Page 43 of The Refuge

Colbán’s long legs quickly covered the distance between them.

She stopped on the last stair, waiting and wondering what the captain could want with her.

Her curiosity changed to wonder when, reaching her, he bowed in deep obeisance.

“Lady Catrìona.”

The king’s captain had never paid her much attention except for perfunctory greetings when she came into the hall with the queen’s ladies. But she remembered Fia’s saying she had observed him watching her. “Sir?” she asked warily.

“I had hoped to catch you away from the others.”

She waited expectantly, interested to know why he should need to speak to her alone. Except for the servants, the hall was typically empty at this time of the day, as he must have known.

When he hesitated, she stepped down from the stair to the floor, which she immediately realized was a mistake. Now he loomed over her, like a huge bear, his dark eyes intently focused on her.

She swallowed. “’Twould seem your timing is good, sir.”

Despite his initial approach, which she judged overbold, he now appeared diffident, confusing her. His brown eyes grew warm as he considered her while anxiously fumbling with a length of copper-colored cloth he carried.

Without warning, he thrust the cloth toward her.

She reached for it with both hands. It was fine wool, a man’s tunic. With raised brows, she looked up at him. “Sir?”

“’Tis mine,” he said. “I know the queen’s ladies embroider garments when they occupy themselves with their needlework. I would ask you to embroider this for me.”

Beneath the request, Catrìona heard a tone of command. But then, the king’s captain was used to having his requests carried out as orders and, after all, she was only a woman. “Sir, there are others among the queen’s ladies whose fingers are more skilled than mine with a needle. I would be happy to ask one of them—”

“Nay!” he blurted out. Then pausing, he began again. “It must be your hand that embroiders the tunic.”

Why mine? His intense gaze remained fixed on her, telling her there was no use in arguing. She exhaled, resigned. “Very well, if it will please you, I will try.”

He flashed her a brilliant smile, his teeth white between his red mustache and beard. “Aye, ’twould please me.” With that, he bowed, turned and stalked off toward the tower door.

Flustered, she watched him go. How strange.

Her original mission forgotten, she turned on her heels and slowly climbed the long set of wooden stairs, casting a glance at her scarred fingertips, hoping she would not bleed all over the tunic when she attempted to adorn it with some sort of design that might please such a man.

* * *

In the days that followed the celebration of Maerleswein and Davina’s betrothal, Steinar watched with interest as warriors flocked to Dunfermline from provinces near and far in response to the king’s summons. Many rode horses and carried fine swords. Others were archers skilled enough to garner Rhodri’s respect. Still others were men-at-arms pledged to a mormaer.

The village bulged with men overflowing the taverns, keeping the serving wenches busy. Tents were erected to house the soldiers and the night air smelled of their cook fires that illuminated the meadows and trees all around the burn.

Special contingents had to be dispatched to hunt in order to feed all the men. Each evening their captains dined in the hall that swelled with the new arrivals.

With so many warriors in such a crowded area, there were bound to be fights, especially if one of them was full of wine and took offense at something that was said.

Colbán, the captain of Malcolm’s guard, did not tolerate open fighting among the men and disputes, when they erupted into violence, were quickly quashed. But there was one man who caused more problems than the others, a swaggering braggart, Rian of Lothian.

More than once Steinar had heard the king mutter under his breath that in Rian of Lothian, Maerleswein had foisted off on his king a particularly troublesome piece of flesh.

“Probably laughing at me this very moment,” Malcolm had said.

Rian bore scars on his face, jagged wounds ill healed, announcing to all he was a wild brute of a man. His brown hair was always disheveled and his clothing looked more animal in origin than the fine woolens favored at Malcolm’s court. He was as wide as he was tall but he had not gone to fat. The braggart was all muscle and sinew.

He had instigated several fights in the village and no father would allow his daughter near the man. It took the constant vigilance of the king’s guard to keep the peace when Rian was involved.

That afternoon, as Steinar was returning from his surreptitious sword practice, his leg paining him for not having rested it, he came upon Rian and his rabble of followers outside the stables. With ugly jeers and much laughter, they were tormenting Giric’s little dog, Shadow.