Page 10 of The Refuge

She turned her goblet in her hand, the candlelight catching the intricate gold and silver pattern on the vessel. “These are silver trimmed in gold. Do you drink from such goblets every evening?”

“Aye. That, too, is Margaret’s doing,” said Edgar. “She cares little for worldly goods, but she would have the king’s house and the chapel adorned in kingly dignity. ’Tis why you see bright colors here in the hall. She has changed even the way the king’s subjects dress, well, except for the men-at-arms.”

Catrìona’s eyes roved over the people eating and talking, noting the bright reds, blues and greens worn by some.

“My sister encourages them to buy the brightly colored cloth from the merchants she beckons to Scotland’s shores, even silk and velvet. ’Tis what she expects in a king’s court and she would not have Malcolm appear less than a king.”

Catrìona glanced at Margaret, who was speaking to her husband. Malcolm’s head was inclined to his wife’s. While their words could not be heard in the noisy hall, she could see Margaret was most attentive to the king. Curious to know more about her new mistress, she asked Edgar to tell her how his family came to Scotland.

Fia leaned in to listen.

Edgar took a sip of his wine, then stared at the goblet as if remembering the deep past. “Margaret was only ten and I younger still when we left Hungary where our father was in exile. I do not remember much of that time.”

“Why did you return?”

“King Edward summoned Father to England as heir to the throne. But days after we arrived, my father died.” Edgar’s voice dropped to a whisper. “My mother suspected poison.”

Catrìona gasped. “Treachery?”

He nodded. “For years, we lived in England, sheltered by King Edward. But then the king died and Harold Godwinson was named king. He did not reign long. You know, of course, the Normans killed him at Hastings. As the last male in the Wessex line, I was named king. I was fifteen, about the same age as your brother,” he said to Catrìona. “Did you know?”

“I knew you were England’s rightful heir,” she said without hesitation, “but I did not know you had been named king.”

He shrugged. “’Twas only for a brief time after King Harold’s death. The Norman Conqueror lured away my supporters making sure I was never crowned. ’Tis still in my heart to rule England, yet sometimes I am forced to consider it may not be God’s will.”

“I am sorry for all that has been taken from you,” said Catrìona. Ruthless men had robbed him of his father and his home just as they had robbed her. But unlike her, Edgar had lost a kingdom.

“Two years ago we had great hope,” he said wistfully. “I joined the rebels in York and with the Danes’ help, we took the city from the Normans.” He glanced around the hall, she and Fia following his gaze. “Some of the men here tonight fought with me. Maerleswein was one of them,” he said nodding in the direction of the man sitting next to Domnall. “But when the Danes left, the Conqueror laid waste to York, and I sought refuge in Scotland.” He let out a deep sigh. “Malcolm’s bid for my sister’s hand changed whatever else might have been.”

Anxious to know, she pressed him. “And your sister, Margaret—”

“Did not want to be queen of anything. But I prevailed upon her when Malcolm pressed his suit. She would have preferred the cloistered life, but there was little to be done except to agree to Malcolm’s wishes. After all, we had already accepted his protection.” His gaze drifted to where the king sat listening intently to Margaret. “It was not a bad decision, I think. He adores her and now she is a queen.”

As she reached for her wine, pondering Edgar’s words, Catrìona had the feeling she was being watched. She turned her head toward the trestle table on the right where not fifteen feet away a man chewed on a leg of roast fowl while devouring her with his eyes. He had the face of a hawk, alert eyes and piercing gaze, making her feel like prey. She knew she should look away but she could not tear her eyes from his strong well-defined features, his long flaxen hair and the hint of a beard lining his square jaw.

At her perusal, his mouth twitched up in an impudent grin.

Her cheeks flamed and she abruptly turned her attention back to her trencher. Beneath her lashes she shot a glance to where Domnall sat, but he was talking to the one called Maerleswein and did not appear to have noticed the exchange.