through the open door together, surprised that she felt no regret.

Domnall would leave Dunfermline today, bound for Isla’s home in Ayrshire. While he rode west, the king and his men would ride south, first to Lothian and then to Northumbria. Catrìona tried not to imagine the raid. Instead, she set her mind to the new task the queen had given her. There would be much to do if Margaret was to have her ferry and inn ready for the pilgrims before winter.

She would try not to think of Steinar facing the Norman swords. Instead, she hoped her riband kept her in his thoughts for he would surely be in her prayers.

* * *

Northumbria

Steinar pulled off his helm and wiped the blood from his mail, then accepted the flask of wine Rhodri offered him. Taking a long draw, he swept his sleeve over his mouth. “Much appreciated,” he said, handing the flask back to Rhodri. “Fighting gives me an awful thirst.”

Rhodri returned the flask to his satchel and extended his palms to the fire around which Malcolm’s men had pitched their tents. “I do not think the king expected the fighting to last most of the day.”

“There were Normans among the Northumbrians,” Steinar observed, “trained knights William has placed in the north. Their involvement extended the fight. I took great pleasure in seeing to the end of some.” He felt drained by the long battle and his leg ached. Seeing the log rolled near the fire, he sank onto it. The heat of the blaze chased away the chill. Riding into Northumbria had affected him more than he had expected. It was not Talisand, which lay to the west, but it was more of England than he had seen in three years.

Rhodri joined him on the log and pulled his quiver into his lap, inspecting his remaining arrows. “’Twas a wet, dismal day for July,” he observed. “The dampness caused my arrows to drop low.”

Mist crept along the ground, hiding Steinar’s view of the River Tweed. The hills in the distance were shrouded in clouds. He looked at the leather straps crossing his hosen. “I wear as much mud as I do blood.” He brushed the dirt and dried mud from his legs.

Steinar thought back over the king’s raiding campaign. To his relief, the summer weather had held as they rode south into Lothian, gathering more of Maerleswein’s men. Thankfully, Rian had given them no more trouble after the king’s scolding.

Once they arrived in Northumbria, the weather had turned foul.

Despite the rain, Malcolm happily took his revenge for the Conqueror’s intrusions into Cumbria. Steinar knew from past messages he had composed for Malcolm that the king considered Cumbria and parts of Northumbria to be his.

“Where is Niall?” Steinar asked Rhodri.

His friend tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Seeing to his horse.”

“How did he fare today?”

“He did well. There was no time to fashion him a new longbow so I have given him one of mine. As far as I could tell the arrows he launched hit true.”

“All to the good. We would both incur his sister’s wrath if he were wounded,” said Steinar.

“’Tis not only her brother the redhead has a care for and well you know it. The Rose of Dunfermline favors you.”

“Ah, that name. I had forgotten.”

A group of young male servants came by just then, pushing a cart piled with muddy mail, shields and leather gambesons. “Can we clean yer armor for ye, sir?”

Aching in every muscle, Steinar rose stiffly and pulled off his mail, handing it to the servant. The green riband Catrìona had given him fell to the ground. He quickly snatched it up, stuffing the silk into his tunic, but not before Rhodri had noticed.