Page 42 of The Refuge

The queen stroked her back. “I know what it is to experience loss, Catrìona. I was still young when my father died. Then, my country was torn from me and my family’s lives threatened so that we had to flee England. I know fear.”

Guilt crept over Catrìona. She could not wallow in self-pity when the queen had lost her father and her home, even her country. Catrìona sat up and blinked back the tears filling her eyes. “I am sorry, My Lady.”

“Few among us have not known tragedy and betrayal. I, too, once doubted God.”

She could not believe this devout queen had ever doubted God. “You?”

A smile crossed her face. “’Tis quite human, I have discovered. God understands your grief, Catrìona, as He did mine. Did not evil men kill His son? But that terrible loss was part of a greater plan.”

Catrìona nodded as Margaret spoke, seeing truth in the queen’s words.

“God has a greater plan for us, as well. Sometimes His plans are different than ours.” The queen looked into her eyes. “We must accept whatever He allows into our lives, trusting Him to use it for good.”

It was hard for Catrìona to accept all that had happened as the queen suggested she should, but Margaret’s words made her wonder for the first time whether she was intended for Domnall after all. What if her father had been wrong to choose him? Painful though the possibility was, she had to consider it might be true.

“You knew, of course, that I did not wish to marry,” said the queen.

“Aye,” said Catrìona, wiping away the last of the tears. “Edgar told me.”

“It was Edgar who persuaded me to accept Malcolm’s suit. He told me I had to do it for the family’s protection and to give him the powerful ally he needed to try and take back England.”

“And so you married Malcolm…”

“I did. Out of duty, at first. But I have come to see, ’twas not Edgar who betrothed me to Malcolm. ’Twas God.”

At Catrìona’s look of surprise, Margaret said, “Like you, the life I once thought to have was not to be. Instead, God gave me a loving husband and a country to serve. A different calling, but one no less worthy.”

“You love the king.” Why it had suddenly occurred to Catrìona she could not say. It might have been the wistful look in Margaret’s eyes when she spoke of her husband.

“Yea, I do. I love my husband and his people, now my people.”

“I admire all you do for them, especially the poor,” said Catrìona. “It has become one of my joys to help the orphans.”

Margaret stared past Catrìona to the waters of the burn, flowing fast with the summer rains they had experienced. “I have tried to be a proper wife for Malcolm, to do what seems needful for Scotland, encouraging trade with other countries, bringing to our shores new wares, making the tower a fit home for a king and sharing with Malcolm God’s truth. But still I ask God, what more would He have me do?”

“Is that what you pray for?” asked Catrìona, curious as to what consumed the queen’s prayers when she secluded herself in the cave.

“I pray for Scotland, for her future, her people and for wisdom for my husband to lead them.” Tears filled Margaret’s eyes as she spoke. “I ask God for children who will serve Him and Scotland after Malcolm and I are gone from this life.”

A lump formed in Catrìona’s throat as she pondered the queen’s devotion to her new country and her husband. “Surely God will honor your prayers. None doubt that the Lady of Scotland loves God and the people.”

Margaret smiled. “It pleases me to think so,” she said, slowly rising, her hand pressing into her lower back.

Catrìona got to her feet. “Does the child pain you, My Lady?”

“Nay, but sometimes my back aches. ’Tis nothing. Come,” urged the queen, “let us return.” Smiling, she said, “We have a ferry to build and an inn to see to. ’Tis a challenge worthy of you, Catrìona. And it should please you to know the king has given his consent to all we spoke of.”

Encouraged by the queen, Catrìona rose and walked back to the tower speaking with her mistress of the future that lay ahead. To Catrìona, they seemed like two old friends walking together.

* * *

Catrìona lifted her head from the miserable embroidery she had struggled with all morning. Twice she had torn out a thread to replace it with another. Her flowers, she sadly admitted, looked more like bannocks than blossoms.

The heat in the chamber where the queen’s ladies labored was oppressive this summer morning. Setting aside the odious task, she begged leave to get some air. Margaret, always accommodating, graciously nodded her assent.

Hurriedly, lest the queen change her mind, Catrìona left the chamber and headed down the corridor thinking she might visit Kessog in the mews to see how his molt was coming along.

Feeling better as she descended the stairs to the hall where the air was fresher, she was nearly at the last step when she looked up to see the captain of the king’s guard striding toward her from the hearth, carrying something in his hands.