Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) (34 page)

“I am yours to command, My Lord,” said Rhodri, bowing his head.

Cillyn interrupted. “Nay! My nephew will not be a part of this. I have only just found him and would not risk his life when a kingdom awaits him in Wales. Not until my brother, the king, agrees to the alliance shall my nephew fight again with the Scots.”

Rhodri looked to Malcolm.

The king said, “Aye, have it your way, Cillyn. I would not risk an alliance with Wales. But if I am to be deprived of my best archer, I might ask you to suggest another, Rhodri.”

“A name immediately comes to mind, My Lord, though he is young, not yet seventeen summers. But that is the age at which I first commanded my father’s archers. Niall of the Vale of Leven is very good and his arrows always straight and true. The men like him and he would eagerly serve, should you command it. In the ranks of your archers are others who are older and would aid him.”

“So be it!” exclaimed Malcolm. “We will wait till our army is here and then see what can be gained when the Scottish lion seeks a meeting with the French leopard.”

*     *     *

Crossing the Forth at a narrow point, William led his army northeast, skirting Dunfermline that lay to the south. He passed Loch Leven without a thought to the monks who dwelled there and rode through lands that some might think possessed great beauty, paying little attention to what surrounded him. He was intent on only one thing: reaching the Tay and there doing battle with his enemy who had harbored the English rebels. Malcolm Canmore was the last obstacle to his dominating all of Britain and William was certain the Scot, who had battled his way to the throne, would not fail to accept the challenge.

The sun was low in the sky over his left shoulder as he sat atop his Iberian warhorse, the same stallion he had ridden up Senlac Hill at Hastings, and looked at the broad River Tay. It was the furthest point north to which fate had brought him. The church tower that rose seventy feet in the air in the village of Abernethy would stand as landmark for the battle to come.

“A fitting place for us to meet, is it not?” he asked Eadric. His men on either side of Eadric nodded their assent, but Eadric remained silent, granting the king he now served only a shrug.

*     *     *

The next afternoon, Margaret was sewing with her ladies when word came the Normans were camped on the banks of the Tay.

“Will there be a great battle?” Elspeth asked anxiously for the Tay ran through her father’s lands.

“I pray not,” said Margaret, “but I have told the king we will fast and pray for him and his men while they are gone.”

“Steinar is to lead the guard in place of Colbán,” said Catrìona. “And my brother leads the archers.”

“My father will head the king’s army,” said Fia.

Each of her ladies had a man close to them whose life would be risked in the next few days. Margaret had thought to distract them with their stitchery but soon came to realize they had set aside their embroidery for their trembling hands were not up to the task.

She wanted to give them hope but would not mislead. “The king will talk of peace before he resorts to war, but William has thrown down the gauntlet at Malcolm’s very door.”

“Does the Norman think to build timbered castles all over Scotland?” asked Audra.

“ ’Tis said there are hundreds in England now,” said Cristina, the queen’s sister.

“The people suffer for he has burned crops and salted land to discourage rebellion,” remarked Isobel of Ross.

“Let us not think of England,” said Margaret. “We can thank God we are not there and pray Scotland never sees such a thing come to pass.”

The chamber door opened and Margaret’s maidservant said, “My Lady, the king asks for ye.”

Margaret rose. “I will return when I have news. The men will not leave for a day or two. As soon as they do, we will go to the chapel to pray.”

Swiftly, she walked the small distance to her bedchamber. As she opened the door her gaze met Malcolm’s across the room. Light streamed in from the window adding hints of gold to his brown eyes. She saw the excitement in them and realized his course was set and he was eager to get to it.

“William is holed up at Abernethy on the River Tay,” he said. “As soon as I have my army, or all that can be gathered with so little notice, I will go to meet him but first I had to see you.”

She went to him, needing to touch him to draw from his strength. “Abernethy is not far, My Lord. You can feed the Conqueror your few promises and soon return to me.”

“Aye, ’tis interesting he has stopped at the Tay. I wonder if he knows it was once the abode of the Pictish kings and a reminder to all that Scotland has fought off invaders before.”

“I will pray he leaves without a fight, My Lord, beaten by your wisdom.”

Malcolm chuckled. “Aye, mayhap. But he is no easy foe and he comes with knights and ships prepared for battle.” Then fixing her gaze with his dark eyes, he said, “There is one thing he will want above all,
mo cridhe
, and I think you know what that is.”

She waited, dreading what he would say.

“William will want to make sure he does not again face a challenge for the crown he has seized and defended these last many years. There is only one whose claim to the throne of England is and always has been greater than William’s.”

“Edgar” she breathed out.

“Yea, ’tis Edgar, now old enough to wear the crown. At the very least, William will want my vow not to aid him again. Are you prepared for that,
mo cridhe
?”

She said nothing, only looked at him, seeing sympathy in his eyes. He knew, as she did, how her brother had longed to take up his legacy.

“When Edgar urged my suit upon you,” he continued, “ ’twas in part to win my support.”

“Much has changed since then…”

“Aye, after York, he and Maerleswein returned with defeat in their eyes. I saw it.”

“Should I speak to Edgar about what may be asked of him?” she asked.

“Nay. If you did, he would willingly give up his claim to spare us the war, but ’tis best if it comes to him. And if it does, we shall see. Edgar is more an exile than any of us, a king denied his throne by one grasping for plunder, lands and power like the Northmen from which the Normans hail.”

*     *     *

Catrìona stood in front of the tower, her arms wrapped around her as if she could hold in her anxious thoughts and her many fears.

The queen and the other ladies stood nearby, watching the men depart for Abernethy. The king sat atop his white charger. Beside him was Fia’s father.

Catrìona reached out to take her cousin’s hand.

“At least I do not worry for Rhodri,” Fia said.

It was not the same for Catrìona. This time, all the men she loved rode with Malcolm, mayhap to a bloody battle. Steinar, at the king’s back, led the guard. Niall rode at the front of the line of archers, an older bowman next to him. And Angus rode with Malcolm’s mounted warriors, waving to her as he passed by.

Steinar had come to see her before he departed, telling her not to worry. But how could she not? This time he had not asked for a favor to carry and he did not speak of the future, yet she still harbored hope that one day she would belong to the golden-haired warrior. The words Rhodri had spoken of Fia rang in her ears.
I will have no other.

When the men were out of sight, the queen called them to prayer. “We fast and pray until they return.” Not a lady spoke against it, but of one accord, they turned and followed Margaret to the chapel.

*     *     *

It was very late in the day when the men returned. Gloaming still colored the sky shades of gray, rose and heather. Margaret looked down from the window in her chamber that overlooked the front of the tower. At the head of his men, Malcolm wearily swung from his horse and met his young son, Duncan, who had waited in front of the tower for his father’s return.

The words of the men dismounting were muffled but Margaret could see there had been no battle. No blood covered their mail and the horses appeared calm.

A few moments later, the door of their chamber swung open and Malcolm stood before her.

She wanted to run to him, to thank God for the war that would not be, yet his forlorn look told her all was not well. “Did you agree on terms, My Lord?”

Running his long fingers through his dark locks, he came to her, kissing her cheek before he slumped into his chair. “Aye, we have agreed on terms, though I like not all of them.”

One hand on her rounded belly, she eased herself onto the bench next to him. “Tell me, my husband.”

“I have secured my lands in Cumbria but allowed William’s authority over them. He is to leave Scotland with no demands on her and no taking of plunder or rapine by his army as they go, but I expect he will allow them free rein once they cross into Northumbria.”

“To submit only for your lands that lie so far south of Lothian is not so grievous as it could have been, My Lord.”

“Aye, mayhap, but the rest of it you will like less well.” His disquieting gaze told her what she would hear would be dark news, indeed. “As I anticipated, Edgar will not have my support again for a try at England’s throne. William would prefer your brother leave my court, but I agreed only to convey that request to Edgar. I refused to demand it of him.”

“I think even Edgar anticipated William’s concern for his crown.”

“Aye. Not all are content with his ruthless domination of England, and well he knows it.”

She sensed from Malcolm’s somber mood there was more. “What else?”

“He required a hostage to seal my bond.”

“Who?”

“Duncan.”

She gasped. “But you have only just gotten him back and he is but a youth.”

“Aye,
mo cridhe,
but he is my heir and the Norman Bastard sees only that. If I know William, he thinks to make a Norman of my son. You must set your prayers against it.”

“You and I were both raised in England, My Lord, you away from your beloved Scots and I away from Hungary where I was born. Yet here we are, both in Scotland, committed to her cause. Surely Duncan can spend the rest of his youth in England and return a Scot to lead his people.”

“Remember,
mo cridhe
, it was pious Edward’s England where you and I spent our youth, I in Cumbria and you in Wessex. The Norman king is not Edward. He is treacherous and will try and deprive me of my eldest son by making him like one of them. I can only warn Duncan of what William no doubt intends and hope the lad’s heart is not turned.”

She took Malcolm’s hand and kissed the back of it, covered in scars from his many battles. A warrior but with a father’s tender heart. “You did what was right, My Lord. This may be a hard ending, but is it not better than war?”

“Aye, that is what I tell myself, though my sword cried to be unsheathed the whole time I listened to the pompous Frenchman spout his demands.”

“When is Duncan to go?”

“Tomorrow. I will take him to the narrow place in the River Forth where the Normans will cross on their way south.”

“My prayers will go with you and Duncan.”

*     *     *

A solemn cloud hung over the hall the next morning as Steinar broke his fast with the king and his men. The court ate in silence, all knowing the king would soon leave for the place where Duncan was to be handed over to the Normans. Duncan ate only at the urging of his father.

“You must keep up your strength, my son.”

To Steinar, the youth appeared near tears, but he blinked them back and reached for a piece of bread. ’Twas a dark day for Duncan who was saying goodbye to his Orkney half-brothers as well as his father.

This time, Colbán would lead the guard and Steinar would join them. Duff insisted on riding the short distance to stand with his friend, the king, in his difficult hour and Malcolm had allowed it.

The ride was slow, in part due to the pace set by Malcolm for Duff’s still healing wound, and in part for the reluctance of the king to be about the task at all.

When they reached the bank of the Forth where William waited with his army stretched out behind him, Malcolm dismounted, pulled Duncan from his horse and walked to one side with the youth, away from the Normans but not so far that Steinar, Colbán and Duff could not hear.

“You know I would not ask this of you, son, but standing as hostage spares Scotland a war with these French who have taken over England.”

“Aye, Father. I know.” The youth was the image of his father and just as courageous.

“Not that it will change the result, but I must know. You are willing?”

Duncan, brave through it all, looked up at his father. “I am willing, sir.”

“For my sake, they will treat you well, Duncan. They know should any harm come to you it would mean war, not just any war but one of vengeance such as they have never seen.”

Duncan nodded, seeming to take it in.

“I was your age when I was exiled to England and I returned to reign as King of Scots. Let them educate you, my son, teach you your letters and how to fight like a knight. But do not let them poison your mind to their Norman ways. Always remember you are a Scot, the son of a Scots king and the grandson of another, the one for whom you were named. One day you will return to Scotland to rule our people as King Duncan, the second of that name. Learn what you must to prepare for that role and put aside all else the Normans may try and teach you. William would rule all of Alba if he could. May God never allow it.”

“I will remember, Father.”

Tipping the boy’s chin up, the king said, “I love you, my son. You will always be in my prayers and Margaret’s. And know this. I will raise your brothers, the one that is born and the others who will follow, to know you will reign ahead of them.”

Duncan reached for his father and buried his head in the folds of Malcolm’s tunic, for the king wore no mail this day. Malcolm grasped the boy around the shoulders and held him fast. Steinar saw the tears filled the king’s eyes, but Malcolm raised his head, calling them back. He was a king first, noble in bearing and manner. But he was also a father. Steinar’s heart reached out to him. He had lost his own father to William the Conqueror.