Page 30 of Summer Warrior

CHAPTER 9

RAGNHILD WONDERED at Somerled’s seeming indifference to being shot through with an arrow. He sat straight in the saddle as he turned to go, his head up, as if nothing had happened. He was an altogether fine-looking man with the sides of his hair taken up for the hunt, emphasizing his strong jaw.

The wound from the arrow had stopped bleeding but he would still be hurting. She wanted to follow him and tend his arm but she knew he would not want her to. He would hide the wound and his pain from all.

“Will I see you this eve?” she had asked to his back. It was a bold question for a maiden, but his kiss, the touch of his lips on hers and his words had changed everything. What she would have resisted from any other man she had encouraged from him. And, had they not been interrupted, she would have welcomed another of his kisses.

She could no longer hide her desire for him.

At her question, he had turned in the saddle. “Aye, or before. I am to meet with King David this afternoon so I must change my clothing.” He glanced at his blood-spattered sleeve and then at her. “I thank you for your ministrations.”

When he had gone from her sight, she rode to where the hunters had dismounted and were now standing around the dead hart. One of the huntsmen was cutting the entrails from the deer to offer to the hounds now leashed but whining, eager for their prize.

“Was this your kill?” asked Hugh de Morville. “I have asked and it was none of ours.”

“It was,” said Ragnhild from where she sat on her horse. “He doubled back or I would not have had a clean shot.”

“I congratulate you on your good fortune,” said de Morville. “He’s a grand specimen and will feed us all.” Then with a bow and a grin, “The honor of the hunt goes to the Isle of Man and to its princess.”

As the hunters nodded their agreement, she inclined her head. “Thank you.” Wishing to change from her hunting attire, Ragnhild bid the men good day and returned to the stables where the king’s constable kept his horses. Placing the reins in the hands of a groom, she sought her chamber where Cecily waited.

“How went the hunt?” asked her handmaiden as she began to help Ragnhild undress.

She hesitated. There was so much she could have said but did not. Instead, she treasured in her heart the moment in the woods with Somerled and would share it with no one. The memory of it still made her pulse speed and brought a smile to her face. “It went well,” she finally said. “’Twas my arrow that brought down the hart but, as I think on it, I believe Lord Somerled allowed me to take a shot that should have been his.”

Brows raised above her blue eyes, Cecily said, “A gracious man. Still, however you came by it, my lady, you did well. And how did the hunters react?”

“They were generous, expressing congratulations.”

Having unlaced her tunic, Cecily helped her shed the garment and the chemise underneath. “That is to the good, though they had to be jealous.”

“Possibly. Hugh de Morville was kind. I think he was even pleased it was my arrow that felled the deer.”

Cecily gestured to the large wooden tub with steam rising from the water. “I had a bath drawn for you in anticipation of your return. I have added your rosewater to it.”

“Bless you,” said Ragnhild, walking to the tub. “I wouldn’t want to smell of horse and sweat in the king’s presence.”

Ragnhild allowed her handmaiden to scrub her back, then accepted the sponge from her to see to the rest.

“While you were at the hunt,” said Cecily, standing before her, “I spent some time in the kitchen, inquiring about herbs. The servants were chattering away like magpies.”

“Really, about what?” she asked with fleeting interest.

“’Twas all of Lord Somerled. He seems to be a man about which there is much speculation, especially by the young maids.”

“And?” Ragnhild tried not to show her interest yet she waited with great anticipation.

“I learned something I thought would interest you.”

Ragnhild raised a brow, impatient for Cecily’s news.

“He was married young in Ireland and his wife died giving him a son.”

He is a widower?“He cannot be thirty now. How old might the son be?”

“The women guessed eight or nine.”

“I have never seen such a child with Lord Somerled. Where is he?”