Page 39 of The Refuge

A servant brought two swords and crossed them on the floor in front of the king.

Catrìona felt the anticipation of the men around her as Steinar leaned in to whisper, “The king is going to show us the victory dance he conceived. I’m told ’twas after a particularly bloody battle.” When she looked at him in question, he said, “He slew one of Mac Bethad’s chiefs and in recognition of his victory, Malcolm laid his victim’s sword on the ground, crossed it with his own and danced around and over the naked blades in triumph.”

Catrìona vaguely recalled her father, who had fought with Malcolm, telling her of a bizarre dance Malcolm had performed after the battle.

The music began slowly, a single steady drumbeat, as all eyes turned to the king. With uplifted arms, he began to lift his legs in high steps dancing around and over the crossed swords without ever touching either of them. For a man of middle years, he was most nimble. The people formed a circle around the king and began to clap their hands in time with the drum. The other instruments joined in as the drum beat faster.

“’Tis not just a victory dance,” Steinar explained, “but a reminder to the men their king is still the virile warrior he was when first he danced over his dead enemy’s sword.”

“I should think the son his wife bore him and the child she carries sufficient testimony of that,” said Catrìona.

“Tis a different kind of virility,” he said with a smile that made her cheeks heat.

Margaret, her hand on her rounded belly, stood silently watching, her face unreadable. She neither smiled at her husband’s achievement nor did she look at him with disdain for what the crossed swords symbolized. In that moment Catrìona realized Margaret accepted the man she had married without asking him to be what he was not. The wisdom displayed by her mistress did not escape Catrìona, yet, in many ways, she believed Margaret had tamed Malcolm and not the other way around.

As Malcolm continued to dance over the swords, Catrìona’s thoughts drifted back to the day before when the queen had asked her to accompany her to a place in the woods she liked to go.

“The light is always good there,” Margaret had explained.

Catrìona quickly agreed and fetched her needlework, assuming the queen meant to do the same. They found places to sit under a tree by the burn some distance from the tower. For a while, both of them bent their heads to their embroidery. After some time, Catrìona looked up from her needlework to see the queen reading from a small book lying open on her lap.

“What is the book you read, My Lady?” she asked.

The queen closed the book and the shimmering jewels on its cover caused Catrìona to inhale sharply. The book was encased in gold and decorated in sapphires, rubies and emeralds. Sunlight filtering through the trees made the gems glisten. She had seen scrolls in her father’s hillfort and she’d been given a Psalter as a young girl, but she had never seen a book like this. “How beautiful.”

“’Tis the Gospels I read always. I brought this with me to England from Hungary. ’Twas a gift from my father and my greatest treasure.”

“I can see why. Surely it must be of great worth.”

Margaret smiled. “It is, but not for the reason you might think. It was once covered in plain brown leather, worn with use, but Malcolm saw how I treasured it and had the gold cover and jewels added. It reminds me of Solomon’s temple, bejeweled for God’s glory. You see, the real treasure lies not with its cover, Catrìona, but with what is inside.”

“I see.” And she did. “’Tis the words you prize.”

“Yea, God’s words to us.”

Catrìona wished she could be as devout as her mistress. “I once believed as you do,” she told Margaret, “but that was before… before I lost my family.” In between words, she cried softly, unable to stop the flow of tears. “I have tried… but I find that I cannot accept a God who could allow such evil.”

Margaret set aside her bejeweled book and put her arm around Catrìona’s shoulders, drawing her close. It was a tender gesture more like that of the mother she had lost than of her queen. “My dear Catrìona, God knows your heart better than you do yourself. He knows you will heal and return to Him.”

Such faith… such kindness! Catrìona had come to love her mistress and understood why the king loved what was precious to Margaret. For all that he could not read, Malcolm had covered Margaret’s treasured Gospels with jewels for love of his queen.

Catrìona’s straying thoughts returned to the hall just as the king finished his sword dance and the crowd erupted in shouts of praise.

“Come,” said Steinar, “let us get some wine. I have grown thirsty with so much dancing.”

Catrìona felt the beads of sweat on her brow and the trickle between her breasts. The hall had grown overwarm. “Aye, some wine would be welcome.”

He guided her to a table where pitchers of wine and goblets had been set out. Catrìona noticed his limp had returned.

“Does your leg pain you?” she asked.

“Only when I forget to rest it. I have so enjoyed dancing with you, my lady, I fair forgot.”

She laughed. “Again you exaggerate.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Domnall moving toward her, the woman from Blackwell’s hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.