Page 45 of The Refuge

Chapter 9

Catrìona had just stepped though the tower door when the loud shouts of men stopped her. Not far away in the open area between the tower and the outbuildings, a group of men circled around what sounded like a brawl. There had been more instances of such fighting since the new warriors had come to Dunfermline. She often took a circuitous path to avoid them and she would do so now.

She had taken only a few steps when Giric came running toward her, his dog at his side barking furiously. “’Tis the scribe, my lady!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the circle of men. Through a break in the crowd, she saw Niall standing to one side, his bow broken at his feet and the scribe in front of him facing a thick-shouldered warrior wielding a long sword.

Fear gripped her. What had happened? Was Steinar unarmed against the warrior’s sword?

The ring of steel cut through the men’s shouts as Steinar jerked a sword from the scabbard at his waist and held it before him, his legs slightly apart.

Where had he found a sword?

The crowd stepped back, murmuring.

Giric let go of her hand and drew closer to the looming fight. She reached out and grabbed him, pulling him toward her. “Stand up here,” she told him and led him to a bench he could stand on to safely watch. She stepped closer to the circle of men to watch what transpired.

“Anyone can defeat a youth who carries only a knife,” Steinar said to the large warrior whose back faced her. “Let us see how you do against a man who is armed with a sword!” The undercurrent in Steinar’s voice bespoke anger but also the confidence of one who knew how to wield such a blade. He had once been a warrior but that was years ago.

The two men appeared evenly matched in height but Steinar was leaner and younger. His long golden hair settled on his shoulders, reflecting the sun like a torch, while the mountain of a man who would fight him was dark, his hair shorter and unkempt.

She heard the sneer in his opponent’s voice as he pulled his seax from his hip to join the sword he held in his other hand. “This should prove a novelty, cutting up a scribe. But ye need have no worry. I will leave yer right hand should the king find himself in need of a scrivener.” The man bellowed his laughter.

Slowly pulling his own short sword from his belt, Steinar said, “If you wish to fight with two blades, I can accommodate you.”

Now each man held a sword and a long knife, poised to strike. With growing dismay, Catrìona realized there would be no shields in this fight, only blades, and no mail to shield tender flesh. She bit her knuckled fist, tension building inside her. Could Steinar fight the older, larger man?

“It seems I must be the one to teach you manners,” Steinar calmly said as he began to circle his opponent. “’Tis not wise to mistreat those invited to the king’s court.”

The crowd moved back as the two men circled each other. Through the gaps in the shifting men, she watched the swords and knives poised to strike.

The one called Rian suddenly lunged for the scribe’s chest, but Steinar slipped to the side as if he’d anticipated the move. As he did, he sliced the other man’s leg.

A line of red emerged on Rian’s hosen and the man howled his anger.

The crowd backed away as Steinar took another step, his right leg appearing to falter.

Catrìona inhaled sharply, praying he would have the strength to continue. She could not bear for him to be hurt by this man who, she was certain, would show no mercy.

But she need not have feared, for Steinar was ready for the stocky warrior’s next strike, beating back the larger man’s sword and seax with blows Rian strained to fend off.

The sound of steel meeting steel filled the air as the four weapons clashed in rapid succession.

Steinar’s feet moved in a fluid motion. At times his steps were so fast it was difficult to see them. The dazzling display seemed to confuse his opponent who shook his head as if trying to focus on Steinar’s blades.

“The scribe can fight!” called out one man.

“Aye and well,” said another.

“He is good!” Giric cried out to her. His dog, Shadow, barked each time the crowd grew excited or surged toward them.

Before her eyes, the man she had known only as a scribe had turned into a fierce warrior, his movements sure and practiced, his sword arm strong. At times, the metal flashed so fast the blades were nearly a blur. Tears of pride welled in her eyes.

A movement to her left caught her attention. She turned to glimpse the king and Colbán coming around the corner of the tower. As they drew near her, the two men paused to watch the fight.

The crowd shouted encouragement to the two locked in a deadly clash of blades, their gazes so fixed on the combat they did not notice the king.

Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to one side, appearing to study the fight with keen interest.

Steinar and his fulsome opponent slowed, circling each other, wiping sweat from their faces with the sleeves of their tunics. It appeared to Catrìona that Rian was starting to tire, his feet faltering in the face of so much skill.