Page 62 of The Refuge

When the story was finished, Giric stared at Rhodri in awe. “Ye really did that?”

“Aye, he did,” Steinar said before leaning across the table to launch into another story. Catrìona admired the way he gave of his time to entertain the orphan. Giric might have been his own son for all the attention he paid the boy. One day, Steinar would father sons of his own. Might they be her sons? The thought settled into her heart as a happy thought. He was only a scribe, an exile from his country, but she could not want a better man. At great risk to himself, he had saved Niall from the brute Rian and now he guarded the king. And still, he had time for the orphan boy.

“There I stood before the king,” Steinar said in dramatic fashion, “prepared to give my life were it required.”

Giric’s eyes grew wide and his mouth gaped.

“Just as I was about to be speared by a Norman,” Steinar said, speaking slowly, drawing out the suspense, “an arrow whooshed through the air to lodge in the knight’s neck.” Steinar grasped his neck as if he’d taken the arrow himself. “I heard the Norman gasp as he fell from his horse, dead as he hit the ground.”

Rhodri stood and bowed.

Giric clapped his hands together, his face beaming with pride at the feat.

Another story began, this one told by Rhodri. It would be even more fanciful than the ones Steinar had told, she was certain, for the bard was a good storyteller.

Just then, Catrìona noticed Audra rise from the table where she had been sitting to head in the direction of the stairs. The queen’s other ladies remained seated but Catrìona expected they would soon follow.

After Rhodri’s story ended, Catrìona pushed herself from the bench. “We must go to the wounded, Fia.” And then to the others she said, “The queen has asked us to visit the men who returned bearing wounds. ’Tis our Christ-like duty.” She smiled at the scribe and the bard. “Thank you for the most wondrous tales. Mayhap we will see you this eve.”

“You will see me afore that, my lady,” said Steinar, his blue thistle eyes shining. “We, too, must visit the men above.”

Rhodri nodded, his gaze resting on Fia. “Aye, I will join you soon.”

With Fia by her side, Catrìona crossed the crowded hall. As she passed the table where Colbán sat with the king’s guard, he stood and bowed. “My lady, the stitching you did for me is excellent. It pleases me greatly you chose a warrior’s symbol.”

Never sure what to say to the man, and mindful his companions who were listening and appeared well into their cups, she decided on a simple acknowledgment, certain he was overstating her dismal efforts at embroidery. “You… you are most welcome, good sir.”

She dipped her head and continued on toward the stairs. Fia leaned in to ask, “Does the king’s captain refer to that cloth you have been working on? Was that the piece you gave him today upon his return?”

“Aye. Before he left with the king, Colbán asked me to embroider one of his tunics. I was loath to do it, Fia. You know my attempt to embroider scrolls renders them more like twigs gathered for kindling. But ’tis not easy to say nay to that man.”

“I find it most interesting he asked you to do it.”

“’Tis possible he did not know how terrible I am at the task. I tried to tell him another of the queen’s ladies could do a better job.”

As they reached the stairs, Fia paused and asked, “Well, how did it look when you finished? He seemed quite content. And what did he mean by a ‘warrior’s symbol’?”

“’Twas not like anything I have ever stitched before but the shape of it was something I know well and at least I did not bleed upon the cloth.” Catrìona had been most worried she would leave a trail of dark red drops on his copper cloth.

“What did you embroider?” her cousin asked impatiently.

Catrìona began to ascend the stairs and Fia followed. “Falcons, or well, the outline of them with knots for eyes and a feather or two stitched on the body.”

“Falcons? You embroidered falcons on the tunic of the king’s captain?”

“Do not look so surprised,” Catrìona protested. “’Tis an easier shape for me than an intricate flower, and more manly, though I cannot say the birds look much like Kessog, which had been my intent.”

“No other man’s tunic will bear the falcon, Cat. You will have the king’s captain eating from your hand. Truth be told, he seemed more than a little happy to greet you as we passed.”

“Nay, I think not. Colbán would not eat from any woman’s hand. Besides, now that I know I can do it, I have a mind to make a tunic for Steinar and adorn it with falcons and mayhap something else.” As she had worked on the tunic for the king’s captain, she had envisioned making one for the scribe to set him apart, one that spoke of his being lettered as few men were. Aye, she was excited about the tunic.

“I can hardly account for this sudden enthusiasm for needlework,” Fia said with mock sarcasm.

Catrìona ignored Fia’s remark and, at the top of the stairs, turned down the corridor. She did not wish her cousin to know how she dreamed of Steinar and wanted to do things for him only a wife would do. “I asked Margaret for some cloth and she freely gave it, a splendid blue wool that will make a worthy tunic.”

“Somehow I do not think this will turn out well,” said Fia, her brows drawing together in a frown. “What if all the king’s men begin to expect falcons?”

“They will not. My embroidery is not so fine as yours or that of the other ladies.”