Page 55 of The Refuge

“Nay!” Steinar shouted and blocked the blade intended for the king.

Thwarted, the knight roared his anger and lunged at Steinar. He took the blow on his shield and slipped his sword under it, thrusting deep. The sword point pierced the Norman’s mail, sinking into flesh.

The knight fell to the ground, mortally wounded.

As Malcolm struggled to his feet, Steinar stood before him, flashing his sword back and forth.

But the fight to defend the king was not over. One of the mounted knights charged toward Malcolm. Before Steinar could push the king to safety, an arrow, like a hawk after its prey, whirred past his ear. Whipping his head around, he saw the shaft quivering in the Norman’s neck. With a gasp, the man toppled from his horse, dead.

Steinar turned to see Malcolm swaying. His wounded leg streamed blood, but he courageously held his sword before him. At least he was standing.

Colbán emerged from the fray. “Duff!” he shouted to Steinar. “Where is Duff?”

“I saw him go down—there.” Steinar pointed with his sword. “I did not see him rise. Go. I will cover the king.”

Colbán kneed his mount to where Duff’s horse stood over the wounded mormaer.

Gasping for breath, Steinar surveyed the field of battle. The fighting was waning. Malcolm’s guard, freed from their own confrontations with the Normans, joined Steinar, encircling the king.

One of the foot soldiers knelt before Malcolm. “The Normans run back to their castle, My Lord.”

“Aye,” said the king, lifting his head to watch the Normans retreating, “the cowards flee.” Malcolm regarded the field strewn with the fallen. “See to the wounded,” he ordered his men.

Steinar looked at Malcolm’s blood-soaked leg. “Sage advice, My Lord. May I suggest you take it yourself?”

Malcolm glanced down and staggered in surprise. Steinar caught the king’s arm and shouted for the physic.

* * *

Steinar was still supervising the gathering of prisoners and their weapons when a servant came from Malcolm, summoning him to the king’s tent.

Nodding to the posted guards, Steinar entered in time to see the king brush away his physic just tying off the bandage on the king’s leg. In one corner of the tent lay Fife’s mormaer on a pallet, his eyes closed beneath his bushy brows.

Steinar turned his attention to the king, awaiting instructions.

Malcolm gave Steinar’s leg a harsh glance. “So, Scribe, you would give advice to your king yet ignore it yourself?”

Steinar glanced at his leg, surprised to see dried blood coating his hosen. So intense had been the fighting, so anxious had he been for the king’s safety, he had no idea when he had taken the blade.

“It seems we share a wound in common, My Lord,” Steinar said. “I had not noticed.”

“Well, I noticed,” Malcolm replied. “Your wound and much else. We have more in common than a Norman’s sword, my English friend.” The king accepted a goblet of wine from a servant and leveled a steady gaze on Steinar. “See to the scribe,” Malcolm ordered his physic.

The man knelt to unlace Steinar’s leather cross straps and rolled the hosen down, causing him to grit his teeth as the linen was pulled from the wound. At the physic’s instruction, a servant brought water and a cloth to cleanse the wound.

“I know what it is to be exiled,” said the king. “To see my father cut down before my eyes and be forced to flee my country for my life.” At Steinar’s puzzled look, Malcolm said, “Aye, you and I share such a past, Scribe. But ’twas England where I took refuge under King Edward’s protection and you fled to Scotland where you enjoy mine.”

Steinar had known this and yet he had not seen the king as a kindred soul. “But you have come home, My Lord, whereas I never will.”

“Scotland is your home, son. Here you can fight alongside me, for we share our hatred for William and his Normans. These things and your loyalty to King Harold were part of why I made you my scribe.”

“There was another reason, My Lord?” he asked, looking down at the king’s physic coating his wound with some sort of salve.

Malcolm took another draught of his wine and smiled. “Your hand draws a pretty script.”

“I have my father’s priest to thank for that. But you must know, My Lord, it has been my privilege to serve you, whether as scribe or soldier.”

The king sat back, running his hand over his dark beard. “Now it seems I owe you my life. You will find me most generous.”