Page 6 of The Refuge

Fortunately, when he arrived in Scotland, King Malcolm needed a scribe. Educated to one day succeed his father as thegn, Steinar filled the role of a clerk well, his duties requiring him only to sit on a bench and labor with parchment and quill.

When Malcolm raided Northumbria, he did not ask his crippled English scribe to accompany him. But now, Steinar’s leg grew stronger and the limp was fading. As long as he rested the leg, he could use it with ease. One day he hoped to be more than a scribe. His sister’s prayers had been answered. Serena would smile to see him now.

Rhodri teased him about his unsteady gait, saying he wobbled like a cart on a rutted road. Steinar took it in stride, knowing his friend would have said nothing but for the miraculous way the leg had healed.

Whenever he could escape his duties, Steinar belted on his sword he kept hidden in his horse’s stall and took to the forest to spar with imagined foes. Sometimes his opponents were Norman knights, clad in mail and helm. Sometimes he sparred with Theodric, the captain of Talisand’s guards, who now served the Norman who had claimed Steinar’s home as well as his sister.

Each time Steinar wielded his sword, his arm gained strength and his movements became more agile. Now his sword arm was nearly as sure as it had been that day near Stamford Bridge when he fought with King Harold’s army turning away the Norse king, Harald Hardrada. And as sure as that day on Senlac Hill, not long after, when he’d survived the onslaught of the Conqueror’s knights only to watch his father and the Saxon King Harold cut down in front of him. Steinar’s escape north with some of King Harold’s elite guards, the huscarls, had been all that stood between him and death that day.

His last battle had been in York with Edgar Ætheling, rightful heir to the English throne. Steinar well remembered the vicious fighting, for it was there he had received the wound that all believed had left him a cripple.

Once he arrived in the clearing, he set about his practice in earnest.

In one smooth arc, he slashed his steel blade through the air, the flash of sunlight on metal sending a surge of strength coursing through him. He could feel the power return to his arm that for so long had lifted only a quill as his ink-stained fingers attested. If only his leg would perform as it once had, he would be whole.

In his mind, he fought the Norman knights on Senlac Hill, deflecting their blows and ripping through flesh. Swinging his sword wide, he saw his father fall. The remembered shock caused his right leg to crumple and he stumbled. Muttering an oath, he wobbled to one side of the path and leaned against a tree. His chest heaved from exertion as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

Had he fought a real enemy, he would be dead. The leg was not yet at full strength and mayhap not his mind either. He vowed one day ’twould be so. He would yet be the warrior he once was.

“It seems you have been keeping secrets from me. I should have known that muscle you have been adding to your arms did not come from tossing about a feathered quill.”

The deep voice was Rhodri’s and with his words, Steinar relaxed and looked around for his friend. Dressed in tunic, leather jerkin and hosen in the colors of the woods, Rhodri blended in with the foliage so as to be near invisible where he stood against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest. The bard was slight of build but strong with a bowman’s muscled arms and a head of black curls and deep-set brown eyes.

“Do you battle your demons, Steinar?”

“Some. But I also spar with teachers who once sharpened my skills. As you can see, I am not yet there. The leg fails me often.”

“But you will be strong again. You were once the best swordsman at Talisand, or so Theodric claimed.” Leaving the tree, Rhodri came closer. “When you are recovered, what then?”

Steinar slid his sword into its scabbard and limped to his friend, his leg telling him he had pushed it too hard. “When that day arrives, we will see. For now I remain the king’s scribe. Malcolm seems content with my service.”

“Aye, he is. But you came here to prove something and I’m thinking ’twas not just that you can again wield a sword.”

“You may be right,” he admitted, looking down at the forest floor covered in the green grass of spring. Lifting his head, he faced his friend’s expectant gaze. “I would test my resolve to fight the Normans again. After all, Malcolm has faced William’s knights more than once and come away the victor. But for now I remain a scribe.”

Rhodri gave him an assessing glance. “You can be more than one thing.” In an amused tone, he added, “I am.”

Steinar grinned. “’Tis why the king has his bard training his archers.”

“I do not mind. Like you, I need the practice.”

Together, they slowly walked back to Malcolm’s tower where they shared a chamber, the limping English scribe and the Welsh bard, each harboring a secret.

* * *

To Catrìona’s relief, the ride to Dunfermline had not been as long as the journey to Dunkeld the year before, or so sad. It was comforting to leave behind her past and set forth on a new adventure, one that would lead to her future with Domnall. With every mile she traveled, her spirits had risen knowing she would see him that evening.

Midday they had stopped at the River Earn to water the horses and eat a hasty meal of bannocks, cheese and berries before resuming the journey south. There were eight of them with Angus, Niall and her uncle’s three guards.

Their small company arrived in Dunfermline at day’s end, passing tall stands of trees to cross a stream, before riding up a long path to a rocky plateau where they dismounted. Facing her was a massive square tower made of hewn stone blocks. Catrìona tilted her head back to take in its height, so much greater than either her father’s hillfort or her uncle’s home in Atholl. The tall tower, the like of which she had never seen, seemed a fitting fortress for the king. And it would be her new home, at least until she and Domnall were wed.

Two men stood on either side of the large carved wooden door leading into the tower, their gazes fixed on the new arrivals. From their muscled bodies, sheathed swords and proud stance, she judged them to be guards.

Suddenly, the oaken door opened and the king and queen stepped outside.

Catrìona would have known Malcolm, King of Scots, even if he had not been wearing a gold crown and royal attire. Tall of stature and noble of bearing, his dark hair fell to his broad shoulders and his mustache and beard were well trimmed. His eyes exuded power and intelligence as his gaze roved over the small group standing with the Mormaer of Atholl. For all his elegance, the king’s hardened face told her he was a warrior still.

The king smiled widely and strolled up to Matad greeting him and her brother, as men are wont to do, leaving his queen to deal with the women. It was the same way her father had treated men of rank and their wives visiting the vale. Malcolm and her uncle easily conversed, making it apparent they were old friends.