Page 7 of The Refuge

Her movements graceful, the queen walked towards Catrìona and Fia. As fair as her husband was dark, Margaret was serenely beautiful in a gown of yellow silk, finely embroidered with blue flowers at the neck and wrists. She appeared delicate and slight of form despite that her rounded belly suggested she was with child. Her long flaxen plaits hung below her headcloth encircled with a small gold crown. The blue ribands wrapped around her plaits matched her sky-colored eyes.

Margaret quickly put Catrìona at ease with her warm smile. “Welcome to Dunfermline,” she said in Gaelic. Then looking from Catrìona to Fia, she said, “I understand you two are to be my new ladies and I am told you both speak the Saxon tongue.”

Catrìona and Fia curtsied. “My Lady,” they said in unison with downcast eyes, Catrìona adding in the Saxon tongue, “Aye, we speak both languages as well as Latin.”

“That is most agreeable,” said the queen as they rose. “I know you must be tired. Your chamber has been made ready to allow you to rest and change ere we dine. The servants will escort you there and see your chests are brought to you.”

Taking her leave, the queen joined her husband and Matad. As Catrìona watched her walk away, she could not help but wonder if beneath the delicate exterior the queen possessed an inner strength. Else how could she deal with a hardened warrior like Malcolm?

Fia started to follow a servant who beckoned them toward the tower.

Catrìona touched her cousin’s arm. “I must see Kessog settled.”

“While you see to your falcon, I will go to our chamber. I am anxious to know where we will be lodged.” Excitement once again danced in Fia’s eyes as she hurried to follow the servant. Catrìona was happy for her cousin. It had been Fia’s dream to be one of the queen’s ladies; she had talked of little else.

Disappointed that Domnall had not been there to greet her, Catrìona waited for Niall who was coming toward her. “Want to come with me to see the mews?”

Niall nodded and walked with her to her horse where she lifted Kessog from his perch.

“The king’s house is a fortress,” he remarked, looking back at the tower. “Impregnable, no doubt.”

“Aye, ’tis the royal seat.”

In response to her inquiry, a servant pointed them in the direction of the mews, which lay just beyond the stables. The wooden building that housed the king’s hawks was twice the size of the mews maintained by her uncle, but then a king would have a large house for his many birds.

Stepping over the threshold of the dimly lit structure, she glimpsed rows of perches on which were settled many hooded birds.

A smooth-faced young man with a prominent nose and kind eyes introduced himself.

“Welcome. I am Machar, the king’s falconer.”

“I am Catrìona, one of the queen’s new ladies, and this is my brother, Niall.”

She extended her gauntleted hand, passing the falcon’s jesses to Machar. “And this is Kessog.”

Machar carefully lifted the falcon to his own gauntlet, murmuring soothing words and calming the bird with practiced strokes. “A fine tiercel,” he said, using the term for a male peregrine. “He is most welcome to join the hawks I tend for the king and his chiefs.”

Niall and Machar exchanged a few words as Niall told the falconer of their home in the vale where Kessog had been raised and trained, not disclosing the tragedy they had survived a year earlier. They did not often speak of that time except to each other.

Even in the dim light from the single window, Catrìona could see the many perches held a gyrfalcon, several peregrines and various other hawks. “So many falcons,” she said in awe. “The king must love to hunt.”

“Aye, he does, from the time he lived in England before he claimed the throne. King Edward was fond of the sport. Some of Malcolm’s men also hunt to the hawk.” With a smile he added, “You will frequently dine on roast duck.”

“Kessog has not flown this day, but I have fed him,” she advised the falconer. “We traveled from our uncle’s home in Dunkeld.”

“I will see to him, my lady,” he said confidently. “Would you like to join me in flying him?” he asked Niall. “The days are long and there is still good light.”

“Tomorrow, aye. But tonight we are expected at the king’s table.”

“Are many of the hawks you tend owned by ladies?” Catrìona interjected, suspecting the answer would not be to her liking.

Machar laughed, but sobered when he saw her frown. “There are not many ladies that care to risk their skirts and their lives up on yon crags, scrambling to catch themselves a chick to train. Owned, no. The ladies of a few visiting nobles can fly birds, but when they’re here, they fly the king’s hawks.”

Catrìona remembered well the lengths to which she had gone to catch and then train Kessog. Winning his trust had taken time, getting him accustomed to her voice, her touch. Feeding him was a constant task, made easier by her father’s falconer. Kessog was trained to hunt for sport and did not eat his kill.

At her look of disappointment, Machar explained, “The ladies hereabouts—that is, the queen and her ladies—busy themselves mostly with prayer and needlework. They might wave at the men riding out to hunt, but they do not ride with them.”

Niall shot her a glance, amusement flickering in his eyes.